0 comments | published by Linda | August 19, 2011
I spent days in the backseat of a station wagon. Traveling up and down the highways, I watched out the window as the fields rolled by.

Apple orchards were my favorite. There was something about how the trees are lined up in rows that seem to go on forever.

I remember one time watching them stand in the midst of a rainstorm. Somehow the apples looked brighter and richer. The leaves dripped with water, soaking the ground below.

Apples fell. I saw them. Those treasures that hit the ground were many, covering the field with bursts of red.

The rain was good. This is what the trees were made for. It didn't destroy them, it made them healthy and able to produce their fruit. Looking across the field, it appeared they produced uncontrollably, which would please the farmer.

This huge orchard remains in my mind. Those crazy trees standing in the downpour just dropping fruit randomly.

Sometimes I complain about the rain that hits me hard. Yet, this is what I'm made for. It's through these storms that I am filled, and in turn produce fruit. Like crazy, the fruit will drop.

The farmer will be pleased.
Posted in Attic    |   Tags: The Apple Tree
0 comments | published by Linda | August 15, 2011
The medal strips along the front of the sink helped me to imagine what kitchens looked like in the 50's. Dragging my hand across the smooth white surface, I took in the smells pouring from the oven. My great aunt's farmhouse kitchen was a place I loved to go.

Quietly I would roam through the house. In the living room stood different shapes and sizes of fabric colored chairs. Nothing matched, but it didn't matter. Everything belonged. The wider ones, when covered by a blanket provided shelter from the incoming Indians that might have appeared.

With her apron wrapped around her soft middle, she would appear where i was exploring, calling me to dinner. There was something about her that just called for a hug. Standing in the corner of the kitchen I would watch. No taller than the sink, some didn't even notice me. She did. She would ask for my help as though she might just not manage without me. We both knew she would, but that was our secret.

We both played piano. Her music had actually been published. Yet, when she would listen to me stumble through my most recent piece, her applause was with so much energy that I decided I was just as accomplished as she.

Her sweet face now is only seen in the pictures of my memory. Her song had ended much before I thought it should.

In the depths of a dirty garage filled with boxes, her music was found. Given to me, I held the brittle pages, and somehow heard her song once again. What happens when our song is over? Will we be remembered?  Or will the songs that we created during our days be lost and forgotten?

A kitchen once filled with sweet aromas of fresh bread, and noisy conversations is now empty. Over time it seems her accomplishments don't matter. All of the recognition she once received has faded away like the notes on the paper.

In the end, what matters is how she loved her life, her Lord, and how she put this to music inside of me. Children listen. They remember. Is our song sweet enough for them to want to sing when we are gone?
Posted in Attic    |   Tags: The Music Never Dies
0 comments | published by Linda | August 03, 2011
She hollered across the beach. Everyone looked up at her except for her son. She continued. "Stop throwing sand at your sister! You know better!"

Do you think she knows better than to yell at her son, and strip herself of all dignity? Still, she continued. "I have taught you better than that! What are you thinking?"

He might know. He also knows that he can ignore her. He knows that eventually she will stop, so he doesn't have to.

Where is the break down from what we know and what we do? We somehow let our emotions disguise what we know to be right to do. We behave opposite. It's easier, and way more fun...or so we think, until we see the ugliness of such a choice in the behavior of our kids.

Sadly though, our little people will follow what we do, not what we know. They will show the same amount of self control that we display. As we teach them how to behave, we sometimes offer an example of pure emotional stupidity.

We can't expect them to do what they know to be right if we aren't ready to look at ourselves, and realize we know better.

Posted in Play Room    |   Tags: We Know Better
0 comments | published by Linda | August 01, 2011
The door is closed. It's easy to assume they want to be alone. Maybe. Yet usually the door is closed in order to be opened. There is a handle. We need to use it.

Our teens can quickly drop into a stinky mood. Without help, and some focused digging, they might spend too much time there. It's our job to see them when they disappear.

Far easier to get back to what we were doing. Incredibly easier, actually. Yet, we aren't raising children in order to have easy.

They need to have their words heard, and their chin lifted. Teens can have a small supply of hope, as their eyes drop and they forget what's up ahead. They are on a road, a rocky one. Fill their hope bucket. We must remind them who has their hand, and what is at the end of their journey.

Get in there. Knocking on their door will also result in them desiring to come to yours in years to come. Blessings yet to come as we lead with hope.

Posted in Play Room    |   Tags: Hope Bucket
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