Poeming: Never the same.

This is me, early '70s, in Vail, CO where i moved to
 be with my sister Patti. Dig them bell bottoms!

i decided to use a previous poetry prompt that was to use the last line of your previous poem to write your poem. (Did i say "previous" and "poem" enough?) So here it is.



NEVER THE SAME


the day I first felt Someone bigger than me

in the sunshine waterfalling from the window

I was never the same


the day I sang hymns in my Grandma’s basement

soothing away my parents’ breakup

I was never the same

the day I got off the bus and my nose-hairs froze,

to live and laugh and learn with my big sister

I was never the same

the day my Grandma died, me full wombed

hating the knowledge they’d never meet

I was never the same

the day I held each swaddled grandbaby

three on each side of the ocean

I’ve never been the same


So many days have passed, now my sister too,

and through changes of all descriptions

and through the changing and growing of me

some things are always the same

I still know that “Someone bigger,” and He

is leading me holding me loving me,

and through all of life’s changes


He’s always the same.

jle 2012

Saying goodbye to Uncle Joe.

He was my father-in-law's "little" brother. They were tall. Like "how do I hug them?" tall. My father-in-law, Eldon, was 6 foot 6 or 6 foot 7, at that height i couldn't see up there anyway so I'm not really sure. Tall was (and is) their family's "thing."

I'm pretty sure they were each other's favorite brothers out of the 4 boys in their family. (I think they all doted on their beautiful little sis, Mary.) I remember many stories of the boys' escapades when they were kids, crazy stuff like hunting skunks with pop-guns. Country living is so far from my upbringing in Portland, Oregon that I was always fascinated. I mean, the only wildlife I saw was some of the neighborhood kids, and they'd be a much safer bet to hunt with a pop-gun.

As adults they stayed good friends, and I would hear stories of Uncle Joe's clothing factory from my in-laws. We still have an old platform rocker from my side of the family that I slipcovered in sturdy suit fabric brought home to me probably 25 years ago from Joe's wife, Pat. She had her own business running a fabric outlet of leftover fabrics from the factory. (I only wish I could still fit into the coat they sent home to me at the same time!)

My father-in-law meant a lot to me. He was kind and loving to me, and would do things with me he wouldn't with my mother-in-law, like shop or eat tuna sandwiches. He sat with me in silent support through the years of my miscarriages, he helped us build our second story house addition, he called my m-i-l's peanut brittle "peanut brutal" and tuna sandwiches "cat food" sandwiches, but he'd eat them if I made them. And he absolutely without a doubt loved his grandkids.

His brother Joe was that same sort of person. Unfortunately I didn't get to know him very well, but when I saw him a few years back, he was the same kind of sit-down-and-chat guy that my father-in-law was. He had a ready smile and an accepting heart. He had the same sparkle in his eye, and oh he made me miss my father-in-law.

When my hubby and I visited the Alabama family just a few months ago, I got to see him with his great-grandkids--and I loved it. Again, it brought me back to memories of my father-in-law graciously letting my children and foster children use him as a climbing wall. The two brothers shared a lot in their attitude toward little ones and in their quiet faith in God. And if anything, Uncle Joe was even more of a family man.

This is why I know that Joe will be so missed by his wife, his children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren and other family and friends. As much as I miss my father-in-law, I have a fair sense of the loss Uncle Joe's home-going to heaven will mean to those still stuck on the ground who loved him.

Goodbye, Uncle Joe. We will miss you.

Fret Free Friday

My brain has gone blank frequently these days, therefore I am declaring today a Fret Free Friday and putting something up I wrote a couple of years ago. Besides, I like this post!

Apricot Thoughts.

The bible verse that kept me going during my recent Fentanyl withdrawal experiment was the one about the vine and the branch, where Jesus says, "I am the vine and you are the branch. If anyone remains in me and I in them, he will bear much fruit. Without me you can do nothing." (That's a loose-ish paraphrase of John 15:5.) While i was feeling so detached from life i needed to feel attached still to my Creator, so i would repeat it but from my end of it: "You are my vine, i am your branch." It's yet another version of something i've said to God in the past while going through what seemed an impossible situation: "i may not be able to see You right now, but i will not turn my back on You."

You see, i remain aware of His thoughts toward me, and his persistence in loving me even when i don't seem to be able to carry off my end of the deal. Sometimes simply voicing that desire for connection with God has helped me hold on.

Anyway, later in reading a random bible verse i read something written by the apostle Paul to the Christians in Colosse, "Let your roots grow down into Him and draw up nourishment from Him so you will grow in faith, strong and vigorous in the truth you were taught." (Colossians 2:7.) These thoughts meshed for me. i choose to remain attached to the vine that is Jesus, and that is because i will then stay rooted to the source of nourishment, and will stay strong.

Recently i picked apricots from my daughter's tree with the help of her two girls, Haley and Cassidy. A few branches here and there had been broken away at their place of connection to the bigger tree. The only apricots they held were stunted and dried up, inedible. Other branches were heavy with apricots, growing vigorously from their solid connection to the tree, and were ripe and plump and beautifully colored.

Even i get the visual there--remaining strongly rooted to the source of nutrients grows plentiful, enjoyable fruit. The interruptions of life that we may let break us away from the tree causes dryness and immaturity of fruit.

Good stuff.

Skimmer's recap (and no, hubby of mine, i cannot set this blog up to send you only the skimmer section, sorry--): Attached to the tree= healthy growth. Not attached=little growth if any growth at all.

Seasonal thoughts on change.

Something happens over the winter. And it happens in my back yard.

i call it "nastification." All the remains of the wet season lay around like so many Thanksgiving leftovers. Weeds crop up in even the tiniest crack.

Everywhere i look something needs to be cleaned.

And who left the tools outside? If this was somebody else's moss-growing garage and somebody else's ruined tools, i'd think the photo was charming.

But then i look up to see new leaves on the poplar tree, bathing in the sun, doing that cool light-play i love so much.

And i notice my orange rosebush has amazing blooms, and even more amazingly, is still alive (no green-thumbs here, just California weather)

and my crawling, spreading white rose is crazy with new leaves and buds!

Color is returning as the geraniums are beginning to grow over the wall, making even the winter-mossed stones beautiful

and i realize that nastification is simply the result of the death it took to get to this place of new life.And i realize that all my striving to be good enough for spring requires death.

Death to my own struggle to be loveable and good enough in my Creator's eyes, and open-ness to the beauty and love and worth He's given me before i did anything to be loveable, to be good enough.

Why do i worry so much about being shiny enough? i can work and fall, work and fall. But my true worth doesn't come from the things i try to do to be lovable, or to be perfect. As i learn to turn my words of pain to God first--rather than griping to people--i'm taking steps to see myself through His eyes. The newness comes in its season. i just need to stop grumbling about the weeds on the ground and look up.

1 John 4:10: It is not that we loved God, but that he loved us and sent his son as a sacrifice to take away our sins.

Romans 5:8: But God demonstrates his own love for us in this: While we were still sinners, Christ died for us.


Skimmer's recap: Look at the pictures, read the verses, ponder.

One good thing about the flu...

Above: me as i looked, reclining in my sickbed wearing my tiara. i found this on Varifrank.com in a pretty funny blog post.

Well, after a week of eating an ounce at a time, i've lost 7 pounds. It was a lousy week, it was one of the roughest weeks i've had in recent history, but i lost 7 pounds. That part was good.

i was looking back at what i ate all week, and if i could just manage to eat about 600 calories every day for the rest of my life, maybe i could lose another 7. As opposed to my usual eating, not perfect but certainly a bit more than an ounce at a time, i could only manage to eat an apple and 7 Triscuits all day, then maybe a piece of toast for dinner. Amazing. Of course, i did manage some therapeutic chocolate here and there.

ANYway, this brought some other thoughts to my mind:

There are things i don't like about myself, like, i don't like my weight, i'm not crazy about my wrinkles, but i'm good with myself. Here at 50-odd years old (some much odder then others) i'm actually okay with who i am.

(This could be longish, so you Skimmers hang on for the recap.)

Wind back to January of 2001--my mother died of cancer in Nebraska, and i received the call in California. This call came from her lawyer, as she had not even told me her cancer had returned. Then the deluge of treasures started coming. Stuff like her hand-written will outlining her Replacement Loved Ones and the possessions she wished them to have. i was the only of her 3 birth children still in contact, she had alientated my sister and brother years before. So for me she saved her special comments, designed to make sure i knew i'd been a bitter disappointment to her. i, along with the lawyer and my aunt, received the long pages written to each of her children outlining the many specific ways we had each disappointed her and ruined her life. Then followed the albums of family photos and framed family pictures and such, each with sticky notes attached. These told me things such as "you children killed the mother I was" and other words to hold near and dear to my heart in her absence.

i went into a hysterical tailspin and became a Frequent Flyer at Kaiser's Mental Health and Chemical Dependency Clinic. i remember the first day i spoke with someone there. i was sobbing, "But why could she love those other people, and not me?" The nurse spoke of our expectations of our mothers--"We expect our mothers to love us, and protect us. That's a nurturing act--from here, to here," she said, gesturing from an adult height down to a child's height. "Those others she can relate to from here to here," she said, gesturing from an equal to an equal.

i knew my mother had replaced us with more acceptable children in her new and improved life in Nebraska, but i'd never understood. That day started a 5 year trip down Mental Health Road. A really valuable trip. A trip i hope never to need to repeat.

But from that day of a new beginning, i came from a place where i doubted every single thing about myself, even things i was sure of. i was pretty sure i was a good mom, a kind person, but if the person who is supposed to love you more than anyone in the world thinks you are a disappointment, it's hard for someone like me to know who to believe. But the nurse that first day told me, "You have a very good chance to have a great second half of your life."

i wanted to believe her, desperately. But i couldn't see a way to that place that day. And now seven years have passed. In that time i've been able to pull together the truths of who i am as a person before God. The things He's gifted me with, the person He's grown me into, the kind of woman i knew i was, i've been able to accept--i've learned to silence the voice of my mother that lived in my head. i was finally able to sort out what i knew of myself from what my mother had me believing. And i'm finally good with me. Not with everything about me, but with me.

But i'm still happy about the seven pounds.

Skimmer recap:
Mother. Cancer. Dead. Bad stuff. But now i'm good.

;-)