"This is Us" and why I watch it

With many people posting about "This is Us" and talking about it, I figured I would watch an episode after the fact, to determine whether it was worth my time. The intimacy between Jack and Rebecca as witnessed in her dance for her husband on his birthday, while he is in his "birthday suit" and she is in the ninth month of her pregnancy, was real in ways we may not want to admit. His eyes of love toward the woman he thinks is beautiful even though she thinks she is unattractive in her big, unfamiliar body, says a lot about their marriage. It says a lot about mine, too.

Watching a woman in labor will always remind those of us who were once in that condition the intensity of the experience, yet this storyline was even more familiar to me.

What many of you may not know is that I had a wonderful doctor in Colorado while pregnant with my first child, was comforted in knowing he had delivered something like 2,000 babies, and looked forward to seeing his long, gray pony-tail and his well-worn tanned face, always smiling at me, putting me at ease with his stories about drinking vodka and taking trips to the nude beaches of Bali.

Though my pregnancy had gone well, the baby had not turned when he ought to have. "Ignats," as the doctor nick-named him, was showing himself to be strong-willed. His head lodged itself into my rib cage and it was determined he was a footling breach, one leg down, and would have to be delivered by a scheduled cesarian section. My doctor kept me calm, telling me that I was lovely, and reassuring me that when the time came, he would be with me and all would be well.

In "This is Us," Rebecca is carrying triplets, which is far more risky than trying to birth just one. She is fine . . . until she is introduced to the doctor who will now be guiding her through some of the most important hours of her life. Her panic was relatable, as my experience was somewhat similar.

My water had broken during the night and as I waited for the labor pains to begin, fell asleep. In the morning I realized nothing was happening but figured we had better get to the hospital, just in case. As soon as I was ready, a doctor I had never seen before came to introduce himself to me as panic was the only thing I could feel. I needed my doctor. He knew me. He would know what I would need to get through this. But his friend had a heart-attack and I would not see my doctor until the next day when he would run into my room, pony-tail flying, apologizing profusely.

As I am being monitored, I suddenly see the faces of those attending to me change from expressions of kindness to horror. The next thing I know, I am being placed hastily on a cart as those assisting are running me down the hall toward the operating room. I see the lights flash by quickly overhead like I'm on a train and all I can think is, "This cannot be happening--dear God, no."

In my case, though my baby was in distress with the umbilical cord wrapped around his neck, he was not oxygen deprived and was delivered in minutes. Though numbed from the waist down, an experience I hope to never have again, I eventually recovered and would only have to endure one more difficult birth until my third one, in which it took no drugs and exactly six pushes.

Rebecca, however, goes into distress and one of the three babies dies. Though I never lost a baby that had come nearly full-term, I did lose one early on in my second pregnancy. There is no loss more difficult for a mother, I am convinced.

Jack, trying to cope with the loss of the third child, decides they need to adopt a child who was abandoned and brought to the hospital. Love is color-blind and they willingly raise a black child as though he is a biological offspring. Themes of adoption, racism, sibling rivalry, bullying, and a family trying to make it through each day are handled with hope and a subtle humor. It is difficult for me to become engaged with shows or movies in which I do not like the characters. In "This is Us" I am hard-pressed to identify a character for which I am not ultimately rooting. I love these people.

The way the show goes from present day with the "triplets" grown with their own lives to flashbacks of their growing up years is a seamless transition and gives one so much insight into their characters. Kevin, feeling like a failure, even with some success at acting but not so much with relationships, figures out that family needs to come before work. Randall, who seems to succeed at pretty much everything, also realizes family needs to come before work. Kate, dealing with her body image, comes to the same conclusion and allows herself to trust someone enough to believe she can have a relationship. Growing up in the same family, their issues are different, yet somehow the same.

The way the last episode ended this first season is heart-breaking as we have known from early in the season that at some point Jack's life ends. The brief funeral scene has the children as teenagers and with the track we seemed to be on, it was imminent. And yet there was still time for a huge fight between Jack and Rebecca, the kind no married person ever wants to have because the truth is spoken and yet not the whole truth.

The truth is though there is nothing more fulfilling in life than a good marriage and raising children, if one does that and only that, the contributions to the family and to the marriage will be limited. We all need to nurture our creative gifts whether they are music, writing, accomplishing goals in sports or even making things and finding new ways to put them together. We need to develop ourselves in all of the ways we can.

I can relate to Rebecca's need to use her gift and yet I can also appreciate Jack's anger that he has not become her all in all. No one person can become everything for any other person. We need the village to raise our children and need to remain in that community to grow and flourish ourselves. We need to have times of rest and times of work. Times when we can do nothing but shut ourselves up in a room because the words need to find a way out to breathe and times when all we want to do is watch a silly movie with our family.

Though I thankfully cannot relate to needing a separation due to unresolved issues, the part that got to me the most was when Jack told Rebecca on his way out the door that she was still the most beautiful woman in any room, as my husband has shared that sentiment with me.

It makes me sad that this profound moment may be the last this couple shares in this show that has gotten my attention and touched my heart in deeper ways than most television shows ever go. But this in many ways is "reality" tv. We do not know how many days we have to live, to love, to share our hearts with those around us. We can only do the best we can with what we are given. I look forward to "This is Us" giving us all just a little bit more.

it's who you know

"It's not what you know, but who you know that matters," is a phrase that has been proven true more often than not. If I had chosen to live near my hometown and marry a farmer, I could now be re-living my mother's life, wondering if the cherry crop would bring in enough profit to afford some more livestock and new clothes for the family, or if a last minute hail storm would keep everyone in the same pair of boots for another year.

What it meant, owning land, was that we had jobs at an early age right outside our door, or at least down the road. We didn't have to go searching for work with resumes and lists of references. My dad was the boss and if he needed a substitute asparagus picker or someone to help cool the tanks of cherries, he would ask one of us, my sisters and me, to do it. He also had us "fill baggies" and tie the foul-smelling things to the slender trunks of cherry trees to give them a defense against the deer. Milk-testing was another chore done by taking samples of milk as the cows were led into the milking parlor to do their job while we wrote down the necessary information.

For jobs that required strength and size like baling hay, the neighborhood boys would be called upon to become employees. All they had to do was show up, do the work in the way it was supposed to be done, and then show up the next day to do it all again. Proximity and whether one had a reputation for hard work was all that was required. If one wanted a job, there usually was one.

Out in the world, finding work has been much more difficult, and yet, most of the jobs I've had have been given to me by those who know me.

I became a media coordinator for a ministry through a pastor friend who not only got me the job but also gave me a car that had been donated to his ministry, and then helped find a church to provide child care for my two young children, so I could go to an office each morning. Later, when the ministry job had ended and I was sitting in the car picking up my children from the same preschool, the director said I would not need to keep looking for work if I came and worked for her. No resume, no interview, just an open red door that I would continue to walk through for many years.

There is, however, a downside to this system of obtaining employment and it has to do with a change in management. When I returned to the preschool after working at another position I received through someone I knew, I needed to be re-hired, this time by someone who did not know me. All she knew was that there were two groups of women at that school: those whom she considered teachers and those who were not. I was the latter, and once placed there could in no way lift myself up. Didn't matter how much education I had or how much I loved children. Didn't matter that parents and children alike were happy to see me there year after year, handing me their children in love and with respect. I would never be able to be known by that director.

This problem of not being known has always plagued me. Perhaps it is why people never leave their small communities and go out into a world filled with those who will not understand a person even if that person's life experiences are explained in a myriad of ways. When someone recommends one to another, the person doing the hiring does not always see what the person recommending sees. When expectations are not met, the employee becomes vulnerable to criticism not necessarily any fault of his or her own. We all have an idea of who we are looking for and we cannot always communicate to someone else exactly who that is.

After searching diligently for about eight months and probably less diligently for years before that, a friend messaged me with a job for which I could be considered if I would just call her daughter. A couple of days later I was called by the daughter's director and asked why someone as overqualified for an administrative assistant role as I am would want so humble a job considering the degrees I hold and the low rate of pay offered. I explained I needed to make a change, so she invited me in to talk.

The job interview was unlike any job interview I have ever had. We were relaxed with each other from the start, talking like old friends. We shared our hearts about how we were raised Catholic and how those instilled values caused us to believe it was our duty and privilege to reach out to our communities and provide assistance in whatever way we could. We were both drawn to non-profit organizations and loved the idea of helping children who were in need of adoption, and offering hope and healing to couples looking for ways to bring children into their hearts and homes. Our conversation winded its way through the woods to camping and she shared her excited anticipation of a rafting trip. We seemed to have a lot in common, a rare experience for me.

The connection I made with this woman was profound. As I was settling into the idea of working for someone who seemed to actually know me, not the me I show most people but the real neurotic, creative, nerdy, lover of coffee and day-old popcorn me, she mentioned she had finally been offered her dream job and she would be leaving the organization. Momentarily, my heart sunk and I considered a thank-you-but-no-thank-you exit, but then I wondered if this agency really did work as a team, and all got along wonderfully, as she had said. I kept myself from walking out by thinking: How different from this incredible woman could the next director be?

Accepting the position, I went on our planned beach trip feeling ever more anxious that no one had contacted me about my new, grand and glorious position. When I was finally emailed by the interim director, who not only knew nothing about me but did not even know there was a new hire, I thought I would be looking for work as soon as we returned home. Instead I was invited to begin a job a week late which on day one, during my brief orientation, I regretted. The woman sitting across from me could not see me, not the real me anyway. She saw an insecure, middle-aged woman who never managed to have a real career, whom had been let in the backdoor like a stray dog that no one has been heartless enough to put back out on the street. She wanted documented proof that I could do exactly what I had no idea I would be asked to do. When the laptop computer I was given kept dying along with more and more pieces of my heart each day, I realized this director categorized people into two groups: extroverts and those with personalities opposite to hers whom she considered losers. She told me during the worst 90-day job review of my life, 40 days in, that I did not have the "skill-set" (oh, how I loathe that word) for the position and she would recommend my termination to the next director. I would realize later that by giving me a negative review she was denying me the raise promised by the woman who hired me, the woman who trusted the next director to do the right thing. Though her trust was misplaced, mine was not.

Every day for the past six months, I have walked from the parking deck up to my office to sit down at my desk, and wonder if that day would be my last day at this job. Every. Single. Day.

Two months ago, a permanent director was hired by the board and I was given another chance to introduce myself. But it was short-lived as the bogus job review still stands as my only "professional" representation. Doesn't matter that I'm in a position of leadership at my church and have presented liturgical prayers I have written to the congregation. Makes no difference I run my own arts and crafts business in which I sell my artwork to those who find what I create charming and beautiful. It doesn't matter that I have writing, editing, and proofreading skills that could enhance the reports and documentation of any organization, plus the kind of work ethic one develops growing up on a farm and beginning work as a child, working my way through college and graduate school, nearly starving and almost homeless all the while finding ways to survive! No. It is not based on anything real. It is based on the assessment of someone who cannot know me. Whether I will ever be known by the new leadership remains to be seen. Strangely, peace comes in knowing there is nothing left to lose.

If you know me, you know I write this smiling, and shaking my head. You know after I write this, edit it, re-edit it, and perhaps give it one more edit--at least, I may make a pillow, watch a movie, and later have a Guinness to call it a day. I will get up tomorrow morning, try to make it to the gym to work out with a friend who works out early, shower, and drive to work singing. I will walk from the parking deck to my desk, check my emails, get a cup of coffee and welcome whatever it is that will become my day. I will then come home to my faithful dog, get the mail, kiss my husband, feed my son, and wonder briefly about this path I'm on, led by the One who knows me best.

the tale of the red leather handbag and other life lessons

There aren't many things in life I need to be happy, except for maybe a quality red leather handbag. It all started when I was given a little white purse when I was 6 in which to carry my child-sized Bible on First Communion Sunday. I have carried a purse, a backpack, a tote bag, or a satchel ever since.

As a girl, or perhaps more as a girl scout, I always wanted to be prepared. I was the one who could be counted on to produce the tiny plastic box with the variety of thread, tiny patch, straight pin and needle, along with the spare button. I would have a band-aid at the ready, chap stick as a defense against the coldest of winds, and lip gloss appropriate to the season. Perhaps it was my love for miniatures that kept me interested in tiny folding scissors, travel-size toothbrush, and other accoutrements. 

College transformed my need for a purse into a backpack with front pockets to carry the essentials. I could get by with the sweats and hair in a pony-tail, but bare lips--never. We were students, not barbarians.  

Working my first job out of college, I converted to a shoulder bag which was the practical choice for someone who walked to work most of the time. I also remember a clutch purse with a built-in mirror for which I had a particular fondness, until it was stolen out of my desk drawer on payday to be later recovered in a near-by dumpster by the police. Not real appealing after that.

For many years thereafter, diaper bags took over where handbags left off. When I finally transitioned back into a purse I was expected to have provisions for the "village" who followed me around getting injured, hungry, and needing to have their little faces and fingers cleaned off. I had to have a deck of cards, army men, matchbox cars, wet wipes, a variety of snacks, and books to keep them occupied--just in case. One never knows how long the line will be at any given location, or how badly those traveling with you will want to hide under clothing racks, try to climb shelves, or run out the door into a parking lot filled with people just waiting for the chance to blame their mother. My shoulder would ache as my bag got bigger and bigger. The style: early American homeless, or everybody's mother. In any case, I was relieved when I could start strapping backpacks onto my young as they went out of the house carrying their own stuff.

I learned a long time ago it is better to buy quality than quantity, which is a different way of saying that I'm usually only able to afford one. I used to compare styles and prices in mail-order catalogs, taking notes and considering the pros and cons of each potential purchase. The curse of online shopping is the temptation to keep the comparisons going and never making a purchase. Or, maybe this is the blessing.

Several years ago, my husband bought me a red leather handbag. I was amazed at his sense of style and how well-suited for me the bag was. After all of the years we had been together, it was one of the best gifts he had ever given me. A little nervous to have such a bright and shiny object, I cautiously went out in the world, hoping not to draw attention to myself--well, not too much. I started wearing more red and declared it as my favorite color, after years of insisting a pale green was closer to revealing my true nature. But I had changed. As I sought a depth of purpose and a longing for living life to the full, a more expressive color was needed. Then came the red lipstick, red shoes, earrings, belt, and sweaters. Red became my signature color. It makes me feel more like me than anything else.

What may sound trivial was actually healing for me. Having grown up with whatever-was-on-sale and proceeding with that mode of shopping into my adult life, I did not often choose what I wanted but accepted what it was I could have. In small group discussions when we were encouraged to demonstrate aspects of our personalities by our choices, mine would always be in question, even to me. I simply didn't know what I liked since what I liked had never been part of the equation.

Discovering that I am deeply attracted to red leather handbags was an epiphany!

As that purse began to show signs of wear over the years, I started to look for a replacement. Red, I decided, was also the more practical choice because it goes with either black or brown. There was a time when I had a black bag and a brown one, switching contents based on shoe color, but I lost interest in constantly having to move from one bag into another, like a one-night stand. I needed to commit myself to one bag, a bag worthy of the life I hoped to lead.

About a year or so before my mother-in-law died, she gave me her collection of purses: a vintage black evening bag with an attached change purse and mirror; a beaded white clutch, perfect for carrying lipstick and tissue to a wedding; a smooth white leather bag with chain handle, shoulder bags, everyday bags, a green and blue velour with retro appeal and more. So many purses, so many places to take each and every one of them. I was already heading down the vintage trail and these fashion accessories launched me further than I thought possible.

Unfortunately, none of them were the color for which I longed, disqualifying any one of them from becoming my main bag.

I found a red leather bag on sale at a local department store, which carried me forward for a few more years. It was not as cute as the first one, but held more, which led me to consider: how much does one really need to carry around? And, where was I going that I needed such a stylish handbag? To church? To the preschool? To soccer games and track meets? Who did I think I was--a high-society lady trying to impress her friends at the country club?

A year or so ago I found the bag I had been dreaming of in a catalog. It was a red leather tote bag that converted into a satchel. Two bags for the price of one! And still too expensive.

While I was going from website to website on my journey to find the perfect bag, watching youtube videos to enhance the shopping pleasure, I found myself not only attracted to a featured bag on one site, a lovely Italian leather, but was soothed by the voice on the commercial, who, I would find out later, was the voice of my close friend who does voice-over commercial work! My very own friend was selling me a high-quality leather handbag. How could I not buy it?!

Reality comes to call in times such as these. I had a price limit and the bag that I wanted, even when it went on sale, never made it into my buying zone. There was no way I could justify paying that much for it. I was reminded of a friend who broke up with a woman he was dating when she paid what he thought was too much for a designer handbag. He simply could not marry a woman who had that kind of expectation. 

At Christmas, my parents always give me a check so I can buy whatever I want for myself for a gift. There have been years in which the check was deposited into our account to pay the bills or allow for special treats for the boys, but this year I decided to spend it. Having spent an inordinate amount of time shopping online, comparing prices, discounts, quality, and considering every other factor I could possibly come up with, I suggested we go to a near-by shopping outlet a couple of days before Christmas. Though my family may have thought we were going to passively seek out the sales and see what we could find, I had one plan in mind: to purchase a red leather handbag.

It was easy to narrow down the selection: red--maybe; not red--no.

Somehow it was always the most expensive bag in the store that would call out to me the loudest. There were so many aspects to the purchase I was considering by this point. It would have to be a true shade of red, not burgundy or too pink. It needed to be within a certain size range, preferably lined with built in pockets for a cell phone and debit card. Another zippered section would be nice, but not necessary. I needed it to be a satchel since I no longer want a purse or anything else strapped to me.

I found a red leather satchel on the bottom shelf in the corner of a leather store. It was almost half-price! My Christmas money would be more than enough.

Walking out of the store I felt a rush of excitement, but by Christmas morning, I wondered if I had made a mistake. Sure, this bag had the right features, but the leather was not soft as I had imagined and maybe the hardware was just a little too gold and glaring. I wasn't sure I even had the nerve to take it with me, and for the first outing after its purchase, I left it home, like an embarrassing relative with whom I didn't want to be seen.

I couldn't understand it. I had gotten what I had wanted at a fantastic price. The color could not be more perfect. The shape, the handles, it had it all. It was so big and beautiful it may have even made my backside look smaller!

But when I took it with me, I felt self-conscious. What was I doing with something that looked like it could never belong to me? Why did I want something so showy, so screaming, so look-at-me!

Trying to bury these feelings, I took my new bag to work, hoping to shove it under my desk before anyone saw it. A woman I work with immediately noticed it and commented. She carries an expensive-looking bag effortlessly, with style. I immediately wanted to be more like her and all of the other women I've noticed with bags that cost hundreds of dollars more than mine, who do not blink at the thought of having one. But I am not them. I suddenly didn't know how to walk or carry myself with this new accessory. Instead of defining my personality, this bag was threatening to erase my identity and take over my life!

It was then and there I decided maybe my search had not yet ended. There are those websites that sell used clothing and designer handbags. I figured if I sold my bag for less than its original price but more than what I paid for it, I would be able to justify the whole thing. I would somehow make my way back to the one I had picked out, the one this season that never went on sale enough for me to seriously consider it. There had to be a deal . . . somewhere.

Then, during one of my endless searches, I found the bag I had hoped to purchase this season, selling for a little over fifty dollars on eBay. It was "pre-owned," a department store return that featured a broken shoulder strap and pen marks on the interior leather. Its style was more appealing--Ralph seemed to know more about my sense of style than Calvin--and though I could not be sure, it looked as though the leather may be just a bit softer. I decided I would buy it with my next paycheck, sell the new one, and either spend or save the remainder of the money. This was the financially prudent thing to do. This would represent the way I live, my values, my truest self.

Walking into my office building the next day, a thought pierced the silence before I got into the elevator, "Why don't you think you deserve the new purse?"



(Upon further investigation, I discovered the reason my red leather handbag is not soft is due to a process in which the calf hide is pressed by a machine, giving it a cross-hatch design and finishing it with a wax coating to create what is called saffiano leather. It was invented by Mario Prada. It is the kind of highly sought-after leather that can retain a bright, vibrant color and shape, and is more resilient to whatever life throws at it.)

a string of broken lights and an apology

Stopping at a light on an early Saturday morning in my quiet, still-asleep city, I look over at a boarded up building, closed for business, just as a thought illuminates my mind, like the row of street lights ahead.

"What if your table at the Market is completely messed up?"

I quickly dismiss this idea as pure foolishness, although sometimes I know things before they happen. I don't know why. I just do.

Pulling into the parking lot, I grab the last of my ornaments and head toward the door. I am arriving later than planned since there is still much to be done, but because I had taken an hour before work the previous Wednesday to make sure my display was exactly how I wanted it, I figured I had enough time to be set up before we opened.

My bedsprings "Christmas tree" once tied securely to a small table with twine has come undone. One string of lights that has been turned on for reasons I cannot imagine, dangles aimlessly over the table toward the floor. The small box containing the batteries for the other string lies broken next to two of the three batteries, exposing the internal wiring. Garlands of paper and one of buttons come down one side while the glittery top star once wired into place is no longer upright.

The antique thrift store table has pieces missing, more than before, and the nails holding it together are now visible as the top threatens to detach from the legs. The pieces underneath are also coming undone. I know how they feel.

Though the table is faced in the same direction I had placed it, the tree is completely turned around. I take a couple of pictures in case I need evidence to prove why my table will not be ready by the time the customers show up. I find it odd that no one has engaged me as I start over, since someone must have witnessed this event.

I tend to think of the intent of people who do me wrong as being somewhere on the continuum between stupid and evil. And though I have been told if I can't say anything nice I shouldn't say anything at all, I reject that advice and reach instead for the truth. Those same people will say it is the Christian way not to say anything, but Jesus himself seemed to use a system much like my own, referring to the more clueless by asking his Father to "forgive them for they know not what they do" while at another time revealing their evil ways by calling them a "brood of vipers." Stupid or evil.

Before I have too long to ponder while I methodically put my display back together, a farmer whose table is across the aisle from mine comes over to apologize. It isn't a "nobody's-fault-and-couldn't-be-helped" type of apology that he could have given. It is the real deal. I've seen this man many times before as we are neighbors in the Market. He and his family have been friendly to me. He had hurriedly walked too close to the structure on my table with his display items causing my entire display to crash onto the cement floor. The look on his face reminds me of how my dog looks when he runs after a deer into the woods, gets lost, and then has to be retrieved, knowing he should not have left the yard.

He was wrong. He was sorry. It is the best kind of apology I can receive--perhaps the only one I ever consider completely valid.

As customers are coming in, looking at my table in disarray, I do not pay much attention to what they may be thinking. It is easy to judge when one does not know.

There is no way I can be angry while hanging angels with "rejoice" and "fear not" embroidered on them as bed bunnies smile at me, and I place in a basket the small gift book I wrote about how everything works together for those who love God. The problem with being a follower of Jesus is one is expected to act like one. No matter how broken your string of lights is or how much it can shine.

Not everyone who has ever wronged me has apologized or ever will. Some have judged me, choosing to believe something other than the truth. Others have created their own fictional accounts of who I am. The only people who will ever truly know me are the ones with whom I feel safe. Those who will reach out in love will find it.

On top of my torn-up little table is a "tree" that is now tied to the larger table so none of it can be toppled over. At least that is the plan. The beautifully tacky, glittery star looks out over the Market where all who have fallen short of something dwell together on a Saturday morning.

being known

Yesterday I went to an art show in an artist's backyard. I don't know her personally, and may not have had a conversation with her, but I've seen her work and I feel like I know her.

Walking up the sidewalk, going around the house and through the gate, I was greeted by artist friends who were excited to see me. I hadn't seen one of them since the last show. We talked about our art and about a movie she saw that made her cry, which was just what she needed at the time. She agreed not to give away too much information, sure that I would want to have the same experience. Every so often I need to watch movies that make me cry, too. It is good to know I am not alone.

I move on to seeing an old friend with whom I've had meaningful conversations. The reunion is sweet. Other artists I met at a show we all did together go out of their way to talk to me. One opens her little cooler and offers me a cranberry and vodka jello shooter. Greetings this good are hard to find.

Hand-made clothing hangs from the tent in the back while repurposed metal art is arranged on a table across from delicately made boxes and miniature glass bottles. Soap, perfume, pottery, jewelry and an outreach ministry that makes scarves for the homeless all find their place in this backyard on a November day as the sun shines through the leaves of the large trees, and children look down from a treehouse. I find the art to be as inspirational as the connection I have made with this group of artists.

A woman who makes jewelry reminds me of a pillow she bought from me that she still loves. I cannot even remember which one she bought, I've made so many. She said she thinks of me when she looks at it and cannot wait to get out the Christmas ornaments I made. For the past ten years, this has been my hobby, my passion, my other life--the part that makes the more difficult parts bearable.

Another woman asks why I'm not doing this show, adding, "Your art is great and we all know you."

We all know you.

There it is. The same feeling I had about the artist hosting the show. Because I know her art, I feel a connection to her. Her inspiration has touched many lives. Her vision for beauty has given others a reason to celebrate . . . life. Art has the ability to do that. It touches each one's heart in its own unique way, much like divine intervention.

With feelings of unwavering acceptance and love, I walk over the crunching leaves and drive home to my work room table where ivory wool star shapes are ready to have hearts cut from a red wool sweater sewn on them. They will be offered along with another self-published book project I sent off for printing. I will put up my bedspring Christmas tree and hang on it all of the other items I've been inspired to make.

And people who really do not know me will somehow know me really quite well. They will show up and tell me how much their babies loved the bed bunnies or share with me a story about the person in the last stages of cancer receiving one of my angels with words like, "fear not" embroidered on them. They will buy the advent garlands and bring them out again next year, and the year after that. What I have been inspired to make will become a part of their traditional celebration. It will become a part of their lives. I will give all I have to glorify God and for the greater good of my community. It will matter.

And in this way, I will be known.

in the beginning

For Worship with the Arts Sunday, October 30, 2016

In the beginning, God creates.

Sand and clay are kneaded, formed into a sphere, fired in the kiln of the universe.

Clouds of vapor are lightly whisked into place, applied gently with even brushstrokes.

A glow, increasing in brilliance, burns through the darkness, illuminating space.

Shadows slowly creep back in monochromatic shades, original black-and-whites.

A cosmic thread gathers together the heavens, stitching stars and planets into patterns.

Below splash the waters, roaring and foaming in a rhythm unique to the deep.

Dividing the sea comes an expanse, knit together with moss and soil, mud and rock.

Earth: fashioned with mountains, constructed of woods and prairies, fastened together.

Vegetation takes root producing seeds, form, and texture—a profusion of color.

Every imaginable hue on the palette is established in the composition of each design.

Life is called forth in an infinite variety, painting the landscape in coordinating colors.

Globes of brightness, one for day and one for night, begin the keeping of time.

Woven into the atmosphere, light dances on the water to a song not yet written.

Under the surface are perfectly adapted fins, scales, webbed feet, synchronized.

Feathery wings glide through polka-dot skies to papier mache nests, a macramé roost.

Creeping, hopping, hoof, claw, pouch, trunk; the Creator’s imagination is boundless.

From the dust arises a man, from his rib a woman, and the two begin to sort it out.

Dancing in the garden, they breathe in the fragrant new creation in all of its glory.

In the beginning, God creates.

And it is good.

reclamation

Mental preparation is not possible for the tasks at hand. I do not know where to begin. I skip my early morning workout at the gym, (my latest attempt to regain my health) knowing what lies ahead will be workout enough. This is not basic house cleaning. This is an archeological dig.

The large bottle of rum, enjoyed by the "pirates" who lived and visited here, and almost empty of its contents, I take from on top of the washing machine and place on the pantry shelf next to the sugar and the peanut butter. The last of a large bottle of Coke which served as its mixer was already used to make my Coke float the night before (a questionable choice, I know). Beer glasses, taking up too much space next to the water glasses in the cupboards, threaten to derail my planned progress. Choices for what to keep will have to be made another day. This goes for old shoes, as well.

Load after load of laundry provides the background music for my day: the washing machine beeps until it is ready to go into the wash cycle, stops to beep at 19 minutes, must be turned off and switched to drain and spin, and turned back on to finish out a remaining 12 minutes. Seven minutes of cleaning potential are lost with each load. This cannot be helped and I am grateful for each time a load is completed. I know the day will come when . . . (I would rather not finish this sentence.)

Not wanting to look too closely at anything and invade my sons' privacy, I only do so in order to categorize. VHS tapes may as well go into a box; our machine broke a long time ago. DVDs end up going into the box as well. Books, textbooks primarily, are stacked neatly in a box on the dresser. Clothes are hung up or folded and put into drawers. Some of these shirts have played a lot of soccer.

I am at a disadvantage. Almost all of the shirts are medium, the size of all of the men in the house. It is impossible to remember who originally owned the shirt, to whom it was given, or who took it from the other. I do not know if it was left behind because there was no room for it, no interest, or if the owner cares. The shirts with "Love Machine" and "I Love Soccer Moms" are welcomed finds.

I strip the sheets in preparation for washing and remaking the beds and am momentarily distracted by a hint of Old Spice and the faint scent of boy-turned-man lingering in the room. I take a moment to lie down on the queen-sized bed that we had recently strapped on the top of my vehicle to haul from an apartment where our son no longer lives, into a "new" bedroom, after taking the smaller room to be my workspace. Emotions I had kept carefully in check roll off my face onto the memory foam pad that turns an ordinary bed into the kind one may enjoy at the type of resort we cannot afford to visit.

I go to the front part of the house, where I have not really been since college let out last spring and where our middle son parked his thrift store chair in the center of the room, pulled out the piano bench, put up the music stand and stacked piles of books and other miscellaneous debris around the room. A flute book is found behind the couch; a book entitled Famous Last Words is in a basket.

An expensive, inherited guitar our oldest self-taught himself to play leans silently against the wall. Guitar picks end their game of hide-and-seek, coming out from under placemats, the corners of end tables and bookshelves--little reminders of musical creativity discovered by an economics major.

The speakers most recently plugged into our oldest son's laptop need to be boxed in order to be passed onto his brother. A friend, who felt comfortable enough with us to spend many nights on the couch, is given a memorial place at the end of the hanging rack for the shirt and hat he left behind.

A college honor roll certificate for our middle son is taken off the shelf, along with the paper tube containing a college diploma for the oldest. Youngest brother's prom pictures, including the handkerchief that folded neatly in the pocket of the rental tux along with the clip-on boutonniere--never worn due to a real boutonniere being given--are put away. More certificates, plaques, medals, diplomas, and possibly even more prom pictures may one day take their place.

As the two older sons have become temporary tenants from time to time, leaving their belongings wherever their hearts desire, my husband has done his part not to be left out. I find at least two dozen pencils, pens and markers piled in a corner of the hutch, and in a decorative pottery bowl are tv cords and ear plugs he wears while mowing the lawn. Papers, books, calculators, and various teacher items find their way into a box that goes on the floor behind the door, making room someday for a freshly baked apple pie served with vanilla ice cream (one piece, I promise--ok, maybe two).

Red anniversary roses are dried out, shedding petals and leaves. The live plants have somehow developed an ability to survive the drought-like conditions they unintentionally have been given. They have been raised on a steady diet of alternative indie music, some produced in that very room.

Empty shoe boxes are flattened for recycling, including the box that once contained the solar panel that went with our oldest son, the Peace Corps volunteer, to provide sustained electricity in the foreign land where he now lives. What is not kept is thrown out until layer after layer is dug through and there emerges a dining room table. The end is still broken, as is the arm of a chair; the piano still in need of tuning. Placemats are wiped off and arranged correctly in anticipation of a family dinner.

The couch cover is tucked in and pillows put back in their designated spots. Random found artwork, other creative expressions by the economics major, make their way back to the bedroom for storage. Vacuuming takes care of much of the dog hair and the tiny abandoned bits of our lives scattered from room to room. There are more stains on the carpet than I remember. Wear and tear; lives lived.

The house, more straightened and organized than actually clean, is reclaimed. Two rooms used for bedrooms: the two of us in ours and whoever is here in the other, two bathrooms: one, co-ed and the other for boys only or those brave enough to enter, a small kitchen in which the flavors of life are savored, a family room with a large falling-apart leather sectional from which we all try to watch tv, a front room that provides a place for us to dine together whenever we can, and an adjoining more formal living room which becomes the common area shared by as many as it can hold with far too many books and a piano, which I have gently closed . . . for now.