Longmire, Gloria, King George and Dad

Gloria and Longmire

Last year, late in the summer and into the fall, was a sad and difficult time for us, filled with a variety of disappointments, disillusionment, and life-altering events. Many things had to be accomplished in a few short weeks -- almost all with insufficient resources -- and personal tragedies and dramas had to be relegated to the pile of problems we would think about when there was a spare moment and an ounce of energy. Often, it felt as though our loads couldn't get any heavier or we would simply collapse where we stood... and yet, the fountain was open and continued to gush difficulty and sadness.

Our front entry at the shop -- my tribute.

 

One evening I came home from another heat-festering and physically-demanding day at work, so tired I could barely stand to even stay alive. I was even too dirty to stay alive. Too tired. Too dirty. Too sweaty. Too discouraged. Too forgotten. Too mean.

Instead of going inside (where I'd immediately need to take fifteen minutes to care for our little wiener dogs who would accost me as I came into the door), I dragged over and sat on the old metal arbor with the intention of spending a little time feeling sorry for myself and my sad and difficult plight.

I was so tired I couldn't think. So tired I couldn't see. So tired I couldn't feel. I just sat and looked but when I looked out across the yard I wasn't seeing a thing. When Shoobydoo, one of our old ugly cats, came around to greet me by swishing her tail across my bare legs, it made me mad that even she wanted something from me when I had nothing else to give and so I huffed at her and turned the other direction on the arbor and looked out over the driveway.

There, past my filthy old red truck, were two peacocks, quietly picking their way through the gravel under the woodpile beyond. They moved stealthily into the yard and toward me as I looked on in utter astonishment. Shoobydoo walked over to them and greeted them as she'd greeted me and the peacocks seemed familiar with her.

Dad and his old watches and knives.

Gloria and Longmire, and even the big boy peacock we call King George (who has all his feathers) are still visiting a year later and each encounter is intriguing and wonderful. They belong to a neighbor who lives about a half mile away and the peacocks travels back and forth across our back field fairly regularly. We often hear them calling to one another. Actually, they seem to enjoy roosting on our roof and then screaming in their formidable peacock way.

But on that particular day last August, as I looked upon those beautiful and quiet birds at my feet, I was mystified once again by all that our lives encompass. The endless details that we seek to master but which often instead seem to conquer us are insignificant when compared to the very real and magnificent details God has prepared for us in this world: His endless, effortless details.

I told my dad about the peacocks and showed him the pictures I had taken. In his bed in the nursing home, he said he would like to see them but of course, he never would and he knew it and so did I.

We finished that time in our lives. We. Finished.

Oh, there's still tons of work to do at the shop and our resources are still lacking in a variety of areas and many of the changes that came upon us last summer are permanent. But we finished that season -- we finished -- and we won't ever have to repeat it again.

Sometimes a person will tell you that there is a reason why all the things that happen, happen. I know it must be true for them. But me. I don't seem to get any wiser or richer or more spiritual or Godly or learn a thing. I just stay dazed and confused and overwhelmed. So me. Well, I don't know why all the things that happen, happen.

What do I know after last year? Nothing. Not a blamed thing.
 
Those peacocks -- they were a mystery to me. My time with them was fleeting and I think about them and hope to see them again every day. When I do, it seems magical and enchanting and I love them. What a fine thing: those peacocks.

My father -- he was a mystery to me. My time with him was fleeting and I think about him and hope to see him again every day. When I do, it will be magical and enchanting because I love him. What a fine thing: my father.

This Beautiful Light

A wall in the gallery in the early evening light.

I love the light.

I love the way it comes into your home or where you're working and transforms the colors in the room.

I love the patterns it layers onto the wall and onto the faces of those you love.

I love the late-day sun and the way it tousles the leaves when the wind stirs through the trees.

I love the light on water -- any water, not just important water -- the light on puddles and ditches and in the tiny sprinkles on a window.

I love the light sifting through the dust on our old dirt road after a car passes by. It's stirringly beautiful in a way that's not sensible unless you've seen it yourself or unless you have either an artist's soul or an humble soul or an old soul.

I love the low winter light and the light from the North best. 

And I love the light behind big, dark billowing thunderclouds that turns the edges of them orange-yellow and disconcertingly threatening.

My younger daughter, Alicia, is consistently bothered  because I prefer to have the lights off in a room and she doesn't see any reason to live life in the dark.

"It's not dark in here," I say even when it is.

"It's dark in here," she says. "I can't see anything."

So she turns off the darkness.

And turns on the light.

And when she does, we lose the real light -- the natural light -- God's light.

Sometimes, at night, when the moon is full and I've remembered to open the drapes, the light will awaken us when it reaches the far western sky. I like to open the windows then and watch the moonlight lay patterns on the curtains as they move in the breeze.

My older daughter told me once that the curtains in our bedroom are okay for me, but look like they belong to an old person. "But I like how they look in the light," I said and she reiterated that they were fine for me but that she wouldn't want such old-lady curtains.

Next time she's at my house when the moon is big, I'll open the windows and let the wind into the house and then wake her to show her how the light looks filtering through the ruffles on the Priscilla curtains and embroidery work on the drapes. I don't know what she'll think. Probably, she will not like it. Probably, she will wish I hadn't bothered her with the minutia of my life.

Wonder why the light makes freckles on our faces? It made freckles on my brother and sister's faces and my children's faces and mine too. My cousins have freckles.

It's taken me decades to decide I wasn't cheated because God decided to make me and those that I love the most with freckles. Actually, now, when I paint a portrait -- any portrait at all -- I always paint them with freckles because...

Freckles, maybe..? Yes, maybe. Maybe they affirm to us that God loves how we look in the light.

Yes.

Maybe so.

Riding on the Clouds

The window next to the design counter.

Something happened this week at the shop.

We're almost six months in our new location now and it seems that during most of that time it's been a harsh and hopeless winter. We trudged through a lot of desperate days in February and even into this month as it's continued to dip into merciless temperatures day-in and day-out. But yesterday we opened our windows and let the wind inside.

You're right. It was still too cold to do that. But how can a person really live or breathe with the windows closed? My poor husband has put up with this ideology from me for 32 years because we sleep with the windows open almost every night in every season. (To do otherwise, obviously, would cause instant suffocation and relentless complaining and carrying on.)

One of the front windows at the shop.

 

 

 

So with wild abandon of common sense we opened our windows and the wind caressed our souls while we worked. We could smell the earth and the sky and the promise of the rain that was still miles away. And with that cool sweet wind permeating our afternoon we thought maybe it was possible that it would -- eventually -- be Spring. We thought maybe we might even survive this harsh and unfriendly winter to see it.

When I got home last night I immediately raised the bedroom window and sat on the edge of the bed, resting my chin on the window sill to watch the clouds boil into the sky and the bare black branches on the trees shiver and frenzy in anticipation.  Frankie, our eight-year-old wiener dog, paced nervously back and forth on the bed, whining occasionally, as he always does as the thunder drew closer while Lucy, our fifteen-year-old wiener dog, stretched out under the blankets for her after-supper-sleep. Frankie simply couldn't be calmed or comforted. Lucy simply couldn't have been happier or more content.

It's been a hard winter in every single way. And all winter long I've stomped around like Frankie, incapable of receiving any comfort at all and whining more than occasionally. My goodness. It has been hard. But if I could have settled down... If I could have stopped stomping around, maybe I could have been happier and possibly even content.  Like Lucy. Just cuddled in to rest. 

I guess there's something Frankie doesn't know about storms. The Lord rides on the clouds. He rides on the clouds. Glorious glorious glorious.

"Sing to God, sing in praise of his name, extol him who rides on the clouds; rejoice before him -- his name is the Lord." Psalm 68:4

Calm down, little Frankie. It's just a storm. Calm down, little sister. It's just a storm. When the rain comes, it'll wash the storm away.  Meanwhile, ride on the wind. High on the wind, little sister, is the Lord.  

This Old Life

Lydia reads Goldilocks and the Three Bears,
 having chosen the smallest chair in the house for herself for the task.
 That's our babydoll!
 Always ladylike and always completely and totally cool.
As Micah often says, "Go, Lydia, Go!"

As I sit on this old couch in this old house, I look out this old window and see the rugged black sculpture of the same old oak tree I've been looking at for decades against that old and tired Missouri-white sky. On my lap is an old afghan we received as a wedding present over thirty years ago and lying on my legs and feet beneath that cover are two old wiener dogs, one fifteen and snoring and the other eight and always alert in case I should happen to open a bag of potato chips.

Outside that old window are the now broken and partial wind chimes that have clinked around in the wind for years.When my daughters were little, we called them prayer bells and, imagining their sweet tones accompanied our prayers to heaven, hung them in branches all over the yard. They still ring. They still ring and ring and ring and can be heard throughout the house and into the fields and woods beyond. So many prayers. So many many prayers.

The old dirt road that rolls with dust just to the south of this old house was built in part by my grandfather when he was young and strong and beautiful and raising a family of his own a little more than a mile farther down this road. And the old oak tree that I see from this window? He planted that when my mother and father were still young and strong and beautiful and building their own little two-room house here on this little high hill when they married almost sixty years ago.

And now. Now. Now so many are gone. My father. My father-in-law. My grandparents. My brother. Aunts and uncles and cousins and friends and co-workers and so very many people we worshiped together with week after week.

What is loss? Just the passing of time? Is simple change equivalent to loss? Is loss something that happens or is loss merely the sum of how we interpret what happens? How often in these last several months have I asked aloud to an empty room, an empty house, an empty car, an empty office, an empty sky, "Dad? Where are you? Where did you go?"

In this last year of often desperate and difficult times, I wrote a lengthy list of all the things I perceived as negative in my life. It replaced the lengthy list I had written eighteen months prior to that. One long night as I lay side-by-side in bed with my younger daughter (we spend the night with one another once in a while and never sleep... only talk of deep and wonderful or silly and wonderful things all through the dark hours), I recounted my bitterness and sadness and inability to see even the possibility of anything better.

"You can't say everything has been terrible," she said.

"It is! It is!" I wailed.

"Three years?" She said softly. "In three years -- Micah, Lydia, Jonah, Raphael. In just three years."

These little souls come into the world with such aplomb. We celebrate and look in wonder, mystified by how they change and grow each day. We love them joyfully and deeply and profoundly and fearfully and with complete abandon. We search their faces and their personal quirks and find our children in them. We see their difficulties and shortcomings and see ourselves and our spouses and our souls grieve for the difficulties we know they will endure because of them.

After Alicia's answer to me in the dark, I felt no better.  Instead, I said, "Great. Now I can't even feel sorry for myself. That's just great, Always gotta ruin my big pity-party."

I'm a forgetful and ungrateful soul. I long for the things that were... I forget the things that are... living day by day in a state of distraction and selfishness that prevents me from perceiving God's current and ongoing and overwhelming and overflowing blessings.

The floors in this old house sag lower with each passing season and the old oak at the edge of the yard sheds huge branches into the yard with each ice or thunder storm. I find that I grow older and more experienced, but not much wiser. But the prayer bells still ring. They accompany our prayers. If we will but humble ourselves and pray, their sweet soft song will accompany our prayers into the the very Throne Room of our gracious and forgiving Father in Heaven. And from this old home by this old road on this old hill beneath this old sky, they will carry the names of these new souls -- Micah, Lydia, Jonah, Raphael -- high and clear and precious in the sweet Spring wind.

The Real Heaven...

I just read my daughter Alicia's blog post about Heaven.

Like Alicia, I like to speculate about Heaven.

Old wonderment Joe Beam, a fabulous fast-talking wildly emotional yet conservative Christian minister recently released his second book about Heaven (pretty much a rip-off re-write of an earlier edition he wrote several years ago but I guess he needed the cash) but I am tending to sort of disagree with old Joe this time, much as I hate to do that. His vision of Heaven seems to me to be a really dumbed-down Heaven.  It's just way too attainable... I don't mean getting there... I mean envisioning it.

I don't believe that Heaven is merely a spiffed-up version of what we've got now. I expect that more was compromised when we lost Eden than just perpetual sunshine and good crops. For one thing, Eve didn't think it strange when a serpent spoke to her. That leads me to conclude that the animals were  not initially created to be incommunicado with man.(After all, God DID first seek companionship for Adam among the animals. That tells me they COULD indeed speak; just maybe none could speak with the charming authority of a woman and so, viola, God made a woman.)

If the koala bears and sheep and wiener dogs lost some of their special abilities, it seems possible that maybe we did too. Certainly we lost the right to do some things we were going to be aloud to do. One thing still making me mad is having to wear clothes, especially as I get older and fatter. All the day, I am less happy about wearing underwear for hours and hours at a go. Except for some unfortunate house pets, animals haven't been punished in this way and except for some really unfortunate dogs who have had a lot of puppies over their lives, none of them seem to have to live with this excessive amount of cleavage that I have born now for almost four decades.  It's punishment for what stupid Eve did. I hate that stupid woman. When I meet her, I am rolling my eyes at her and I'm going to encourage all my big-breasted friends to do the same.

I'm just about doggone certain that one of the things God also took away from us was flight. And you know what I think he did with it? He gave it to the dadgum bumble bee.  They say that fat slouch has no scientific business flying. That fat pig is flying around and does nothing with it -- doesn't make honey like a bee should -- instead flies around and will sting you quick if you get in its way. That's OUR flying that bumblebee is doing. I think God thinks that is funny and I think God is mean about it. Those are my wings that fat fuzzy freak is wearing. When we get to Heaven, that fat freak won't have those wings, we will get them as we rightly deserve and the bumble bee will have to slump along on the ground like the little troll it is... okay... we don't deserve the wings either... but Heaven's not about what WE deserve... it's about what Jesus deserves... so I want my freaking fuzzy wings!

The Apostle Paul says the mind can't conceive of what God has prepared for those who love him. In deference to Alicia, I'm all for her little treehouse and I think that's a lovely concept for Heaven (well, for a camping overnight in Heaven, lets get real here). In that regard, I chose an overnight stay place for me too (see funky island castle, left).

But if all Heaven is, is a cleaned-up, sanitized, refreshed, colorized version of what we've already got down here... man, I don't think I'm very excited about it. Joe Beam talks about playing golf -- GOLF! up in Heaven -- in his book... if that's all there is in Heaven...

I want to see my Savior's face! I want to hide away beneath the shadow of our Father's wings and fly through the heaven's, feeling the terror and glory of his holy presence. I want to feel the lightning pass over this magnificent creation and begin to have an understanding of the depths of His mind. I want to grasp what love really is; what grace is. I want to see with eyes that aren't polluted by sin and suffering and with a clear mind not tormented or haunted with sadness, disappointments and failings from the past.To have no memory of loss or sadness, no concept of it. I want to live in a sacred place, a holy place, free from shame, sin and depravity. I want to be clean and free and in complete safety. I want to trust fully. To see and hear and feel and touch and smell and taste completely and perfectly. To experience life without fatigue, without the physical burden of pain.I want to know and be known and understand and be understood. To laugh without a sense of bitter-sweetness. To feel all of living without a bleakness, an anxiety, a worry, a fear, a torment, a sadness, a regret, a sense of loss, a shame, a self-consciousness, an ache, a pain, a grief, a mourning... To feel joy and love and acceptance without restraint or limit. 

I don't know what Heaven will look like and I don't know what we'll do. Of course, I can't wait to see my brother -- he's been gone so very very long now -- my grandma and grandpa. Other family members who have passed on, David's father, his grandparents... sweetest of friends like Donalie and Pat... we miss them all and wait in expectation for our reunion. But that reunion will come soon enough weather in fifty minutes or fifty years for all this life is fleeting.

It's a lovely evening. It's cooler than it's been in a million days. Blessings to all and may you dream of Heaven. 

And to you, Alicia, as you dream of Heaven... I can't wait to see you there among all our long-lost pets we've loved: Comet, Snickers, Butter-cats (of every second syllable), Jagger, Frannie Rose... the list is long (and I still think including Frannie Rose on that list is iffy). Thank you for your thought-provoking post. And, by the way, I DO NOT want some shabby treehouse up there... I kinda got that down here... I told you about the trees growing over the house again you know!  Love, your mom.

However, as it is written: “What no eye has seen, what no ear has heard, and what no human mind has conceived” — the things God has prepared for those who love him— Paul, I Corinthians 2:9 

The New Frame Shop Header - DOESN'T WORK!

Man-dog. Talk about being aggravated.

Here I am, still up at the crack of dawn (someplace... here it's 1:15 a.m., but that didn't sound as dramatic) and I am so ticked because I have wasted two-plus hours fiddling with a new header for our frame shop website and the dumb thing won't ftp correctly.

I have been having trouble with our hosting company. Right now our Chocolate Panache site is down, our Frame Shop Gallery site is down, Davesports is down, and now The Frame Shop Gallery Online won't post updates.

Makes me ticked.

However, look at my little mother and my little grand-daughter.

That's lovely.

So, extremely beautiful.

And who knows. I sent in a "help" ticket (oooooh, I hate to do that!), and they really are good about getting things fixed. But I wanted to see my mommy and my grammy-baby up there TONIGHT!

Poodles.

Love, d.

P.S. Now it's 1:23 a.m.  See: crack of dawn someplace else by now!

How to Organize: 101

Oh my goodness, I love art books and magazines and they just pile up around here.

This past week, when I was cleaning the ridiculous stack of books and magazines that seem to accumulate by the side of my bed, I ran across a couple of magazines that I didn't remember I had but, FUNNY-FUNNY-FUNNY, I also ran across two books about organizing.

Oh my goodness, that gets me to laughing.

I remember buying them now. I paid ONE PENNY for one of them (plus shipping, of course) and that's how much good it's done me. Not even a two-cents opinion.

The other book was about organizing home offices and stuff. I remember fanning through the pages of that and deciding it was a waste of time too. I paid about a dollar for that one.

You know what? The problem is not lack of organizational skills. I apparently am somewhat able to organize because I worked as a secretary for over 15 years and although they were probably pretty happy to get rid of me when I left, at least I wasn't fired for losing things.

The problem is... the crummy truth is... I am extremely lazy.

Lord, I must repent. But not quite yet.

I listened to a sermon by Alistair Begg recently about being lazy and I knew he had me pegged. I am extremely lazy. I am capable of organizing something, but I'd rather just take a nap or watch a Frazier rerun. I am lazy-lazy-lazy.

So what's the point?

Only point is this: both those books are thrown in the Salvation Army pile. If you want a couple good books about organizing, look at the Salvation Army. But you'll have to just keep looking and looking and looking, because who knows when I'll get around to dropping them by there. Meanwhile, you're welcome to shuffle through the growing pile of junk-books I don't want anymore (by the bookshelf by the front door so I'll remember to take them some day far-far-far into the future).

Love to all you workers out there... and to the lazy ones like me, even more love and lots and lots of ata-boys. d.