Master Mason

Please note: Some of you may have already read this since it was featured last week in reality developer, Lana Vaughan's blog

Building Walls

Many of my acquaintances do not know this, but I am a master mason. I excel at building walls. Brick by brick, stone by stone, I set myself up in a cozy tower of walls, built for one. But being alone surrounded by a staggering height of stones can become claustrophobic. It can be stifling. They are much harder to tear down than to build, yet I continually build them up just to destroy them later.

That is where I am at right now…in the demolition process. I hate tearing down walls. It is a messy and dusty business. Of course, it is my own fault for building them to begin with. That is my one major vice: wall construction. Some of you may understand how easy it is for a wall to go up. For others, I will try to explain.

The evolution of the wall begins where everyone starts-on a foundation. The foundation can be different  per person or even per wall. Some are built on sinking sand and tumble sooner than others, or they may be stacked high on a rock solid surface. I am afraid most of mine settle on the rock, a loathsome material I have been carrying around all my life called self-reliance or even selfishness. Yes, there it is, I said it. I admitted it. I am a selfish person. I have this part of me (the hermit part) that enjoys solitude so I shut myself off to the world. I dodge calls, skip replying to emails, and hide from my neighbors. This isn’t just some much needed downtime. My break from society starts as a single snowflake of a missed email and turns into an avalanche of months of not wanting to be around people. It is disgusting, I know. It is a nasty habit that goes against what I stand for as a Christian. It is something I battle on a daily basis. Brick by brick. 

The current wall I am tearing down reached a staggering height, acquiring stones and mortar over the span of eight months or more. It began with our abrupt move to Ohio. I frantically scrambled for bricks in a need to protect myself against this sudden change. I had to protect my heart which, as those closest to me know, can be very tender when exposed. I had to secure my need for the familiar which only seemed to be my own self at the time.  So as each day passed, I laid another brick on the wall.  Another excuse to not talk to my neighbor. Another reason to just say a platitude and move on to those at church or even in my family.  Another moment of feeling resentment, being neglectful, and harboring fear. Another day when I slowly turned from seeking God’s word and truth to seek out my own. Foolish, I know.

A few weeks ago I was overwhelmed by a sudden sense of loss and loneliness. I was alone. My only company was the hard, cold stone surrounding my now withered heart. Having blocked out most of the light, what else could my heart do but shrivel up? I was killing myself under the weight of my own protection. I carried around a burdensome weight in my chest. Know the feeling? The despair of experiencing those walls closing in around you? The worst part was that I had put them there. It is a bad habit of mine and I should have recognized the signs immediately and took action to prevent it. But a part of me reasoned that I needed familiarity and comfort in that tumultuous change. So, like a fool, I allowed myself to be cornered. 

The most tedious part of any construction job is demolition. The removal of the old, rotten parts is never something to be taken lightly. It involves too many upheavals….and emotions. Cutting away the dead flesh never feels good. So, as I endeavor to break out of the tower for one, I find myself growing weary. The only thing that is keeping me going, keeping me energized is the small light I see at the top of the wall. The light of the Spirit. The light of Christ. He is the only who can tear down these walls. I am willing and He has been ready. The process will be long and will take much effort on my part. My need for air, love, and the light of God will keep me motivated to demolish the brick and mortar from my life.  I am praying that I will soon retire from being a master mason.

Thank you, ma'am!

Just recently I was at a gathering with friends and some people from out of town.  As I was fixing my plate of food, my daughter Lena approached wanting something to drink. I handed her a cup of lemonade and she sweetly replied with, "Thank you, mommy!" One of the young ladies from the visiting group was standing nearby and immediately asked, "You don't make her say 'ma'am'?" I laughed lightly, "No, we tried for a bit but it didn't stick." She frowned and insisted, "You should do so until it does stick."

There were several things going through my mind at the moment but having met a young lady at age 17 or 18 who had such a "black or white" picture of the world already (a sad thing, really) and having that young lady who does not have children give advice on child rearing to a woman that is pregnant with her fifth child...well, I thought it best to keep my mouth shut. Besides, it wasn't my place to lecture but to be welcoming and open.

But now I wish I had said something. At the very least it was an opportunity for this girl to get a perspective different from her own. I know that culturally (as in her case) and sometimes generationally (I know my older siblings had to) that calling your parents by the titles of "sir" or "ma'am" is the appropriate thing to do. But to me, "ma'am" and "sir" are titles I use with people I don't know very well. I don't want to be a stranger to my children. I don't want to be lumped into the same group as the cashier at the grocery or the random lady at the park. I want my children to call me "mom," "mommy," or "mother." Believe me, the title of "mommy" has been hard earned.

I understand the need to be respectful to elders and my children address the neighbor as Mrs. Rachel. I have the rule for the neighborhood kids and the girls in my Girl Scout troop call me Mrs. Tiffany. But I don't want the children of my closest friends calling me that. It is an intimacy level issue. I want to be close enough to my good friends' children that they call me Tiffany or even Tiff. Of course there have been those awkward moments when someone I barely know calls me Tiff. I bristle a little at that since it is a nickname that I prefer only those who know me to use. I try to be gracious at times like that, however, since the strangers who call me Tiff have usually been introduced to me by some of my closest friends and family who have without thinking introduced me by my nickname. I am sure those strangers do not intend to offend but rather think that I prefer to be called by a shortened version of my name. So, I let it slide.

I wanted to tell that young lady, though, that being a parent (especially to small children) is about picking your battles. And having my four year old address me as "ma'am" was not a battle worth engaging. Breaking it down, the girl missed two very crucial points when my daughter said, "Thank you, mommy." 1) She used her manners which unfortunately that is not often the case with most four year olds. Though I must say that my children are very good at expressing their thanks to me and oftentimes after dinner I hear a chorus of "Thank you, mom" coming from my little ones.

2) The young lady missed the crucial point or rather sound of the sweetness in my daughter's voice when she said "mommy." That long "e" sound on the end was not just the drawn out sound of her Kentucky accent but a direct link to my child's love and affection. As many of you mothers out there know (and fathers, too), when your child addresses you in a certain tone it can be a window to their soul. What the young lady failed to grasp, and probably will not grasp until she has babies of her own, is that what I heard in my child's voice and what she heard were two very different things. When Lena said "mommy" in that sweet tone, it was her way of saying, "I love you, mom. Thanks for taking care of me." In one simple sound, she had conveyed to me her love, affection, and appreciation as adeptly as if she had given me a hug and a kiss.

So, sorry young-lady-who-thinks-she-knows-how-to-raise-my-kids-better-than-I, but I will take millons of "Thank you, mommy," over "Thank you, ma'am, " any day!

*** No Southerners were hurt, damaged, or otherwise harmed during the event that inspired the making of this blog post.

Shame on me

I have been sick lately (so please excuse my long absence from posting) and haven't been able to accomplish those things around the house that need to be done. I can be a perfectionist at times, so still having so many boxes to unpack is driving me up a wall. Plus, I have a couple of rooms to paint and finish decorating. A part of me just wants to finally be settled. My internal laments have been working overtime since I can be sick for a couple of days at a time, putting me behind on all my regular chores not to mention the finishing projects of moving into a new house.

Two days ago, I sat down to watch a documentary with my son. He is studying Weather at the moment so he has been watching many tornado, hurricane, and flood videos. On that particular day, we were watching Frontline, an episode that followed an old man who was returning home after Hurricane Katrina. Here is the link, in case you would like to watch:  http://www.pbs.org/wgbh/pages/frontline/katrina/ The story was a sad one of course, because though I have seen some inspiring stories, I haven't seen any from Katrina that aren't sad. This one focused on 82 year old Herbert Gettridge, who had lived in New Orleans his entire life and had returned home after Hurricane Katrina to rebuild his home for his wife's return. I was simply amazed by the strength of this 82 year old man. He was rebuilding his home by himself! Without water. Without electricity. Without neighbors. Without government assistance. There were a few non-profit organizations and churches that came to help him from time to time, but for the most part, he was on his own. His determination was admirable. His persistence, doubly so.

His story touched my heart. His story was one that reverberated with me because it was one I had heard before...one from generations past. Grandparents who had built a house with their own two hands and would do anything to keep it. It wasn't just wood boards and bricks. It wasn't just a place to store their belongings. It was a home. A place full of family and memories and as much a part of them as their name and face. A story that I would love to be my own. A place that my heart secretly longs for and that I struggle to create for my own children. I could see myself in Herbert Gettridge and his struggles, and I could see those of my ancestors. My heart ached for his devastation, triumphed for over his achievements, and grieved for his loss when he brought his wife home to a place she could not recognize.

Afterwards, all I could think of was: "Shame on me!" Here I am in my house with walls, a roof, floors, running water, and electricity....and I am complaining over not getting a room painted. Or because I haven't enough bookcases for all of my books! I have too much stuff and not enough storage. Or I have storage but nothing stored in it! My worries seem very small in comparison to those who have lost their entire homes, their belongings, their families, and....their memories. In the last few months, a wave of natural disasters have occurred across this country in the form of tornadoes and floods. And across the world, with earthquakes and tsunamis. In my comfort, I cannot see their loss as I should. Shame on me!

First Shift

Last Thursday, I had some unexpected but very, very, welcome news. Brian sent me a text message saying that he was starting first shift on Monday. I was thrilled! It is exactly what I had been praying for (and the Girl Scout leaders, see previous post). He was moving from second shift to first shift and we would be able to spend our evenings together.

This news is pretty big to our household. At Brian's previous job (in KY), Brian had to work 7 years to make it to first shift. It only took 4 months here. It is something I have been praying over since he took the job. I hate second shift. It is the time of day when everything exciting happens. All of the kids extracurricular activities are during the second shift hours. The whole day is just thrown off, really. Before, it seemed like we had less time to spend together as a family since everything had to be rushed into the morning hours. Homeschooling was dragging a bit too since we didn't start our schoolwork until after Brian left for work. Kids are much better at concentrating when they work in the morning hours rather than the afternoon when the neighborhood kids are outside playing and wanting them to join in.

Another answered prayer, of course! First shift was pretty vital to our family's harmony. Several years ago, I worked second shift and Brian worked third shift. The result was a near divorce and tearing apart of the family! Many people survive on odd shifts, but I knew the only way we would was to lean on God. He carried us through this time.

Our schedule is returning to normal. And even though Brian had to drop his classes at college because the news of first shift came too late to add new ones, he will be able to coach football in the fall if a position should become available. I am sure it will. Football and Brian are like attracting magnets. Come fall, I fully plan on being in the stands of some high school football game, cheering on a new team!

The Rug

I love a bargain. And I can usually find them in some unusual places. Since moving to Oakwood, the hip way to acquire a deal is to go estate shopping. I have been going to them for the past month or so. Not all of them are created equal, however, and  most of them are full of old lady clothing (we're talking polyester, not vintage) and overpriced antiques. But, if you know what you are looking for, you can find a diamond in the rough.

A local antique dealer, who is rumored to be overpriced, was conducting an estate sale two streets away. I was hesitant to go, thinking to myself that I won't be able to find anything that I would actually want to put my money on. When I entered the house, there were several beautiful lamps, vases, and dishware that I eagerly examined. The prices weren't horrible, but they were still more than I wanted to pay. Part of the love affair I have with my purchases is the price. The better the deal, the more I love them. Sad but true. So, I continued looking around, and overheard a conversation that two antique brokers were having. One man was displeased because he had not been called for the "wholesale" day at that particular sale. The other man sympathized and went on to talk about the same thing happening to him at a different place. Hmm, so all of this stuff, stuff that the bright & cheerful appraiser was promoting, had already been picked over by antique store dealers and interior decorators? Not an encouraging thought. Considering that, I frowned on the prices even more.

Upstairs, a lady negotiated over several mediocre paintings. Another woman was in awe of matching duvet covers. I, however, was giving up on the sale. Or so I thought.  I tripped over a very long package wrapped in plastic. I glanced down- a rug. A very inconvenient place to put one, I thought to myself and turned to leave. Back downstairs I glanced about the place one more time. No, nothing was calling my name. I stepped outside. It was snowing again. As I stood there putting on my gloves, something made me step back inside. I can't say that it was a voice whispering to me or that it was even a feeling. It was just...odd. I went back inside, not sure what I was looking for or why I had returned.

It felt good to be back inside where it was warm. The appraiser didn't even bat an eye at my sudden reappearance. Not sure of what I was doing, I once more surveyed the items for sale. Nothing. Why was I still here? I went upstairs for a last glance, though the items upstairs were more dismal than the ones downstairs. My eyes fell on that long roll of plastic. The rug. I leaned closer, peering through the plastic. No way! I thought. This rug matched the one I had in my family room. It was much bigger too. The largest size you can buy in that particular design, in fact. I glanced at the price tag: $65. We paid twice that for the rug we currently had! This rug was new, had never been opened and was a room sized area rug for $65...and it matched what we already had! Wow! This was definitely a bargain! I tried to hide my excitement since an older lady could see that I was very interested in the rug and had come over to investigate the piece herself. I immediately called my husband and asked him if the rug would fit in our living room. He said it would, so I flagged down the nearby sales attendant and told her that I wanted it!

As I was checking out, the sales lady informed me that the rug wasn't original to the current estate sale and that it had been brought just that morning over from a sale that they had the previous week. She helped me to carry it out to the truck and I told her that it matched a rug that we already owned. She seemed surprised. Then she smiled, "Looks like this rug was meant just for you!" I couldn't have agreed more.

I know some would dismiss this as a lucky coincidence or even scoff over the idea that God would provide me with this rug when I went searching for a bargain. But what they fail to realize, is that I had been praying for a way to make my house a home with what little resources we had. Because of the expenses of our move, I did not have much extra money to use in furnishing our new place. Many of our old pieces didn't fit, were broken in the move, or we just didn't have what we needed to furnish all of our rooms. To many, it would seem trivial to pray for those things. I did not ask God to give me a good deal on a rug. I did not ask God for more money to buy home decorations. I simply said a prayer for Him to help me make my house a home...some way. A rug does not make a home, that is for sure, but it was a start. I do not hesitate to give Him the glory for my finding that rug. Or rather, that rug finding me. Even though it may be a little one, it was another answered prayer.

P.S. I looked up how much it would cost to purchase the same rug at retail: $325.

Girl Scouts (in Ohio)

One of the first things I did when moving to Ohio was to find a new Girl Scout troop for my oldest daughter. Our troop in Kentucky was very active and since I was the leader, I think that it was well-organized....not perfect, but pretty good. I started the troop when my daughter was a Daisy and kept it going into Brownies up until this past month when we had our last "she-bang." During that time period, our troop worked on over 30 Try-Its and attended twice as many events. My daughter's sash has overlapping badges and patches (much like mine when I was a Brownie.) Girl Scouts has been a big part of our lives in this family and something that we enjoy.

So, the troop here in Ohio, come to find out, is a new troop. They just started up this year, and only one other girl in the troop had any previous Girl Scout experience (and that was only 1 year.) The leaders do not pre-plan meetings. In fact, if they do not have anything planned they just talk to the girls or let them run around and play. The leader, who is very nice, could not answer any of the questions I had about the future bridging up to Juniors. In fact, she had never heard of "bridging." This scared me.

The disorganization and lack of communication of this troop totally baffles me. I understand that the parents who are the leader and co-leader had not planned on being in those positions and rather found themselves thrust into. But where is the training for them? I find it hard to believe that they are not better prepared! I rounded up some of the left-over supplies I had and offered them to the group. I offered to make them a troop songbook (still haven't heard back on that one) but the leader did applaud my idea of actually singing songs! Really! They had not sang any songs- not even the Brownie Smile song! Gasp!

After one meeting, my daughter told me that they did the Girl Scout sign like the Boy Scouts, using only two fingers. ??????Huh????? Everything in me is freaking out. I am sad to say that because my husband works 2nd shift, there is little I can do to help. Though, let me assure you, that I have tried to offer what assistance I can and most of it has gone unused. I did send a craft to do this past week for the troop meeting (they only meet every 2 weeks) and my daughter said that the girls loved it! They had never done a craft!!!

Needless to say, the current leader and co-leader have already asked me (begged me, really) to be the leader next year. I told them that depends on my husband getting on a different shift. They said that they would be praying for it.

Old vs. New

A comparison of what we had at our old life in Kentucky and what we have now:

Kentucky                                                                                             Oakwood
* 5 acres                                                                * enough space for a swing set
*dial-up internet                                                     * high-speed internet with WiFi
*satellite T.V.                                                         * Instant Netflix
*2100 sq. ft house                                                  *1900 sq ft.
* 25 foot rock fireplace in vaulted ceiling                 * 9 ft ceilings, gas fireplace
*surrounded by woods                                           * surrounded by houses
*20 minute drive to EVERYTHING!                      *walk just about everywhere
* couldn't see our neighbors house                          * all we can see is our neighbor
*shed/barn                                                             * garage
* school buses                                                        * everyone walks/ ride school SUV
*taxes $1250/year                                                  *taxes $3500/year
*3 story playset                                                      * mega playground: block away
*gravel/dirt drive                                                       *paved driveway
*creek                                                                    *Community pool
*septic                                                                    *public sewer
*metal roof                                                              *shingle roof
*very quiet                                                               *cars, sirens, and kids
*no sidewalks (rural route)                                       *sidewalks and lots of walking
* okay school system                                               *school ranked 577th in nation
*hunting                                                                   *mega squirrels that taunt you
*Great radio stations                                                * Ipod use suggested!
*Wal-Mart or Kroger                                              *Kroger, Trader Joe's, Meijer
*great temperatures/seasons                                     *winter or construction
*room to store recreational vehicles                          *boat & trailer still in KY
*close to family                                                        *has adopted a second family
*McDonalds                                                            *decisions, decisions!
*clean air                                                                 *smokers galore (odd, huh?)
*wrap around deck                                                  *full front porch
*everyone knows everyone                                      * all outsiders
* gun range in backyard                                           * "Run! They have a gun!"
*University of Kentucky (Go Cats!)                          *Ohio State
                                                                          (yes, I left off "THE"...deal with it!)