orneriness

had to add this one of my nephew... just about sums him up!

hangin' around with buster brown

i promised my daughter some pictures of what we've been up to

while she's been visiting grandma. here they are!

miss ya, bub! hope you're having a great time!

love, momma

just being artsy

i was lying on my back in the "ambulance" and this caught my eye--

i like the way it turned out. i hope it translates onto other screens as well.

the spirit of life

this was created by a holocaust survivor and sits downtown

by the river. check it out--it's beautiful.

a love of color

I've been saying for years I wanted to get some pictures of this thing

with the sun shining on it. Yesterday was the day!

doubtful anticipation (a mis-lined pantoum)

Cool breeze blows white cotton across blue expanse—
shushing through the tall hickory trees,
causing the sun to dance in the shadows
as I listen to the twittering of birds and the chirruping of crickets.

Will you truly meet me here?
Shushing through the tall hickory trees,
sweeping down to touch me
as I listen to the whirring of cicadas and the roar of the lawn mower?

Here, in the midst of your green glory—
will you truly meet me here?
Here and now, when I so desperately need you
sweeping down to touch me?

What is expectation without hope?
Here, in the midst of your green glory
I question why I have one but not the other,
here and now, when I so desperately need you.

My heart knows the truth: only you can save me.
Cool breeze blows white cotton across blue expanse—
I pray that you will show up,
causing the sun to dance in the shadows.

and a few haiku

freely and lightly
in unforced rhythms of grace
I will learn to walk

(Mt 11:28-30, MSG)

oh to grasp how wide
and long and high and deep—this
extravagant love

(Eph 3, MSG)

and now, for a message from our sponsors...

Having grown up in the golden era of network television, my generation has collective memories centered around three to five primary channels of broadcast programming. We can sing to you what a conjunction is, tell you how to get to Sesame Street, whisper in your ear who shot JR, tell you the blues of a bill on Capitol Hill, and recite the ingredients of the Big Mac in rapid succession. While there were many programs that continue to be sentimental touchstones to my childhood, it is the commercials that come back the quickest, and at the oddest moments.

I must admit I have a warped nostalgia for the commercials of my youth. I can sing, in one breath, the entire Oreo cookie song, and do so pretty much every time I see one. My daughter asked me one day how I did something, and I told her it was an "ancient Chinese secret." She looked at me like I was speaking Chinese. And to this day, I cannot watch a sunset without hearing in my memory, "going, going, gone..." "Do it again, Daddy!" At a time when I was naive to the evils of advertising, commercials were fun ("No, silly, I'm talking to the toilet paper") and lighthearted, and I was easily and eagerly impressionable.

I don't feel that way any longer, now that a commercial has ruined my life.

Many of you are aware that, despite my childhood nostalgia, I do not watch much television at this point in my life. I wish I had not been watching this particular night, as well, as the images and ideas refuse to leave my mind and probably never will. This is why I don't watch television, I have reminded myself. But the damage has already been done.

For the life of me, I don't remember where I was when this occurred, nor do I remember what I was watching at the time. Someone was trying to get me to buy something, and then suddenly there was a woman in front of a mirror, gazing intently at her face. The woman raised one finger to each temple, and then very gently lifted up her cheeks. And then another woman. And then another. I cocked my head to one side. Another woman. My eyebrow went up. Another woman. I began to think about how I was going to get nonchalantly to the bathroom. Ten or fifteen women, all told, all around my age, examined themselves in the mirror in that 60-second, million-dollar spot. And then one more got up and excused herself to the bathroom.

Eyebrow still raised, lips pursed, I stood in front of the mirror, knowing I should just turn around and walk away. But like a dieter drawn to the buffet, I could not help myself. One arm lifted, then the other. I placed my fingers to my temples. I looked deep into my eyes. I lifted.

I gasped.

Today I turn 37. They tell me I will be at peace one day with the wrinkles across my forehead, the jowls around my mouth, the salt beginning to mix with my pepper--but not today. Today I am 37 in a world of 27 year olds, and I wish I'd started using the Mary Kay a whole HECK of a lot sooner.

And I wish to God I'd NEVER seen that commercial...

when God speaks to me, he uses music...

(like freedom in spring)

She's alone tonight with a bitter cup and
She's undone tonight, she's all used up
She's been staring down the demons who've been
screaming she's just another so and so
another so and so

You are golden, you are golden child
You are golden, don't let go
don't let go tonight

There's a fear that burns like trash inside
And your shame the curse that burns your eyes
You've been hiding in the bedroom hoping this isn't
how the story has to go
It's not the way it goes,
it's your book now

You are golden, you are golden child
You are golden, don't let go
don't let go tonight

You're a lonely soul in a land of broken hearts
Your far from home
is a perfect place to start

So this final verse is a contradiction and the more we learn,
the less we know
We've been talking about a feeling, we both know inside
but couldn't find the words
I couldn't write this verse. I've seldom been so sure
about anything before

You're golden, you are golden child
You are golden, don't let go
don't let go tonight

You are...
(This world is a dead man down
Every breath is a fading crown we wear like some
debilitated king...
The earth spins and the moon goes round
The green comes from the frozen ground and
everything will be made new again
like freedom in spring)
...golden
(like freedom in spring)
golden
(like freedom in spring)
golden

Music and Lyrics by Switchfoot

quiet time

It begins with the creaking click of the knob turning, slowly catching the internal mechanism, and then releasing with a soft, metallic echo. The door swings open, and a muffled thump-thump-thump approaches my bedside. A small, impish figure, armed with three stuffed animals and a rather large blanket, hoists itself up beside me and begins to ruin my quiet, restful morning.

“Momma, are you ready to get up now?” the treble voice asks. I look at the clock. 6:30 AM. No. I am not ready to get up yet. Not by a long shot. “Momma…” I roll over toward the voice, which comes out of a deceptively angelic-looking face, framed with soft, sun-kissed curls glowing like a golden halo. In my stupor, I am taken in. The tender moment, however, is fleeting. “Buddy,” I croak in my “it’s dark-thirty AM” voice, “Momma is still sleeping. You need to go back to bed.” “I want to be with you, Momma,” he insists, throwing his legs over mine and grabbing my arm to position around him under his neck.

As I know it is a lose-lose scenario, I choose, this time, to give him a chance. “Buddy, you MUST lay still and you MUST be quiet,” I warn him in the sternest voice I can muster at this hour. It is yet another exercise in futility. Legs on top of mine, legs underneath mine. The arm is in the right spot, the arm is in the wrong spot. “Momma,” he urges, “roll over this way.” Groaning, I roll the opposite direction, to no avail. Tiny legs fling themselves across my torso, shifting roughly every three seconds. Ire is building within my not-a-morning-person spirit. I breathe deeply and hope that ignoring him will deter him.

I hope in vain. “Momma, are you ready to get up now?” he asks again. “I’m ready to eat now. Momma… is sissy up yet? Momma… did Daddy go to work already? Momma… will you play with me? Momma…” In miraculous self-restraint, I calmly roll over and insist that he return to his bedroom. After a moment of protests, he retreats in a fit of whining, slamming both my door and his own along the way, which requires me to get out of bed to address. Finally, I am alone in my bed (oh, sweet mercy) and, smugly congratulating myself for not killing my son, begin to drift back to sleep.

BAM!!! BOOM!!! I awaken and push my door shut, turning the fan up to deal with both the rising heat and the rising noise. CRASH!!! Thump-thump-thump-thump-thump. I roll over, glancing again at the clock. Another hour of “sleep” has passed. SPILLLLLLL!!! Yammeryammeryammer. “Buddy, you’re too loud,” I warn. He quiets momentarily. Then comes the tape player blaring math facts to poorly written imitation-80’s rock music. BEAT-BEAT-BEAT-BEAT. The clock reads 7:50. I groan and finally, wearily, drag myself from bed.

He appears the minute my door opens. “Momma, are you getting up now? I’m ready to eat, Momma. Can we eat now?” I stumble to the bathroom. “Yes, Buddy, we can eat in a minute.” “I want Cheerios, Momma. With honey. Can I have honey?” “We’ll see, Buddy,” I mutter, making my way in to wake up my 8-year-old sleep-loving likeness. “Time to get up now, Sissy!!!!” He diverts his attention to her for a moment, and I begin to dress in my slow, I’m-not-awake-yet pace. BOUNCE!!! “Momma, can we eat NOW?!?!”

Making my way downstairs, he curls around my feet like the cat. “Can I have Cheerios? I want Cheerios. With honey. Can I have honey, Momma?” “Buddy, I got it, okay?” “Okay, Momma,” he chirps, off to clatter with his trains. I enter the kitchen, the cat now curling around my feet, yowling to be paid attention to. My daughter thumps down the stairs and the bickering begins. “That was my train, Sissy! I had it first!” I attempt to ignore it and begin preparing breakfast. Dishes clank against one another, tones harsh and startling to my ears. My irritation grows despite my best efforts.

"Come on guys, it’s ready.” Spoons clinking, Cheerios crunching, children chattering. I place my ingredients in the blender and brace myself. WHIRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!!! “Momma, are you making a smoothie?” “What do you think, Buddy?” “Can I have some smoothie? I want some smoothie!” I pour my breakfast—MY breakfast—and come to the table.

I pull my devotional reading out, shuffling through the pages to today’s date. I begin to read, hungry for a nourishing moment. “What are we going to do today, Momma? Are we going to aerobics today? What are we doing after aerobics? Are we going to a friend’s house today? I want to play with a friend today, Momma. Can I have my gummy vitamins, Momma? I haven’t had my vitamins yet…” It takes me ten minutes to read the three short paragraphs. The moment I shut the book and lay it down, it has already left me. “Momma, I want some more…”

Some more. Yes. I want some more, too. More sleep. More peace. More “Mommy-Time.” More quiet. I know it is a season, one like many others I will encounter. But it is a particularly noisy, relentless season, and I am one who is sensitive to the noise and the pressure. “They tell me there will come a time when it seems too quiet,” I say to my husband one night, as they are bickering in the stroller. “I can’t imagine...” “Don’t say that,” he gently admonishes me. “You know it will be here all too soon.”

Yes, I know this. I remind myself of it daily, trying to be comfortable with the tension between cherishing the now and anticipating the not-yet. There will come a day I will long for that little voice to wake me up and fill my day, but, at the moment, the day is filled to overflowing. I pray for moments of quiet, moments of inner peace, moments of grace. One comes, as the children exit the kitchen and flow out into the backyard. Moving into the living room, I pick my devotional up again, and soak up as much as those three minutes will allow. “Momma,” I hear all too soon. “Momma, I need you..."

This time, I am ready to rise. I close my eyes for a moment, lifting up a prayer for our day, for my children, for my heart. Then I get up, placing the book back on the kitchen table, and I follow the noise to its source. With a newfound calmness, I respond.

“Whatcha need, Buddy? I’m ready now…”

just five or six more...

The scale read 140.0 two weeks ago. Tonight it reads 148.0. I stare at the glowing number in despair, my heart sinking, though not with surprise. How could I possibly be surprised, when I knowingly binged all afternoon?

Today was the low point of a slowly-gaining-momentum roller coaster ride—emotions out of whack and appetite out of check and my weight as up and down as the track. I can hear the clack-clack-clack-clack of the cable as I begin another ascent—up to the height of my irrational fear—and for a moment I perch motionless at the top before careening down a slippery slope of trying to control my never-satiated need for more. I clutch the crash bar for dear life, knuckles white, cursing myself for getting on this ride, knowing full well I never could handle roller coasters.

When did I first find myself back in this car, belted and barred and unable to place my hands and feet on solid ground until the ride has come to a complete stop? Until recently, life had become a fairly mellow ride—more like the Matterhorn—round and round and round with its predictable ups and downs. Things were steady—eating healthy, exercising regularly—and then a small dip—a weekend barbeque or a wedding reception—then back to steady, steady, steady, dip, steady, steady, steady, dip. It felt reasonable. It felt healthy. It felt (dare I say?) normal.

It doesn’t feel that way any more. For whatever reason—my monthly cycle, side effects of a newly-tried-then-newly-discarded medication, depression, spiritual attack—nothing is steady now. Not today. Not this weekend. Not this week. Not ever again.

I am, of course, becoming dramatic. This is because drama is what I do. It is much more compelling to write that nothing will ever be okay again than it is to write that in another two weeks I will be back on track and the scale will read 140.0 again. And, truthfully, it FEELS like it will never be okay again. It FEELS like I am 240 lbs and doomed to stay there, or, worse, increase. It FEELS like I have changed nothing and made no gains against my formidable appetite. It FEELS like I am still the sad, pathetic, lacking-in-willpower creature that I FEEL I have always been. I have lost. The battle is over. The white flag is up. I surrender.

(Pause for dramatic effect) Sigh…

(In a hushed, subdued tone) I surrender. I am desperately, hopelessly hungry, and there is nothing—NOTHING—that satisfies. Not Oreos or beef brats or corn on the cob or sweet potato chips with dip. Not pizza or strawberry pie or nachos or cranberry oatmeal cookies. I eat one, I want another. I eat another, I want five or six more. My stomach says, “enough.” My waistband says, “enough.” My spirit says, “enough.” My insatiable appetite says, “more, more, MORE!!!”

I am not satisfied. It is not my stomach that growls, empty and discontent, but my heart. I am hungry for more than my pantry can ever hold. I surrender—not to my appetite, but to He whom I am hungry for.

Delight my soul in the richest of your fare, Lord (Isa 55:2). I beg of you—meet me here, at last.

more than a conqueror (a pantoum)

The white flag is raised—
tattered and torn, it whips back and forth in the wind.
I surrender…
there is no fight left in me.

My spirit is limp—
tattered and torn, it whips back and forth in the wind.
Weariness like a mountain weighs upon my shoulders.
There is no fight left in me.

I am overcome with despair.
My spirit is limp—
where is my hero now?
Weariness like a mountain weighs upon my shoulders.

“All-consuming-yet-never-satisfied-wants[1]” declare victory…
I am overcome with despair.
A conquering power brings the enemy to its knees[2]—
where is my hero now?

Two sets of hands reach for me—only one may claim me.
“All-consuming-yet-never-satisfied-wants” declare victory…
but faith will overcome.
A conquering power brings the enemy to its knees.

There is another who fights for me—
I surrender
to the one whose blood was shed in victory.
The white flag is raised.

___________________________________________
[1] Galatians 5:19-21, MSG
[2] 1 John 5:4, MSG

the first tastes of summer

Ahh... summer. Popsicles, watermelon, and corn on the cob. With any luck, they'll be room for some writing on my "plate," as well! One can always hope!

reva's daughter

The line, though well-rehearsed, never felt quite natural to me, no matter how many times I recited it over the course of the past week. Perhaps because it is a line I’ve not used much in recent years, perhaps because other lines have taken its place with the passage of time—for whatever the reason, though it always rolled easily off my tongue, it always sounded unfamiliar to my ear, as if I were introducing myself by another person’s name or speaking about myself in past tense. “Hi, I’m Lorie,” I would begin, smiling, my hand outstretched. “I’m Reva’s daughter.”

The response became downright comical after a while. “I knew you was Reva’s daughter,” each relative would reply, smiling back at me. “You look just like her.” “Yeah, I get that a lot,” I would chuckle in return. And I do—which is the funny part. Were we talking about my aunt and her daughter, this would not be nearly as amusing, because my cousin is the spitting image of her mother. But my mother and I—well, suffice it to say that even though she has gotten stopped more than once at the grocery store or the mall with, “You must be Lorie Kaufman’s mom—you look just like her,” we don’t really think we look much alike at all. But I played out my role, smiling, and nodding, all the while wondering what they saw that I did not.

And so it was that I found myself in this odd, bemused place—adult child of my mother, half in the present, half in the past—contemplating what it means to be Reva’s daughter, Jennie’s granddaughter, my husband’s wife, my daughter’s mother. Contemplating what it means to be so linked with another that this link becomes part of my identity. Contemplating what it means to bear the image or imprint of another. I’m not sure I’ve come to any conclusions, save this one:

As much as society tries to convince me that I am an “Army of One,” I cannot escape the fact that my smile is my mother’s, my eyes are my father’s, my outgoing nature is my granddad’s, and my I’m-gettin’-tired Kentucky drawl is my gram’s. The people I come from, the people I’ve united with, and the little people I’ve produced all contribute to the person I was, the person I am, and the person I am to become.

Though the only place I’m now known as Reva’s daughter is in the company of family, I do not cease to be that person once I return home, any more than I cease to be my daughter’s mother when I go to work or my husband’s wife when I leave for a weekend with the girls. And while we may not think we look much alike, I bear my mother’s image nonetheless, just as I do that of my father, and his mother, and so on. Mom’s interest in genealogy is not lost on me—we do not stand alone in a single point in time. I am not separate. I am a part of something beyond myself. I am a Rees. I am a Kaufman. I am an Endicott. I am a Hottle. I am a Baisden.

I am Reva’s daughter.

here she comes...

In memory of my Grandmother

Jennie Baisden Endicott

(The chapel at Community Hospice, Ashland, KY)

I am standing upon the seashore. A ship at my side spreads her white sails to the morning breeze and starts for the blue ocean. She is an object of beauty and strength. I stand and watch her until at length she hangs like a speck of white cloud just where the sea and sky come to mingle with each other.

Then someone at my side says: "There, she is gone!"

"Gone where?"

Gone from my sight. That is all. She is just as large in mast and hull and spar as she was when she left my side and she is just as able to bear her load of living freight to their destined port.

Her diminished size is in me, not in her. And just at the moment when someone at my side says: "There, she is gone!" there are other eyes watching her coming, and other voices ready to take up the glad shout: "Here she comes!"

And that is dying.

Anonymous

I have to admit, I was apprehensive. Six hours of partying with four eight-year-olds was ambitious, at best. Completely insane, at worst. Introducing my agenda to the mix? I wasn't sure what to expect.

Having done childcare for several years before getting a "real job" (meaning one in which I really worked, rather than played out side all day) and eventually going back to school, I knew enough to keep the agenda flexible and make sure I had several back-ups. Six hours is a long time to keep bored children entertained (meaning preventing them from tearing up the house). Should the main event not go over well, I had several back ups to turn to in a pinch before heading to dinner.

Truth be told, the real anxiety was over the main event, not the down time. I had suggested to my daughter that we could do a "spa party" and she was initially very enthusiastic about the idea. Facials, cucumbers, foot massages, manicures, make-overs--the works--and then dinner out to show it off. As the time got closer, however, I heard less and less about it. And as I began to really take a look at these young ladies at school and at church, I began to worry that they may not sustain interest either.

Between attending a church that describes itself as "casual" and a school that mandates uniforms, my daughter and her friends don't have much reason or occassion to really dress up. As a result, my daughter has largely grown, how shall I put it, well, CASUAL. The days of playing dress up have become fewer and farther between, and getting her to wear a skirt to church (as opposed to shorts--in MARCH) has become a hill I have decided I am not willing to die on. Factor in the dirt smudges on her cheeks and the stringy, I've-been-playing-hard hair, and the picture is not one of girliness.

So, would these girls get into a girlie party? Would their interest be sustained through soaking feet and painting nails and making jewelry and curling hair? Would there be an "after" picture with which to compare the "before?" And what would I do with them FOR SIX HOURS if there wasn't?

As usual, I fretted in vain. From the moment we slipped on the headbands, the girls were enthralled. Somewhere within each of these girls their innate desire to feel beautiful kicked in and they were completely willing to be pampered from beginning to end--and thrilled with the results. Goop on their faces, slime on their feet, and sticky stuff in their hair aside...

There are many things I pray for my daughter. While not among the most imperative, the hope that she looks in the mirror each day and smiles at what she sees is one that I will continue to lift up on her behalf. Is feeling pretty the most important thing in her world? No. Not by a long shot. But the gift of feeling good about who she is, BOTH inside and out, is one that will serve her well, and I will go to great lengths in my attempt to give it to her.

Even pampering four eight-year-old girls.

For SIX HOURS.

Here's how they turned out:

eight

The "after" picture from her Spa Party today.

Been too busy raising my kids to write about it...
...I keep telling myself that's the way it should be...
but I miss it! Hopefully more soon!

against the wind

The March wind blows through my still-damp hair, impeding my vision and tangling the curl beyond any possible repair. Impulsively I raise my hands to my face in yet another futile attempt to keep its tickling tendrils away from my mouth and nose, out of my irritated eyes, wishing I’d remembered something with which to tame its enthusiasm. I catch a glimpse of myself in a passing window pane—myself and my taken-on-a-life-of-its-own head of hair, dancing its own wild dance of joy while I swat and swing and shove it away in fit of frustration.

My hair has gotten out of control.

The March wind blows through my well-ordered days, scattering my schedule like scraps of paper, carrying away my best-laid plans in its cold, ghastly gusts. Impulsively I reach to grab it all, to pull every moment tight to my chest in yet another futile attempt to keep the ticking of time away from the sacred sanctuary I long to create within this spiraling space that is our family. I regard my face in the mirror—I am losing the battle against Time, wearing my weariness across my forehead, under my eyes, around my mouth, while he laughs raucously at my frantic flailing in his general direction.

My life has gotten out of control.

I regard them both, my curls and my calendar, attempting to determine what more may be cut away—an inch or two here, an activity or so there—but I am unable to discern what will best flatter my face or fit my family. I have been here before—I have trimmed away and I have let grow, sometimes even drastically, and yet here I am again with my clarity obscured by my bangs hanging in my eyes. Would that I could restrain time in the same manner I subdue my hair, placing it under my control with a simple twist of the wrist. To be able to braid together my work, my family, my talents and interests, and to not have them come immediately unraveled with the first innocent, carefree toss of my head. I do not desire to cut—I desire to tame. I don’t know if that is possible. I will find out in time.

The March wind blows through my spirit, ushering in a new season in its typical blustery way. Impulsively I brace myself for its changes with my usual mix of anxiety and anticipation—reminding myself that just as the blue skies eventually follow these months of gray, clarity usually comes after these times of confusion. As for today, it is finally sunny and blue, and so, pulling back my hair, I bundle up against its blasts and abandon my agenda to rustle around in the bottom of the coat closest in search of the kite.

When the wind is out of control, it’s time to let something fly.