Hands, Painting Nails and Painting

Hands. What stories they tell. My dad’s hands were so sweet to me. They weren’t particularly attractive in the traditional sense, but I loved them. I remember that his nails began to get ridges—much like my Grandpa’s—as he got older. I have ridges now. I found online that it might be a vitamin deficiency. It just feels like old age. I begin to look like my parents and grandparents.
But, I digress. Painting nails is the subject. Or hands. Or painting. I choose painting.
I love to paint. I often look at my facebook photos in the album “Some of my art” and yearn for the studio I had at Otterbein for a few short months. How I loved to go there and paint. The thrill of creating with my hands, colors and some implement to transfer the paint…sometimes my hands! It’s hard to describe. Of course, others will ask why I don’t paint all the time—or even more often—if I love it so much. This is also hard to describe. There is a hesitance and vulnerability involved. When you mash that into the problematic issues like where to paint, money for canvasses, when to paint—the painting sits aside. But, oh the joy when I do…

Stubbs

I was always jealous of those girls who had perfectly painted nails that they could do themselves. I would practice and practice and still end up with smudges and paint all over my fingers. I have shaky hands apparently. Then I discovered clear nail polish and that is practically all I use on my fingers now. Helps to keep me from biting them and turning them into stubbs...

However, I DO love a good mani/pedi at a salon. I used to be slightly addicted to them in high school but then realized that I didn't really have the means of income in college to keep up the "mani/pedi" lifestyle. It seems like every salon you go to is the same. You walk in and you are inandated with the strong smell of acrylic nails and polish remover. Then a Koren woman shouts a greeting from the back of the room by the pedicure chairs and trys to upsell you on ever service they offer for "Only six dollar more." Click here to watch a video of Anjelah Johnson a comedian that talks about this whole experiece. It is quite funny.

I don't know why this experience is so great. Maybe it is because of the massage chairs, or the high you get from all the fumes when you leave. But, honestly, I think women just like to be pampered and pretty. And for those of us who can't "paint within the lines" this is a plesent change from the norm of clear polish and bitten nails.

My Fingernails

My fingernails are kinda ugly. They just aren't like pretty fingernails. Pretty fingernails (almost) fit the shape of the fake fingernails you can buy at the dollar store. Pretty fingernails are curved and thin. The grow out and look elegant.

My fingernails, on the other hand (rather, on both hands), are simply none of the above. My fingernails are barely curved. They lazily sit flat and grow flat. Short, square, wide fingernails don't grow out well, they grow out big, and the fake fingernails never fit.

I try to make them pretty (I constantly shove back my cuticles so that the nails look longer). Acutally, I usually just try to keep them from being noticed. That's why I haven't painted my fingernails in years. Painting my nails used to be one of my all time favorite things, but not for a while now. I didn't even bring any nailpolish to school this year.

Frequently, in the evenings, Angela, Marie, and I gather in their room (right next door to mine and Sara's) and spend time together. We talk about boys and pray for comfort and theorize about peace and play with each other's hair. One evening Angela and Marie had this great idea--"Let's paint our nails together."

We all sat down, I sat cross-legged on the floor with polish bottle secured close by and Marie and Angela were in their corresponding ready-to-paint positions (each girl has one, you know, for it is a percarious process--you wouldn't want to spill polish or mess up your nails by slipping and painting "outside the lines"). They smiled as I half-complained, "I don't really like to paint my nails since the polish always chips so quickly." And on we painted.

Heasitantly, I began to slowly but ever so steadily paint the deep red color onto my naturally naked fingernails.

Avoid the cuticle if possible. Not possible.
Oh, bummer! "Where's the remover. I got it on my finger."
Silence. Don't get too much paint on the brush. Ah, It's dripping!
"How's your day, Marie?"
Time for the right hand. Now you'll have to be extra careful painting with your clumsy left hand, Becs.
Why is the opening for the bottle so small?
Finished. Wave your hands around.
"What about you, Ang?"
Keep waving. They'll dry faster.
Just don't hit anything. Don't touch that yet.
"I'm fine. Doing really well, actually..."

For the first few days before the polish began to chip off I noticed my fingers. I really noticed them. And I didn't mind noticing. As I washed my hands, picked up a pencil, lifted a glass to my lips, twisted a door handle, put on my mascara... my hands looked elegant. Wherever they moved, whatever they did, my painted fingernails were pretty.

Football

Autumn brings back tons of memories. Some of my most fond memories are of watching OSU football games with friends and family. Countless times, In Columbus I have shouted "O-H" fondly replied by "I-O" from a random stranger. I have adored gray sweater vests for at least 7 years and can't get enough of "Michigan-is-stupid" jokes. However, this past season I see this tradition of engrossing myself in touchdowns and quarterbacks slipping through my fingers and I am not 100% why.

When I lived in Ohio and Indiana I was always the first one to be in the living room on the couch wearing my Scarlet and Gray at kick off. I think the decline might partially be because the OSU games aren't consistently aired on T.V. down here in the south. The only games you get are SEC stinking FL/Auburn/Bama games...OSU games are only aired when the Bucks are playing a major competitor, probably from the SEC. I also think, contributing to the down slide is the fact that EVERYONE down here is a massive Tennessee Vols fans. It's kinda gross. Let's just say I hate the color orange now.

However, I have come to the conclusion that the main reason I am not an avid watcher of the OSU football this season is because I don't have the family/friend support to do so. It is really tough being a Bucks fan by yourself down here with no one to eat chili with, cheer with, laugh with, cry with, and celebrate with. Non-Buckeye fans are very critical and angry with the Bucks for some reason. I know some of you are thinking, "Man, what a fair-weather fan." but I promise you I am not. My blood runs scarlet and gray no matter what part of the country I am in. Let me close with this about being a fan of The Ohio State University in the south... it's harder than it looks people. It's harder than it looks.

Where did the glory go?

Last year, utter "Autumn" to me and I'd be all bust lost in thoughts of the lovely crunchy leaves and the cider so pungent and hot it almost hurts as it goes down. I used to think of sweaters and firesides and books.

This year, Fall means cold. Since my first hell-freezing Chicago winter experience there is something inside of me that cringes at the thought of cold, and Fall means winter is almost here. The crunchy leaves will turn soggy from the sloppy, snowy sludge and I'll want that darn cider to burn so it'll defrost my frozen pipes. Those sweaters will have to be covered up by puffy coats, there's not a single fireplaces on campus, and all I'll have time to read are school books.

Is the glory of fall all but lost?

For the past few days I thought that my dread of winter had destoryed Autumn. . . until today. Today I woke up and loved the chill. Something in me said "This is a beautiful day." It isn't freezing yet, and I didn't have to wear a puffy coat. I got to be warm and cozy in my big sweater over my favorite simple black sweater. I didn't mind the sweaters. I wore a thin scarf I bought in Palestine and my trusty old brown shoes (inherited about 6 years ago on a winter retreat). Good pair of jeans. And I wasn't cold except for my nose. And I didn't mind that.

Fall's glory is in her bold, present existance--not where she's pointing. Fall, in its folksy way, draws us to the earth in her state of adaptation and shows the beauty of the in-between. It makes me want to be okay with the in-between. Like Emily said, it's not a time of dying. It is a time for Earth to show off her confidence in the process. May God grant us such a grace.

I know this is probably out of turn, but I thought I'd mention my favorite parts of fall....

Hot tea (Good Earth Spice). My cozy red sweater. Fires in the fireplace (now and then). Leaves turning gorgeous colors on trees - all the trees lining our street red - except for our yellow one (we are different). Leaves falling to the ground. Crinkly leaves on the walkway. Papa raking leaves with whomever will help. Slate grey skies with the sun peeking through every once in awhile and shining on colorful trees making them luminous. I really like trees.

Sorry, I'm ridiculously slow. But I promise I will be better. :)

Autumn is my favorite season of all time. It is beautiful everywhere you look. Some people say everything is in the process of dying but to me everything comes alive. The chilly air makes everything seem crisp and fresh. I want to linger outside as long as possible, taken in all the colors and crunching, crinkling, and swishing sounds. Even my breathe seems to want to linger longer than usually, leaving behind a trail of fog. Animals are active. Squirrels hurry in anticipation of the cold season to come. Dogs leap through piles of leaves, while dads shake their heads and rack them back together again. The perfect attire is appropriate for this weather. Jeans, sweaters/sweat shirts/long sleeves, boots/clogs, and curly hair. (Curls always look better in cold weather.) This is also the start of a new school year. To most kids this would suck but for me it means change. New teachers. New classmates. New subject matter. Sure after awhile all that becomes monotonous, but for those few blissful months, school is continually exciting. And with the new school year comes football! Standing beside friends pretending to watch your team battle it out with opposing school with a hot beverage in hand is always a high light of my week. Along with the leaves come pumpkins, and Halloween! Costumes do not need embellishing, because their magnificence is obvious (alternate identity for the night! *fist pump*)

All in all autumn is splendid. The sounds, the sights, feelings, and activities are all high on my favorites list. I'm sure if I could smell, the smells of autumn would be lovely. 

Instability to Hope

toes squishing
muddy, sandy substance. engulf. comfort.
weight and gravity push me down in the not-so-solid earth

feet wetted
frothy, gentle waves. permeate. wake.
water and shifting sand keep me aware of the surrounding scene

body rocking
windy, salty air. chill. refresh.
instability and cold shock me into a new thought of today

eyes watching
quickly, exceedingly. pain. light.
dawn and a graspable horizon invite hopes home for some breakfast

Autumn

I just love autumn. I used to think summer was my favorite season, which it would be if I lived on or near a beach, but since I live in ohio fall is really what does it for me. There is really no point in such a hot time of year if there isn't a beach close by. And so many of my fondest memories are from fall. There's the changing leaves, football games, chili, wassal, pumpkin pickin' and pumpkin carvin'. The crisp air calls for cozy sweaters and jeans around campfires.

One thing I distinctly loved as a child was going to circle S pumpkin farm. We would eat yummy donuts and drink hot cider and spend what seemed like hours frolicking in the massive hay barn. There were always goats to pet and feed. And of course there was the hay ride out to "the patch" to pick your very own pumpkin. All of us always picked the biggest one we could possibly carry so that by the time we reached the end Dad had to help us manage our giant pumpkins. The event was always followed by carving and eating toasted pumpkin seeds. The whole experience was so magical.

This year I tried to recreate this favorite childhood memory. Jess, Lindsay and I set off to pick pumpkins at the pumpkin farm. I'm not sure if it was just because I am now a 25 year old adult or because it wasn't circle S farm but the experience was disappointing to say the least. The farm was not at all impressive, no hay barn or goats, nothing but an over priced store and a few concessions selling fair food! Can you believe that, at a farm! So we quickly bought our tickets to go "pick" our pumpkin. So we set of towards the "patch." We passed several good size patches along the way and I thought to myself there must be a more well stocked one further out. But oh no, we passed all the real patches and circled around coming to a stop in-front of a small grassy area with a pile of pre-picked pumpkins, not a single one bigger than an acorn squash. I was so disappointed, we climbed out and quickly chose one of the tiny pre-picked pumpkins, crushed that this experience in no way resembled the amazing times I recall having as a child at the pumpkin farm.

I will however still cling to those memories and maybe one day recreate that fun time I remember with my own kids!

picture: the not so glorious "pumpkin patch"

Mexico

I have never really been a huge fan of the beach. I always liked having a tan and being in the sun, but didn't enjoy partaking of tans and sun from the Beach. First of all, the ocean scares me. Blame jaws, blame eels, blame Steve Irwin, but I freak out when I can't see my feet underwater. I don't like not knowing what is lurking under the murky dark waters. Something could come up and EAT ME! Second of all, I hate having sand all over my body, which is inevitable when you are tall and NO towels are ever long enough. Third of all, let's get real here, bathing suits just aren't the best thing for me to wear.

However, I have had one really awesome experience with the beach, and that was on my honeymoon in the Riviera Maya, Mexico. This beach was covered in pure white, soft sliky sand. The ocean was clear and blue and you could see the reef at the bottom. They had these little swinging beds that you could lay on, away from the sand in the cool shade of palm branches. In addition, the resort workers would come up and serve me unlimited fancy drinks and give Josh and I 15 minute back massages at the snap of a finger. Life can't get much better than that.

I discovered on this trip that Josh has a similar feeling for the beach that I do, except even more exaggerated. Even though I am afraid of the ocean, I still wanted to brave water to snorkel and look at fish. Josh went with me. As we were snorkeling (in 3.5 feet of water) my 6' 5" husband would panic every 30 seconds when a little bit of water got into his snorkel. It was very cute. And an eye opener on how both of us feel about the ocean.

For me, I will just stick to the pool or Mexico from here on out.

picture of me and Josh (my husband) on our honeymoon in Mexico.

Winter Beaches

I do like beaches. Not usually in summer though. I’m more of a mountain and woods girl, but beaches in the winter—I like. The couple of times we have vacationed in Myrtle Beach for the Christmas holidays have held some cherished moments. One I wrote about in “Legacy of the Lullaby” the other I will share here.

It was probably 2001 or 2002 and I weighed more than I ever had. I hadn’t had my dramatic 117 pound weight loss yet and I was pretty miserable physically but content in most other ways. We were having fun feeding the gulls from our balcony, going to the Dixie Stampede and to malls set on planks. Christmas morning we opened gifts. (I can’t even remember if we opened in the hotel that year or at Aunt Cynthia’s.) What I do remember is the cozy red hooded sweater Mark bought for me. Red. I never wear red. I feel like a tomato in that color. But this sweater was soft and… large. It fit with room to spare. It came together in all the right places and zipped right up. I was so happy to get it. I know why he bought me that sweater—the same reason a few years later (and me minus so much weight) he bought me long underwear: I am always cold. His sentiment was sweet and I recognized it right away for the kindness and care he meant by this very red gift.

I remember sitting outside the hotel on the beach. I was perched on the edge of a platform of some kind under a steel grey sky watching the ocean and little Emily playing with a new doll. (Wow, that was a long time ago.) I remember feeling snug and satisfied. I was warm and loved. The sweater left my heart tender.

I still wear that sweater. It is one of the few items I have kept long after it was far too big. At my lowest weight I would wrap it around me almost double and notice its generous warmth. It is a bit nubby now. I toss it in the wash every few months, and I don’t care that it is not all that attractive. I am loved and cared for. I have a kindhearted husband. I am safe and warm.

beach days

Beach days. Days when you can't wait to get out of bed, which rarely happens. All that is needed is a swim suit thrown on with a comfy sun dress over top and flip flops. Various items that may be of interest while relaxing in the sun are packed in an oversized cute colorful bag; a book, a magazine, some sun screen, a water bottle or two maybe a snack and last but not least a large fluffy towel. Hair thrown in a pony tail, sunglasses on top of your head and you're out the door. No need for a shower, your about to get bathed in sea salt and sand. 

Before you even arrive you can smell it. The the moisture and salt that hangs in the air. The moment you step onto the sand you immediately remove your flip flops so you can feel the sands powdery texture beneath your toes. It's always a bit too hot for comfort but you brave the heat so as not to miss a single moment with the sand. There it it, spread before you, hot white sand and glistening ocean further than the eye can see with waves beating against the shore just begging to be played in. You scope out your spot quickly, and unload your gear, spreading your giant fluffy towel out,  just-so, in order to catch the sun at the exact angle for that perfect tan. What little clothing was worn is quickly removed to maximize sun exposure time. And now to the ocean that has been calling for what seems like forever but has only been a short few minute since you arrived. 

Full speed into the crashing waves which quickly slow you to a labored walk. The water is the perfect temperature. You go deeper, till about mid thigh at which point the waves are hitting you just below the neck, so as the next wave approaches you dive straight into it just before it breaks saving your self from a mouth full of salty water. Surfacing you wipe the salty water from you eyes, take a quick breath, turn and face the next wave barreling down on you. You dive and give it your all, kicking through the pull. At the point where the waves are no longer breaking you tread water for a moment and then flip on your back and float on the top of the rolling waves staring up at the flawless blue sky taking it all in.

After a moments rest you resume the breast stroke back towards the shore this time allowing each wave  to help carry in the right direction. When you reach just the right spot, where the waves are just beginning to cap you stand poised and ready for the perfect wave. It hits you and you instantly turn, push off and tense all the muscles in your body, keeping your chin up to keep the water out of you face. You pick up speed careening towards the shore line, as you get close the wave breaks underneath you ending the adrenaline rush as you float to rest on the shallow sandy bottom. 

The rest of the day is full of sun tans, good books, fresh fruit and hours more fun body surfing the waves. At the end of the day your skin is brown and dry from the salt and sun. You pack up your sand covered things making sure not to brush off all the sand. Tucked away in the zip pocket of your oversized colorful bag you store away the small shells and stones you collected that day and promise yourself you'll be back soon. The sand, the shell, the memories- all pieces of the beach you can take home with you to remind you of your favorite place on earth. 

English Rain

Looking back over the duration of my trip to the West Bank in Palestine this summer, I can distinctly remember the day I first saw clouds—if the transparent wisps of white in the air can be called real clouds. I asked probably half a dozen people that day if they saw the clouds. Those bits of gathered moisture droplets were a phenomenon in that dry land.

I thought the white puffs spectacular. You see, as I spent daily time in the sun—glorious and warm and bright though it was—I couldn’t help but long for the rain. There is something about rain that makes green leaves greener, light reflections shimmer more keenly, and the colors of the life on the ground pop brilliantly in contrast to a grey, rain-laden sky.

The morning after I arrived in England after spending a month in that dry land I woke up and the gentle sound of rain on the window caressed my ears. Opening my eyes I tilted my head to see the water in tiny streams falling down the pane. A joyful awakening—rain!

It rained through the day as I walked into the airport to fly hour upon hour. It rained as I gaily walked back out of the airport because of overbooked flights—happy to prolong my stay in England. It rained as my youthful host took me to a pub near Windsor Castle to play a game of cards over some lunch. It rained as we walked down the cobblestone streets past an old accordion player and preoccupied, umbrella-clad shoppers.

The gracious hosts apologized over again for the rain. “It would have to rain for you on your first day in London, wouldn’t it? Sorry about that.” Katie said in her proverbial British accent.
The rain dramatizes not only the colors of the world: yes, greens are greener and blacks, blacker, but also lovely moments are lovelier. “I don’t mind,” I replied with a smile.

When it rains it pours

Rain has got to be on of my most favorite things in the world. To sit in a warm place and listen to the sound of it and smell it and to watch it is one of the most relaxing comforting things for me. I can remember loving rainy days from a very young age, sitting in an open garage or breeze way bundled up in blankets reading and watching the rain or dancing carefree in a downpour, jumping in the drainage ditches and puddles.

 

One of my fondest memories is the great Creation flood of 1989. There we were camping, going to concerts, building stick houses in the woods, covered in dirt and running about dressed like hooligans (because mom was nowhere in sight) when it was sighted in the distance, the giant looming black clouds closing in on Agape Valley. It drew closer and closer and then it began to rain, not that hard at first but it picked up quickly and showed no signs of slowing down. Before we knew it puddles turned into small streams, which grew and grew until we were wading in it. Initially we crowed in the giant striped tent to stay dry until at some point we gave up that idea and joined the masses trying to save the washed away tents and belongings. From there on it is a blur of mud and water. We of course put on our swimsuits and frolicked about, loving every minute of being allowed to play in the mud and swim, oh yes you heard me, SWIM! I distinctly remember a canoe, I wouldn’t put money on it but I swear it happened. What fun we had that year as kids carefree in the pouring rain, followed by days of mud, we couldn’t ask for anything more.

 

It seems however as I grow older and have less time to sit and enjoy the rain, it has become more of an inconvenience. To be met by rain on an early work day as I rush out the door means wet hair, clothes and bags as well as slow traffic, because no one in Ohio can drive unless its sunny and seventy outside. Not to mention camping in the rain as an adult, not quite as much fun as being a carefree kid. It never fails, even the best “waterproof” tents still leak in the lightest rain. And I can’t tell you the last time I was able to just sit and enjoy a rainy day with a book and a warm drink. In spite of my new feelings towards rain, given a rainy day not filled with obligations I would still love to spend it just enjoying the sight, sound and smell of the it. 

Strip Tease

Becca has said many times "Rain intensifies emotions." I agree! When your super stoked about something you just wanna go dance in the rain. When your feeling really sad staring out a window and watching rain drops pelt the glass is exactly what you want to do. Have you ever noticed that romantic scenes in movies getting 100x mushier in the rain. It would not be very romantic if a couple stood on a random street outside of a random store and kissed. It would how ever be very sappy if they embraced in the pouring down rain, disregarding any umbrellas, coats or brief cases.

I have learned through experience that rain will intensify any emotion. Including humiliation:

"Go Em! GO!" I hear mom yell from the side lines. Its the beginning of the third half. Who decided that was fair! Just because they have two teams and we have one does not make it ok for us to play two games! Ger. This girl keeps elbowing me. Come on ref lets just start the half already! Blow the whistle! Man I can not see! There should be goggles with mesh so rain doesn't puddle up in them like now.

TWWWEEEETTT!

My feet jump off the line into action. I sprint twenty feet. They won the ball, so I slow down. No sense in rushing around now, it's in the defenses hands. My legs are cold. Why a breeze? It's raining harder. I look down...No skirt. My mind goes blank. Why don't I have a skirt on? I spin around. There laying twenty feet back is my skirt, in the mud.

"You might want to put that on." snorts the girl defending me. I blush.

"No I usually play nude. It's cool." I stammer, trying to play it off. I rush back and awkwardly try to button my skirt back on. Oh no. Here comes the ball. I frantically try to button it but the rain is coming to hard and my mind is to frazzled. My eyes land on my coach.She is rolling with laughter on the side lines. It just now to me how public this little incident is. I bolt with my stick in one hand and my skirt in the other to the side lines yelling for
Ally to sub someone in for me.
"Nice strip tease Em!"
"You would!!"
I like those spandex there girl!"
I hear these remarks tossed back and forth. All I want is to get my skirt back on and get
back in the game so I can knock that girl down who made fun of me.
The day and the life of Emily Ewing.

Rain

Rain on the widow and rain on the door. I couldn't ask for anything more. 

United in the Rain

Mark and I sit hunched against the rain. We got to the lacrosse game early—before the rain started. As the first parents to find our spot in the bleachers, we watched as the girls stretched and passed. A few more fans gathered as a light sprinkle began. After a few minutes the drizzle became a gentle shower and then a downpour. Quickly umbrellas began to shoot up. Mark and I each hold an umbrella with canopies converging. We are squished shoulder to shoulder. One-by-one other spectators get up and leave for shelter—some back to cars, others to the snack stand. A few even trot up the bleachers to the announcer’s booth for refuge. Eventually, the game is postponed and the team tramps past us to crowd into the booth as well. As she passes, Emily’s says, “Hey, you guys can come up here, too, if you want.” We don’t. We’ve discussed it. Packed side-by-side with our umbrellas overlapping, blanket across our legs and collars turned up; we are pretty dry. If we give in and make a break for shelter—we would surely get drenched and then there would be no dry spot to return to. “No thank you. We will ride it out together.”


This is our credo. An unspoken, intensely felt plan of attack. Our Modus Operandi, if you will. Life is tough. Rough-and-tumble. Money is tight. Kids screw up. We screw up. If we don’t hunch together against it all, covered by God’s grace and mercy with the canopy of His love overlapping us; we will get drenched.


We had our own sequestered space in the rain for a while. We talked and laughed. We said we should get “extra credit” as parents for sitting in the rain to see a lacrosse match. Eventually the game resumed. Emily scored twice that day. This is the same field where several years ago Becca got MVP for her efforts in the goal. This, the same place others had deserted only minutes ago and came back to puddle seats or came back not at all. We endured unflinching, together to the end. Life changes. Rain starts. Rain stops. Together it’s all good.

Let it Rain

This might be stereotypical but rain is one of my all time favorite things.

I love everything about it.

The sight of the dark clouds looming in the distance foreshadowing the hours to follow. Even catching a glimpse of a wall of rain that is descending from under the cloud.

The smell of the damp musty air, pregnant with drops before the fall and the fresh, crisp smell afterward. Even the gross dirt smell that happens after a spring rain, when the worms come squiggling out of the earth reminding you to watch where you walk.

The feel of running/dancing/walking/standing in the rain with massive cold pellets drifting from the sky soaking your hair and making your clothes stick to your skin, washing away the day and all it's thoughts.

The sound of the light pitter-patter that clams and soothes and then accelerates into a massive crescendo of slamming drops pelting the windows and thunder shaking the house. Climaxing into a grand symphony of sound created by nature. Created by God.

The dim light that stretches across the sky giving a quiet haze to the day, only to be broken by a burst of lighting as the storm reaches it's peak and a soft rainbow as the finale.

Rain is one of those things that effects everyone.

All the busy, angry, rushed, people on the freeway slow down and spread apart.

Stay-at-home moms are frantically running through the house shutting windows.

Dogs and cats are hiding behind couches in fear.

People at the grocery store are standing in the entry waiting for the skys to clear so they can dash to the car.

Little children are barefoot running through the rain for pleasure. Turning their faces to the sky trying to catch the drops in their mouth. Watching as the drops fall slowly from the silent clouds above.

Me. I like to sit on a porch or in a garage. Watching. Feeling. Smelling. Seeing. And Hearing all that rain has to offer.

Spooning

First of all I must apologize for my lack of participation thus far. I must say anything on a computer frustrates me. If its not face book I need a guide. So now that mom has set me up it's time to write....

I used to take for granted that fact that we have a mother that will be our personal soothing alarm clock (equipped with a snooze button),  breakfast/lunch/dinner provider, free taxi driver and back scratcher extraordinaire. I still catch myself not being as grateful as I should be but I'm just realizing how blessed we really are. Most of my friends have to wake up to the shrill screaming of an alarm clock or to a parent running out the door shouting "You'd better not be late for school!" We have an exceptional mother who serves us in every way she can. 

I always loved getting my back scratched, my stomach scratched, my legs, feet, arm pits...pretty much anything scratched. It is still a blessing getting lulled into a pretend sleep (feel free to stop by any time mom, I'm free most nights.) I especially loved it when I happened to be sharing the experience with one of my sisters. It was usually Becca and I sprawled out in mom and dad's old bed. It was especially enjoyable because I knew that when mom snuck out of the room the night was not nearly over. I can not tell you how many nights Becca and I layed awake talking about anything and everything . Mostly laughing. After the last laughs died down our breathing deepened, eyes remained closed. This is when the real fun started. 

I am an aggressive sleeper. I have been told by many. I gradually awake from a restful sleep. Stretch, yawn, blink, then realize I'm on top of a very awake very confused first guest. 

"Oh I'm so sorry! Did I keep you awake long!?"

"O no...only about four hours..."

That's how I weed out the fake friends. Invite 'em over and sleep with 'em. If they can handle the spooning, they can handle me. 

The Warmth of Her Song

The day was cold. I came from the pathways of my campus—all literally frozen or slushed over from the terrible Chicago weather—and the relentless wind brought fast, red color into my cheeks and nose. I entered Anderson Hall. This tall, rounded building was my first year place of residence at North Park—a surrogate home.

I stomped off the ice from my sturdy, beloved brown shoes that were certainly not thick enough to keep the cold out. Look up and smile, I tell myself so as not to forget the desk attendant who wanted to see my ID. Fumbling a bit, I retrieved the little plastic card needed for entry. Say hello. I shook both legs in a funny jig to fling the ice chunks off my pants and then trudged up the flight of stairs to my room, all the while awkwardly slipping on tiles with puddles of melted ice. Fishing into my coat pocket with fuzzy mittens, I retrieved the door keys, unlocked the door, entered and proceeded to strip off my soaking wet pants. They had accumulated icy water up to mid-shin. Much better. I was tired, college sometimes drains.

Time for a shower. I gathered the odds and ends needed, wrapped myself in a towel that almost fit around me twice, and plodded down the rounded hallway toward my niche of relief. Turning on the water and letting it pool on the floor I stepped in and started to feel my near-frostbitten toes again. The heat of the water flowed all around me, ebbing into the depths of my bodily cold.

My mind whirled incomprehensibly as I tried to piece together the good and the bad from my day. It’s just too cold to try. Every part felt engulfed in chill—even my thoughts and sometimes my spirit were wintered by all that is foreign and difficult. Wintered by a new college, by a first roommate, by a diverse campus, by a big city, by a lack of home. I let the hot water gushing from its spout return feeling in the numbness. Then suddenly out of my mouth came another source of warmth: the nightly melodies of my childhood. “Rain drops on roses and whiskers on kittens… when I’m feeling sad, I simply remember by favorite things…” The music and its words comforted my frustrated mind, body, and spirit.

In those moments I was not lacking home. In the songs sung by the mother who loves, I returned to the comfort of my bedroom at bedtime, dark and safe. The soothing, emanating presence of my mother’s songs flooded my heart. The tingling of blood rushing back in filled me with hope for real and available warmth.

Singing

I have always wished that I could sing. I think I am the only sister who somehow didn't get the Oney singing gene. So honestly I am not all that moved by singing. It seems that my entire life my mom and sisters took every opportunity to burst into song, pretty much any occasion called for a tune whether waking, falling asleep, riding in the car, cleaning, you name it, it was a good time for singing. I think it is my lack of talent that has kept me from ever totally enjoying the constant singing. I say all of that not because I never liked the "school days" tune or the nightly lullaby's but because I am having a hard time relating in any way to this weeks topic. I guess I wonder to myself as I write this... will I one day sing my children to sleep despite my inability?

Going To Sleep

Going to bed when my sisters and I were between the ages of 4-10 was like pulling teeth. My mom would casually drop hints that it was "about that time" or "it's getting late" etc. and my sisters and I would sit around like we didn't hear her. Finally, she would say "up the golden stairs!" which meant this was the point of no return. No matter how much we pleaded, begged and protested we were going to bed. I am not really sure where this saying came from (Mom, can you enlighten us?) but for some reason it was always the ultimatum of bedtime in our house.

Of course my sisters and I would always drag our feet getting ready for bed. First, we would quietly sing 3 times in our head "Jesus Loves Me" as we brushed our teeth to make sure we brushed long enough. Second, we would take time picking out P.J.s which usually ended up being a big t-shirt. Then, it was "Mom, read us a book!" and the picking out the book/reading process. Next, was the desperate attempt to stay up longer saying "I'm thirsty/hungry." Finally it was "Mom, sing to us."

There were several staple songs that my mom would sing when she sang us to sleep. One of those, was obviously "My Favorite Things" as previously mentioned. Some of the others were; Tis a Gift to be Simple, Amazing Grace, You are a Masterpiece, Great is Thy Faihtfulness, and my personal favorite, "Stubborn Love" - originally recorded by The Great Amy Grant and Michael W. Smith...classic.

On special nights my mom would sing and scratch our backs or play with our hair at the same time. This is heaven. If you have never had it done I recommend calling your mom right now and demanding a back scratching. I have distinct memories of being really glad I got stuck with the bottom bunk on these nights.

My mom would sing until we fell asleep or so she thought... Over half the time we were faking it. Every kid does this, and for some reason, every kid knows the special tricks to making it believable. Breathe heavily and lightly flutter your eyes like you are in REM. It's a great trick works every time. I digress... When I would fake sleep I remember my mom singing through her repertoire of songs, and then she would get up to leave and quietly whisper "I love you." Leaving the room in a peaceful state with one final flutter of light from the hallway as she closed the door.

Little did she know my sisters and I would be up in about 5 mins. playing My Little Ponies and talking to the wee hours of the night. (What do 7 year olds talk about that late anyway?!)

Eventually my parents would hear us and the night would end in spanking threats and a wooden spoon on the dresser for sleeping-scare-tactics. They rarely followed through with a spanking, because even though my mom read, gave us water, scratched our backs and sang, for some reason the thought of a spanking was one of the most effective ways of putting us to sleep.

However, I am glad my parents didn't just start with the spanking as the method for putting us to bed because I do cherish the moments when mom sang to us. I can't wait to have little ones of my own when I can share special times like that with them.

Legacy of the Lullaby

I love being a mom. I love watching my girls grow into beautiful and godly women. I love our traditions: the “School Days” song and eggs-in-a-frame on the first day of school, “Christmas Gift” greetings on December 25, loud music on Sunday mornings to wake us all up…but one soothing ritual I have always cherished—and now miss dearly—is singing songs to my babies as they drift off to sleep.

Recently I sang to Becca and Emily as they nodded off before Becca flew halfway around the world to Taybeh. It was a parting gift of sorts as well as a desperate attempt to hold her fast. It brought back so many memories….

One of the most powerful moments I have experienced as a mother was on one of our vacations to Myrtle Beach. It was several years ago, but apparently long enough ago that I wanted you all to go to bed at the same time. I was still regularly singing Emily to sleep so it was probably about ten or twelve years ago. We were staying at the Long Bay Resort and you girls were all sleeping in one room in two double beds. I’m sure we used the excuse that “Santa” needed to come and everyone needed to go to sleep—but however we managed it—you were all in your pjs and snuggled in bed. I sat on the edge and rubbed baby Emily’s back while I sang Christmas carols to you all for a very long time. I’m sure you were not aware of it, but I had tears dripping off my chin as I sang. I love you all so much and to be in the same room with you all as you floated smoothly into slumber, quietly breathing in the warmth of the night made my heart so full.

I’m sure that “Raindrops on Roses” made an appearance along with “Silent Night” (a song that at one time scared Cynthia), “O Little Town of Bethlehem,” “The Christmas Song” and a myriad of other carols. It was one of my favorites—an image-laden song. When I sang “Girls in white dresses with blue satin sashes” I could just see Cynthia and Katherine in the little white lace dresses MamMam and Grandpapa had bought for you—with blue and pink interchangeable satin belts.

My favorite line to sing was “Cream-colored ponies and crisp apple strudel.” The lyrical timbre of the words alone is worth repeating, but add the pretty pastoral picture and a delicious dessert and what’s not to like?

I suppose I will still have a few rare opportunities to sing one or the other of you to sleep. I will bide my time, take advantage of every occasion and then hide the treasure in my heart.

Why "Our Favorite Things"

When my sisters and I were kids our mom used to sing us to sleep. A staple of the night- time-mommy-track-list was "My Favorite Things" aka "Raindrops on Roses" from the Sound of Music. Ever since I can remember I have had nearly every word to this song memorized. I always got the "crisp apple streudels and schnitzel with noodles" part jumbled though (as a five year old those are big words!)

Now we are all growing up and in different parts of the country. In an effort to stay better connected we decided to start this blog. How this is supposed to work is that every week one of us will pick one of OUR favorite things and each person then writes about that particular topic.

My sisters, my mom and I are all in TOTALLY different places in life so this should make the blog pretty dynamic and interesting. You never know what type of post you will get. Could be short, could be long. Could be funny could be serious. Who knows?

We hope you will stick with us on this blogging journey and most of all enjoy!