0 comments | published by Linda | May 31, 2014

The lack of intelligence was far outweighed by his big brown eyes and the consistent wag of his tail. We have always known that the opportunity to get food would always have a stronger grip over him than anything. It has always been amusing through the years to watch him cower and hide each time a dog not even a quarter of his size came into view. What matters to us is that he belongs to us.

By far, the most mysterious behavior he has is how he handles being given a bone. He never seems to enjoy it. Actually, it brings him anxiety, restlessness, despair and the inability to move on with his day enjoying anything around him.

He circles around the house with a whimper which soon turns into a howl. One of us finally opens the door for him to take his object of stress out to the yard. Yet, oddly, this only makes him cry with even more distress. He steps outside but continues to walk in circles becoming more frantic with every step.

Finally, he digs a hole, and buries his bone deeply in the ground. He is now able to come inside and get back to a life of scrounging and sleep.

I have hoped to see the day he would go out and dig up his treasures. After twelve years, I’m thinking that he has completely forgotten about each bone ever buried. Our huge backyard is now permanently filled with those bones that have caused him so much stress.

I’ve been given many bones in my life as well. Actually, the more people I have in my life, the more bones I receive. I, like you, have been wronged. The strange thing is how I carry those bones around in my mouth. I don’t put them down. I seem to walk in circles, getting nowhere, and moaning to myself about the bone for days, weeks, months, and sadly even years. All I can seem to think about is my grip on that bone, and I continue to suffer over it.

God has provided a huge back yard for me. The size always matches the amount of people in my life. Thankfully, my yard has remained rather large. It offers freedom, yet, I sometimes keep my hold and continue to inflict myself with the pain from the offense over and over again. If only I would be smart like my dog with little intelligence, bury it, and forget about it altogether.

To be wronged is really nothing at all, unless of course, we choose to remember it.

Posted in Living Room    |   Tags: Burying Bones
0 comments | published by Linda | November 16, 2013

My face is falling. No, really. Yet, because of my vanity I will do everything in my power to never let you come to that conclusion. Don’t tell anyone, but my hair isn’t really as dark as it looks. Seriously. I don’t want anyone to know. The years have taken some of its color, much to my dismay. You won’t see evidence of this because I know how to hide what I don’t want you to see.

Recently, my daughter took a picture of me where I was somehow twisted in a position that made it look as though I was ten pounds lighter. As an added bonus, my chin was dipped down far enough that my cheeks looked like a chiseled piece of art. No, really. I can prove it because I instantly posted it on fakebook. I knew that moment was fleeting, and in the very least I was determined to let the four hundred, seventy-seven friends I have on fakebook see what was captured. That’s right, me, in that one split second of the day where I felt beautiful.

Pitiful? Yes. True? Of course. That’s right, I’m that shallow. Of course, after I post the picture I notice on the homepage that my friend from high school who always struggled with weight was in a string bikini. Ugh. That outdid my picture! Wow! What are the odds that she posted at the same time, and was so inconsiderate of my feelings by looking better than me. Some friend. Not to mention how inappropriate it is for her to stand on a public beach looking...ugh, ok. I’m jealous.

Ok, wow. Why on earth would my boyfriend from high school comment on her post from yesterday, and not even acknowledge my funny comment from the other day? I was hilarious! She drove him crazy in high school. She doesn’t look near as happy and hot as me! What’s up with that! Hmmm, I wonder if his wife told him not to comment on my stuff because I am a threat to their marriage because of how cute I am. No doubt, that’s what’s happening.

Well, this is annoying, she looks even prettier today. And what was her comment? “I’ve had a busy day with my kids!” I’d say, it’s more likely she is exhausted from trying to get that perfect selfie of herself all afternoon.  Hmmmm, if only I could look like that after a hard day. Or, well, anytime!

What’s that in the picture? Her son is holding a hymnal? What?? How old is he? Can kids read hymnals at the age of two? As if! I can’t believe she actually wrote how she just can’t get him to stop reading and singing from that book. Oh, and the comments of praise roll in generously,  “Wow, you’re an amazing mom, what an inspiration you are!” Ha! I’ve seen her kid in action, and hymns are not what he’s singing!

Why do you think that the last picture I posted on sinstagram only got ten likes? She posted a picture yesterday and got over one hundred! I wonder if I should just delete mine. It obviously wasn’t good enough. I don’t know why hers was so great. How many times have we seen a picture of her legs in a new pair of jeans? How many times do you think she took this picture until her thighs looked thin enough? Oh ya, and thanks for mentioning the size. I don’t know what I would have ever done without that piece of information. I would never be that vain. I’m way beyond needing leg praise. Oh well, I guess she just needs that kind of attention.

Seems like most fall into one of two categories, and actually might run back and forth between the two. On fakebook and sinstagram you either exhibit pride, or coveting. How convenient for the world to come up with such avenues that appear to be a way to connect with people and keep up friendships, yet is laced with such sharp and cutting temptations.

If I were to delete my account, would I have any friends? What a hole this would leave in my life. What would I do without my daily dose of pride, self-centeredness, criticising, judging, and severe coveting? I suppose I could get off of sinstagram as I only have a few followers. This fact has actually made me wonder my value as a person if I can’t get more to follow me.

I often wonder why close friends from my past don’t keep in touch. Don’t they wonder why I haven’t been around? I’m not sure why they aren’t concerned about the possibility that I’m sad, hurting with struggles. You’d think I would at least get a call! Aren’t they worried about my well being? Come on people I have real stuff going on over here! Do they even know that I was in the hospital? Could it be that they don’t ask because a simple glance at fakebook shows pictures of me on the beach with a great tan surrounded by happy children? Ya, I suppose that might paint the wrong picture.

But how could I ever let my four hundred seventy eight friends really know what’s going on in my heart? No editing, hair color, or creative positioning or angle would be able to hide the realness of my life.

Fakebook and sinstigram are free. The world is generous by letting everyone be a part of this celebration of temptations to make yourself look good, and have the opportunity to become sinfully ugly at the same time. After all, it’s how you look that counts, right? Who cares how corroded our hearts become as we play along. 

I’m wondering if a heart check needs to happen consistently when I log on to these two. God made it clear. When in the face of temptation, flee. So if you see I’m online and suddenly disappear, I most likely needed to spend some time on my knees.

These sites don’t cost you anything. Or at least that’s how it appears. But
maybe appearances are deceiving.
Posted in Powder Room    |   Tags: Fakebook & Sinstagram
0 comments | published by Linda | November 09, 2013

The doors of my closet were not like most. My dad turned mine into giant chalkboards. This seemed to instantly transform my simple bedroom into a classroom. Little chairs lined up in front of the chalkboard held my dolls quietly awaiting the lessons for the day. Starting with writing the date on the top of the board, the day would begin. Of course, there was an area on the board where names were listed of students who had a hard time staying in their seats. Most likely teaching math facts incorrectly, and with words misspelled,  the school day covered all  the subjects I could imagine.

I was a teacher. Even with an education that had not yet completed a year in the first grade, I was a teacher. The magic of pretending spread into an early motherhood as well. I knew that my little baby dolls needed me. I was the confident one who knew how to care for them. With a look from their eyes I knew what they needed and was there with my billowing diaper bag to handle it all. A mother. At the age of six, I was a mother.

Interesting how a bit of confidence, when mixed with pretending, can turn a hope into reality. If we fake it, we can actually make it happen. Now, as a mom of six, and years of teaching them at home, I know that after years of pretending to be what I hoped to become, it became my reality.

I have found the art of pretending to be important in many areas of life. It’s difficult to love rightly, all the time. Sometimes my emotions have become tangled with my resentment so much that it feels like love can’t happen. It comes down to a simple choice. Am I willing to do what I don’t want to do? Can I put away my petty judgments toward someone in my life and love them anyway? Am I even capable of this?

Maybe I don't need to worry if I feel like loving them or not. If I act as though I do, I will. It’s a matter of putting my head before my heart. Could it be that the magic of pretending should not end in childhood? If we let how we feel determine what we do and who we are, we completely limit ourselves. There is no verse in the Bible that ends with the phrase, “If you feel like it.” We must, because we are told to.

Insecure? Pretend confidence. Depressed? Pretend joy. Angry? Pretend happy. I have learned to never underestimate the power of pretending, because it ends in being. Little did I know that years back, as my chalk hit those closet doors, that the biggest lesson would be learned by the teacher, many years later. But I’ll pretend like I always knew.

Posted in Living Room, Attic    |   Tags: The Magic of Pretending