in seventy years, i hope

i did dishes last night. and this morning. and yesterday morning and on tuesday too.

the sink is deep and metal. it's got hairline scratches from piles of pans stacked up over seventy years of housekeeping. but it overlooks the front yard and the pin oaks i have grown to adore. and at 5:45 in the afternoon there's a sliver of setting sun that falls on the spigot and makes it flicker. i like to sit up on the countertop and let my heels hit against the knotty pine cabinets.

elbows deep in suds, i thought, i'll probably be doing this for the rest of my life. there will be dishes in the sink and clothes in the hamper day in and day out. it's a sort of a ritualistic romance we lead, me and these chores.

but pablo laid at my heels on the rug as i folded the millionth white undershirt. and robert came up behind me at the sink, getting his arms wet. i dropped the cereal bowl. and at nine in the evening i rested my head against him, breathing in the rusty smell of pipes and copper.

and another thought came, i hope so. i hope at eighty i'm still standing over a sink. maybe looking at the same grassy field. maybe not. maybe in a kitchen full of grandchildren, or perhaps just robert. he'll be eighty-two and by then the callouses on his hands will be deeper. a new dog on the old rug, or maybe just my house slippers.

i hope i'm blessed to always tidy up a house filled with love. but more than that, i hope to always have someone there to pull me from it. to remind me that a messy home is better than a clean house. and, on the really overwhelming days, someone to roll up his sleeves, and stand beside me in bright yellow gloves. washing and scrubbing and loving all the rest of our days.

sew wrong

 via

mama gave me a sewing machine sunday night.

encased in a brown vinyl cover, relics of decades ago perfectly preserved, down to the tube of oil still leaking. a pretty ol' singer, in a sweet shade of cream. the beast was heavy, but i lugged her onto the kitchen counter. with a few minutes of home to myself, i plugged it in and the machine lit up like the highway at midnight.

and i read instructions. i watched youtube videos. i sat and stared at the thing and thought to myself, if i were a bobbin thread, how would i pull myself up? it seemed easy enough, and the fashion designers online made it looks as easy as frosting a cupcake (which can, it turns out, also be kind of hard).

i tried for hours. robert came in and sat beside me. pablo barked at my heels and the sun finally set on the day and my seamstress dreams. i went to bed discouraged. it's such a lovely thing to sew. so domestic and pretty and dainty and all things soft and warm and comfortable in this world. and there i sat, in a seventy-year old house where many a lacy pillowcase had been made. my big knuckles and impatient heart two giant stumbling blocks.

but the thing is, i may never learn. my hands may always be more equipped for washing dishes over a sink of hot water. for lugging around a heavy pup. for making soup and biscuits and painting desks cherry red. besides, whoever decided to make needle eyes so blessed small obviously didn't have a desk job in front of a computer. because those two just don't jive.

the place of remembrance

my co-worker complimented me on my boots the other day.

i looked down at them, tucked into my jeans. remnants of storage dust on their heels from a summer spent in the basement. "i got these the day heath ledger died," i replied absentmindedly. all of a sudden, they weren't just shoes anymore. they were reminders. of that evening in college spent by myself at the mall. why i, the student with campus police on my speed dial, was out shopping alone is beyond me. but there i was. knee deep in the shoe department at belk's. the text came when i was trying them on.

i was little when princess diana died. i bumbled down the steps for a drink of water to find mama alone in the dark, crying in front of the television. years later, i sat on that same couch and watched the coverage of the JFK, jr. plane crash. i learned of aaliyah's death in a church corridor one sunday morning. these places and objects are forever changed to me.

i don't remember much. i joke with robert that my memories start around middle school. but these things--these moments that don't even directly involve me, are stamped inside. they are a part of me and i of them.

i am a collection. of memories and days and evenings spent watching the news. of remembering and forgetting until some off the cuff comment triggers something deep inside and i remember all over again. until a co-worker reminds me that my boots are more, so much more, than leather (well, pleather).

but being human means embracing these associations, these little fibers that connect us as a whole and unite us. in suffering, yes. and in sadness. but also, when the heavens align at just the right moment, in inexplicable joy. 

leave it there

 

i hold onto things. it's what i do.

it's the reason my basement is cluttered. why the little shelf above my closet is crammed. why every drawer in our home is filled to capacity. i hold onto things in secret. under beds and behind desks. but, at the same time, i have this irrational idea that one day martha stewart or oprah or someone might stop by our little cottage, so i can't leave until every dish is dried and put away. every pile straightened. every magazine rolled up into the wine rack in our  bathroom.

it's a crazy thing, this chaotic order. that in the same space, within the same whitewashed walls, there co-exists an enormous pile of assorted greeting cards and a freshly washed counter that smells of lemon.

but i hold onto other things as well. things that can't be cleaned out when the next yard sale comes into town.

things like hurts. and worries. and fears. stories on the news. doubts and insecurities. hidden by a new high-waisted skirt. fresh cut bangs. and new lipstick. just as my office drawer is laden, absolutely laden, with old folders, so i store things inside. and so i mask them.

but i've got a little tree outside my bedroom window, and at night its  branches are illuminated by the shed light. and from my bed, i can see the outline of leaves. it's become my worry tree. when everyone's asleep and sometimes when they're not, i hold my hand against the blind and send my worries out to it. into Heaven. into the hands of the only one that can make any order whatsoever of it.

and then, before lifting my fingertips

i leave it there. 

via

to be an adjective

  xxx

they wanted, as we say, to ‘call their souls their own.’ but that means to live a lie, for our souls are not, in fact, our own. they wanted some corner in the universe of which they could say to God, ‘this is our business, not yours.’ but there is no such corner. they wanted to be nouns, but they were, and eternally must be, mere adjectives.

 -c.s. lewis, the problem of pain

 

as poets like page breaks that feel like deep breaths, so a creative writer loves adjectives. my descriptor of choice is lovely. my best friend in middle school loved the word crisp. there are just some words that, when added to a noun, enhance tremendously. they add depth, meaning and image.

but as any elementary school teacher will sweetly inform you, adjectives that stand alone are meaningless. pretty. small. big. without a subject, they lose their form and become half-shaped. like the victorian house on the edge of our road, standing tall against the heavens, with cracking paint and loose shutters. almost perfect. almost special, but not quite whole.

i am not the sun. but there are summer days when the sunshine reflects off my cheeks. my eyelids. my nose. and i feel it and radiate with it. likewise, i want to stand so close to the Son that i am a mere reflection of His glory. and brightness.

in my Christian walk, it is only an adjective i aspire to be. but so often, so incredibly, unknowingly and sometimes purposefully, often, i become the noun. my little world revolves around the subject of Me. and yes, Christ is a part of it. He is present and there and totally within reach, but only to support my goals and end desires. in effect, an adjective to my noun.

but if we switch. if we just swap places, what a beautiful, whole, complex sentence we would be! and the sentences of my peers, my family, my friends and all the population would swarm together to create a beautiful story. the most beautiful one in history. in His story.

the persistent vine

 

there's a vine that grows along the shed behind my house. just a little ivy, trellising toward the sky. we've tried to kill it with commercial sprays and our yard tools, but it remains. and i sort of love it. it's a little rogue, a little unruly and a little strong-minded. but those very qualities, the ones that make it a nussiance,  also make it terribly beautiful.

and it reminds me that there's a reason, sometimes, for weeds. there's often a season where they have to grow. reach their obnoxious heads towards the heavens. but they'll be gone one day, and i'll walk to find them. and miss them. and ache to remember how the sunset used to hit them. and share in their fate, that we're all just a little misunderstood.

angels in the outfield

about five years ago, in an interview, i was asked "if life is a baseball field, which position do you play?" after i got past my first reaction of "are you kidding me?" i softly said that i was in the outfield. i'm not the star, or the center of attention, but when something's thrown my way, i can be counted on.

two gracious bloggers this week, elisabeth from thimbles & things and jennifer from singing in the rain, have thrown a pitch my way. both have called my blog lovely, which is a gift in and of itself. both have called upon me to share a little about myself. to step onto the proverbial baseball diamond. and i promise, these answers will only be fractionally as cheesy as my interview ones. i didn't get the job, by the way. thank goodness.

1. i used to be obsessed with the dixie chicks and wanted to play the fiddle. i got one for christmas, and began lessons. at this elderly woman's house in the country. in her living room with cold hardwood floors and musty furniture. driving home with mama one day, it hit me. how immensely over the entire thing i was. just plain over it. we called the woman and explained, and she was honestly heartbroken. my brother uses the fiddle now as a makeshift banjo.

2. my handwriting changes every day. i've always wanted to be that girl with the pretty handwriting (teachers have the prettiest handwriting, have you noticed?), but i never was.

3. i completed my undergraduate degree in three years, hurrying to finish with robert so we could leave that college town, and start our life together. sitting in my advisor's office, she said, "so you're finishing early so you can go straight into your graduate school, right?" i just shook my head.

4. i once drove eight hours a week just to attend graduate classes at night at my alma mater. two hours away. it was horrible. never before have i felt the presence of the Lord so strongly tell me i was on the absolute wrong path. His hand on my heart was a physical sensation that could not be ignored, much to the chagrin of my proud self.

5. one time, robert and i drove overnight to go on a hot air balloon ride, cities away from school. we got there and the wind was too high, and they had to give us a rain check. we went to a corn maze instead. for anyone not from the south, a corn maze is exactly what you are picturing. a giant, human-sized maze. made of corn (maize, if you will).

i'm one of three children. my parents try to treat us all with the same respect, their mantra being "what you do for one, you do for all." so in the spirit of that tradition, i'm passing these accolades on to all of you. every single 272 of you.

tell me a little about yourself! baseball metaphors and all.

oh, jenny don't be hasty

middle school is quite possibly the most awkward time in one's life, do you agree? i spent the greater portion of mine pining away after an unobtainable crush. i sat for hours in my room, scribbling love poems and songs into a faux cow-fur covered journal. little did i know, there was a reason that boy was unobtainable, and years later i wouldn't want to obtain him if my life depended on it, and those little makeshift sonnets turned into stronger, more beautiful lyrics of love for robert.

and because i was always pining after boys older than me, one line that i would write in the margins of that notebook over and again was "don't treat me like a baby." and isn't that what every girl wants? to have our femininity exalted but not the point of infantilization?

i rediscovered this song the other day. on a mix cd i made called vintch, long before this blog or my shop ever came into focus. since then, it has been on repeat in my car, because:

a) the tempo is killer

b) paolo's voice is just raspy enough to be taken seriously but peppy enough to dance to

and, most importantly:

c) it turns the tables on my childhood woes and approaches love from the heart of a younger man reaching for an older girl, rhyming "don't treat me like a baby" with hasty, which is genius.

where was this song when i was 14? i'm convinced it would have given me a little comfort. but in a way i'm happy for all that teenage angst and unrequited "like." it's made me appreciate my grown-up love that much more.

fate as malleable as clay

i look forward to friday lunch breaks. they mean a trip to value village, my favorite neighborhood thrift shop. it's a spacious, beautiful warehouse with rows and rows of darling dresses and pretty retrro furnishings. it's like heaven.

last friday was no exception. at 12:00 sharp, i turned off my computer monitors. i slung my pocketbook over my shoulder and headed for the door, ID badge dangling between my fingers. halfway across the threshold, i remembered something. a work assignment i need to talk to someone about. before lunch. before the mid-afternoon hypnosis set in. but then, a quick conversation led to more work, more conversations. a terrible avalanche at the worst time.


so i spent the next 25 minutes going over a project with one of our managers.

i was frustrated when i left. because i was late. which meant less time shopping, and worse, a hurried, rushed feeling. and no one, i repeat no one, wants to feel rushed while thrifting--an experience to be savored slowly and purposefully. i got in the car and sped away.

then, a few miles before my exit, i saw it.

a row of cars clamoring to merge into one lane. to allow the fire truck to move through. the police cars. the ambulance. right where i would have driven, an accident had just happened.

i sat in the traffic jam for about 20 minutes until i passed the horrible scene. the dilapidated car and torn guardrail.

{in college, as a journalism minor, i was warned against using the word "tragedy" unless i was specifically talking about an event in which the main character has a flaw that causes his own demise, like oedipus. but friday, with the sirens joining in an awful chorus and the sky looming with rain, what i saw can only be described as tragic.)

i received an e-mail forward one time about all the employees who, for some random reason or the other, did not go to work in the twin towers on 9/11. they were all late.

some missed their alarm that morning. one man's son started kindergarten and he was a few minutes late from dropping him off. it was person's turn to bring doughnuts. one man wore a new pair of shoes, developed a blister, then stopped at the drugstore to get a band-aid.

------
in all of those instances, including mine on friday, something caused a delay. which in turn, caused frustration, anxiety and unhappiness. but in the end, that very delay saved our lives.

so i urge you. embrace every situation as a gift. from a God who knows the future. standing behind an elderly woman in line counting her change, as irritating as it might be, is a deliberate standstill. traffic jams, long-winded friends and unexpected changes at work aren't accidental. by opening ourselves up to the idea that everything is working for the good--the beautiful, deliberate good--of those who love Him, things don't seem so inconvienent anymore. 

and being a Christian doesn't mean i'm immune. that could have easily been me on friday, and it wouldn't have meant God loves me any less. but having that relationship means trusting, searching and finding. looking for the meaning behind the simplest of things. for His mercy.


and it always comes, just in the nick of time.

a fairytale

i watched a special last night on william and kate, britain's royal couple. the lavish guest list, her speculated attire and all the lush, beautiful, things that will fill their newlywed life. i watched in awe, in admiration, and yes, with a tinge of jealousy.

then i looked at robert sitting next to me, and pablo sprawled out to my right, and i decided that this, this right here, is all it takes to make me happy, to create a feeling of contentment inside me so deep i believe it could sustain me all the days of my life. this blessing above all blessings, that of love.

and give me:

a deep kitchen sink by the window

warm flannel sheets in the winter and cool cotton ones in the summer

strong coffee with store-brand creamer

the first whisper of spring on my cheek

a great vintage steal 

flowerpots on my front steps 

the exhaustion of a good day's work

blue collars and white fences

over horse-drawn carriages, tiaras and mile-long veils any day. 

and i wish them the best, a lifetime filled with love, and i actually believe in theirs. and if fairytales are what it takes to keep us striving, reaching, for that love, then thank God for them.

but sometimes, fairytales don't look like fairytales, and that's okay too. because sparkle will fade, but laughter, truth and happiness are always, always beautiful. and the best part? they aren't reserved for princesses.

conclusions and illusions

xxx

he wore a red golf shirt every day. his hair, graying, was parted on the side, tucked behind silver glasses too big for his face. he was older, almost retired, and walked slowly, deliberately.

to talk to him was a game of roulette, to chance a good mood or a sour one. his office, at the end of the hall, never had visitors. he was quick with a snappy comeback, arched eyebrow of suspicion, and sigh of defeat. but he was excellent at what he did, so no one bothered him. no family pictures decorated his office, only a whiteboard and clock.

it was my first job, one of my first co-workers. my heart was too tender for his caustic demeanor, and i tried to avoid confrontation, only running into him in the kitchen, pouring black coffee into his stained mug. he smugly laughed at my optimism and "have a great day" salutations.

then one day, someone told me something about him. about why he avoided family pictures and corporate christmas parties, with all their spousal small talk. 


the tragedies, deaths and losses that hung like broken limbs on his weeping willow of a family tree.

all of a sudden, i began to see his abrasiveness as hurt. as agony. as a grief too hard to bear and contain internally, so it spilled over outside of him, onto his clothes, his expression, his pursed lips and his feet that dragged.

and i felt so bad for judging him.

because we never, ever know all the burdens people are carrying. stories can be personal, deep and hidden.

if you pull up beside me in the car and see me singing, i appear like a silly, 20-something girl. primarily because it's probably katy perry or kesha. and i'm probably drumming on my steering wheel. 

but did you know it's because when i sing, it's the absolute only time i don't stutter? and i'm a terrible singer. oh my goodness. so awful. but i sing all the time for relief. of the glottal blocks and brick walls that rear their nasty heads when i speak. but you didn't know that, and you can't get that from a stoplight encounter.

and you sometimes can't even get that from years of experience with someone. from working with them. shoot, from living with them.


everyone's fighting a battle, whether obvious or not. but we're not mind readers. sometimes we don't have the luxury of peeling away those layers. we just can't do it.


but we can love them. and accept them. and go about our day without questioning or judging how they live theirs. because sometimes a song isn't just a song, and a mean-spirited snap isn't just a bad day. and sometime we're going to need that exact same acceptance.


i don't work with that man anymore, but i hope he's happy somewhere. and singing.