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.

Saturday Sweethearts

Ethan with Jazzy and Jujubee (2019)

Hold my paw.

I don’t know if I can.

Why not?

I don’t feel brave enough.

 

You’re braver than you think.

 

I wish you didn’t have to go.

 

I need to go. I have bigger places – and God – to see.

 

I wish I’d done more for you.

 

You did your best.

 

But it wasn’t enough. I hope you haven’t suffered.

 

Hold my paw...

 

I hope you know I love you.

 

I’ve never doubted that.

 

I won’t ever forget you.

 

Memories fade…but we’ll see one another again. Me and all the others. And won’t that be glorious? Oh, so glorious...

....

 

Hop far, sweet bunny. And always remember I loved you. 

Rest peacefully, precious Jezzy. Kiss Jujubee for us.

 

….

 

The night is long…but the days are, oh, so short.

 

….

 

 

Sweet Sunday

How great the chasm that lay between us

How high the mountain, I could not climb

In desperation, I turned to Heaven

And I spoke Your name into the night

Then through the darkness

Your loving-kindness

Tore through the shadows of my soul

The work is finished, the end is written

Jesus Christ, my living hope

Who could imagine so great a mercy?

What heart could fathom such boundless grace?

The God of ages stepped down from glory

To wear my sin and bear my shame

The cross has spoken, I am forgiven

The King of kings calls me His own

Beautiful Savior, I'm Yours forever

Jesus Christ, my living hope

Hallelujah, praise the One who set me free

Hallelujah, death has lost its grip on me

You have broken every chain

There's salvation in Your name

Jesus Christ, my living hope

Hallelujah, praise the One who set me free

Hallelujah, death has lost its grip on me

You have broken every chain

There's salvation in Your name

Jesus Christ, my living hope

Then came the morning that sealed the promise

Your buried body began to breathe

Out of the silence, the Roaring Lion

Declared the grave has no claim on me

Then came the morning that sealed the promise

Your buried body began to breathe

Out of the silence, the Roaring Lion

Declared the grave has no claim on me

Jesus, Yours is the victory

Yours is the victory, Jesus

Hallelujah, praise the One who set me free

Hallelujah, death has lost its grip on me

You have broken every chain

There's salvation in Your name

Jesus Christ, my living hope

Hallelujah, praise the One who set me free

Hallelujah, death has lost its grip on me

You have broken every chain

There's salvation in Your name

Jesus Christ, my living hope

Jesus Christ, my living hope

Jesus Christ, You're my living hope

Jesus, my living hope

You're my living hope

The Bunny Bug

This is precious little Molly, my Himalayan Netherland Dwarf, who turns 6 years old on 7/13.

So 40 years ago, in June 1982, I got my first-ever rabbit — another sweet Himalayan Netherland Dwarf doe that I named Mittens, a.k.a. Mitsy-Bitsy. She was my world, my BFF, my confidante. 

I told her secrets of sadnesses and joys. I shared food with her and dressed her in hats and sweaters and took her for bike rides in my bicycle basket. When we went for walks, she rode around in the hood of my sweatshirts. 

She, in turn, gave me kisses, licked away my tears, and cuddled up close when I needed a hug. She gave me a litter of kits on Easter. She was the perfect first bunny for a girl who had desperately wanted her own pet. 

The “bunny-bug” had bitten me, and the rest is — as they say — history. 

Remembering...

Sometimes, when you think too much time has passed, you head back to something or someone familiar, and it all clicks back into place...at least for that moment. Like friends who haven't seen each other for decades and come back together like no time has passed, as if they both went home at the end of a day and returned in the morning. "As I was saying..." one might say, without missing a beat.

Sometimes.

Life has a strange way of taking us on twists and turns, uphill and downhill, back and forth. Memories flood our brains, holding us back or pushing us forward. 

We're all a product of those memories, our past times and events and happenings -- good and bad. How do we reckon with them? How do we not allow them to drag us down or pull us under?

It's a difficult process. Certainly doable. 

Children are mirrors of those memories. They go through ages and phases that we can somewhat remember, that become very clear when we watch our offspring go through them. Of course, their experiences are different. But the fuzzy recollection of our own experiences comes back into focus...at least for that moment.

And we remember. And the memories, like old friends, take us on journeys back to times that feel forgotten yet are still in the foreground. 

"As I was saying..." the memory says, without missing a beat.

Wordless Wednesday

 

In These Times

ALL Lives Matter.

I am not a racist.

The pigmentation in my skin does not make me one.

I am a human, as are you and all the others of various pigmentations around this globe.

Human.

Not a color in a crayon box. Not a race. Not a racist.

I am not blind to what is happening. It breaks my heart.

But I am not going to erase years of progress with the single act of a terrible human being – and all the acts of the cowards who merely videoed that act instead of stopping it.

The media has declared me a racist because I am “white.”

The media wants to divide us and make us angry and make us activists. Us versus them. They want me to believe deep in my heart I am racist merely because I was born “privileged” and “white.” (I'm merely the latter.) But saying that implies that there aren’t any people of other “colors” who are born into privilege? Isn’t that racist to imply that couldn’t happen based on the fact that they’re not white?

I’ve seen a lot of African Americans who are very well off – some are even quite wealthy. They’ve earned it. They’re privileged and so are their children. They are more than worthy of what they have. Many of the people I attended college with who are other ethnicities are well-educated and earning way more than me.

Does this make them “white” now? Since only “white” people can be privileged?

I am not racist deep in my heart. I love people. Just people. I don’t care what they look like, who they are, what their ancestry is. I might disagree with their actions or attitudes, but that’s not who they are as a person, and their pigmentation does not affect that.

I am not a slave owner. 

I am not and will not be mean to a person based on their “coloring.” 

I do not believe in paying people more or less than what their skills and talents are worth, especially not based on their race.

Despite what the media wants us to believe, we have made great strides against racism. Look around. It is a fair to say that the world has a plethora of "people of different pigmentations" working, living, and educating together. There are still places that have issues, but those are neighborhood issues. (See Chicago and Memorial Day Weekend.) The wrong acts of one person do not equal the sum of the rest of the population’s beliefs.

Go home. Gather your family. Pray for peace. Love your neighbor MORE than yourself. And stop telling me who I am. 

God made you and me who we are. And only He knows our hearts. 

Thoughts on Mother's Day

My kids are always asking me if I loved them more when they were little.

I love looking at their photos and talking about how sweet they were and sharing memories of funny or poignant moments with them.

I remember first teeth and them learning to walk and the way they marveled at just about anything new and exciting. They loved being outside and had a cute way of pronouncing things. I loved watching them learn to read and write and draw. I loved making things with them and celebrating countless birthdays, half-birthdays, and holidays with them. Easter eggs and Christmas visits to New York to see the Macy's Santa with the deli breath. "Picnics in the Park" on the Eve of Christmas Eve. Early morning trips to Chincoteague in the summer and the fall and the beginning of a brand new year. Singing children's songs and then '80s songs at the tops of our lungs. Knowing all the words to the Veggie Tales, especially the end theme song from QWERTY.

Career goals: Fashion designer, hotel designer/owner, architect, marine biologist, inventor.

I remember how earnest they were about certain things and how they tried very hard to understand a complex grown-up world with the simple mind of a child. How they tried to share their thoughts on politics or movie stars or books they read.

It's as though now they see that child as someone else instead of a younger and smaller version of themselves.

How could I love that child any more than I love the grown (or growing) version I see at present?

Perhaps the past really is a foreign country...and those little people in the photos and memories are merely the residents, long gone as the years progress.

No, dear children, I couldn't possibly love that little-person version of you more than I love you now...for you are that little person now a bit bigger. And I love that bigger person even more today than I did yesterday.

If I Take the Time

A memory:

When Ethan was five years old, he gave me a crumpled napkin that I assumed he wanted me to throw away.

I laughed and told him to throw it out.

He insisted that I open it that it was "a gift," he said.

I did and saw this inside.

"It's my love!" he said with a big smile.

And afterwards I realized that I nearly missed it in my haste to toss out what I thought was trash.

Sometimes we need to slowdown and enjoy these precious moments.

At Home in the City

My brain is ruminating...and so I must ramble a bit...

...

I have always enjoyed exploring the world.

I grew up moving around to different towns in different states, so my family spent a lot of time getting to know new places.

Because of that, being a tourist is easy in one of my favorite cities.

There are the usual places to see -- the Empire State Building, the Rockefeller Center, the Statue of Liberty, the Subway, the World Trade Center.

But my favorite way to see and feel and know the city is to find a coffee shop early in the morning, sit at a table in the window, and watch the world go by. It may seem a strange way to "sightsee," and yet it gives me a chance to see the heart of the city, what makes it truly beat: a mom walking her children to school; a businessman scurrying by, coffee in one hand, a briefcase in the other; teenage girls engrossed in their music and texts, laughing together as they walk to their classes; an older couple stumbling along hand-in-hand; a gaggle of schoolchildren scattering behind two harried teachers on their way to a museum; and more.

And if I sit long enough, I'll see the process repeated in reverse, each person on his or her way home, thinking about the happenings and memories of the day, each a protagonist in his or her own story.

Wordless Wednesday

Book Review: Jocelyn's Box of Socks

I am a huge lover of children's books. It's no secret. I've been collecting them since I was a teenager. Working for Highlights for Children and Boyds Mills Press was a dream come true. Me surrounded by kids' books? Game on.

So recently I noticed that the wife of a friend (from long ago) had a children's book coming out this month, and I approached her about reviewing it on here. I think it's quite an honor to promote a fellow writer, and I plan to make these reviews a regular part of my blog.

Without further ado...

Jocelyn's Box of Socks
Written by Kristen L. Jackson
Illustrated by Tino Santanach

From the first look, Jocelyn's Box of Socks is full of cheer. The cover is bright and pink, and the illustrations are fun and cartoon-like.

To me, it was all kinds of happy before I even opened the cover.

The beauty of children's books is their appeal to multiple audiences. A good book in this genre will offer an engaging story for children with enough substance for teachers/parents/grandparents/librarians to be able to use it for teaching a lesson or discussing a value or something similar. No preaching. Many kids learn best from mimicking what they see/hear demonstrated around them. It gives them a "this is what to do" kind of lesson without just saying "don't do this."

In Jocelyn's Box of Socks, we learn from the very beginning (even in the title) that the main character, Jocelyn, loves socks. She "loves all kinds of socks -- except boring, dull, plain old ordinary, all-white socks." The reader finds out she wears them in all seasons and with all kinds of shoes. She wears them because they make her feel happy.

Then one day, Jocelyn receives a box of socks from her grandparents. Since they know that she loves socks of all kinds, they send her a box of socks with different smiley emojis on them. Each pair is a different smiley emotion. Jocelyn is instantly in love and, after (unsuccessfully) trying to wear them all, she has to decide how to choose which ones to wear. She makes the decision to wear the socks that match her mood, starting with the happy faces. After a series of events in which she has to continually change her socks to match her current mood, she feels confused and frustrated as to what to do. She consults her brother with her quandary, and he suggests that she just wear the socks that she wants to, no matter what mood she feels. She loves this idea and even sees that she can mix and match her socks no matter what her mood because wearing socks makes her happy.

The book has a lot of positives beyond the story and pictures. The underlying theme of talking about emotions and how they can change is a gift to teachers, especially of younger kids who may not be able to verbalize about feelings just yet. The cadence and repetition of the kinds of socks Jocelyn likes furthers the fun and encourages kids to join in.

All in all, Jocelyn's Box of Socks is a fun and bouncy book that opens discussions about how we all have emotions -- big and small, good and bad — and they can change quickly. A bonus classroom guide is included in the back with discussion questions and activity suggestions.

Release date is May 28.



Enjoy!!

Monday Musings

Well, it's been awhile, huh?

I know. I know. I promised I would try to do better...but, in fact, I feel like I've done worse.

It's been a busy decade or so. Changing from a mommy of two to a mom of three threw me completely out of whack. There's so much more to do and say and buy...and wash. Some weeks I just give up and sit around eating bon bons while watching soap operas...

Ha! If only.

So where have I been? Here...there...everywhere...but mostly just home -- or at least nearby. Working, momming, driving, wifeing...

My little kids turned into the "big kids." (Who knew that would happen??) They're both in college now...in the midst of finals week and preparations for next steps.

My little baby -- who is anything but little...and a baby -- is now 10 going on 75. (No, seriously. Some days I feel like he's aging quicker than I am.) He's in 6th grade this year...and very nearly finished.

I just cannot believe we're at this point in the year.

I'll probably do some kind of recaps, trying to summarize what's been happening in the past millennium gadzillion too many 10 years or so. But I'll also continue to post about new stuff about what's happening now. Because there's lots of good stuff coming up this month, especially. [Hums "Pomp and Circumstance." and "God Save the Queen" to herself.] And life doesn’t ever stop long enough for me to catch up.

We've said happy hellos to lots of new friends...and sad goodbyes to too many old friends. We’ve moved from phase to phase, trying to adapt along the way. There’s no parental instruction book. Well, not one written specifically for your kid or mine...or anyone else’s, for that matter.

2019.

Nearly halfway through it. Nearly another new decade.

Musing merrily on a Monday. It's what I used to do...every week...it's what I want to do again.

So for now, I'll keep this short and (hopefully?) sweet.

*wink-grin*

Until the next time!

Friday Fun — and Frogs

I have always been a fan of frogs. I got a large stuffed frog toy named Flippo for Christmas when I as five. He was my best friend and confidante and helped me immensely through the many moves my family made in the years that followed.

So I’m using this blog post to promote a fantastical frog book.

Check it out and enjoy!!

Adorable and fun frog book by a favorite author and poet.

Who Me?

My brain is ruminating. 

The dictionary says to ruminate is “to go over in the mind repeatedly and often casually or slowly.“ 

The news media would like us to worry about all of our leaders and what they are saying/doing/thinking/supporting. It’s a “he said/she said” battle of epic proportions. 

The fact of the matter is that none of the politicians lives with us. Not one of us — unless we are related to them — has daily contact with ANY of them. Our only contact is through what we see, read, and hear. 

Like everyone else, I find it extremely difficult to separate myself from all that is happening. I feel like I need to know. But what does that do to me and my family and friends? How does it affect those who have direct contact with me?

So I got to thinking...who is responsible for fueling all the hateful speech that is going around? Me. And who is responsible for preventing/changing hate speech and thoughts? Me again. 

It isn’t our president or the media or any other politician or movie star or athlete or singer or anybody at all. 

If each of us — myself included — spreads love and fairness and grace and civility, it WILL happen. It’s contagious.

No one needs to “kick anyone” who goes low. 

As I learned several years ago — and continue to learn — grace and love ALWAYS win. 

Let’s try it. 

New Year, Old Reflections -- 2017

My favorite thing to buy at the beginning of each year was the Life magazine "Year in Pictures." My parents had a few from over the years, and I loved looking through them at the moments in time that were captured through the photojournalist's lens.

Here's to looking back at 2017 through our pictures. So many photos (whittled down from 1,000s to a mere 400 or so)...and so many smiles -- many, many more than the last few years.

God is good to us! He has carried us through quite a lot in the past few years, especially. And being able to recap the year through photos is always a joy. Seeing memories forgotten already...truly priceless.

In an age of constantly changing technology, what are your favorite ways to keep memories alive year to year?

View on Flipagram

Should old acquaintance be forgot,

and never brought to mind?

Should old acquaintance be forgot,

and old lang syne?

CHORUS:

For auld lang syne, my dear,

for auld lang syne,

we'll take a cup of kindness yet,

for auld lang syne.

And surely you'll buy your pint cup!

and surely I'll buy mine!

And we'll take a cup o' kindness yet,

for auld lang syne.

CHORUS

We two have run about the slopes,

and picked the daisies fine;

But we've wandered many a weary foot,

since auld lang syne.

CHORUS

We two have paddled in the stream,

from morning sun till dine^†;

But seas between us broad have roared

since auld lang syne.

CHORUS

And there's a hand my trusty friend!

And give me a hand o' thine!

And we'll take a right good-will draught,

for auld lang syne.

CHORUS

Nah-tivity Nonsense

I am constantly irritated amused amazed by the stuff I read on the Internet. That it only really started in the form we now know nearly 20 years ago and people have taken to it -- and complaining on it -- without reservation...is, like, wow!

We have a generation of people, some call the Millennials. I see them more as the Baby Boomers 2.0. They seem to complain about, er, um, question everything.

I came across a photo the other day about a nativity set someone had at her house.

She brought up the idea that white entitlement or privilege was prevalent in Christmas stuff, that her nativity scene figurines were blond and that made them from Ohio (not sure how many blonds live in Ohio, but idle grass...) She claims that they are miscolored because Jesus was Jewish...and this is apparently a #christmasfail.

Three people agreed with her -- with vehemence. One even complained how she'd been on a quest for a "non-blond" more "culturally accurate" set. She promised to get two, if she found one.

...

First of all, none of us was there. There are no photos, pictures, drawing, paintings of Jesus and his parents at that time period. Why couldn't they be blond? What is that "white privilege" or "entitlement"? Blond people exist today. Who's to say they weren't the coloring of the first people and the rest changed pigmentation as people moved away from the Garden area? No one knows what color came first. And who really cares? At the end of the day, we are all people with different pigmentation. That's it. No colors. Just people.

I know. I know. Spoken like a true white person.

Sigh.

Second of all, the person in question is white. Or, as I prefer to say, Caucasian. What gives? Why is she "white bashing" when that's her own background? It seems to me that a person who bashes her own skin tone is just trying to be part of the crowd, beating the tired drum of the liberals of our country. She has no credibility.

Thump. Thump. Sigh.

And third of all, who cares? I know I already added that to my "first of all," but it bears repeating. I am white and my family is white. Not one of us is blond, but that doesn't mean I can't enjoy a nativity set that is blond...and white...and in a wooden building -- eek! -- (because they apparently used a cave). The idea is that a nativity scene -- with a little baby Jesus -- points us to the true meaning of the holiday. Does it really matter if he's black, white, brown, green with polka dots? Not really. It's something we bring out once-a-year for about a month or so. We add it to the other decorations and gaze at it occasionally. We don't worship it. We don't think it's the be-all-to-end-all. It's just part of the scenery.

And if having a more culturally appropriate set is important to your family because culturally you are different, then kudos to you. But if you're white and your set is white, enjoy it for what it is: a small reminder that Christmas is a gift, a blessing, a privilege in itself -- not another time to complain and jump on the liberal millennial band wagon.

Your whiteness precludes you from that.

Let's just be people. Together. Celebrating. Worshiping. Without reservation.

That's Heaven.

Just Breathe...

Okay, in an effort to breathe new life -- or maybe just some life -- back into my lovable blog, I began to think again about posts. That's what it's all about: Thinking about blogging...and thinking in blog posts.

Seems odd, right?

Early on, when I was blogging nearly daily, the trend had not really caught on with anybody, except us "cool kids."

But then Twitter happened. And blogging seemed to be a lot more work because why write an entire post about something when you can summarize it in 140 characters. And once you start thinking in 140-character bursts, well, you basically rewire your brain.

Am I right?

Not necessarily.

I enjoyed Twitter for about a minute or two. (It was an odd world. Odder now than then.)

Then Facebook happened. I resisted at first. It seemed another odd and silly place. But, as anyone who has ever watched even one episode of Star Trek knows, resistance is futile.

Facebook is the killer of blogdom. I'm convinced of that. It should be a helpful aid or another platform whereby you can share your blog...

But it's not.

It's easy.

It's addictive.

And so my brain began to think in longer-than-140-characters moments, but still shorter-than-actual-blogpost moments.

Yet, I've stumbled on and tried to continue my blog. I love doing it. It's such a great way to keep myself writing daily (or thereabouts) and an even better way to clear some of the "clutter" in my noggin.

So, today, this very morning, my brain thought up a post. I thought again in a blog post. And I was exhilarated and decided to sit down immediately and write it out. But I had to write this explanation first, which may have taken my brainpower and time briefly.

Sigh.

Still in all, here I am breathing some new life into my old friend.