A little different this year

My kids are all grown now. All in their 20's and the oldest pushing 30. For the past several years I've relished the idea of redoing what I put on the Christmas tree. Like, away with the things they made in school, or the ornaments I got them each year growing up. 

The storm trooper and Frodo, the little kitten and the C3P0. My reasoning has been they don't really care anyway, what I put on the tree. So, one year I went to Menard's and bought all new fairly inexpensive red and green ornaments and the tree was a theme instead of hodgepodge stuff. 

Then one year I bought a tinsel tree. A table top size, but I wanted "different" that year because everything in my life had changed, or so I thought. 

Three years ago we downsized and have not had enough room to put up our full sized tree which just stays in the box. So, I bought a real tree from Whole Foods and I just put "special" ornaments on it.   I wanted a gold and silver vintage theme. It worked for me. I loved the little vintage looking tree.

Yesterday I got out the ornament box to decorate the table top tree I bought at Hobby Lobby at half price a couple of weeks ago. I put on the Frank Sinatra station on Pandora and went to work. The new tree is my first pre-lit tree.

I started out with a vintage theme again. I bypassed Frodo again and then I saw the ornament that the nursery made when my 24 year old daughter was a mere 3 months old. 

A sentimental warmth mixed with sadness washed over me and I picked it up and put it on the tree. I found one my son made in first grade. A hand drawn and colored elf. I found a faded green construction paper wreath of my oldest son's making with his 1st grade picture inside. This went on my tree as well. 

I didn't cry, but i felt like it. The feels were coming, I could tell. My "kids" who are 29, 27 and 24....looking at them again as little ones. 

Out came another angel from their childhood.

Then my daughter came home from work. She added the new storm trooper ornament given to her by a co-worker. 

This year, my tree is themed "I remember and I'm grateful for the memories". I'm looking forward to making more. 

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First admission is that I went quite a bit over 5 minutes for this! It's been several months since I've done this and I really wanted to get these words down. :)

I'm linking up with other brave and bold writers at fiveminutefriday.com for Five Minute Friday. The idea is to write for five straight with no edits, just for the fun of it. This week's prompt is the word different.

Thanks so much for stopping by!

Blessings and Merry Christmas,

Anne

 

When I'm five

I'm at the table for coffee time. I'm with my parents and the old people. 

I'm always with the old people. They are my dad's aunt and uncle. But, these old people are like grandparents to me. They raised my dad from age 16 after he came to the New Country from the Old Country. His aunt taught him English.

I love my great aunt for that. She is nice. She is lovely.

I'm five. The adults at the table are dunking their rusks into their Sanka, which has been laced with a sugar cube or two. I can still hear the clank clank of the spoon sliding against the side of the coffee cup (always a cup on a saucer) as they would stir in the sugar. Rarely cream.

I'm five. Life is good. I am an only child so far. My brother would be born the next year. I get all the attention from my parents and the old people who we are with. A lot. I get all the attention from people at church.

I have a farm with a swing set. I like to swing. Alone.  I fly high into the air, but always come back down. Only to fly again.

I am five and I don't know what's coming soon. 

I don't know that my bedroom will change from the one that I've always known. The one with the yellow sweet peas on the walls, my white four poster bed, and where my brother's crib is on the opposite wall as mine. 

The bedroom where the house is so old that corn cobs were used as insulation. 

This would be the reason my mom, in the coming years, after the tornado came through my life and I was moved out of my farm, 
then moved back, 
and then back and forth...

this would be the reason my mom buys fancy fire detectors for our ceilings, so that she can feel like I'm safe. 

Because she is not with me.

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Blessings to you!

Thanks for joining me for Five Minute Friday. Today, I took the prompt "five" into mini memoir mode. I'm linking up with other courageous writers over at Kate Motaung's blog. Come on over and see what other writers have written for this week's prompt!

Anne

{Day 11}: soul space to remember the good

I'm not sure why, but Sundays bring back family memories for me. Especially in the Fall. Memories from growing up.

I grew up on a farm in Nebraska, and on Sundays my family would get up, rush around like crazy people, drive the eight miles into town to go to church. Then, sometimes we'd come home to the roast, potatoes and carrots in the oven for Sunday Dinner, but usually we'd drive somewhere and go out together as a family.

Sundays were lazy days back then. Dad would be watching football, mom did too, and us kids all did our own thing and tried not to pick on each other too much.

My Dad relaxing. Probably on a Sunday afternoon

It's not that I"m a huge football fan, I'm not. But to this day if my husband turns on a game on the weekends, I have this strange sense of peace and comfort.

Hearing the sound of a football game on TV reminds me of my dad sitting in his recliner on Sundays with a cup of coffee in his hand. He was a full-blooded Swede after all.

Dad was a farmer, so he worked long hours during the week and on Saturdays--(sometimes before sun up and usually to sundown), but he always took Sundays off for rest. The Sabbath rest was something Dad made a priority and I admire him for that. I know he needed it, and it set a good example for me as a child.

It does my soul good to recall these memories from my past. 

These good memories. 

I think slowing down my own pace on Sunday allows the mental space to remember the good things.

How about you? Do you take a day a week to rest, or create some mental space for your soul? 

Blessings and soul rest on your Sunday, friends!

~Anne

This post is part of a 31 day series called 31 Days of Soul Spas. I'm linked up with 100's of other bloggers over at write31days.com for the month of October. Each person has picked their own topic to share for 31 days. 

Check out my first post for a list of all of this month's posts! Thanks for joining me on this journey!

The little red house in the forest

I'm linking up today with other writers at Kate Motaung's blog for Five Minute Friday. Five minutes of free writing where the inner critic is checked at the door and writing is done with no edits and just for the fun of it. This week's prompt is dream.



I visited her exactly three different times in my life. 

My ages were 4, 11 and 42. 

She sits in the woods outside of the little village of Ljungby, Sweden. She's quaint. She seems like someplace from my dreams, but she happens to be very real. 

She's so special that an artist painted her portrait some years ago.

Weddings were performed in front of her with wedding photos included. Yes, she's in many wedding photos. She stands quiet, but proud.

You see, she played with the children as they grew up. 

Inga-Britt, Roland, Marianne and Birger were the children who ran up and down her stairs, slept in her beds, ran in her yard and under her trees. 

They chased the squirrels and picked lingonberries in the forest surrounding her. 

She still sits in the same place. 

Little Osterlund. 

Her children that ran around her have all since grown.

The boys grew into men, but have passed on from this life many years ago.

The little girls grew into fine young women, and married in front of the little house. They had children and grandchildren and even great grandchildren of their own.

Those little girls turned grandmothers each passed from this life in the last two weeks.

The little red house remembers all the laughter. She remembers all the love. She remembers the souls of this family who were born and lived and died all loving one another within her walls.

Little Osterlund.

{The oldest boy in this story is my father. The two girls are my aunts who each passed away in the last couple of weeks. My heart grieves the passing of this generation and my story is a tribute to my father, uncle and my two aunts who grew up in this small home in Sweden.}

Thanks for stopping by to read about a special little red house.

Blessings to you, friend!

~Anne

(my full name is Anne Britt, I am named after my two aunt's in this story, Marianne and Inga-Britt. I am so proud of that fact!)

my best gift

I was three years old when I received my best gift. I remember the room well. It had beige and tan tile floors (not beautiful). It had low wooden tables that had Formica tops so as to protect them from little hands' coloring mistakes. 

There were little, miniature wooden chairs with the curved backs with rungs. I could sit there in my little dress, all dressed up with my patent leather black buckle shoes just touching the floor with my tippy toes.

My Sunday School teachers had dresses on and their hair was done up with lots of hair spray. 

This was the 60’s after all. 

Oh, were my teachers sweet. I don’t remember lots of details about the lessons on the flannel graph. But, my teachers' voices were soft and gentle, not harsh. 

They taught me about Jesus and Peter and the other disciples that followed Jesus and wanted to be like him. They taught me about God’s love and grace. I’m not sure I grasped what grace was in my 3^rd year of life, but I think I knew what love was, at least I was beginning to know it.

It was in my Sunday school teacher’s eyes.

Before I graduated from three year old Sunday school, I received a gift. For some odd reason all these 49 years later I still have it in a drawer. I received a small black New Testament with my name in it: 

Anne Britt Yvonne Oberg. And the date.

It was from my Sunday school teachers in my preschool class. I will never forget them, nor the gifts they gave me that year.

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Thanks for joining in memory lane today, friends!

What's the greatest gift you've been given?

Blessings to you,

~Anne

(nostalgia queen. Jesus girl. hairspray lover)

---linking up today with Kate Motaung and other writers (a little late) for Five Minute Friday. Here, we're free to write unedited for five minutes straight on a prompt chosen by Kate the night before. This week's prompt is the word, "gift". Come on over to Kate's place to find out what other writers wrote and to join in!!

Welcome back, little girl dreams

Somewhere, back in my little girl dreams, I used to adore Christmas. I mean when I was a very little girl like under six or so.

Church Christmas programs with my cousins, where we would for sure sing Away in a Manger while we looked on at the dolly baby Jesus in the makeshift manger with real hay.

I, along with all my little friends would get one bible verse on a little piece of paper to memorize for the program. One year, I was asked to pray the benediction at the end. I read it off of a piece of paper, but I thought that was so special.

I remember overnight trips to see my grandma and grandpa in Iowa from my Nebraska farm. My daddy would drive all night long while I slept. I would wake just in time to see the big city lights of Des Moines as we were coming in on the Interstate. 

We would arrive about 2 or 3 in the morning and my grandparents must have gotten up to greet us because I don’t think they could have lasted that long. I sat on the edge of the suitcase while my mom and dad greeted the grandparents. And then they put me to bed.

My most vivid memory of Christmas as a small one is standing in my grandparent’s den and looking out the window after dark with my cousins. We were looking in the sky for Santa’s sleigh. I remember one of us (not me) saying in an excited, hushed whisper,

 “There he is! There’s Santa’s sleigh!”

I was so excited!! I sooooo badly wanted it to be true. I so badly wanted to see the sleigh, but it eluded me.

Somewhere since my little girl dreams, some amount of stress has taken over and the trap of comparison.

 Welcome back, little girl dreams.

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Thanks so much for stopping by today friends! I so adore you!

~Anne

Linking up today for the last time in 2014 with a flash mob of writers for Five Minute Friday. We all link up with the same topic. Today's prompt is "adore". No worries about perfect grammar or punctuation. Free writing for the fun of it. Visit Kate Motaung's blog for all the details!

Lost but not forgotten

I'm linking up at Lisa Jo Baker's blog today for Five Minute Friday. This is where writers join in to write on one topic. We don't worry about perfection or back tracking. Just writing for the fun of it. You are welcome to join in! Today's prompt is "lost".

I could almost hear the grain dryer as it roared like an angry lion. I could almost see my dad checking on the grain bins, or unloading a truckload of fresh picked corn into the place where the auger would take the corn up up up and dump it in the top of the grain bin.

But, all of that is lost now.

All I have are memories. 

I had a chance to go back to my old farm place this last weekend. I already knew that my house and all the out buildings were long gone. Pushed out of the way to plant and harvest more crops. 

The price of progress pushing out my memories.

I stood there with the wind tousling my hair around my face, just as it was tossing the grass around my feet. All I could see in front of me were the four grain bins, including the grain dryer that my dad used to use.

The historical marker that has marked our farm since 1949 was still standing there as proud 

as ever.

I saw an auger. Was it the one my dad used to use? I also saw an old tractor that I could have sworn was my dads. But, there is now no one to ask whether it was my dad’s or not.

Dad passed away 25 years ago, and it’s been even longer since he actually farmed the land since he had complications of Parkinsons.

The house I grew up in, the grainery, the barn, the abandoned chicken house, the pasture where we kept our horses, 

all lost. 

All long gone.

But in my vivid memories none of that will ever be forgotten, in fact as I stood there in the 

breeze,

in the stillness

in the quiet,

I think I could hear my dad working 

and I could see him standing at the bin waving a smile.

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Thanks for stopping by, friend!

How my dad was like a pirate

Today, Father's Day, lots of random, little (or big depending on how you look at them) memories have been surfacing about my dad. 

My dad passed away from complications of Parkinson's when he was 57. I was twenty five. My first baby had just turned one. That was twenty five years ago.

His life was cut way too short. I've often thought of how he would have so enjoyed being Grandpa to my kids, his grandchildren, who are now 21, 24 and 26. He would have loved seeing them grow up into the young adults they are today! 

He was a farmer through and through. He was always glad to have me ride in the cab of the combine. I wasn't allowed to drive :) but I sat on a small place right beside his seat. He had KRVN on the radio. Sometimes country music, but always the news. Always the "Dow Jones Market." I thought it was great fun watching the combine gobble up the corn stalks and spit out the kernels behind me in the grain bin.

Coffee time was a religion. Mid morning and mid afternoon was "coffee time" which either consisted of some member of the family taking coffee and cookies (or some other treat) out to the field, or him coming in the house for it. Usually, in the busy seasons, coffee time was in the field and it didn't last long!

His Sunday routine when I was little was to stop at the Hotel Dale in downtown Holdrege after church, and buy a Sunday Paper. I believe it was The Omaha World Herald. My mom and I would wait in the car. He would often buy a pack of Doublemint Gum, his favorite, of which I was only allowed a "half stick". Today my favorite gum is Doublemint and it brings me a smile to chew it. :)

Dad was like a pirate when it came to the weather. He kept a weather eye on the horizon at all times, except for maybe winter when his fields were dormant. He had a rain gauge which he checked after every rain storm, and I was always amazed that he could read it down to the "hundredths of an inch". I could never figure that out. 

Dad sporting a beard

He would march out across the farm yard and check that rain gauge like clockwork after it rained. I'm not sure what all went on in his farmer-planning head when he discovered how much rain we'd had, but I'll bet it had to do with how much, or whether to irrigate his crops the next few days. 

When I was twelve and had never sat behind a steering wheel, Dad put me behind it one day out in the pasture. He tried to teach me to drive the pick up (a manual shifter), so he could pound fence posts in. I made that pick up die over and over and over, and my dad never lost his patience with me. I think he probably finally gave up though and put himself behind the wheel again. 

For awhile we picked up my best friend, Kristi Gabrielson, on the way to school. My dad got great pleasure from figuring out what Kristi and my names were backwards and calling us by those names. Each morning when Kristi would get into the pick up cab to go to school with me, Dad would say, "Hi Itsirk!" He called me Enna. I still remember the kick he got out of seeing our little girl faces scrunch up into laughter. 

Often, when we were on our way somewhere out in the country, Dad would ask me which way he should turn at the next corner. Of course, as a little girl I had no idea where we were, but he would dutifully turn the steering wheel in the direction I ordered him to. This would go on for a few miles, and then somehow we would end up at our destination. This always fascinated me. How did I get us where we were supposed to be when I had no idea where we were??

Dad, I miss you every day, but remembering these things about you today has made me miss you a little more. I'm looking forward to sitting down someday and reminiscing together. Thank you for being such a wonderful Dad and Father to me.

I love you!

When you're not sure if you should take the risk

Even though you know the news is coming, you are never quite prepared for it. 

The first thing I wanted to do after hearing about my step-brother's death, was to write out my reflections (process). Then, I dug into my stash of old pictures.

Why do we say that a picture is worth a thousand words? Because it is. 

Especially if it's a picture of a loved one who has just passed out of this life and into the next.


What do these photos say?

Why do they bring so much comfort?

I wanted to scan in and share on Facebook an album of pictures from growing up with my step-brother, Greg, on our Nebraska farm. I found just eight pictures at first.

When I looked at these photos of him as a little boy, and me as a big sister, sweet memories came flooding back. 

How Greg had that silly wink-grin he'd do quite often.

His sense of humor.

The way he was a big brother to my little brother.

But, as I got ready to hit "post album" I hesitated.

How would my step mom feel to see these? Would it hurt her more? Would it make the grieving worse?

I wasn't sure, but I took the risk.

That night she left a message on my phone, "Thank you for posting those old pictures. They are just precious. We are downloading them to use on a picture board at the memorial service."

I called her the next day and I admitted that I was hesitant to post them. She said, "Oh no, I loved seeing them."

I do believe we need to be very cautious about what we post on the internet. 

But, sometimes I swing to the conservative extreme out of fear of not "saying it right" or "doing it right." Because I'm "not perfect." 

These are my old tapes.

In thinking about whether to post the picture memories, I had to ask myself,

 "What's my heart behind this?"

I admitted that it wasn't to bring attention to myself at all. It was to encourage my family.

To bring joy.

To help us remember the good times.

So, I took the risk of showing up, being seen and living brave by sharing these treasures I found.


Let's post the joyful memories if it feels right and if we have peace about it.

Let's speak the joyful word.

Let's send the note.

And, let's be the encouragement this world so desperately needs.

"Like apples of gold in settings of silver is a word spoken in right circumstances."

Proverbs 25:11

"Therefore encourage one another and build up one another, just as you also are doing."

I Thessalonians 5:11

Blessings to you,

looking back to see

Today I am linking up once again with the community of writers at Lisa Jo Baker's blog for Five Minute Friday. Free writing with no back tracking. Writing just for the fun of it. Today, her prompt is crowd.

Lately, pieces of my history have been chasing me. 

Like ducks that crowd around the one feeding them bread, my memories of childhood seem to be vying for attention. 

My story seems to be begging to be told.

I have several bags of pictures of my childhood and the people and places represented there. 

But, where to start? 

Do I tell about the places of my childhood?

The pump house where my dad went to check daily for working operations?

The chicken house where I found the litter of kitties?

The one eye’d cat that scared me almost to death walking across the yard when I was three?

My old barn, where the light streamed in through the cracks in the roof and I could see the particles of dust in suspension?

me, already looking back

My aunts and uncles who came to visit from Gothenberg, Nebraska and the one Great Uncle who got on my swing-for-two and took the time to visit with me and hear me jabber?

Which of these memories competing for attention do I go with? Where do I start?

My husband used to tell me, "if you don't take a picture, 

that means it didn't happen."

The older I get, the more I feel that if it doesn’t get written 

down, it might mean I might forget that it happened.

I am so thankful for these piles of memories that I have in zip-lock bags. They are pieces of my life. Pieces of my history that I never want to forget.

I started the blog Live the Silver Lining in attempts to get some of these memories down.

I don’t ever want to forget.

I want to remember where I came from. It helps me to understand where I’m going.

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How about you? Do you have a story that is just begging to be told? Where do you think you would start if you told it?

Blessings to you friend,

                         

Dare to Be: Present with family {Day 26}

She told him, "Dad, it's okay to rest. You've worked hard in this life. You can rest."

She knew. We all knew that Henry's eighty-three years had been lived to their fullest measure. The hands that lay limp on bed sheets were once strong and hardly ever resting. 

Nine days had slipped their way through time between the dreaded call that he fell to when the angels took him home. 

During these nine days, there were many glimpses beyond the velum-like divide between earth and heaven. I saw this in laughter and in tears. I saw this while cooking pasta with two nieces to feed an army of family.

I heard this in hymns sung by the hospice bedside and scripture read to closed eyes and shallow breaths. I saw it in good-byes cried by grand-daughters who knew that they wouldn't see their grandpa again in his time on earth. 

Glimpses of the Divine were everywhere in the ICU and hospice where pieces and parts of a twenty six member family camped out for nine whole days. Sadness. Of course. Hope and joy. Without a doubt. 

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The snow is coming down gently around us as if on white pillows as we huddle together in the small unheated Veterans cemetery chapel. My two twenty-something sons and their dad joined hands with a couple of cousins and an uncle or two to accompany their grandfather's flag draped casket into it's prominent place in front. 

My mother-in-law, pulling her black coat around her cold shoulders is motioned to the red capped chair front and center. Her sons and daughters of two generations file in beside and behind her and sit down on cold plastic folding chairs. 

My pastor sister-in-law takes her place behind the wooden podium up front to lead us in the committal of her father to the ground.

I don't recall all the tear stained words she says on Tuesday morning. But, I think again and again how good and appropriate that this good man's daughter be saying these final words to honor him. 

As a family, we drew close and hugged a little tighter.

Brothers and sisters by blood and by Christ were drawn together during this time of grief in ways that had never been before to comfort, make life altering decisions and use their gifts to give to this special dad and grandpa and to each other. 

How can I say that this was the worst of times, but also the best of times? 



Have you lost someone special to you? Have you experienced the pain of loss, but also the love of God in the midst of your loss? I'd love to hear your story.

Click on my button to see a list of all 31 Days posts. Thanks for stopping by to visit!

This post is part of a 31 Day series on the topic Dare to Be and linking up with about 1500 other bloggers on hundreds of topics. Come on over to The Nester to visit!

Dare to Be: Present {Days 24-25}

How do you talk to someone whose eyes are closed tight? Someone who is not moving except for labored breathing and they may die at any minute? How do you talk to someone who will not give any indication that they heard what you said?

For the next few days in hospice, I knew my calling. My calling was to be present. 

To be present to my father-in-law during his last days on earth, whatever that would look like. 

Every chance I got, I touched his shoulder. I smoothed his hair. I held his hand. I counted it all a privilege that I will never forget.

His hands had driven a semi across many miles during his lifetime. When we had lived in a different state, his hands worked hard at doing whatever we needed done when they visited. His hands broke bread in church, and served in any which way that was needed. Now, his hand could not grasp mine.

I counted it a privilege to hold his hand in these moments. He was not aware of me being there. 

Or was he? 

They say that even if a person is not responsive, the last of the senses to go is hearing. And touch.

One by one, his children found a time to say their good byes. My husband said them to his dad with a few others in the room. One son wanted to say his alone.

I wanted to figure out a way to just say them.

He had been my father-in-law for 29 years. I wanted to tell him thank you for being such a wonderful father-in-law. I wanted to be able to thank him for welcoming me into the family. A girl not from Iowa, but from Nebraska. Someone not from their son's group of friends. A "foreigner". 

The room finally emptied of people. The chair was open next to his bed on the day before he died. I sat down. I held his hand. It was puffy and kind of red, except for the blue that was beginning to form on his fingernails. This was a sign there wasn't much time left. 

I held his hand gently, sitting next to him. And, I thanked him for all those things as if he was looking right at me. I told him through tears. I was present.

I am grateful for that chance. 

Being present is something I am daring myself to keep doing. Even when it might seem awkward or uncomfortable.

Being fully present brought indescribable blessing.

Click on my button to see a list of all 31 days posts. Thanks so much for visiting me!

This post is part of a 31 Day series on the topic Dare to Be and linking up with about 1500 other bloggers on hundreds of topics. Come on over to The Nester to visit!

Chubby cheeks and baby dreams

I'm once again linking up with Five Minute Friday. The prompt today is "laundry". Come on over to Lisa Jo Baker's blog and join in!

Chubby cheek against mine.

Chubby hand in my hand.

He's perched in my arms on the washer. 

Lid open.

Swish, swish, swish go the clothes.

Warm dryer running next to us.

Baby eyes are transfixed on the clothes going round and round in the suds.

The hum of the washer is luring us both into a sacred bond. 

Together.

Mother and son.

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Why is laundry so comforting at times? I still find comfort in the hum and swish of the wash. But, agitation at the buzz of the dryer.

Don't remind me that my work is never done.

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Keep me right there, 

cheek to cheek at the washer with this memory.

Baby eyes and mine.

Baby hands in my hand.

Heart to heart we stare into the suds and dream mommy and baby dreams.