Sniffing Blankets

"The Left Behinds"
Middle Grandson's Orange Blanket
Youngest Grandson's Polka-Dot Blanket

I tracked UA Flight 231 all the way across the United States. That flight takes place everyday. But I didn't care about other days. I cared about it yesterday. It took off at Dulles at a little before 3:30pm. Late...that's United! At 5:00pm it was entering Iowa. At 6:00pm the flight was over Kansas. 7:00pm halfway through New Mexico. 8:00pm entered California. Landed in San Diego at 8:30pm.

It was my way of hanging on to my only daughter and her three little guys. My heart aches for her presence and little boys' voices. I kept busy as I checked throughout the five and half hour flight. I stripped all the beds, washed and remade beds. Went throughout the house and picked up the "take and migrate" items that the three year old found in one place and were never to be found there again. I wasn't mad...it made me laugh and long. I went out to the yard and picked up three gazillion sticks of different shapes and sizes that were left everywhere! Inside toys found outside. Three drinking cups gotten while out to lunch at Longhorn Steak House. Oldest grandson's was on the coffee table in the living room. Middle grandson's was by his bed. Youngest grandson's was in the driveway. Each spot tells volumes about the personality of each boy.

I was also looking for (hoping) what was left behind. I don't know about other mothers/grandmothers in the same situation, but I handle these "left behind" items for about a week. Savoring the memories they conjure. I found the mother-lode of left-behinds. The two youngest left their blankets. The first thing I did was pull these blankets into my arms, close my eyes, and took the deepest inhalation of the essence of little boy on each blanket. There they were, Middle Grandson and Youngest Grandson! Sweaty, fresh air hair rubbed off onto polka dot and orange blankets.

All the animals today, know they are gone. They only know they haven't had so much to eat in a long time--double portions!!! The house is quiet. Toys are gone. Counters clean. iPad & iPhone have no fingerprints on their screens.

It's normal again. My heart aches for all the noise, mess, and disorder. So it was that I watched the flight that took them far from my arms.

The joy of what I've written is that it is all God. He tracks us! He notices the little things and makes a big deal out of all the insignificant. They are precious to Him. We are precious to Him. Through the tears that fell, I was smiling. Smiling because this from-garden-soil back to garden-soil-woman is in His image. These instincts, motherly feelings, and deep sentiments are from Him. This is God. This is Him in me. This is me in Him. I wonder if He smells my sweat, air-kissed hair some days. What does He do to "take me in"?  How we go bonkers over those we love, do we not think He does the same with us? From where do these feelings we have come? Are they not in the heart of the One who inhabits the throne room? I love God's mother's heart.

I have to say, little blankets are calling for me to take another big sniff. I bet God is doing the same. Joy!

De-Barking The Old Man

In Nature and Photography It's Called - Texture
In The Life of a Christian It's Called - The Old Man

Biology Lesson for the Day:  It's the normal rite of spring for a Sycamore Tree. Shedding it's bark. The Sycamore Tree is one of only a few trees that goes through a visually drastic process of  shedding it's outer layer. What comes off is dead, rough and scaly. What is left is smooth, pale green which turns to brilliant white as the tree grows it's leaves. I love the Sycamore Tree. They grow near water and have a lot of water content. Lightning is attracted to them. Moral of that story:  don't go near any tree during a thunder storm, but stay particularly clear of Sycamore Trees!

The real story! If I could see my "old man" shedding, how often would that be? How does that look?

I have hypothyroidism. Hence, I have an undue amount of dry skin--especially on my heels. I hate the sound of socks being pulled over my leather heels...cringe at the thought of putting on hose. They are doomed for the waste basket before they even get past the toes. Suffice it to say, I have plenty of dead skin to shed.

Have I noticed being shed of the "old Juanita"? I know that while in this body of dust, I will always have "old Juanita". But, as I head to the dust pile, there should be less of the old and more of the new. Recently, I've been noticing something new happening--transformation. I'm hoping that I don't notice so much of the "old" being shed, but nurturing the "new" being shaped. I've never felt this before. Putting off the "old man" was a scripture text and made a great word picture. But spiritual reality of "putting on the new man" is more than just a word picture in a scripture text. It's life. It's THE Life! He feels good and He fits perfectly. So long "old Juanita". Keep the "new" Life coming.

Curling dead bark on a tree is ugly-beautiful...makes for good images. It tells the story of growth, spring renewal, and ready for fruit-bearing. The same is true for us as believers. Only in the newness of Life does growth, renewal, and fruit emerge.

The image of the two branches shows the sharp contrast dwelling on/in the same tree. I have to say, it's the same in my spiritual life. I so want the NEW LIFE to be most evident.

Two forks of the same tree.
The Old Man Side and the New Man Side.

Light

Dogwood against the background of the first sun
rays of Easter morning hitting the tops of the trees

I had a plan before I went to bed last night. I would get up at my usual time, go outside, face east and watch the sunrise. I did just that. It is Easter morning.

I gathered my Daily Light, Bible, One Thousand Gifts journal, cup of coffee, my granddaughter's large pink Princess Blanket, and went out to the seating area in the woods and read the Easter story in Matthew..out-loud. I was joined by our cat Noah. He nudged me for attention which he got! Then he sat beside me as I read the account of Jesus from the Last Supper to His Resurrection. Right on cue, the sun rose above the horizon as I read the portion of scripture telling of the angel declaring that He was not in the tomb but He had risen. I was expecting a huge emotional surge to come over me. It was a mild lump in my throat but no tears fell. I thought myself to be unspiritual for not letting the "bigness" of the story to impact me. I stilled my thoughts and quelled the expectations. I sat. Eyes closed. I possessed the moment.

Thinking on the story. Wondering the exact emotions that Jesus was feeling when Him asked that the cup be taken from Him. The surrender in praying: not His will but His father's. Knowing the actions of His closest friends. Had he known from the beginning of the ages of this moment? What did He feel when He came back to find them sleeping? Resigned? Ready for the betrayal, of all and not only Judas? I think He had compassion and knew that His next hours would bring them more than they ever knew was possible. He loved fully. He loved unconditionally. He loved holy. He loved.

I sat in my chair, wrapped in my pink princess blanket and I was loved. Am loved by MY Resurrected Savior. I watched the rays bullet through the trees and the difference the sun made on all the foliage. Sunrise. There He was, here He is--the Light of the World.

I want this Easter to be remembered. I remember the Easter egg hunt with the grandchildren last year, but I don't remember the sermon message, the dinner, and I don't think I flooded my day with thoughts and contemplation of the significance of this blessed day. I want to remember this particular Passover/Resurrection Sunday. I want to rethink the naming of the gifts that I've noticed so far in my journal of counting blessings. I don't want to get caught in the procedure, I want to feel the privilege. I want. I desire the connection of thankfulness to my Light. I've sin in my life. My attitudes and thoughts this day have been blackened at times with resentment. I feel the weight of the bondage. I know this day bought me freedom. Why do I hang on to my shackles? What purpose do they serve? None are good. Stress. Physical illness. Loss of joy and a chance to notice a gift. Forgive me Father. Forgive this lost one who has been denying You. I don't have anyone accusing me of being associated with You, but I hear the young servant girl accusing Peter. And he denying You. That's me; am I'm not also denying You. Refusing the cost of the cross. Forgive me.

I have to say, I must say, thank you for Your gift of blood which cleanses and Your broken body which paid the price for my sin/darkness. So grateful. May I live it and pass it on. Light my way.

Too Much

Dew Drops

It's the little things. Ann Voskamp ( A Holy Experience With God ) opened my eyes to the ordinary, everyday, "all things" gifts. God reveals in His time which is another gift whether I believe that wholeheartedly at times or not. Naming the moment and recognizing it from God is such a gift from Him to me. My awareness and the Holy Spirit unite and thankfulness is created. My gift back to God. This also includes the not-so-lovely parts of the day. Doesn't He say to be thankful in all things, not for all things but in all things. God uses a messy house to reveal spiritual messes--a gift of not only earthly cleaning but the need of eternal cleaning. I have a home to clean--gift. God cleans this vessel's corners; rids it of taking Him and all the little things He's in for granted. It's too much to ponder. The senses are on hyper alert. And there is a smile on my face most of the day. Who knew such a thing would happen!

I have to say I am thankful for the "Too Muchness" in my life!