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 12}: faith for your soul

It would be a huge mistake for me to go through all month of Soul Spa posts and not tell you about the Best Soul Spa I've ever had, and it's been a life-long journey.

It began in second grade when I went with a friend to a girls Bible club. I was visiting that day, and the leaders explained to my group about God's love for us and how Jesus died on the cross for our sins and shortcomings. Even at the young age of 8 years old, I knew about Jesus because my parents had taken me to church since I was a little girl.

But, I'd never made my belief in Jesus a personal one. Somehow, I knew I needed to. I needed to receive Jesus' love for myself and tell Him I agreed with Him about the bad things I'd done or thought. (I'm sure the time I had "borrowed" my cousin's Barbie's outfit came to mind.)

That day in 2nd grade, I asked Jesus to come into my life, (my soul) and stay. I told Him I believed in His death on the cross for me. And, I also believed that He had risen from the dead (in real life) about two thousand years ago.

Life didn't magically become perfect for me. Following Jesus doesn't guarantee a perfect life, but it does guarantee He'll always be with us. Always.

I still experienced heartache and wounds. I knew in my heart I was never alone, though. That Jesus was always with me.

I can't even tell you how many times I've gone through a low spot, or even a storm in my life, where God has been with me, strengthening me and giving me grace to get through it. He's restored my broken heart countless times and helped me to forgive time and time again.

God restores my soul.
He satisfies my spiritual thirst and hunger with His love.

His promises are true and trustworthy.
He's proved it in my life over and over again.

Tomorrow, I'll share a way that I deepened my relationship with God when I was eighteen. And, I've never looked back.



Do you have a personal relationship with God? Would you like to?
Have you felt the restoration of soul that the scriptures in this post talk about?

I'd love to hear your story in the comments, or if you have any questions about this step of faith, please ask in the comments or write your email in the comments and I will help in any way I can.

Blessings and love to you, friends,

~Anne

Thanks for joining me for 31 Days of Soul Spas! Today is Day 12! Please go here to see a list of all the posts this month so far! 

This post is part of #write31days for the whole month of October. Check out write31days.com if you are interested to learn more!

{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!

{Day 4}: write your story down

I said to my hubby the other day, "I'm excited to do this soul spa series on my blog, but it's all been said before."  He kindly told me, "but, it hasn't been said from your perspective." #warmedmyheart

And so, I write things that have been said over and over again this world over, but I write from my perspective and experiences.

I write down my story. I write down what I know to be true. For me.

Yesterday I wrote about finding my cat, Priscilla, and her babies while I was all alone one day when I was just a small child. That memory has kept bubbling up for awhile now. Almost as if it was calling out to be written down.  

By writing it down, it helps me to recall the emotions I had that day. It helps me to reminisce and remember the joys of my childhood. It helps me to document my yesterdays.

What if we took time to remember our story (stories) by writing them down?
Writing my stories has helped my soul heal. It's helped me gain perspective and strength from my past and my present. 

I'd like to pass that affirmation on to you. 

No matter what you write or create, it may have been said or done before. No matter! 

You are saying or doing it in a way only you could, from your perspective. From your experiences.  

Write your story down. It doesn't have to be a whole memoir's worth. (Although it could be.) 

If a memory from your past keeps bubbling up into your present mind, maybe there's a reason. Maybe by writing down that memory you'll learn something fresh and new from it. 

Whether it's a positive or a negative memory, write it down. Your soul will thank you.

Have you experienced writing your story (stories) down? I'd love to hear from you in the comments!

Thanks for stopping by today, friend!

~Anne


Today is Day 4 in a 31 day series called 31 Days of Soul Spas.  Hop on over to Day 1 to see a list of all Soul Spa posts!

When the odds are stacked against you

The odds were stacked against me, and I was right. I was a little afraid, and I was right to be. But, this time I didn't let that stop me. 

I had a new bike, and I was determined to learn to ride it. Even in gravel and dirt ruts.



I loved everything about my farm except riding my bike. 

Riding my Schwinn banana seat bike was like taking my life into my own hands. 

I thought.  

Plus, I couldn't be like the other kids I went to church with who lived in town. 

They got to ride their bikes on the smooth sidewalks, not gravel!

My Dad told me that I would be a more steady and accomplished bike rider for having learned to ride on gravel, while the other kids at church learned to ride on nice, smooth concrete driveways.

Was this just to encourage me to keep trying? Or was it really true?

I remember my Dad teaching me how to ride my bike right there in my gravel driveway. I was 5 or 6. He would tell me to peddle, and he would hold on to the back of my bicycle seat as I started off. We would do this over and over and over because I would try and then fall down. 

Would I fall because of sheer inexperience, or because of the gravel and dirt ruts? Probably both.

My front tire would get stuck in a pile of gravel, which would veer me into a weird angle and down I would go. 

Riding on gravel was like riding on shifting sand. The gravel dictated where I rode. Where lots of gravel resided, I did not. I had to find the grooves in the driveway where our car tires had either pushed the stones into the earth, or smashed them to the sides to make a big rut of dry dirt.  

That's where my safe home became, in the dirt ruts. (sounds bad, but true!)

Dad kept working with me in the afternoons between farm chores. He'd hold on, say, "Okay, go!" and I'd go. And sometimes fall.

Then, one time I tried again. I was surprised this time to find out that I had been riding on my own. I had not realized that my Dad had let go several steps back.

Yes, the odds were definitely stacked against this little girl bike rider. Gravel was not my friend. 

At first.

How about you? Have you ever felt like the odds were stacked against you, but you kept at it and succeeded in spite of the odds?  I'd love to hear your story.

Blessings to you today, friend!

~Anne

4131: Friendship personified

My daughter graduated from college Friday night. 

Being an Advertising major, she was 7th in line of about 400, so we listened to 393 names after hers. A test in endurance for sure.

But, the real party happened down by the ladies restroom moments after the auditorium cleared. This is where we told our daughter to meet us. 

4131 met us there, too.

4131. 

The number of the apartment much too small for the four big hearts living there for the past year.

Yes, "4131" is what they call themselves. 

A force of friendship to be reckoned with.

How can I describe this group of friends as lovely as a spring day and as diverse as a Midwest prairie? 

They met each other in a small group a little over a year ago. They all joined this group "randomly." 

Randomly is in quotes because I don't believe in random at all. "Random" is a word I'm going to faze out of my vocabulary. No. Random their meeting was not.

I believe God brought these gals together.



I didn't meet these girls in person often, but my daughter talks and I listen.

I heard about the movie journal they kept right by their flat screen TV recording over 100 movies they watched together this year (I jokingly asked, "did you come to college for class or movies??)

"Movies" was the unanimous answer.

As did all the girls of 4131, they apparently referred to me not as Kara's mom, but by my first name, "Anne". In fact, 4131 referred to each girl's parental unit by their first names.  

Kara might say, "Anne is knitting again." To which 4131 would reply something like, "Oh, Anne, she's so crafty." 

These girls not only got each others jokes, they got each other lives. And, to my knowledge didn't get on each others nerves (too much anyway--a modern day miracle in my book!)

These girls--4131--all love Jesus in a way that shows in their faces, their talk and their friendship.

4131's love for each other swells my heart and invites me to cherish my friends and to stand on my tippy-toes and look over the fence for new ones God will bring my way. 

Their acts and words of love for each other inspire me to be a better friend.

I could tell in the very personal gifts each one gave my daugher Friday night that each of these precious 4131 gals felt like I do.

They struggled and still struggle to find words to describe what they've had over the past year in each other.

*unity and love

*FUN

*hilarity

*encouragement

*listening ears

*clothing swaps

*late night pizza runs

*celebrity swooning (too many men to mention--all in good taste, of course--honorable mention going to news anchor Brian Williams)

*celebrating each other's successes

*Walmart runs

*even a requested winter photo shoot

As I mentioned, I'm struggling to find the words to describe what these girls have meant to me in the past year.

How grateful I am and have been to know how much they love Jesus and love each other.

This is blessing.
This is friendship personified.

Caitie, Catherine and Caitlyn, you make me misty-eyed to think of you.

You will always be remembered and cherished for the girls you each are and for the love that you've shown to each other.

For the friendship you've given my daughter.

It seems too trite to say, but thank you for being friends.

Caitlyn, Kara, Catherine, and Caitie

Love, Keer's mom


Linking up today with Coffee for Your Heart and with Three Word Wednesday

What I’m reading {plus a confession}

I have a confession to make. I am addicted to books.

When I was little, I didn’t have a library card. We lived eight miles out in the country and we were not library people. I went to a country school which hosted the Book Mobile once every two weeks or so, but that’s about it.

I was not too much into reading, other than what was assigned to me in class.

I read My Antonia in seventh grade. And The Scarlet Letter as a sophomore. 

I didn’t do a lot of reading just for fun when I was younger. Not like my cousin, Valerie, who devoured books then. I couldn’t understand how she could be so engrossed in other people’s stories. She was glued. She sat there in the corner and ate sunflower seeds by the bushel and read and read and read.

Now, I understand.

In fact, I think I have been trying to make up for lost reading time in the past fourteen years.

Fourteen years ago we made a move from Illinois to Iowa. And, for the first time in my life (it seems) I got a library card. At least that's when I really started using one. And, to make matters even better, the library was a short walking distance from our back yard. And still is.

I started immediately feeding my new addiction.

I confess. I check out way more books than I can possibly read in a three week time frame. 

Why? I do not know.

I pay way too many fines. My consolation is that I love the library so much and my money is helping them.

Sometimes I feel like a book hoarder. Like if I don’t check out all that interests me this time, maybe they won’t be available next time. My logical sense knows that this is hogwash, but I can’t seem to change my ways.

A few weeks ago, I checked out a book called Handling the Truth: On the Writing of Memoir by Beth Kephart. This is my favorite book about writing memoir (I’d like to write one someday), plus she listed her absolute favorite memoirs in the back of her book. And, she is a memoirist herself, so I trust her. Period.

I started a Good Reads account that day, just so I could add all those memoirs she suggested. The next time I went to the library, I scrounged for any of them. 

The next time I went to a different local library I looked. 

We went out of town, and I sniffed around in their Half Price Book store, and I did find several on her list. I had to buy one. It was like finding a little treasure. I had to limit myself to one book, mostly since my husband was with me and would surely question an armload of books, even at half price.

“How many can you read at one time?”

Well, it turns out, I have an answer for that. 

Currently, I am reading four books. I have read more at a time before, but four is the current number. 

There is the library book by Corrie Ten Boom called Tramp for the Lord. This book caught my eye because I remember seeing and being so moved by The Hiding Place as a teenager. She and her family hid Jews from the communist regime and then her whole Dutch family ended up in a concentration camp. They all died there except for Corrie, who was miraculously released after some time. 

She then went on for twenty years, traveling the world and telling her story of how God did miracles in the death camp and how God had worked in her and her family through those years.

I am fascinated at how someone’s faith can stay intact in that grim situation, watching people die every day at the hands of evil people. I am also fascinated by the fact that she faced and forgave the German officer responsible for her sister's death.

The Healing Light I picked up at my church's bookstore. It was written in the 1940’s and I am a little fascinated by reading authors from long ago. This book is about healing yes, but it is really about prayer. I am passionate about both.

The Good Good Pig is one of those memoirs that is on Beth Kephart’s list of favorites. I happened upon it in a Salvation Army store. Again, a treasure found! I didn’t have my Goodreads account with me, but it is a story about a pig. So it had stuck in my memory banks and I knew it when I saw it. 

I am still in the beginning pages of this book, but it is an entertaining read and full of all the antics that a young pig causes, like getting out of his pen repeatedly to eat in the neighbor’s lettuce garden. I usually pick this one up as a bedtime read.

I’ll See You Again is also a memoir. I checked it out of the library once before. It is a story about a family who tragically lost three little girls in a car accident and how they lived through the trauma and grief.

I didn’t read it last time it got checked out. I couldn’t bring myself. It seemed too depressing. But, I ran across it again last night and started reading it at the library. Again, I am curious how this mother, this father could survive this awful tragedy and keep their faith and their marriage intact.

I guess you might say, I am addicted to stories. 

Our stories are who we are. As my husband said last night, “Everything I’ve been through has made me what I am today.” I couldn’t agree more.

The good, the bad, the ugly. It all makes up us. God's grace covers all. 

Reading other people’s stories gives me hope. It shows me how different all of our stories are, but how really in the end, we all are alike. 

We all need some sort of healing from the past, hope for the future and strength for today.

I am going to keep reading stories. I am going to keep telling mine. 

And, I’m going to try really hard not to rack up huge library fines.

Thanks for joining me today!
Blessings!

I'm linking up today with Coffee for Your Heart and Three Word Wednesday.

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,

                         

How our date night turned Hollywood

My husband and I had a splendid Valentine's Day dinner. Not perfect. Nothing ever is. But, we had a fun night.

Instead of dwelling on the fact that our table was out in the middle of the room and we didn't get a booth, and that we didn't get to see the movie we wanted, I decided to find the humor in it all. This is a little humorous story about our evening. If you want to see the humor in life, you can probably find it. :)  

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We are one of the lucky couples that are able to get in to this nice restaurant on Valentine’s Day.

I’m anticipating a great evening with the love of my life.

The restaurant he picked is one of my favorites and he knows it.

He’s doing this for me, he says.

With Frank Sinatra wafting from outdoor speakers as we walk up, I’m feeling like we are a couple straight out of a Hollywood love story. I can dream.

I’m thinking, this is romance at its finest.

 As soon as we sit down at our table, Carlos pulls a laminated card out of his apron and reads the specials in very halting English. I’m thinking, ordering will be interesting. I’m starting to worry that I won’t be able to figure out what he is saying. 

I’m thinking, this guy looks just like the endearing guy with the taco truck in the movie Turbo that we watched the other night. How did he become our server?

Carlos walks away and I survey the valentine’s dinner crowd. Pairs of people are hugging tables. We sit there and stare at our menus.  My husband hints to me that this would be a good time to play like we are in Date Night and guess the stories of the couples around us.

I chuckle to myself and don’t answer him. But, I secretly start eyeing people.

It’s not too difficult on a night like tonight. Couples dot pretty much every table in the restaurant.

There’s the guy sitting right behind my husband within my eye shot. He’s sitting there alone, except for a bunch of flowers in cellophane and a pink card on the table. He’s dressed in jeans and a v-neck, but looking kind of like Cary Grant. 

Was he going for the Cary Grant look on purpose, I wonder?  Moments later, his lady arrives. Cary Grant takes one look at her and bolts out of his chair. 

My date’s eyes rise above the top of my hair and he informs me, 

Yeah, he just got up and planted a big one on her. 

Of course, he means Cary Grant. To which I say something like, oh brother. 

The smooching between Cary Grant and his lady doesn’t stop with the big hello. I end up having a hard time focusing on my gourmet gluten free chicken pizza with leeks and goat cheese because of the kissing noises going on behind my chair.

Couple number two is in a cozy booth right in front of us. He is dressed to the nines in a navy blue military uniform adorned with lots of medals. He’s sitting directly across from his Ms. They remind me of Jeanie and Major Nelson from an old rerun of I Dream of Jeanie.

Only this gal isn’t dressed at all like Jeanie. And, she’s not smiling like Jeanie either. We weren’t quite sure why she wasn’t happy with her Major Nelson, but he sure looked nice, and as my husband quipped later, he was taking her out to a nice restaurant, wasn’t he?

My husband and I decide to bring out the cards we’ve gotten each other for the occassion. 

We’ve done this for probably twenty five Valentine’s Days.

Valentine’s dinner, bring cards and/or gifts to restaurant. It’s tradition.

At least so far.

I open my card first.

It feels like we are the only couple on an empty dance floor, only we're sitting at our table. We are sitting right underneath the disco ball. The disco ball is spinning slowly to Frank Sinatra, and I feel my face glowing pink.  It feels like Smoochie and Cary Grant and Jeanie and Major Nelson are all watching me open my card.

We both quickly read our canned Hallmark lines and I shove the cards back into my purse. So much for a romantic moment. This feels more like a sitcom.

As the dinner progresses, Carlos is proving his prowess as our waiter. He’s persistent with us, his people, throughout the evening. He’s trying to earn his wages. His boss will be proud.

My ears are straining to understand his halting English.

“Would you like to get flask that has three glasses of wine, you know, in case you want more wine?”

“Would you like another glass of wine?”

Then he says something about the dessert menu that I couldn’t quite understand.

Then I get the words “coffee”, “espresso”, and “it’s very good”, and I figured he was offering this to finish off our meal.

I say no thanks, so he says,

“Okay, I get check for you.”

I sincerely wonder at one point if we are going to be able to leave.

Next stop is the movie theater. We get there thirty minutes before our movie starts but it is sold out.

Our second choice is open so we buy our tickets and weave through the three long popcorn lines to make our way to our theater. We are the second couple in this small theater so we are there early enough to people watch.

The couple who arrived before us is right in front of us and she’s playing a game on her tablet. In walks couple number two who know couple number one.

Other couples filter in and my husband says, “Do you notice a certain demographic in here?”

There are three couples surrounding us who end up knowing each other. They start talking about going out to eat the night before and waiting three hours for a booth. They talk about what they are taking to the potluck.

Potluck?

I’m just sitting there feeling like I’m in Mayberry where everybody knows everybody else's business.

*************************************

My image of our Hollywood romance date turns out to be right on target. 

Carlos from Turbo serves us while Frank Sinatra serenades. 

Cary Grant and his woman are playing out their own sitcom script right behind us while Jeanie and Major Nelson live out their own date night drama in front of us.

And there we are, like Tina Fey and Steve Carell, making up stories about the people on our date night.