A Way Back

Finding a way back to the blog has been easier said than done.  It is not that I don’t miss blogging, I do. A lot. But I find it not making my priority list day in and day out.  I write in my head, but not on screen or on paper. I miss that. There are many excuses I could make—home schooling three kids (one kindergarten, one middle school and one *gasp* high school) takes up most of my time. But I still find time for other things I enjoy, so it doesn’t excuse not writing. The truth is, I miss the old days of blogging. I miss the community. Most of the early bloggers I followed and with whom I communicated have also stopped regularly blogging. That sense of dialogue has gone, and with it some of my motivation to keep writing. I miss that.

I am going to try and find my way back in 2017. Despite missing the blogging community, I miss the accountability of writing more. The old days of writing for “In Other Words” forced me to write to deadlines, thus I wrote more, thus I was developing my voice and style. My writing was better because I wrote. And by not writing, I have lost that push to improve. I also miss my personal accountability.  If I post goals, I am more likely to try and meet them. If I post memory verses, I am more likely to memorize. Just by putting it on my blog as a reminder, helps me to follow through with the things I want to accomplish.

All that to say, hopefully you will see me more in 2017 (all three of you who still check in to see if I’m alive *wink*). I’ll post my verses on the first and fifteenth.  I’ll post monthly goals.  I’ve already chosen a word for 2017 and will write about it. And, I’ll give an update on how a year of living “Seriously!” changed my life. Maybe the changes were small, but this was a good word choice and year, despite how difficult the year has felt in many other ways. I hope to discuss books and life more. Thank you for still being a part of my blogging world.  See you soon!

How to Lose Your Voice--Part 4

This is the final installment of losing my voice--the next installment should be about regaining a voice. But today I want to talk about when our voice is inadvertently silenced. I think that this is probably more common than the previous condition. I don't think that most people set out to quieten us or to ignore us. I think sometimes it just happens as a result of their own journey (and sometimes self-absorption). That is a sobering thought, because in it I must admit that I am also guilty of silencing others in my own self-absorbed life.

My mother was one of those classic, stereotyped parents who lived through her children. I knew at a young age that she had been kept out of National Honor Society and I was expected to right that wrong. The day I was installed as NHS President, she was much more excited than I was. She often took over dreams that I dared to breathe. And that often resulted in my withdrawal.

I was reminded of this recently when I was scanning old photographs into digital form. I was an avid photographer, never seen without a camera. I received my first SLR in Jr. High and I was in heaven. Around the time I was in college, I started actively trying to sell some photos. My mother was also a good photographer. I got my love of cameras from her. But for her, it was always a hobby. Until I got a chance to publish a photograph. Then she decided she would try to sell some of hers. And she succeeded. The talk around her sale eventually soured photography for me for a time. I definitely stopped trying to sell anything, and really rarely took my camera anywhere. I know it was never her intention for me to stop, but it happened. Her seeming obsession took the joy out of what I did. It happened with other things that I enjoyed. She saw my joy, decided to do something similar, became obsessive/competitive/derisive and I would withdraw.

The problem was, I was the only one that was missing out. I let her take my joy and stopped what I enjoy. Hear me clearly, I am the one who must take the responsibility of quitting because it was not her direct intent for me to stop what I was doing. It was inadvertent on her part.

This is not just true in the "voice" of the hobbies we pursue. It is also true of our writing. I've written here and here about the danger of trying to use someone else's voice in our writing--to try and be someone we are not. If we become so worried about using someone else's voice, ours is inadvertently silenced. When I become so worried about how something will be received that I never hit "publish," I have allowed others to inadvertently silence me. When someone's pursuit of something runs us over and we don't speak out, we have been inadvertently silenced. Not intentional. But it hurts just the same. And, for me, it hurts more as I realize that I have to take some of the responsibility of being silent. There is no one I can say is censoring or stopping me from speaking. I am allowing other people to govern how much I say.

If the success or apathy of someone else has caused you to stop sharing your gifts, I encourage you to resume using your gifts. Don't let someone else's actions take away your voice. Instead, look past their short-sightedness and take joy in what you are able to say and do. And, would you please join me in being committed to not inadvertently silencing others. Join with me to celebrate the successes and gifts of others. We must set aside our own jealousies and insecurities to encourage one another. After all, this body of Christ should be more about building up rather than tearing down.

I long to see you so that I may impart to you some spiritual gift to make you strong—that is, that you and I may be mutually encouraged by each other’s faith. Romans 1:11-12

Going Places

Dear Ash~

I sit here remembering the second time we were together. (The first time doesn't count because you were on your best behavior brought on by whatever threats your mom and dad came up with that day). You were so angry. Angry at me for coming into "Uncle German's" life and in your eight year old eyes, that was usurping your place. You could not begin to understand that Uncle German had already made it clear that you and your brother and sister were of utmost importance to him, and I must like you. You could not fathom how I could have started to love you long before I ever met you. You only saw me as an interloper and took every opportunity to lash out at me. Perhaps it was all my fault in your mind--after all you wouldn't have been moving from your home if Uncle German hadn't married me, moved to Birmingham and transferred your daddy to come work for him. At any rate, on this second meeting, you were not happy about going places at all. We were there to help your mom and dad paint the house to get it ready to sell. There in your little girl shoes, you stamped your feet and made it clear that going places was not what you wanted to do.

Who would have thought that it was just the beginning of the places you would go?

Fast forward four years. We were all going places again. This time to England. This move you were happy to make. In fact, you and your brother conspired to come earlier than your mom and sister. This time, instead of the bad guy, I got to be the solution. I could be at the hotel with you between school and your dad finishing work. You looked so grown up in your public school uniform! You hated the "practical" black shoes you were forced to wear with the uniform, but the rest was a grand adventure. You were so excited to make new friends, see new things, and spread your wings.

Spread your wings you did. In fact it was just a short time and you were going places again. This time, wearing rugby shoes, back to America for university. I kept thinking of that eight year old I met, but I was faced with a soon-to-be eighteen year old. You had grown into such a self-assured and beautiful young woman. I was proud that you now not only considered me "Aunt" but also friend. I could not love you more if there were a blood relationship. As I prayed for your university education, I marveled at the young woman God had destined for you to become.

Today, I sit her thinking of the new places you are going. You have traded your trendy boots for more durable options. You have just spent your first week in ROTC Leadership Training. I shouldn't be surprised that you chose the military as an option for your future since your grandpa, mother and father all faithfully served. But there is a part of me that quivers and quakes at your decision. Not that you can't cut it--my rugby playing, no-holds-barred, tell-it-like-you-see-it, sweet niece--I know you can cut it. But it is the places you could go with this decision that give me pause. I know that you will serve where ever you are sent and do a wonderful job at it. I pray that those places are out of harms way. I pray that your heart and your mind are protected from the things that you are likely to see in the coming years. I know the One who holds the places where you are going; don't ever lose sight of Him.

Going places....
Alabama....
England...
Illinois...
Leadership Training...
????

How easy it was to let you go some places. How hard it is now! Praying for you!

Love,
Aunt MiPa

This post will serve as my entry into June's writing contest at Scribbit's. The theme, as you may have guessed, is "going places."

The picture is courtesy of www.morguefile.com and the photographer is "kakisky".

They Gave Away My Red Shoes

This is a story I have been writing for a long time. The May writing contest at Scribbit's place encouraged me to finish it. Here is my entry.



“Talk to her,” her exasperated daughter said. “She’s totally unreasonable!”

I tentatively knocked on her door. Inside I could hear her. Unreasonable? No. Inconsolable? Yes. I sat by her bed and listened to her sob. Finally, there was a break in her cries.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“They even gave away my red shoes!” she blurts out. The sobs returned.

This sweet little lady had just come to the nursing facility where I worked. She was recovering from a devastating stroke that left her immobile. Her well-meaning daughters had cleared out her house and given most of her things to charity. They had given her little choice in what to keep. Instead of saving her the heartache of decisions, they had unknowingly triggered this immense grief.

When the sobs subsided, I said, “Tell me about the red shoes.”

“They were my dancing shoes.” Her eyes got that far-off look.

“Do you like to dance?”

“I loved to dance. I met my husband at a dance. Whirling dresses. Clicking heels. The thrill of being twirled around.” She smiled for the first time since she had arrived.

“Did you dance often?”

“We went dancing every weekend. Well , that is until the babies came. Then we couldn’t go because they needed us. When they grew up, we started dancing again. Down at the VFW Hall. Big band, ballroom, we loved it all.” She paused. She took a breath. “I haven’t danced since Al died. That was eight years ago.” Tears started to fill her eyes.

“And the red shoes?”

“I wore them the last time we danced. I was still beautiful when I wore them. “ Her voice trailed off.

We sat in silence.

Then, angrily “I hate getting old!” More quietly, she said, “I’ll always be old.”

“They gave away my red shoes.
I’ll never dance again.
I’ll always be old.”

picture by jeltvoski, morguefile.com

edited to add: I am humbled that this was judged as an honorable mention piece. It is a story close to my heart. I am thrilled it touched so many of you. Blessings!