Sunday Lament

photo from http://ordinarysparrow.wordpress.com/

My messes seem too much, O Lord,
my debts too deep,
my habits too entrenched—
and my sweat-efforts trickle
like futile droplets onto a parched prairie.

(Not necessarily a desert—if it were a desert, I suppose I should truly despair.
But now I merely complain and fret
to my God, to myself, and to faithful friends who frequent this blog):

Will I ever live in a somewhat tidy house, devoid of

teensy toys, cracker crumbs, and cardboard boxes
failing to contain the masses of mementoes;
where empty crevices covet clutter and
heirlooms, books and breakables tremble,
ever-vulnerable to destruction?

Will there ever be a day when, as in days of young,

I do not bear the weight of worry when I consider
the Mountain of Expenses
compared to my molehill of money?

Darn you, drought! You discourage me.

But you have not drenched my hope.
You try to douse my dreams with dry heat,
but know:

The River of Life flows within me—

even on days when, in my sad stupor,
I cannot hear its roar.

Why should I feel discouraged,
Why should the shadows come,
Why should my heart be lonely
And long for Heav'n and home,
When Jesus is my portion?
My constant Friend is He:
His eye is on the sparrow,
And I know He watches me;
His eye is on the sparrow,
And I know He watches me.

(There's no place like) Our Home

Newsroom

Child care center

Book distribution warehouse

Prayer closet

Library

Diner (notice I didn’t say “restaurant”)

Art gallery

Laundromat

Baseball card crypt

Dormitory

Blog headquarters

(Thanks for visiting!)

Saturday shorts: Library love | Lucky 7's | Sweet struggle

…as in: I wish I had a decent pair of shorts to wear to beat this heat!

…and as in: I’ve only got time for a few short reflections on this super-busy Saturday.

1) The Hoag Library has opened today, and all of A-Town seems elated. OK, not everybody, but certainly the steady stream of folks who’ve strolled through, gape-mouthed and beaming, since Hoag’s doors opened at 11 a.m.

Photo courtesy of The Daily News (vis-a-vis Tom Rivers)

Tom and I were among the privileged few (maybe 100? I’m not a great guesstimator) who got to “sneak peak” the place last evening. I can’t quite articulate the positive emotional charge buzzing about my spirit since stepping foot in that beautiful building, so I’ll just say—in concurrence with the legacy of my friend Gwen’s lovely little Evan: “My heart is happy.”

2) Tom and I are both bound for our 20-year high school class reunions tonight, in our respective hometowns, two hours apart. To quote my quotable father: “What are the odds?” {that our reunions were scheduled on the same day…}

Dad would also ask for a number on the occasion of such a coincidence. (In fact, he did ask for a number this morning when I told him.) His far-fetched theory is that playing a number derived from an uncanny happenstance should surely increase a person’s chances of winning the lottery. Like I said, it’s far-fetched…and (mostly) facetious. So I just played along and said, “Seven, seven.” Today’s date, of course. A few hours later, it occurs to me that Tom and I both ranked seventh in our high school classes. {cue Twilight Zone music}

3) Lastly, I do declare, for the umpteenth, that sugar is the sworn enemy of Marsha! After I posted my discovery of delicious Darrell Lea licorice, I discovered the availability of said sweet on Amazon.com Subscribe & Save. {sigh!} Plus, I discovered the mango flavored kind — killer, killer! Please pray for me. (I am not being facetious.)

Smitten waterfowl…and other stuff that’s just ducky!

^ Of the gazillion-trillion pieces of paper that have migrated from the school to our house since September, I think this is my favorite. For reasons that defy explanation. (Or, perhaps I should say, for obvious reasons.)

< This piece, entitled “Sleepyheads,” is a close second. It reminds me of the crazy quilt my mother made in the early ’70s. (Have I blogged about it before? If not, I must. It is my most prized possession.)

Goodbye, Panda—G’Day, Darrell Lea!>

Best licorice I’ve tasted in…well, ever!

Discovered it today at Rite Aid,

our corner drugstore.

This is potentially problematic.

 As are these sweet potato fries.

When did this

sumptuous-temptation-masquerading-as-an-antioxident-rich-superfood 

join the BK royal menu?!

I just noticed. Unfortunately for my jeans. >

 

< And finally, a happy ending: I recently received this love-ly homemade wedding invitation and am eagerly anticipating a joyous celebration with G&G, the bride- and groom-to-be.

Kindergarten graduation elicits mixed emotions

Lucy dashes to the kinder-grad gathering spot.

I just returned from the paparazzi festival known as A-town kindergarten graduation. Seriously, the Buffalo News editorialist is right: We take too many pictures, people! It’s as if our main purpose in life has become chronicling it rather than experiencing it.

I’ve always been a bit wet blanket-ish about kinder-grad. I mean, c’mon—it’s kindergarten. I’m glad the kids made it through, most of them having learned the alphabet in its entirety and their numbers 1 through 100, but the ceremony seems superfluous.

The “graduates” process into the auditorium (or get herded in, rather, by their harried teachers, who realllllllly neeeeeed that summer vacation!). The superintendent and the principal offer platitudes about the importance of education, bright future, blah, blah, blah, and the children walk across the platform to receive their “diplomas.”

But! Not before the paparazzi—er, parents—take their places at the designated picture-taking seating section situated just below stage right. Yes, really—it’s built right into the program: “Will one representative from each child in Mrs. So-and-so’s class please come forward to the picture-taking area?” 

I refused to go. A decision made easier by Grandma’s eagerness to join the media frenzy. She even shot video footage, a topic for another day. (I mean who watches home videos…ever? Especially if there are hundreds—nay, thousands of accumulated, unedited hours? Not me. No, thank you. There are too many books and not enough time.)

Still, I was caught off guard by the magnitude of the moment—ridiculousness and all—when the canned bagpipes droned over the loudspeakers, signaling the entrance of 79 6-year-olds into the room (representing half the A-town Class of 2024—the silly ceremony would be repeated later for the other half). Little people embodying the hopes and dreams, failures and foibles of their families. Sappy Sallys like the teary-eyed mom to my right and dubious Debbies like the eye-rolling mom to my left.

Both mothers were me, and I sniffled in spite of my cynical self.

To my lifelong friend currently living in London

SJF:

Today I strapped dear Delia into her stroller and strode straight to the park where you and I used to play. Only this time, instead of staying near the slides, swings and things, I kept going, all the way to the west side where we used to crawl under the fence to get in. I checked: Both fence holes are filled (the one behind my parents' house and the one behind "the crazy people's").

The mounds of dirt are also gone -- the ones where you used to dig so daintily, poking the ground with a carefully selected stick, and where I -- I savagely scratched the soil like a primitive primate, always returning to my mother looking like the proud maker of mud pies that I was.

Prowling the perimeter of the park today (30+ years since we claimed it as ours), I peered through the vine-covered fence to find the neighbors' yards altered by the decades. The tidy half-acre of lush lawn Mr. and Mrs. Y used to prune so fastidiously is now patchy and brown, guarded by two menacing dogs.

The woods remain, where we fancied ourselves budding Thoreaus, concocting codes and composing poems about ethereal aspirations, sibling rivalries, and the fragrant violets that carpeted the ground by our "treehouse" in early spring. The walkways are overgrown. And a rusty swingset stands in the middle of the plot, perpendicular to Mrs. Jones' swimming pool (which, by the way, is gone, too -- but at least that old swingset is there, a monument of our childhood).

The saddest part about my park adventure, aside from the ache that accompanies nostalgia, was the absence of any children at the park on this sunny, almost-summer afternoon. "Where are they?" I wondered. "Watching TV," was my gut guess. Gut-wrenching.

But then, a hopeful discovery: Raspberry vines, on the south side, by the woods! The fruit is green, but it should ripen in two or three weeks' time, when I will return to the park and think of you, my beloved friend.

Much love,
Marsha Grace

A tilt-a-whirly-gig, push and shove (“Get outta my way! I was here first!”) toward the Truth about this apple-pie-American quagmire of a holiday: Mother’s Day

I realize that these reflections barely scratch the surface of the depth of emotions contained in the calendar block dedicated to the celebration of maternity. But, like so much of what I do as a mother, I’m left to say: “At least it’s something.” An acknowledgement that it’s not entirely happy — not for me, not for other mothers, not for non-mothers, and not for all children of mothers (grown-up kids included). But like all other days, it is redeemable. Just like the recipients of the roses.

Mother’s Day could be called ‘the best and worst’ of holidays:

Joyous for some, injurious for others —

Sometimes both, depending on which moment.

A day to celebrate all the wonderful things that motherhood is,

A day to grieve all the A-B-C...X-Y-Z things that motherhood is not.

For one thing: The fact that not all mothers are wonderful.

(And even the wonderful ones aren’t always.)

For another thing: Motherhood itself is not always all it’s cracked up to be.

It’s not always dandelion bouquets and butterscotch pudding kisses and

footie pajamas on freshly bathed piggy-toes that fit in the palm of your hand.

It’s usually not.

For some, motherhood is simply not —

or, at least, not yet…

despite the deep, deep yearnings

of a would-be mother’s heart.

No, Mother’s Day is not just a day for

a dozen roses and breakfast in bed.

It’s also a day that presents

awkward dilemmas,

mournful memories,

bitter regrets,

and ‘hope deferred [that]

makes the heart sick.’

(a loathsome laundry list of human emotions)

The only purely good thing about Mother’s Day is

the same thing that is purely good about mothers:

The One who made us.

The same Truth that sweetens, redeems and buoys

every other day of the year

can also carry all God’s children through Mother’s Day,

with its delights, terrors and tears…

Bearing even better comfort than a hug and a kiss and

a Band-Aid on a scraped knee.

Thank you, Jesus (and I love you, Mommy) —

Amen.


Jabba pudding cup image from:
http://www.mycreativestirrings.com/2010/12/star-wars-kid-birthday-party-picture.html