That is Not Your Toilet Paper ~ and Other Sounds of Home

You never know what you will hear in my house.  Laughter is heard often, music, and then something like “That is not your toilet paper.”  The last is spoken to the puppy who thinks that toilet paper looks like a party streamer on a cardboard roll.   A home can hold many different sounds; kitchen sounds of meals being prepared and shared, favorite games and television shows, pets, getting ready to leave for the day, and coming home.  Getting along sounds and disagreement sounds. 

There are sounds that should never find themselves in a home, the sounds of terror, abuse, and infliction of harm.  We will be participating in a pay-it-forward project June 8 to help a place that changes the sounds from harm to home for young boys, the Miracles Can Happen Boys Ranch.  Whether the harm is from familial hurts or self-inflicted, this is a place where boys are taken into a loving home and brought up with a sense of worth and Christian values. 

What is a pay-it-forward project?  Well, seed money is received to go toward something that will help raise additional funds.  Then, the monies raised are donated to the boys ranch.  My mom was so excited when this opportunity came up, and went up with the idea of a concert where donations are taken for the ranch. 

Now that the date and time and location are set, all that is left is the music, right?  Well, there is a little more to it than that – and I’ll keep adding some updates from time to time here.  In the meanwhile, check out the flyer, add the event to your calendar, and we hope to see you there. 

The Sounds of the Day

   It’s Good Friday and I have been thinking about the sounds that would have comprised this day in Jerusalem. It is obviously a day that focuses on Jesus, and the sacrifice He made for us. However, I wonder what the sounds were like that day.
   It’s been like living in a rain forest here, a cold damp wet rain forest, which creates lovely sounds on the roof as I settle in to sleep. The sounds of the birds outside, the dogs as they bark their hellos, the television, the wind in the pines… there are just so many sounds surrounding me today.
   I wonder what the sounds were on that day in Jerusalem. After Christ died, after his body was removed from the cross. The heckling sounds, the feet on the roads, and the sound of the hammer and nails have all faded. Now, it is the sounds of soldiers and the sigh of wood as it is relieved of its weight. The night sounds could have occurred. People would have returned to their homes, I wonder what that sound was. Doors opened and closed, and what were the conversations that occurred? Had the fever of the day been broken with the realization of the actions of the day and its consequences? Were voices lowered in fear or raised in irritation? Did children sense the tension and rev up their little motors to pitches normally only reached during full moons? Were there the sounds of sobs in the streets or laughter?
  Today we remember. Today we think back and remember the actions, sights, and sounds of that day.

Ya’ll, Coke, and Yankee

   I’m not sure if it’s the result of reading To Kill a Mockingbird again, or the first few warm days of spring, or just remembrances, but part of me has been remembering living in the southern US and missing it. I have to chuckle to myself when this feeling hits me, because I wasn’t all that sad about leaving the south to live in the mid-west again. Don’t get me wrong, it had its charms. I just got sick and tired of being called a Yankee and being asked what kind of coke I would like at the drive through window when I ordered coke to drink. The culture was foreign to me, and I remember feeling very alone in the midst of a world that I just did not understand. I said “you guys” instead of “hey ya’ll” and constantly forget to include ma’am and sir in my sentences. I have to admit, the manners were pretty nice, and you just can’t get better fish fry hush puppies. But, it wasn’t something I really understood and I was ready to move on.

   Now, I am remembering a slow moving southern town, with the smell of honeysuckle and salty Gulf air when the breeze blew just right. I am remembering the manners when gentlemen hold the doors open and help you carry your bags. I remember the slightly slower drawl that only serve to disguise the quick wits that lay beneath. Azalea blooms rampantly through sandy grass yards, where mounds of fire ants live their lives. Something has happened between then and now, and now I can appreciate the place as I couldn’t then.
   Maybe I just need to go find myself an azalea to stick my nose into or make real sweet tea. Maybe one good mornin’ ya’ll would get it out of my system. If I could though, I think I would take an amalgamation of all the places I have lived and bring out the best things. For example, there are just not as many fans as fervent in their baseball player support as the Cleveland Indians. Bring out that enthusiasm and rock solid school districts, with the slightly slower pace and hospitality and community values of the southern Christian families. Then, throw in some mid-west solidity and poof – it’s a heady mix of Spanish moss and corn fields.
  I think what it really boils down is that some days, I just get home sick. And my heart tells me that I’m not at home yet. Not really. Oh, it’s a nice enough place that I live in now, even though they don’t make hush puppies at fish fries, but it’s still foreign. There are times when I just grow weary of being an alien in the land and want to feel that I really fit. God knows where this life will take me, certainly I don’t, and I may once again wind up hearing that drawl and seeing signs for boiled peanuts. Or, maybe I’ll head out west and try a new flavor. But regardless, I think part of me will always hold back because that won’t be home either. Moving around, well it’s made me understand more of how this world is not my home. And today, well today I’m just a bit home sick.

PBS Special

   There was a PBS series last year, or perhaps the year before, where people were chosen to go and live in a recreation of a colonial village, early Texas ranch, or western pioneer homestead. They were put in costumes, given the tools and resources of that time period and then were put forth to fend for themselves. Obviously, it would be a pretty steep learning curve for most of us.

   But, I was thinking about that the other night, when dreaming of Jenny Lake at the Teton Mountains. What would it be like to have a snug little cabin, tucked in among the pines in front of the lake. Open the door and there is Oxbow Bend winding past with otters playing in its current. It might be refreshing to be there, removed from some of the conveniences. Okay, I’ll admit I don’t want to give up all of them. I like central heat and air. I like hot water and washers and dryers. But, I could give up some of it for a while.
   Maybe that should be a PBS special, maybe we should have something where we can remove ourselves from the business of busyness. When else can we stop to think through the beauty of the world around us? When else can we pause to appreciate the beauty of the stars, the joy of the movement of moose through the birches? I like technology, I like connecting with friends and family through facebook, I like the easy way to communicate with text and the handiness of cell phones. But in a moment this morning, I paused to look at the sunrise and wanted a little time to slow down, and appreciate the beauty surrounding us.

Is it Possible?

Is it possible to love our enemies? Is it something we can do? Even with God’s help, can we really make a change in our natural inclinations to seek revenge? There was a book I read not too long ago which brought out that question, is it possible? I know that God told us to love our enemies. It didn’t say pretend they aren’t our enemies or act like’s all okay. But, love our enemies. The question comes back – is it possible?
The book I’m referring to, Tea with Hezbollah was focused as the title indicates on the Middle East. However, on a recent trip back home to Kentucky I was reminded of a different instance of this which gives me hope. There is a park next to a reservoir, the water is beautiful, surrounded by cliffs, trees, and is a favorite boating spot. The park looks out over the docks, the activity on the lake from picnic tables under pavilions. A few years ago, driving down the road, passing the entrance to the park I saw a sign which startled me. A small yard sign had been posted with an arrow, Hatfield and McCoy dinner. The Hatfield’s and McCoy’s were two families that were feuding for quite some time. There were people killed on both sides, people who were fearful on both sides. Revenge, hate, and fear were nurtured for far too long. No, it’s not at the scale or the length of time which the factions in the Middle East are facing. But, there were generations involved in this fight.
I had a chance to talk to someone about that, she was in a family on one side of that fight and grew up learning watchfulness. Her father made a choice to not bring the feud into his generation if he could help it. Eventually, there was a tentative peace for this family. Then, there is a time where these people gather together to eat, visit, and have children playing together. There was healing going on that day. It makes me think that it is possible.

Preparation

I can be a bit geeky at times. No really, I mean it! But, trip planning for me is normally the time to kind of let my inner geek have a field day. I blame it on all of those years of travel with my mother who diligently read the guide book to me, instructing me and insisting I had the history of each town we came to. But, for trips normally I have a three ring binder with all of the maps, confirmation numbers, contact information, location information, and budget information all neatly three hole punched and put together. A pocket that is also three hole appropriate normally resides in the back – or rather two. One for pens, pencils, sharpees and any other miscellaneous small item and another for receipts and perhaps the unwitting seed I might find and want to save.

As I prepare for a trip home, the preparation this time has been a bit different. Business of life has led me to gratefully rely on my mother, for this girl’s trip, to take care of all the minutia of planning. I know she has done a fabulous job and it has been an enormous stress relief for me. All I have to do is get some clothes, the camera of course, and various plant gathering tools thrown into the van between now and our departure. The preparation for a trip is part of the fun of a trip, as you build anticipation of what you will see and who you will get to catch up with.
My three ring binder will be staying at home this time...       maybe.

Home, Home on the ???

“Home, home on the….” I always seem to get stuck there. Where is home? I mentioned before that I’ve moved around a bit, so when I get that inevitable question of “where are you from?” My answer is always a question back, “at what grade?” In other words, it changed based on different times in my life. So, home has been mobile, and then family home is someplace else.

I am looking forward to a trip home (family home) in the fairly near future, thinking about seeing my family, times together. I get more excited with each passing day. Living in Iowa for 12 years, it is home and yet, at the same time is not. Where is home?
I look around me at the pains, the hurts, the terrible things we do to each other. Is this really my home? What a wonderful thing to be able to say, and know, that this is not my home. Not my real home. But, not being at home can be a lonely proposition. It can feel as if I am alone in the wide weird world. Turning to my Bible, I am reminded that I am not alone in this, I am not alone in this sojourn to my home.
“Dear friends, I urge you, as aliens and strangers in the world, to abstain from sinful desires, which war against your soul. Live such good lives among the pagans that, though they accuse you of doing wrong, they may see your good deeds and glorify God on the day he visits us,” (1 Peter 2:11-12). Friends who are also aliens and strangers in the world, we are not alone! Then, there are instructions following. This is the decision in life choices, decisions which promotes God’s glory to those who do not know him or have spurned him.
Returning back to the idea of alone, of being away from our real home, I look just a few verses above in 1 Peter 2, to verses nine and ten. “But you are a chose people a royal priesthood, a holy nation, a people belonging to God, that you may declare the praises of him who called you out of darkness into his wonderful light. Once you were not a people, but now you are the people of God; once you had not received mercy, but now you have received mercy.” Not alone, but a nation – we are promised a home. One day, I will finish that song. “Home, home on the…. Streets of the heavenly kingdom.”