The Lesson of the Red Light

Our family experienced a milestone this week when our youngest got her much awaited driver’s license. It’s a scene that is played out and celebrated all over America. Proud new drivers grasping their little temporary licenses so tightly, the ink may wear off, posing for a picture to post on social media announcing to the world that they have been given this much coveted freedom. Our daughter was no different. Smiling broadly, with a look of sheer gratification on her face, she let her dad take the picture knowing that life had now changed for the better and she had the little piece of paper to prove it. What the camera didn’t capture was me, quickly and as inconspicuously as possible, wiping away the tears that spilled out of my eyes. I’m grateful for that and not because I have yet to learn to buy waterproof mascara.

I’m glad that Amelia only saw happiness, because one day, when she is a mom, she will know what I mean when I say I’m now suffering from empty passenger seat syndrome.  It’s a selfish malady, I know. I really am thrilled that she is growing up and becoming more independent. Really… although I might need some gentle reminding every now and then. I pray that she will have the great conversations with her child that we could only seem to have in the car. For it was through those car talks that I discovered my daughter’s tender heart for those without a home, her penchant for 80’s music, and her love for VW Beetles. (Robins egg blue, just in case you wondered.) There were numerous other conversations that took place with me ensconced behind the wheel and her safely buckled in beside me. There were mornings where I was the only one doing the talking, because my passenger was a bleary eyed young teen who didn’t always embrace the excitement of a brand new day. There were afternoons when the car just seemed to automatically know the way to the local coffee house. There were many days that the car became a karaoke spot on four wheels. It didn’t matter. The car was our space. We laughed, shared a few secrets, and debated everything from politicians’ choices in pets to music that should be played at goldfish funerals. And when Andy got sick, it became our place to talk and ask questions without any intrusion from the outside world. I’m going to miss our travel time in the car. But, more than that, I’m going to miss the person who sat beside me for the longest time, making observations and keeping me entertained with stories of her day and of her dreams as we waited for the impossibly long light to change at the major intersection near our house. I wish that light could have stayed red just a little longer. But it didn’t. So, off we go, onto the next stage and milestone in life, all the while hoping that one day soon, she will call shotgun, if only for a brief errand. And when that day comes, I hope we catch every single red light.

Drivin' and Cryin' Part Two

I’m positive life has gotten stuck on fast forward and I’ve lost the remote needed to slow it down. Major and minor things have happened behind the scenes since I last wrote. Babies have graduated and headed to college, careers have changed, trips have been traveled, weight has been lost and gained, hair has been grown out only to be cut way too short, planets discovered, friendships made, and steadfast ones strengthened. There has been sickness and health, some tears, but mainly laughter, and driving lessons. Lots and lots of driving lessons.

Steve and I are movin’ on up to that deluxe passenger seat instructor status. We have one successful student under our seat belt, so the second one should be a cake walk, right? Um, yeah… not exactly. Driving with our son and driving with our daughter are not one in the same. Learn from our naivete, people. Take notes if you must. A good teacher will tell you that of course each child learns differently, no matter how many times you have taught the lesson. A parent riding shotgun while your kid discovers the brake and the gas pedal for the first time will tell you that the sharp chest pains brought on by anxiety feel remarkably the same, no matter how many times you have taught the lesson.  There have been differences, of course. With our son, he very much wanted to master the art of steering while selecting music. Our daughter is quite keen on mastering the art of breaking the sound barrier in the church parking lot. Early on, I got in the habit of telling our son every single time he got behind the wheel that he was my treasure, sharing the road with other families’ treasures. I was met with the obligatory eye roll most of the every time. I have noticed however, when I dispense this wisdom to my daughter, she nods in full agreement. I don’t know, maybe it’s a girl thing, maybe it’s the fact that if she agrees, she gets mom’s car keys. Whatever, it’s all good. A good friend of mine reminds me on a regular basis that our darling dependents have to learn these major lessons at some point, because nobody wants their mom driving them to the senior prom.  

Our kids have given us the gift of bunions from constantly keeping us on our toes, but I suppose that’s acceptable. It makes life beautifully vivid and gnaw-your- nails-down-to-the-quick exciting all at the same time. Now, if I could just find that remote to hit the pause button before she walks down the aisle, I’ll be fine. Really, right here in the passenger seat as she steps on the gas, speeding towards adulthood. Thank you, Lord for seat belts. And airbags. Lots and lots of big, billowy airbags.

 

 

Learning to Love the Snowflake

After digging out from the craziness that Snowmageddon 2014 brought to the South, I have snow on the brain. More specifically, snowflakes and how, until recently, I never held a deep appreciation for them. My dislike for them started a number of years ago when a student at my former school stopped by my room to tell me how much she loved the Narnia display featuring hundreds of snowflakes my fellow teachers and I had created throughout our building to garner excitement for The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe book that the 4^th and 5^th graders were reading. I thought that was mighty sweet, considering I didn’t teach her. The next week, the little girl was dead from complications stemming from a childhood illness. From that point on, when I saw a paper snowflake, I felt a sting in my heart. It didn’t help matters that the next year, I lost my birth grandfather in January, once again amidst the snowflakes. It seemed like every year, the symbol of the snowflake brought some sort of heartache right along with it. My disdain for the flake mounted until it reached the point that I couldn’t stand the thought of them adorning a space that I would frequent. That is until this year. A dear friend, a former co-worker turned artist, appeared at my new school with a gigantic snowflake, handcrafted just for me from paper. It was meant as a gift for my new room and it was beautiful, I had to admit. However, taking the snowflake to my room required some courage. I really was hesitant. And then, a wonderful change in prospective happened. A co-worker sent a link to snowflakes and their beauty with a reminder that each one is a magnificent work of art. It got me to thinking about how something that is so intricately and wonderfully made could not possibly be meant to garner such a permanent sadness in my heart.  For the first time in a long time, I was reminded that although the flake will surely melt, God didn’t spare an ounce of His creativity in crafting them. Life is like that, isn’t it? People come into our lives and we just never know what the next day holds, do we? Treasure the gift of those surrounding you. Love them and don’t be shy about letting them know you are glad that they are a part of your life. Even if it means making your kids want to change their names and move to Coeur d’Alene, Idaho when you post a picture on Facebook of you smooching your hubby in the snow!

Breaking the Rules

I’m such a hopeless rule follower. I can’t help it. I come from a long line of school teachers who just instilled it in me. I had no choice but to come under the spell of obedience administered through their no-nonsense teacher voice and the “look” given to me over reading glasses perched so alarmingly low on their noses that they defied the laws of physics. My Grandma Searle was the consummate rule enforcing pro. Not only was she a teacher, but a pianist who often played for the church that my grandfather pastored. I witnessed her turn from her seat at the piano and hush a pew of wiggling, giggling children and never miss a measure of “How Great Thou Art” enough times to know that I didn’t dare move in my seat, no matter how itchy my new dress was.

I was thinking a good bit about my grandparents this Christmas Season. I miss them year round, but the ache always seems a little sharper once the tree is lit and the Lexus commercial starts airing on TV (What’s with that thing anyway???!) This year, I decided to do just a little bit more than visit the memories tucked in my brain. I pulled out some treasured family recipes that had graced our holiday tables in the past. I’m not sure what I was expecting to get out of the whole experience, but the results weren’t quite what I was going for. No matter how carefully I followed the steps, nothing tasted exactly the way I remembered it. I’m positive it’s because I was missing the key ingredient: them.

One recipe did yield a better result, though. That was my Granny Smith’s sugar cookie recipe. Granny was known far and wide for her beautifully decorated cookies and at one point had been featured in a regional magazine highlighting her pre-Pinterest designs.  I remember watching my Granny make those cookies one Christmas in particular. I had come down with chickenpox and was under house arrest until the spots faded. Granny, who was in town on one of her winter-long escapes from her home state of Kansas,  deemed that I was harmless and as long as I stayed in my own little area of the kitchen, I could witness the magic… and… ahem… the secrets to her laborious art. My sweet granny, the one who was so tiny, she had to buy her clothes in the children’s department of Gayfer’s, not only taught me the art of cookie decorating that year, but the art of mild cussing followed by how to properly pour a cold Pabst Blue Ribbon into a glass.  This Christmas, I was all about following her recipe exactly (you know, because of the whole rule follower thing) and realized way too far past the point of no return, that those cookies were a whole lot more work than I had bargained for. Without a second thought, the “secret ingredients” were employed. Granny’s cookies brought a lot of smiles to the faces of those received them and for a very brief period of time, I felt Granny at my side nodding in approval.

I hope that years from now my kids and eventual grandbabies will want to conjure up memories of Christmases past. I pray that I will be able to set aside my “always follow the rules” ways to be real and authentic with them and leave memories that will be seared in their hearts long after I’m gone. And if it involves a recipe that ends with the proper pouring of an ice cold glass of beer, I’m okay with that. But they had better not dream of squirming in church.

Good Times

You know how I wrote all about the importance of the ampersand last week? Well, that particular post was read by more people than any other of our blog posts combined. That was exciting for us! This week, our little ampersand is being put to the test. Don’t you just love how that happens? When I stepped out of the shower this morning onto what is typically a dry floor, I found myself standing in a steadily growing miniature lake. Around the corner I was greeted with soaking wet carpet. Not a good sign. Steve had already left for church, I was short on time, and Amelia was slated for acolyte duties (which we totally missed, by the way). I did the best I could to sop up the water, prayed for the best and went to church. When we got home, the lake had not receded, but at least it hadn’t grown. Now Steve is pulling up carpet, and a plumber has been called. Did I mention that this is also my first full week back at school? Good times!

Now we get the golden opportunity to put our money where our mouths (or carpet and pipes as the case may be) are and lean on that ampersand. I pray that I can face the challenges of this latest test with gentleness, kindness, and self-control. I also hope that I can look at this through grateful eyes and rejoice that we have indoor plumbing, a husband strong enough to tear out carpet like it is paper, and that plumbers are only a phone call away. Hey, I’ve always wanted waterfront property.

Blessings to you for a grateful week, whatever this week may hold.

It’s all about the Ampersand

 

I have been wanting to write this blog for a long while, but life just seemed to, you know… happen. This summer has been far busier than I ever imagined it would be with lots and lots of activities, some new and some familiarly comfortable like a pair of jeans that don’t require sucking anything in to pull them on. The biggest “new” to our family was Andy getting a real, honest-to-goodness-oh-crap-I have-to-go-to-bed-early-because-I-have-to-function-in-the-morning job. I will be the first to admit that I had visions of me getting up to make sure that the kid rolled out of bed on time to at least rinse off and slide the toothbrush across his million dollar (thanks to braces) teeth. Not so. Apparently, I birthed a morning person. Serious shocker given that I wake up, thank Jesus for another day, and promptly roll back over for more shuteye. The perks of summer.

Steve and I also celebrated our 20^th anniversary in June. Although I’m really not sure that “celebrated” is the right word to describe how we marked the occasion. Our anniversary just happened to fall on the day that the boys Chrysalis Flight began. Steve was the lay director and I had lots to do in the background. (For more information on Chrysalis, click here.) He received a twin size, inflatable mattress and three nights away from me. We really need to work on dialing down the romance, don’t we?

While the celebration to mark the occasion wasn’t quite what I had pictured, the one thing that stood out in my mind is that we were in the task together. I don’t take that for granted. That ampersand that joins our names together is something that we value and nurture every chance we get. For us, it is all about the ampersand. It means we are a team. I hope that we have done a good job of demonstrating that to our children. It is my hope and prayer that when the time comes for them to choose their spouse that they will consider the ampersand and the weight it carries. I also hope that they will understand that, like in real estate, location is everything. The ampersand does not just join two humans together, but God. A true cord of three strands. I hope that forever our ampersand will be God, Steve & Katie.

Here's to the Apple that Didn't Fall Far from the Tree

 

     I had to run a few errands last weekend and it was decided that Andy would do the driving on the account of it was raining and he needed some more practice driving in those conditions.  We had just finished up our to-do list when Andy pointed out that we were awfully close to the house that I grew up in and couldn’t we just drive by?  Of course my answer was yes. I don’t know about you, but for me when I drive by the house where the majority of my childhood was spent, I want to laugh, cry, and throw up from homesickness all at the same time.  And those feelings don’t just cut off at the house.  They are there at the crest of the hill where I first learned to ride my bike; they are at the corner where the kind, elderly couple lived that hired me to keep their hummingbird feeders filled one spring. The emotions start churning when I pass the house that belonged to a sweet family that lost their teenage son in a tragic car accident the year I was in eighth grade.  The flood of memories hits me when I glance to the left of my old house, now painted a stark white instead of the cheerful yellow I grew up with, and see the path that leads to the woods where many an adventure came to life with an army of neighborhood kids.  Andy steered the car a little further up the street and the memories kept coming.  And if you know me, you know I couldn’t just keep my thoughts to myself.  I found myself telling Andy all sorts of stories about the good old ‘hood (okay, I’ll admit I threw in a cautionary tale or two... plus, I had a captive audience.)  I miss my old house, the one that I spent ¾ of my childhood in. My parents moved long ago and I haven’t a clue who lives there now.  I only hope that that they have children who will one day have children of their own who will beg them to drive them back by their old home.  I hope that they shed a tear or two, as well. It is the mark of a childhood well spent.

*Update* I received our new school directory not long after I wrote this post.  Lo and behold, what jumps out at me on the very first page I turn to?  My old childhood address!  The kids that live in my old house go to my school!  I made a beeline towards them the next afternoon.  I think they thought I was half-crazed, but as luck would have it, their mom was there to pick them up and I quickly introduced myself.  I think she may have thought I was border line stalker material, but I did my best to explain that I had only happened upon the address thanks to the newly printed school directory.  I tried to convey to her just what that house meant to me.  She smiled and said that she was happy to report that wonderful memories continue to be made in that house.  She told me I was welcome to stop by anytime, but I’m not sure I will take her up on her generous offer. I’m not sure my heart could handle it.