Five Minute Friday: Grit

GO

My teeth clench.  My hand opens and closes, changing from rose to hard white.  Head feeling as if it would burst into flames.  My feet take me out of the room.  It is better that way. 

I write a letter offering my resignation.  But by the time the Engineer has returned home, it has silently retracted itself as the children and I have sprouted flour on our noses and are dangling spoons of cookie dough from our fingers. 

It seems like daily I fight the urge to wash my hands, change my clothes and walk out the door.  Leave everything behind and disappearing. 

But the residual effects on these precious gifts is what concerns me the most.  Though they alone have the ability to make me madder than a disturbed hornet nest, quite honestly I never truly want to hurt them.

I may think it.  But the grief at such thoughts and sinful tongue lashings nearly suffocate me as I beg for forgiveness from Abba. 

God, I cry.  What were you thinking?  I wasn’t supposed to have children!  Now you have blessed me with four?  And this is how I thank you?  Hurting this tender flock?  Forgive me.  I beg you to change me . . . change me from the inside out.  Quickly.  Overnight.  Please. 

I vow to wake up earlier the next day.  To dig into my Precept Upon Precept Study.  To resolve.  To follow through.  Fortitude. 

STOP

 

Motherhood can be hard.  And I have really struggled with it lately.  Won’t you join me regularly for some honest thoughts? Or allow me to pop into your inbox on random occasions with a special giveaway, recipe or relevant thought?  Sign up for my new newsletter.

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Five Minute Friday: Delight

START

Yesterday was a hard day.  I clung to the Flying Dutchman in desperation, looking for something to delight in. 

Perhaps the sparkle . . . the twinkle of love . . . of delight.

Kind thoughts were far and few between. 

A last ditch attempt was made.  Unbeknownst to me, my eldest had bribed his brother into cleaning up. 

The reward:  chocolate chip cookies.

I both sighed and delighted in this prospect.  Chocolate is almost like salve on a wound. 

But like arnica, the healing numbing effect only lasted so long.  After the torches had been extinguished and only the heart lights remained . . . my crew escaped from their barracks.

Too many words later the house stilled.  For a moment.  A lonely cry burst through the late hour.  A hungry baby girl, my Pleasant Word. 

I brought her into our bed.  She hadn't seen her dad.  Though he lay sleeping, it didn’t deter her. 

Da.  Da.  Da.  Oh.  Da. Da.  Glua-gula-gula, her delightful candy-like voice filled our exhausted bedroom.  Like music her voice wafted through the night, causing me to laugh heartily and wake the normally groggy Engineer from his deep slumber. 

STOP

If some of my post doesn’t make since, then you might need to refer to yesterday’s post and my unfortunate adventure on the Flying Dutchman. 

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Five Minute Friday: Trust

Trust and honor swirl around like a cloud in our home.  I hear myself, “Trust me, Buddy.”  It rolls off of the tongue easily.  It is meant to calm – to be a balm in stressful times.

But I wonder.  Do I deserve that trust? 

I wouldn’t trust a woman who tells you to fold and put away clothes, when hers have been sitting in the laundry basket upward of 10 days. 

Or the countless times when littles are asked to speak the truth, guilty eyes look up at me and instead of showing compassion I lash out in anger because clearly I have been duped, deceived, lied to.

But in order to rise to that word we speak of, the word that is supposed to transform our house from bickering and complaining to submission and preferring . . . that word honor, I fail to show it.

I hate myself.  I’m going to run away.  I wish I was never born.  I want Daddy.

I’m sorry.  I was wrong.  Mommy made a mistake and I ask you to forgive me.  Though I sinned, I want you to know that sometimes I have to discipline you . . . even punish you . . . so that you know I keep my word.

I will do what I promise to do.

I want you to trust me. 

Five Minute Friday: Tender

GO

Tender is meat grilled to perfection.  Warm.  Juicy.  Full of rich, earthy flavor. 

Tender are muscles that have been a slave to Bob and Jillian for a week.  Faithfully moving through the pain to improve strength.  Bringing the body closer to being a fat burning machine.

Tender is the heart after a loss . . . a heart breaking surprise . . . disappointment . . . words that you weren’t meant to hear or read.

Tender is a little girl’s emotions as a toy is taken from her hand before it is placed in her mouth.  The first time she is told no – and she understands.

Tender is that heart as it begins to understand who Jesus is and what we have done to Him with our words, deeds, and actions.  Tender is the heart that allows itself to be transformed, renewed, restored. 

Tender is the one who works towards change, overcomes habits, seeks revolution within. 

STOP

Linking up with Lisa Jo over at The Gypsy Mama for 5 Minute Friday!

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Vivid

GO

The kitchen sink is white.  I know not how old it is, its heritage, or how it came to have the a chip.  A black chip on a white surface. 

Yesterday the sink was scoured by hands that hold the beginning of my earliest memories.  She walks around my house, familiar.  Her handwriting with its big loops followed by ten stickers that my children eagerly anticipate. 

She busied herself.  Blooming in the present moment.  Engaged in birth, I floated oblivious.  Hand discovering God’s most recent thought come to earth.  She grappled my smallest stainless steel pot.  The one used for chai.  With it she would lovingly scoop out an overflowing pool.

As the water lowered, the sequence of new memories began. 

STOP

Note:  This creative writing actually took a different turn than I anticipated.  Dare I tell you the details?  I think not.  I hope you can figure out the setting and the action taking place over two drastically different time periods.  I long to include more detail and to expand on this writing session, but I am opting to stick to the rules.  Five minutes of unedited creativity.

What was I going to write?  The Engineer and I lay chatting in bed last night at a terribly late hour that seems to lure good conversation out.  Memories.  I had been remarking how certain times, certain memories stand out to me in such vivid, poignant, and stark contrast from 10 years ago, while living in Colorado . . . compared to  something that happened two weeks ago.

Linking up with The Gypsy Mama for 5 Minute Friday.

Awake

GO

There are some moments that it is easy to be present for.  Alert.  Awake.  Fully living in the moment. 

And then there are times it seems much more enjoyable to savor the moments of fog under a brown, crinkly, down comforter.

The boys flutter in, almost like Tinkerbell, darting here and there in the early morning darkness . . . peaking to see if I am awake.  Their uncontrolled morning voices can abruptly startle me from slumber. 

But these voices don’t always awaken me.

The Kindle lay beside my bed from a previous late night book. 

It is waiting.  Waiting for little hands to hold it up and watch that accidental purchase of the entire season one of Curious George.

Not minding, I refuse to wake up.  Instead I pull my snuggliest pajama clad son close and spoon him, lulled back to sleep by sounds of the man with the yellow hat.

STOP

Linking up with Lisa Jo over at The Gypsy Mama for 5 Minute Friday. 

I’d love for you to stick around.  Please sign up to receive my blog posts in your inbox here. I’d love it if you would like GM4G on Facebook or find me Google Friend Connect.

Five Minute Friday: Color

I used to only wear black.  Not in a gothic way.  Black because it was slimming.  I could hide behind it.  It was vogue.  I still gravitate towards black.  But there are moments when I throw a bucket of color into life.  I take that back, God deluges my life with color . . . as if we bought all the paint at Porters.  Like four children, when we were supposed to have none.  Three boys.  A surprise baby girl.  A dog dying.  A new furry creature that falls into our laps soon after.  A chance to reenter the mission field.  These things only define approximately the past year.  Those moments add color.  Texture.  They blend to create defining moments.  Hopeful moments.  Moments that bring my knees down hard onto the floor.  A black long sleeve shirt is safe.  But a pink top over it, makes it sassy.  It says, “I’m alive.”  

Please visit the other fine writers by clicking on the above button, including Lisa-Jo, the fantastic Gypsy Mama. 

Tired

GO

It is 10:39 PM.  I am tired. 

But yet I am not tired.  I know I will go to sleep tonight

I also know that I will be woken up by a dog nuzzling my arm, a hand placed quietly on face, or a sweet voice in the night asking for milk. 

And I will groggily lumber out of bed.  Wondering why I feel so heavy, before realizing the source of my lethargy.

Many late nights.  Long days.  Seven years of interrupted sleep. 

And I am tired. 

Each day looks much like the other.

He hit me.

I need to go potty.

Will you turn the lights on?

I’m hungry. 

What are you making?

Will you tell Ruth to get out of the way?

But sometimes there are sentences that waft out of the tornado of endless activity that land in my ears.

I love you, Mommy.  You’re so pretty.

And even though I may not be pretty, I feel like a queen when my boys knight me with their compliments.

That moment is suspended in time . . . and briefly I have the energy of a nuclear reactor. 

STOP

Good to be back at it again this week . . . as I missed last week’s writing. 

Five Minute Friday: Grow

GO

I’ve had all day.  It is the final hour.  11:46 PM.

Grow.  All I could think of was mold.  Or babies.  The time on the computer. 

But then . . . we got excited.  The Engineer and I.  We went downstairs.  To that place.  That place where I thought monsters lurked.  Organisms that would attack my lungs.  Blackness. 

I exaggerate.  My mind embellishes.

Our hand was forced.  The pipes . . . they pooped. 

The outside . . . forced itself in. 

And we . . . we sought advice.  We cleaned.  We waited. 

A plan formed.  A revised plan that fit nicely in our wallet and actually bought comfort and excitement.

A fresh place.  A knowing place.  Walls that are clean.  Floors that are scrubbed.

A soft place to land.

And a carpet that is growing.  I can’t wait for the boys to wake up in the morning.

STOP

Ah . . . I can breathe.  Hooking up with my sweet Lisa-Jo . . . so thankful I was given the chance to write tonight.

Five Minute Friday: Unexpected

GO

There are some things in this life -- my life -- that are surprises.  I didn’t think I would like them.  Relish in them.

Four children.

Seeing the dog, body tension filled, ready to unleash her energy in one bound upon the innocent little birds in our backyard.  Watching a flutter of activity, feathers flying as yet . . . once again, Ruth was too slow.

Digging my feet into sofa cushions.

Relishing, being deliriously happy, even encouraging a community of mothers to endure the decree . . . give birth naturally.  Without intervention.  Without dulling the senses.  Experiencing all aspects of birth.

There was a moment . . . it lasted maybe 32 seconds where I told the Engineer that I hated him.  In that moment I realized that I was going to give birth to my Pleasant Word alone . . . without my beloved midwife.

Delighting in seeing a figure clad in black . . . and the token streak of purple barreling down a step incline, enlisting gravity to help him descend the mighty mountains clad in white snow.  And I trailing behind . . . doing my best to show him that I . . . I am a brave wife . . . courageous enough to partner with him in feeding three testosterone rich saplings. 

Enjoying Indian food.  So much so that when the call to move there descended into our marriage . . . I agreed.  Changed.  Never to same woman again.

STOP.

How I want to linger here . . . so many unexpected moments that make for rich snapshots in my history.

Linking up with IRL Lisa-Jo . . .

Remember

GO

The room was always dark, save for the flickering TV screen.  I laid stretched out on the couch. 

Pretending to be barely able to move.

Hoping that when my mom arrived from a visit to the pharmacy that she would remember me.  How could she forget?  She was getting yet another prescription . . . for me. 

But . . . would she remember a coloring book perchance?  Or an orange push-up pop (back in the days when I was just a kid . . . not concerned about it if was organic).

I needn't have worried.  My mom always remembered.

One time . . . when I had the worst case of chicken pox she disguised my beloved stuffed animal, named with a very original name – Dog – as a mangy mutt riddled with the same complications.  Dog wasn’t left with scars, though.

Campbell's chicken noodle soup, grilled cheese, toast with butter accompanied by Inspector Gadget, Mr. Ed, Wonder Woman, Oprah, Casper, Scooby Doo, Fat Albert, Rocky and Bullwinkle. 

Passing the time.  My substitute teacher for the last month of kindergarten.

STOP

P.S.  I gandered over to Hulu to see if they had any of my old cartoons available for view.  Low and behold  . . . they do.

The boys are watching Inspector Gadget.  I was informed by Gabe, before the show even started, that this was his favorite one.

And Asher . . . made me howl.  “Mom, you didn’t watch this when you were a kid.  This is in color.  Your shows were in black and white.”

For those of you who don’t know me . . . I am NOT that old.

Linking up with Lisa-Jo from The Gypsy Mama . . . an IRL acquaintance.  I *heart* 5 Minute Fridays!

The Girl with the Imagination

Once upon a time there was a little girl.  She had a ji-normous imagination. 

Ping pong tables sheltered a woodland habitat on her parents orange and black plaid basement carpeting.  Her imagination even moved her dog to use his paw as if in a forehand swing underneath the playing field of said ping pong table.

She, like any good girl, ate her veggies and rode her bike (in circles around her neighborhood . . . leading the pack). 

As she grew so did her imagination.  She flirted across the woods with Anne (of Green Gables), felled a tree with the Girl of the Limberlost, and sailed to remote islands with the Counte of Monte Cristo.

A funny thing happened, though. 

Girls normally outgrow their imaginations.  They fill their mind with clothes, makeup, boys, and movies. 

But not this girl.  (Well, not until her junior year of high school – minus the makeup.)

Her mom often told her to write a children’s book.  The little girl has yet to set her imagination to this task, though the words are pictures flying around her brain.  However, her mom’s words have always anchored themselves to the swiftly darting fingers that most days find themselves treading vigorously upon a black keyboard.

She loves to write. 

It is her “it.” 

Her passion. 

Her love after God, her boyfriend from high school, and the little children living in the castle made of chocolate with her.

When the letters appear on the flat screen that reflects her brain, she releases them up to her Father in Heaven as a thank offering.  A gift for Him. 

And sometimes . . . . not all of the time . . . He rewards her hands by lifting her feet in the air.

(Pictures of the little girl were taken by Simply Sarah during the Relevant Conference this past weekend, who wanted to encourage the Granola family’s tradition of jumping on the bed when staying at a hotel.)

(Thank you SmileBooth.)

Meanwhile, Spell Out Loud laughed at the girl’s childishness.  (I could show you a picture of Maureen sleeping . . . but I won’t.)

Hi.  I’m the girl with the imagination.  I’m no longer a blogger.  I’m a writer.  And I’m not ashamed to admit it anymore.

Here is part of my writing family, Totally Tots. 

Jolanthe (Homeschool Creations), Maureen (Spell Out Loud), Carisa (1+1+1=1), and me!

You can also find me writing at The Homeschool Village and Healthy Moms.

 

Catch

GO!

My words are formed with a little help.  Influenced by what I have read. 

When I think of the word “catch,” vivid colors coming together to form toddlers playing ball in a backyard.  Giggling.  Throwing but lacking both precision and coordination. 

My mind wanders to seeing the water droplets of someone sneezing and parts of them being flung into the air.  (I know, rather gross.)  And that in itself is amazing . . . if you think about it.  God was crafty to create a sneeze.

I also think of germs on a door handle.  We unwittingly pick them up as we walk through a door into an opportunity, a newly awoken baby, the chiropractor, the dollar store.

Catch.  I hope that the good parts of my faith, the parts that I am obedient in, the parts that I spread joy with . . . those parts that they would end up being flung out into the atmosphere of my home so that my children would catch Jesus.

STOP.

That wasn’t nearly long enough.  I just got started. 

Five Minute Friday: Growing

Growing.  While I hope to be shrinking, I find that internally I am expanding . . . growing.  Growing in what it means to be a mature adult and handle my feelings in a non-volcanic way, void of an eruption.

Growing.  Being ok with bugs taking up residence in my refrigerator.

Growing.  Being bolder with my faith and being able to give a reason for the hope which I have and profess.

Growing.  Being quicker to ask for forgiveness and admit when I have been in the wrong.  (However if I haven’t apologized to you, maybe I don’t know I offended you.)

Growing.  In a knowledge of essential oil.

Growing.  Abounding in  a new love for my children that can laugh at once annoying things (thank you amino supplements).

Growing.  Strength, determination, grit to slay the beast of gluttony and put a noose around my lazy thyroid or pituitary gland to guide it into submission; rather, wake them up.

Growing.  Seeing my absolute necessity to be in the Word before my children wake up.

Growing.  Just when I thought I couldn’t adore the Engineer any more . . . my heart expands even more because of some humorous antic he has performed.

STOP

If you wrote for 5 minutes about the word “growing,” what would you say?  Join me and others over at The Gypsy Mama for 5 Minute Friday.

Five Minute Friday: Joy

Joy conjures up a lot of images to me.

Joy is my mom’s name.  Growing up, I don’t remember a time when my mom didn’t have some form of joy.  She always seemed happy, joyful, ready to extend a hug, affirm a good try, or offer a fellowship drink to me.  Joy.  She had joy in being a mom. 

Joy is the middle name of one of my college best friends.  I have always LOVED saying her full name, Monica Joy.  Something is just fun about that name.  What I heart about Monica is that all through college she worked hard at having joy . . . that girl knew how to study her Bible.  She enJOYED God’s word. 

Joy. 

A powerful choice.  A word that paints a picture.  Joy is so full of emotion. 

Joy is that feeling of meeting your child for the first time and being ever so thankful you aren’t in labor anymore.  That earth-tearing downward force finally stopped.

Joy.  The kiss that finalizes a marriage. 

Joy.  The moment I see the photoshopped image of my husband’s car on Glympse and see that he has pulled into our neighborhood.  Instantly once still children that stood before the computer, become jumping beans as they scatter out the garage door to meet their daddy.

STOP.

I can’t stop.  Because joy . . . once you begin to dwell on it – it has a powerful way of transforming your mind.  Of playing a silent movie in your cranium of all the Hallmark moments that have occurred in your life.

It is pleasant to my soul.  A good way to start my morning.  A powerful reflection to add purpose.

Because joy . . . it can’t be lived in the past.  It has to be an intentional part of our present.  Joy is a choice. 

For other powerful vivid writings on the subject of JOY, please visit the Gypsy Mama for other reflections.  A powerful day.

They shall eagerly utter the memory of Your abundant goodness

And will shout joyfully of Your righteousness. (Psalm 145:7)

Five Minute Friday: In Real Life

In real life I wonder if I am the opposite as what I am “in real blog.”  In real life, I say “so,” “like",” “you know?” and “I had an idea.”  A lot. In real life, whenever you see . . . . on your computer screen . . . .I do that a lot in real life.  It’s called, “I started a sentence.  Stopped.  And started a new sentence because I had a new thought.”  But eventually I do get around to the point.  Those dots . . . I can’t seem to write without them.  Every blog post has them.  They started because when I began using them, I received more comments.  People commented that my writing had improved.  That actually was an anonymous commenter.  No idea who they were.  But it seriously affected my writing style.  So I kept writing in my made-up blog language instead of in real life language.  But now I almost feel married to blog language.  The two worlds have almost become one.  Except I do know reality versus online life.  They both are real.  {Smiles}But I have to make sure to invest in the in real life reality more.  Which is difficult for me because I write better than I talk.  Just like I look better on my blog than I do in real person.  I suppose  you could say then in summary that in real life I am quite vain.  Thankfully, I have a Savior who is dealing with that vanity and replacing His image on mine . . . covering my imperfections and making me into something new this past year.    It’s been rough in real life.  But much better . . .

STOP.

(Don’t you wonder what I was going to write?  Sorry, can’t tell you.  The timer stopped.  Literally.  I do time myself for these posts.)

Five Minute Friday: Rest

It may sound silly.  Dramatic.  Childish.

But I *heart* 5 Minute Friday.  It is like five minutes of rest for me.  Rest. 

Rest from a required blog post.  Rest from editing a photo.  Rest from trying to be crafty.  Perfect.  Intriguing.  Gripping. 

Rest from something that I do for free.  I call that silly.  But at times it is true.  This blog has become its own beautiful beast.  Which is a whole different story.

God called us out of Colorado to find rest.  To do rest His way.  A sabbath’s rest.  We haven’t perfected that practiced rest.  That true rest.  Try as we might.  Which is why we probably haven’t entered that true rest.

Rest is sitting.  A coffee in hand.  A book to read when you aren’t worried about time or what you have to do afterwards. 

Rest is uninterrupted sleep.  Rest is fellowship without worries.  Sitting amongst friends and just being. 

Rest is what I would like to do when I see my dog up on the couch.  Ruth knows how to rest.

Five Minute Friday’s are sponsored by The Gypsy Mama.  I heart them. 

Five Minute Friday: Older

Older. 

I have come to realize this year that we are becoming the “older” people at church.

The ones with kids that run all over the church, while  younger parents clutch their children close.

The parents who are in activities.  Rather, their kids are in activities.

I’m older.

When someone in their twenties sees me at worship, they don’t think of me as a spring chicken.  Instead, they think of me as someone to ask a parenting question of because I have been there and done that.

I am not of the geriatric generation.

But the busy-with-one-gray-hair-generation.

The minivan mom.

The generation who grew up watching Oprah for their afterschool special.  The one who had a drawer-full of Wonder-Roo’s. 

I am the soccer mom. 

The mom with smiles creases at the edge of her eyes that fans out, adding character to my haggard look. 

But though I am older, my mind still thinks like I am still in high school. 

My thoughts still frisky with love for my husband.  Mischievous enough to still desire to pull pranks. 

STOP.

I love doing this.  Writing under pressure.

Read more posts regarding the subject of “older” over at The Gypsy Mama.

Writing Prompt: New

New.

Giddy with excitement as I re-enter my former life.  Writing.  Dreaming.  Creating.

I once thought that my life would be filled with words.  Words needing a dictionary.  People needing a dictionary around me.

Because heady words mean a smart person.  Right?

But instead I find that my grammar is rather simplified.  I teach beginning English.

New.

New is taking beginning English and with it painting a vision for my sons.  Turn your blanket into a tent.  Take a silk and become a superhero. 

What are you baking?  French silk pie?  Apple crisp?  Oh, a three egg cheese omelet.  Your mommy is raising you healthy.

New.

A new book.  The one I want to right with my simple words.  A book about our new dog.  To do this I must write a new email to a new friend.

And this might lead to a new adventure for our family’s big new adventure.

I simply can’t wait.

New is fun.  New is new.  Like a blank page.  Like an unopened fresh book.

An Amazon package sitting on my doorstep.

The first time I wrote for 5 minutes without a plan.  That was new to me.

STOP

If you are wondering what just happened on my blog post – it’s called 5 Minute Friday. 

I was given a writing prompt: New. 

And 5 minutes to write about ANYTHING that came to mind in that 5-minutes.

Forgetting about who would read this and how my grammar found itself to the page.  Simple writing. 

Because it’s good for you.  And it’s rather healing to my brain as writing/literature was my college major.

Thanks for reading.