Time Marches On

When I was going into 8^th grade, my family stayed with my aunt and uncle for the summer while our house was being built. It was an idyllic time, filled with warm, summery memories: learning to cook pancakes in my aunt’s ancient iron pans; swimming in my aunt’s new pool; and eating Herr’s potato chips with cream-cheese-and-chive dip while playing late-night monopoly games. 

 

In the back of my mind, there was always the faint reminder that we were starting at a new school in the fall. But I tried to push off the thought and live one day at a time. Still, it would creep into my mind and send butterflies fluttering around my stomach. I knew it was inevitable. (Time marches on without any need for permission from us. We can plead with it, beg it to stop or, at the very least, slow down…but it will always ignore us.)

 

Yet, it was okay. The new school became the old school and, before I knew it, I was graduating.

 

It’s the same way I’ve felt with my children. They grow at an alarming rate of speed – changing numbers in 365 days, maturing with life’s experiences and stretching towards the sky. 

 

I know that I’ve lamented this for most of the years that I’ve kept this blog (and most of the years that preceded that). But it’s like their childhoods were that same endless summer that would eventually – and inevitably – end up with them growing up and getting jobs and moving into their own places. I tried to push off the thought, like before, but the butterflies always returned.

 

And Time never blinks…not once. The quick passage doesn’t surprise it. It doesn’t concern it.

 

All the young moms on social media notice it. They know it will happen since they’ve been told it will happen; yet it still surprises them because it happens so quickly.

 

I once read something that said to really pay attention to the little things that pass: the last time they reach up to be held; the last time you help them take a bath or wash their hair; the last time you feed them; or rock them; or hold their hand on a walk…

 

But you know what? You can’t. You’re so busy moving along with them towards all of their new milestones and adventures that you don’t notice the passage of all these little moments.

 

Like the summer before I started 8^th grade. Eventually, it will be time to “start school.”

 

The older two kids are finishing at university this year...and living on their own...and, before long, looking for jobs.

Yet it still will be okay. 

Here's a Tip

Something to think about today…and I hope this goes viral. 

If you use a service like DoorDash, UberEats, Shipt, Instacart, etc., remember to TIP your delivery person. You aren’t using a service to save money…you are choosing it to save time. BUT you are taking someone else’s time – and gas; someone who is acting as your personal shopper or food deliverer. 

 

Yes, it’s a job. But the pay is paltry – not unlike wait staff in restaurant and hair stylists – and it still takes time, especially if that person tries their very hardest to do their best. Ten percent is a good starting point. Reward more for exceptionality.

 

I get it. I was a terrible tipper. I assumed that they made a decent wage (Google will tell you they do, but the pay formula is built on the assumption that they get tipped), and that they didn’t really need a tip unless they did an exceptional job. 

 

Like everyone else, I’m trying to save money on my groceries. If that’s the case, I need to drive to the store myself and pick up my groceries. Saving time using a personal shopper does not equate to saving money. For some, it might mean saving money spent on gas going to the store. But you are using the gas of another, and that’s not covered by their delivery service companies. 

 

Consider changing how you think about these services and tip your driver. I know it’s not mandatory, but it is an encouragement to those trying to earn real money through these jobs. We all enjoy the service we get…now let’s remember to pay fully for it.

 

Soul, It Is...Well

Six and a half years ago, in August 2016, I received some of the most devastating personal news of my life: I had breast cancer.

It was a surreal moment. My head spun and my heart raced. I didn't know what to say to the doctor on the other end of the phone call. I felt wordless.

But God, as He always does, put the exact right person in that position at exactly the right moment. The doctor who called wasn't the surgeon I'd been seeing. He was just the one on duty that day. He didn't know me, but he did understand cancer since he'd already had it, as well. He gave me space to process the news and then explained the type of cancer I had and the prognosis, which he noted was very good. If I had to have cancer, it was a "good" one to have, he said. He wasn't a fortune teller, psychic, or visionary -- just someone who understood from experience and his job.

The next month and a half was filled with appointments and plans. My surgery was scheduled for a few days after my birthday in mid-October.

I won't lie and say I wasn't nervous. But God placed the first verse and refrain from the old hymn, "It Is Well with My Soul," in my head and that helped me through that time. He reminded me of the words and the story behind them. And, because of that, I had a tremendous peace.

From Wikipedia: The hymn was written by Horatio Spafford after many traumatic events in his life. 

The first two were the death of his four-year-old son and the Great Chicago Fire of 1871, which ruined him financially (he had been a successful lawyer and had invested significantly in property in the area of Chicago that was extensively damaged by the great fire). His business interests were further hit by the economic downturn of 1873, at which time he had planned to travel to England with his family on the Ville du Havre for D. L. Moody's upcoming evangelistic campaigns. 

In a late change of plan, he sent the family ahead while he was delayed on business concerning zoning problems following the Great Chicago Fire. While crossing the Atlantic Ocean, the ship sank rapidly after a collision with a sea vessel, the Loch Line, and all four of Horatio's daughters died. His wife Anna survived and sent him the now famous telegram, "Saved alone …" 

Shortly afterwards, as Horatio traveled to meet his grieving wife, he was inspired to write these words as his ship passed near where his daughters had died.

When peace like a river, attendeth my way,
When sorrows like sea billows roll;
Whatever my lot, Thou hast taught me to know
It is well, it is well, with my soul.

Refrain
It is well, (it is well),
With my soul, (with my soul)
It is well, it is well, with my soul.

If a man who had lost so much could say that, I, with curable cancer, could repeat the same words. 

Praise God!

Goodbye, Old Friend

Written soon after he died nearly five years ago...shared now because we miss him...

And with a final wag, we bid goodbye to our precious Buster Brown, our first family pooch of nearly 16 years.

I am reminded of the story told through Marley and Me. The author, being a journalist, chronicled his dog's life through a column he wrote for the newspaper.

A dog's life.

Many live fewer years than our sweet dog. We were blessed. We know that and accept that gift with a huge amount of gratitude.

Often, after the loss of a pet, my husband expresses his sadness by saying he doesn't want any more pets...he wished he didn't have to feel such pain. But I always counter him with the fact that if we didn't have the pet we wouldn't have had the joy they brought.

Yes, it's hard. VERY hard. Sometimes it feels as if our hearts might break. But it's also beautiful.

A sweet friend reminded me that Buster lived "a long, loved life."

And he did. Always smiling. Always happy. Always grateful. (He wouldn't start eating without us patting him and saying, "You're welcome!")

I like to remember him that way.

Loved for a long time.