Gratitude and the Fullness of Life

Time is a funny thing. It has intervals, but cannot really be measured. It takes up space, and yet is invisible. It is priceless, and yet cannot be bought. As I recall the absolute swirl that November has been, I am humbled by this caretaker of our lives, this fickle and persnickety Father Time. He masters all and answers to none. And he marches on. One week ago today I spent my next to last day as a 50 year old. Two weeks ago today, Paris and all of Europe was normal. Three weeks ago today, my sister-in-law woke up at the age of 50 for the first time. Time is fleeting and fast, and is not sure beneath our step. 

As I pause in preparation for our national day of Thanksgiving in America, I ponder that this is the first year where neither of our sons will be home, and I ponder that this is the first year that my brother-in-law maneuvers his way through his first holiday without his life partner, and I ponder that we all live on a thin line, walking that fine wire between yes and no, today and tomorrow, here and gone.

Since turning 50 last November, I have lived in as much a state as humanly possible of awareness, of presence, of seizing moments, of living fully. As that year has slipped away and now vanished, I am not sure I was aware enough, present enough, captive enough. I don't know to what degree it is even attainable. I saw some photographs recently of Steve this time last year, fresh from the hospital, dealing with a stint, not well and the tell being in his eyes. I look at him closely each day, as if trying to view with my naked eye his insides and assess his health. I want there to be enough. I want there to be more. Of everything.

And yet time mocks me, letting me know that will never be the case, that it is impossible, that I am only given this day, this moment, this breath, this thought, this second. My sweet sister-in-law Susan knew that fully. Battling cancer, faced with obstacles daily in limits that varied, she chose joy and emitted hope. Up to hours before her surgery, one that would take her life ultimately, she looked death in the eye and was courageous and without fear, letting her hospital staff know she was in the best hands, the hands of the Great Physician. I cannot really shake the calm calculating reality of her unquenchable faith, in what would be seen by many as her darkest hour. But, I can try to attain to it, to grasp it, to nurture it. 

As I navigate my days, I think of life from Susan's perspective. Not in a morbid way, but in a way that sees each day as a gift. I think, ironically, of the Disney movie "Cinderella", the live action one. I think not of the pumpkin to carriage, but I think of the long suffering Ella, sleeping on cinders, serving stepsisters, smiling with her companions, showing joy and happiness amidst it all. I think of the scene where her own mother tells her goodbye, of admonishing young Ella to "have courage and be kind." And I see that paradigm as the lens through which Susan lived her last year and a half. While she battled cancer, she chose daily to have courage and be kind. We are so thankful that the cancer did not claim victory over her. We grieve immensely over the misfortune of her aortic dissection, but choose joy in that breaking of her heart as claiming her life versus the poisoned cells inside her. I think that is why Susan could sign "I love you" and wave goodbye as she lay there intubated -- she knew cancer was not winning, but that she was winning.

I read this scripture the night of her viewing, searching for some distraction from the ever present visual, seeking some encouragement from a faith that spans four decades:

 "Therefore if you have been raised up with Christ, keep seeking the things above, where Christ is, seated at the right hand of God. Set your mind on the things above, not on the things that are on earth. For you have died and your life is hidden with Christ in God." - Colossians 3:1-3

I have gone through my days following her death in the normal fashion: work, leisure, sleep, repeat. But my mind has not really stopped processing her passing. I think of her loved ones - my family - left behind daily, praying incessantly for our healing and peace, for the holes in daily lives to fill over with joy and warm memories. But I think mostly of her looking down the barrel of the shotgun she faced, and staring it down unflinchingly. I think of the courage it took for her to acknowledge the need to say goodbye, and to be okay in saying it. I think of the gift of her signing I love you over and over to her family, a final message that could stand the test of time, and give heart to those fainting under the weight of grief. Yes, her mind was on things above.

I do not mean to be all macabre on this eve of counting our blessings. I mean it more than anything to be a message of intense hope, a message of counting the greatest blessing of all - of being sure of your salvation, of being surrounded by those you love, of being alive and present in this moment. Even though my boys are not here, and I am not in my home, or actually a house, I am more grateful this year than in any other previous November. Our hope is not fixed on this earth, but on things above, and toward that end, I look for gratitude in life, for gratitude in all things.

I found this quote today and wanted to share it:

"Gratitude unlocks the fullness of life. It turns what we have into enough, and more. It turns denial into acceptance, chaos to order, confusion to clarity. It can turn a meal into a feast, a house into a home, a stranger into a friend."  -- Melody Beattie

My hope for you this Thanksgiving is that no matter where you are, no matter what you eat, no matter who you are with, may this day be a season of intense gratitude in your life, a moment where you can see that all good things are from above, that love has been lavished on you, that our hope is eternal. May you have a day where you remember all that has been done for you, and reflect on the fullness of your life. May the coming year be one where you have acceptance, order, clarity...and where you can see the abundance in your life, the overflowing goodness.

This layout shows our last Thanksgiving spent at Murphy Manor. We didn't know at the time that it would be our last Thanksgiving there. And here's the deal - we never know our last anything. Never. Take in the richness of this moment, and savor the blessings of the season. Look around you and see - you, too, have overflowing goodness in your life.

Happy Thanksgiving to you and yours. Be blessed.

Overflowing Goodness ~ Thanksgiving ~ November 2014

Sketch Credit: Scrapbook Generation 
Paper: Basic Grey

Title Font: Rochester

Notebook Paper and Denim

I have tried to revisit in my mind the mental bookmark that segregates for me the beginning of my love affair with all things supply related. There is no watermark moment, no recalled genesis, no hallmark memory. I can simply remember that as long as I can remember, I have loved school supplies.

As a young child, we would head to Ronnie's Supermarket and pick up our supply list off the aisle end cap - that supply list having been typed on an old manual typewriter and run off via carbon paper. Remember that lovely cornflower blue ink? We would carry our supplies proudly home in big sturdy brown paper bags, lay them all out on the floor, carefully label them, and then, almost in a manner reserved for crown jewels, place them back inside the same brown bag where they would hold revered status until the bell rang on the first day of school. 

And we would carry them in to class in that same brown bag. $50 backpack? Not necessary. We were above knowing we needed one. And all year long, I took careful time with my supplies - never one to want to sharpen my crayons and face the jagged edge of the torn paper for the rest of the year, never one to mix colors of paint on the plastic palette, never one to just throw them at day's end into my desk. No sirree - I coddled them for the year, knowing that what was left over was mine to keep and could then be added to my private stash back at home.

And what were summers for, but playing school? As I think back on the cool of the mornings in the gulf summer heat, I am amazed to think that we played school in a garage with a door that never opened. We cleared a space and set up a desk area for 2-3 students, and we rotated who was teacher and who was student, using up our supplies left over from the grade we just finished, which, if we were lucky, included some extra worksheets that we never needed in "filler time". I loved playing school. I loved school. I loved the whole spectrum of it, the supplies just being the easiest outward manifestation, the one constant as you changed teachers and campuses. Give me a new pack of 64 crayons and watch me transcend time.

Fast forward to my early 30's, and see me with two young sons, and a corner in an upstairs retreat where we had craft supplies and a little oak table with 2 chairs. {Don't think I didn't wish I had that table and chairs back in the '70's in my garage!} We did arts and crafts with the boys as early as they could manage to move their fingers around on a piece of paper. I have piles and piles of childhood art around here, mocking me with its presence. I refuse to let it go just yet!

And read, oh, would we read. Many times it would be the same book over and over. I never knew the full measure of my husband's patience until the year that my oldest child asked him to read the same Dorling Kindersley bulldozer book every night. Now, these were photos of all kinds of machines, with descriptions of their name and purpose. No story here - just a machine encyclopedia if you will. Philip wore that book ragged and heaven help us if bedtime came and the bulldozer book was needing to be unearthed. 

Preschool time came around too soon for the boys and I, I guess. I don't know if it was the fashion of the day, or the fear of letting them go, or their desire to soak up everything and learn from me all I would impart...but some combination of any of that led me to a stint with homeschooling. I was not cut out for it. The boys were not cut out for it. Thankfully we all had sense enough to recognize that early on. What I remember fondly about the experience, though, are all the workbooks we bought and how fun it was to set up a school room in my own home for my sons, and see their little heads bent over that blonde oak table, pursuing the completion of some little assignment. This was definitely a new definition of school supplies for me!

When the boys began kindergarten, we lived in the valley at the very southern tip of Texas. Borders blended and societies merged, and all of the stores of McAllen served not only the citizens of McAllen, but also the needs of any visitors over from Mexico, in pursuit of goods not available to them at home. Translation: buy it when you see it, because it won't last long. I learned early to guess at what you needed, and buy extra, because by the time the teacher told you it was on "the list", it would no longer be on the shelves. 

We had one Target in town, south of our home, towards the border. You needed to go early in the morning for it to be clean, for the checkout lines to be tolerable, for the aisles to be maneuverable. There was no way, in this border town, I would ever even consider going in to the Walmart. No way. Target was my only option. So, when they set out the school supplies, we were there. The boys would pick out their folders, their spirals, their crayons, their map pencils, their scissors, their rulers, their pencils, their pens.

It was always so much fun to see the choices, to revel in the colors, to mark this year's trends based on the images on all the supplies. It was entertaining to watch them consider the choices, as if they were selecting a house or a car, weighing all the options, importing onto the array of supplies a value far beyond the price tag, ensuring they ended up with an assortment that did not match their brother's. No copy cats here! Get that individuality captured! The buggy would fill and we would head home with our new round of treasures. 

I will 'fess up. There were usually 1 or 2 or 7 things in the buggy for me as well. My husband learned early on that my brain requires an assortment of note pads, post-it notes, pens and spirals. Just because. After all, when the bell rang, it was a "new year" for me, too. I couldn't head into my volunteer meetings with last year's tool kit, could I? The travesty!

Home we three would head. Supplies divvied up onto the counter. Label maker pulled out. Backpack loaded. In July no less. What were we to do? The fun was in the selecting, the fun was in the waiting, the fun was in the going. We relished the entire process. My boys were always extremely eager for meet the teacher night, and the commencement of the school year. They were great little students and loved the social network of school as much as they adored their teachers and mastered their lessons.

When Texas launched tax free sales weekend, and Macy's matched their tax hiatus with back to school sales, we upped our school shopping to include clothes. We learned to go the night before and preview the choices. Some stores would set things to the side for me, ready for me on Friday morning to run in at opening bell and pay quickly and get out before the crowds descended. {Thanks Aeropostale - you done good by me.} Steve would always pick up the jeans at Macy's. Of course, he calls them denim. And he would let me know when the denim deals happened. I would let him know their sizes.

When the boy were in middle school, they began taking an interest in their clothes. By the time they graduated, I was out of the picture, with the exception of the photo on my debit card. They morphed from Aeropostale to Urban Outfitters and Pac Sun. I morphed from going to giving them a budget. I honestly didn't mind and I enjoyed seeing what treasures they came home with, albeit some of them looking like my definition of school clothes not so much. Denim? It still came from Macy's. We've had all sizes of Levi's in this house. You could measure the growth of the child by the change in that famous waistband tag.

When August 2013 rolled around, we were left with one child at home needing supplies. One child at home that does not like to shop. One child at home that is independent. One child at home that would rather not be seen in public with us unless it is at Chuy's for mexicana comida deluxe. We casually offered to Andrew a little excursion and nearly fell over when he agreed to go!

We headed to North Park mall quickly, before he changed his mind, in search of anything he would agree to let us buy. Said child not only dislikes shopping, at the time he disliked getting anything either. We settled on some jeans, er....denim, and we found some shirts he liked, and we even found some shoes. It was a wardrobe trifecta. Given he was in the spirit, we then headed to Target. Why put off to tomorrow what you can do today? With Andrew, we knew to strike while the iron is hot. A momentous end to a family tradition? #bullseye

Notebook paper? Check. Binder? Check. Red pens? Check. Last round of this shopping rodeo? Check, check, check. It was a sobering reality to be sure. Hard to believe my days of spirals and new pens and fun notebooks are over. Oh, wait. They're not. You might just find, if you know where to look, my private stash of school supplies. A part of me will always feel invigorated by "the start of school", and will soak in the new beginning of a season. New blue jeans, though, are optional. 


Back 2 School Shopping ~ Our Final Rodeo ~ August 2013

Sketch Credit: Scrapbook Generation http://scrapbookgeneration.com/index.php?route=product/category&path=213

Paper: Basic Grey, Lily Bee, Pink Paislee, Simple Stories

Font: Pacifico

The Boys of Summer

I love summer. We don't have quite the affair going that we did in years of old. I'll confess that it is harder to court my lazy days buddy while pulling a 40 hour work week. But, back in the hay days of being a stay at home mom, I reveled in the ringing of the final bell, knowing my two punkin' heads would soon be back home with me.

Hello slow summer mornings, flip flops, plaid shorts, cereal for dinner, afternoons by the pool, movie festivals of an evening, and hello ice cream weather. There is nothing grander than the luxurious indulgence of taking in all that is summer and savoring it, in a fashion akin to the slow sweet melt of Rocky Road on your tongue. 

I think the absolute hardest part, without a doubt, of going to work outside of the home has been the relinquishment of my summers with the boys. Trading days for dollars was something I kind of needed to step up and do, and it has been my choice, but it has never been easy. 

As I look back at these summer photos, I can tell you exactly where we were without reading the captioning. We would rotate our ice cream outings between Baskin Robbins, Cold Stone, and Marble Slab, each of us having our favorite. This night, it was Marble Slab on North Garland Avenue. We sat outside at a Marble Slab patio table on the evening before the first day of school. 

We kind of had that tradition - going out for a decadent ice cream cone in the near twilight hours of the last day of summer. The boys in this photo are on the eve of entering 6th and 7th grade...and I did not know at the time these photos were taken that this was not only my last day of summer with them, but my last summer with them. About 30 days after this photo op, I would find a full-time job across town and forever shift the shape of our family.

I will forever be thankful for the thirteen years that I was able to be a stay at home mom. What a hard gift to unwrap! I loved being home with them and we had so many fun times, albeit hard, busy times. I released them to kindergarten reluctantly - and every year thereafter the first day of school would find me bereft. I think going out for ice cream was as much for me as for them. Thirteen years of being a stay at home mom - and then seven summers bookending the school years that happened on my stay at home mom watch. It all seems like a lifetime ago.

We tore up our summers. Wore them out. Ate them up. I would cram as much into them as possible, somewhat resembling the cramming into the cone all of the sugary goodness. I soaked in each moment of every sweet summer. And I relished spending time with these two punkin heads, the boys of summer.

Sweet Summer ~ Ice Cream Traditions ~ August 2007