Mom, former tom-boy. I cooked the chili, and baked the corn bread. The Boys. They bragged, quoted, and mis-quoted every supposed fact. They were three 10 year-old experts. I listened and loved them. We curled up on the couches and chairs. They shouted and then they pouted. We all laughed and ate warm cookies from the oven. One nudged the other when the cheerleaders danced, then they looked at me - sheepishly. "Oh, boy." I sighed.

Half sad, half glad we replayed all the parts afterwards: Can't wait for next year!

The road, partly dry and wet from the snow drying under the warming winter sun, parted the snowy banks of Indiana fields. We rolled to a brief stop under the Union Chapel and Tonkel intersection. A dirty silver Chevy pick-up rolled around the corner. It was loaded with a dryer and other bulky household possessions, which were tied unprofessionally with a ruthless red cord. It stirred visions of a February morning seven years ago just post a winter storm.

We were having to move quickly, and had just found the perfect God-send of homesteads. It was a little house on the prairie: Newly built in the 1870's and sat at the frontier of four paradisiacal acres. I was just a head strong foolish goose of twenty-seven, lining up three little chicks under her wings. My husband then, was only present on the weekends or when it was easy. With my feathers fluffed and my neck stretched, I prepared us. Tirelessly, I packed and organized and arranged for a quick move with minimal burden for everyone - except for me. Sunset came and we loaded the mini-van as the flakes started to fall and the wind started to blow. My constant fortitude shivered with the chill of the brewing storm. But I buckled the babies into their seats. Tim and I drove north into the countryside, leaving suburbia behind us. We sped headlong into the storm.
Tim rolled the little van through up the gravel drive through the mounting inches of blowing snow that whipped wild and wicked over the fields and through the wiry fences. The leafless trees moaned and complained, with long howls. Against the dark abyss of the winter sky, the house loomed sinisterly. The kids trembled half afraid, have excited. Jacob cried and clung as I pulled him from his seat. We dashed to the back door, as Tim turned the key. We flipped on the lights, and let go of the shivering babes. The old house, the covered cabin, one of the oldest in Dekalb county, was strongly silent and warm against the war that raged outside. It was as if we had crawled into a mountain cavern, prepared by Providence for us.
The house was one large open area with a couple of clinging small rooms , a giant loft, and a cellar. I loved it at once. I love it yet! The ancient darkened wood stairs thrust itself down importantly as if it was a stairwell to heaven. My dears ran freely around, making a new adventure. They discovered nooks and hidden corners.
Tim and I unloaded the van quickly. After some debate, Tim was to go back to the house and get another load - while We would stay and begin unpacking. Tim left. He left us.
As the night hours became morning hours, I tucked myself and the three toddlers into a corner with blankets and quilts. They wiggled and rustled with frightened anticipation between the covers. I sung some lullabies and told stories till three soft child snores ruffled over the stillness. I drifted sleepily with the wind's howls fretting with worry and anger. Always abandoned when I was actually afraid, I cried selfishly into my bent arm.

Then the snow began to fall. It has begun with a blowing and thrusting of sharp jagged flakes. I slump my shoulders and sigh tiredly. "Snow again?" The lawns were just revealing a green petticoat under their white skirts. But then the warm smell of buttery pastry filled my head with ideas of being snuggled and cuddled behind the layers of the white cotton snow. Winter must have her Ball. Her winds whirling in a snowy waltz. While it seems that I have prepared her a Sabbath banquet of loaded potato soap, Salisbury steak, fresh baked bread and cream pie for desert.

Spread across the far gray sky is a fleeting feeling of security and filled promises. That one knows will be answered, the way one knows Spring will come.

The brown envelope laid there inconspicuously, innocently unaware of the strife it had caused for my son. I snatched the thing up and hollered up to the people in the rest of the house. I skipped with satisfied glee to and around the dining room table, waving it at the skeptical faces. "Look what I finally found." They all smiled when they realized it wasn't just my wild personality. It was the lost envelope of boyscout money.
Danny, my ever passive and unambitious son, is ambitious and positively aggressive for the Boy Scouts. On a cool autumn Sunday, full of initiative, he dressed himself in full uniform and loaded his brother's Red Ryder with popcorn samples. Danny visited the unsuspecting Blackhawk residents with a dramatic plea for popcorn and America. He came home with a brown envelope full of money and a spirit full of pride. He took the highly valued envelope and hid it. His hiding spot had eluded himself and everyone for several months. (We had to cover the cost to the Boy Scouts.)

Luke 15.

Tears gush unexpected, as I read the passage spread across my lap. Tears of joy. Joy for myself. Joy to think that when I returned, it was celebrated by God and the Angels - even more than I had just celebrated over a little bit of money in a brown envelope. Tears of hope. Hope for my those who have not returned yet. Hope to think that God searching and ready to welcome home those brothers that I miss so.
For this I have prayed patiently for a long time.

A desolated, abandoned feeling rushed over me as I watched the red tail-lights of my SUV dissappear into the early morning darkness. Scott has a mission in Evansville. His police cruiser will sit there, like a wolf waiting for tonight's chase. Meanwhile, I will stay shut away in this den today. My cubs will scurry and play while I dust and organize.
The absence is welcomed, but the lost escape lamented. At least much will be accomplished.

How?
It comes and leans into my day, spreading it's disgruntled and dissatisfied clutter over my gleaming floors and shining tabletops. Fight it, with that fire that lights from within. Fight it, with kindness and concern. Fight it again, with a warm kiss and a tight hug. Fight, fight it again with forgiveness and endurance.
How?
It crumbles and pushes the soft words back into my mouth. It's stew of hate boils over the pot, erupting with shouts and punishments. Retreat into that fire that smolders within. Retreat into speechlessness and solitude. Retreat back into activity and production. Fall and Retreat back into prayer and faithful acceptance.

Standing there in front of the kitchen sink, feeling almost sweaty but certainly tired I rested my fleeting thoughts upon the row of dirtied soda glasses. They were my Grandfather's glasses.
My Grandpa, always sat quietly in his black leather chair with a cruel miniature Pomeranian guarding his lap between their naps. We crept carefully around, unsure if his expression meant amusement or agitation. He said little.
Grandpa kept the soda glasses high in the cupboard until the end of our visit. Then he would pull the soda glasses (or sundae bowls) down along with candies, nuts, and syrups. Grandpa then filled each glass with large scoops of ice cream. With the same constant expression he piled the goodies as we wished into our dishes and filled our pockets with any lingering candy.
But I have always been my Grandmother's daughter. I rinse the residue of Orange Julius from the soda glasses. My love proclaimed and my agitation announced as needed, while the glasses hardly used are kept in a cupboard.

Forever unsure of his affection, uncertain of his love he remains in a bowl of regrets.

I am sitting here waiting for the sitter. With my legs tossed easily over the couch and only half excited about going to Zumba class. I need to go. I need to get out. But it is so cold, and I think I mean more than the weather. What is this great reluctance to be social? How did I come to this attitude?
Oh! How I love people! But . . .

I promised myself a hot bath but before that I will endulge in a moment of expression. I sink reluctantly into self disappointment. I am pulling my full wagon uphill. Certainly, God has made me strong enough to do so. I find myself weary. It is not the weight of the load, or the steep climb that slows my steps. It is the other travelers. They scoff and chastise hardly knowing me or the strength God has put in my limbs. I take all their words to heart, and it cripples my spirit. A promise keeps me steady and shackled. Yet a kind word would be like a drink of water. Praise would be like a push from behind. Concern or care would be like iron in my bones.

Regardless, my course is set and the journey destined. I must pull.

His moonshine eyes beamed happily, as he pulled his winter coat on. It was upside down. "Let me help you." I said. Smiling up at me, "I wanth to do ith by myselph." He said with a charming lisp. He was proud as he pulled both sides of the coat together to be zipped. (It was still upside down.) I couldn't break his confidence, while his hood hung down the back like tuxedo tails. It didn't matter, really we were only running to the drive thru at the bank. I zipped his coat down, he laughed gleefully.
"Mom!" James shouted. "Karson's coat is wrong." Karson looked from James to me with an amused smile. I am sure he knew, but loved himself for doing it his own way. "Let's go." I said swinging the front door open.
Safetly buckled and barely a mile from our driveway, "I am so mad!" James declared. "Mom! I am so mad!" I briefly glanced back at him. "Why are you mad, James?" I already knew, but he needed to tell me. "Because Karson's coat is not up. You fix it." Karson giggled and laughed. He smooched his little face into the lining of his upside down coat with self satisfaction. Trying not to laugh I told him, "I can't fix it now, I'm driving." James sternly replied, "But I said so!" Turning into the lot, "No. I'm sorry."
Karson still laughed.

It was momentarily jarring, to see the green laid across the yard in the foggy morning light. A white blanket had covered that window scene for a child's eternity. James and I stood looking at the dripping mess, that smelled and played like spring. But I knew it was a ruse, a mock spring.
The wisdom of age is confidence in knowing, without knowing.
Winter pounded his fist, and blew sharp edged flakes against our chattering faces. James rushed to the car, holding tightly to his hood. While I scoffed at the sky with a crooked smile . . . Confidently knowing that lovely dame in full costume, with her warm sprinkling rains and blossoming buds would soon be taking center stage.

Last Saturday night, I found myself looking over a yummy bowl of chili at my nephew during my mother's birthday party. He looks like all I believe he is: A smart and capable man, informed and fashionable. With little for conversation subjects, I mention that I have blogging. When I explained some of my subjects, he laughed. He said blogging was for meant recording daily events. He laughed again at my twisted smile. I knew this about blogging, but suddenly I felt like a ding-dong.

I suppose this bothered me. So I have been attempting to write more from a daily perspective, with a simpler speaking style. I have been trying to put my bombastic, slithery imagery away. (Although, it is less fun and not my style.) Yet even so, there are scoffers of my blog.

Ugh! I wish I didn't care or worry so much about other's opinions and feelings. Being this way is quite troublesome for a eccentric non-conformist weirdo. Hey! I just want to write what I see that makes me feel. Like a verbal painting.

I want to

Certain goals have been set. I know that I have let certain regimens slide and I have relaxed on stringent diet guides. Today, I was meant for reflection and rest. But tomorrow morning is waiting, I will be stepping on that scale in hopes of meeting the weekly goal. So I reluctantly climb on the bike. I look at the clock. "Okay, just 20 minutes." I sulkily push slowly. I program my phone to play some dance hits. Soon I am spinning the wheel faster and harder to the beat. An hour passes. YEAH! As I step off trembling, I am so pleased and proud of myself.

Peace reigns comfortably over my spirit. Let those cares and worries slip back into yesterday or wait for Sunday. We're all fed and full, settled into easiness. The boys are bathed and put into pajamas and I sit lazily in the chair with a leg housted over the arm, drinking coffee. And yeah, I celebrate silently over the blessings God gave me. His unlimited greatness and His complete will fills my mind and my heart with awe and wonder.

There is no time to write on Friday mornings. But the two hour delay has frozen my morning objectives. This waiting brings consideration for the day's proposed goals. I am dreading the great journey to the grocery after a meeting with the insurance agent. Somehow I must find the time to push, pump, and pant away the pizza I shouldn't have eaten last night - on the old Schwinn bike. Oh and not to be forgotten is the Friday baking and cleaning, that may just be forgotten. Regardless, I am determined to be determined. Play the violins and pound the piano keys, because I am taking this day.

The day was full of hope but the morning churning in my stomach must have been the foreshadowing of a dreadful late afternoon. My good behavioralist intentions of pouring constructive distraction into wounds is being tossed for indulgence into physical comforts. I find at last, that I am just a weak fool who tries to bandage over-sensitivity with a lack of self control.
Sometimes, I suppose nothing can really be done. Mostly I suppose that despite my confidence in my intelligence and reasoning skills - I still can't fully understand people or this insidious life.
If only I could run off to the woods, as I did when I was a girl. If only there was a hideout to burrow into. Where I was no one's concern, or burr to bare.

It had to be done, and it would be better for both of us once it was. I looked at him standing there surrounded by overgrown grass. Between his muscular roots the long slick blades clamored up his brown trunk with audacity. I eyed the thickness of his trunk and the way the his arms branched out and bent at the elbows to hold up his green canopy. He was a knobby old man with just a bit of a fuzzy green beard growing on the north side. But there was questions about certain scars, that appeared fearfully across his wooden torso. I would have to ask him about those, after I climbed him. I knew he was looking at me, scrutinizing this little obstinate rag doll. Dressed in a haggardly worn athletic shirt that was a red velvet with dirty brown cuffs, and a pair of ripped brown cordoroys which ended at my shins yet were to round waisted so that an occasional tug was needed to keep them up, I circled him with certainty.
With a smile, I ran and grabbed his low hanging arm and swung my barefoot onto a protruding knot. After a great deal of leverage and exertion, I pulled myself up and over the branch. I laid there over his bicep, catching my breath. "Good." I huffed. "Now we can be friends." I pulled myself to standing and started to explore how his branches twisted. There was a top place where a branch had been lost, and I shuddered for a moment with fright: What could have done that to such a strong tree?
"Becky!" Came a voice from beyond the hedges. "Beckky!" It was Mandy. She ran toward me with awe. "You did it! How did you?"
"I will tell you, but we can't let Dan or Beth up here. This is our tree. His name is . . Sam."
Mandy ran and did as I instructed, and I leaned over and pulled her the rest of the way. She was just a couple of inches shorter. But Mandy was more daring. I watched with admiration as she bounced her way out to the end of a branch and then come back. "You do it!" She encouraged. "Oh, no!" I said, fully aware of my fear of heights. We played and talked to Sam. We made up stories about him and his broken arm.

Autumn had come and school had started, less time could be spent with the trees. It had been a chilly, grey day whose breath bit into one's bones. My spirit ached to be loose, and free despite the rattling window panes and the shivering groans of the house against the fierce fall winds. So I escaped into the far yard where I was never seen from the house and where Sam kept a lonely watch. I climbed up into his branches hoping that it could be a brief barrier against the onslaught. But the cold was too much, so I started to sing. I sung with the wind. My voice rose and fell with each gust. I stood up and faced the wind, holding onto Sam. I sung the sorrows and the hopes and all that I felt trapped inside. My shivering subsided and I became powerfully alive while tears streamed down my cheeks.
I bravely inched my way down the branch, singing loudly and full of emotion when the wind roared back and the branch cracked. It fell.
But I did not fall. I glided easily down, riding the branch like a descending elevator.
Stepping off in shock, I ran home thanking the Lord.

It spread across the sky in firery red, briilantly bright. Pushing the night into scattered purplish clouds. The darkness has fled before the light. His unlimited mercy displayed just above the horizon, as the trees seem to swim away from their temporary captor.
My spirit, at last, rejoices at the release. I am returned to my Father, and my Lord. The warmth of His embrace encircles my heart. Would it always be so! Today I sing and dance to the glory of His liberty and unending love.
It may be just for an hour or a day, yet beyond all else my soul longs to dwell in the Light forever.

Sitting there, pretending to be comfortable with the rigid blue uniform on, your chuckle fills the room. You're buckled and snapped ready for the shift. I watch your hands folded over your belly twisting the ring on your finger. Yes, I know. Listening to 'The Office' I laugh with you. I wonder if I could have your attention for but a moment, if I danced across the room like a ballerina.
Ah, but it is the music that I love most. So if I sung to you, would you smile? Would you think I was a funny wife?

I have told some lately how it haunts me. Vivid images that have long been buried for other participants, still float to the surface. Flashing with clear scenes that exert a lost emotion struggling to be understood:
The horizon across an Indiana corn field on a firery sunset, with some crows hanging there crying out in a spoiled demanding way. I am just a girl marveling at flight while running down the country road wanting to catch them.
The man holding a styrofoam cup with hot coffee. His creased face seems so tense, and full of force as he talks to the other man. His wavy hair black slicked across his forehead. I listened to his voice with deliberate words that struggle to have power and meaning. He stands with masculine firmness in his blue pressed suit, just an inexpensive polyester cotton blend that barely covers the top of worn and misshaped shoes.
I remember the swirls in the stained wood along the legs of Mom's china cabinet. I remember tracing my finger over the curves and along the corners, wondering at the hidden faces in the circling wood grain. There's a smell of dust being scattered over lazy rays of sun.
The college memories, especially, evoke feelings that I cannot catch and catagorize.

So if you find me writing these, please be kind and know that it is just a napping mat for the memories and images that won't go to bed. I suppose it to be a blessing if I could compile them into a book or memoirs.