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Thanks for stopping by, whether you got here by a link or hitting "next blog" -- I am glad you are here. I've also done some writing on homeschooling, and what I learned thinking I was teaching.

Sunday, July 24, 2011

Thoughts From the Porch

 
Sunday morning and we are enjoying the last day of a refreshing vacation – everybody is moving slowly; the little kids are fighting cold bugs we hope will not visit us. I am sitting on my former back porch – reflecting and writing. One of the greatest pleasures in life on my humble list of pleasures is a screened in porch.  The ceiling fan moves the humid July air slightly, and I am refreshed with recollections, thoughts and hope. 

Years ago, I sat here, often doing a Bible study, journaling – trying to write out what was stirring me up -- good, bad, and indifferent. When I wrote I was, and still am, mindful that committing too much information to paper might do more harm than good, assuming anyone other than myself would read what I wrote. 

This brings me to a problem I have (in) writing: honestly describing what I remember without splashing mud – trying to explain myself, or describe others without pointing fingers – using my “pen” as a brush, not as a hammer. If it is true that God causes everything to work together for the good of those who love God and are called according to his purpose for them, then I have a canvas and paints to describe the who, what, why’s, how’s and when’s.

And I remember a good set of “brushes” I found a long time ago in Stories for the Heart, (1996, ed. Alice Gray).


I walk down the street. There is a deep hole in the
sidewalk. I fall in. I am lost. I am helpless. It isn't my
fault. It takes forever to find a way out.

I walk down the street. There is a deep hole in the
sidewalk. I pretend I don't see it. I fall in. I can't
believe I'm in the same place, but it isn't my fault.
It still takes a long time to get out.

I walk down the street. There is a deep hole in the
sidewalk. I see it is there. I still fall in. It's a
habit. My eyes are open. I know where I am.
It is my fault. I get out immediately.

I walk down the street. There is a deep hole in the
sidewalk. I walk around it.

I walk down a different street.

This morning I think about being a grandmother, having scooped up and cuddled the three grand kids God has graciously given us. We talk play, and interact – they tell me stuff; they ask me questions.  We draw together – and I am keeping a remembrance/ prayer journal for them – not as devotedly as I could.  I hope the journals will encourage them when they read them.

I have no memories of such experiences with my only grandmother, or the aunt and uncle who raised my mom after her mother died, and her dad left. I remember them, their homes, and then, seeing them in a nursing home for the last few years of their lives.  So, although it doesn’t seem like I have much to work with – these memories  can be sunshine or shadows – both necessary in a landscape of my life.  

 Still not sure how to work these colors into this painting . . .

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