I don’t know about you, but this year I’m ready for school to be out.
one step at a time
Last year, I feared summer. Really what I feared was the loss of the school routine. What would I do with my son every day, all summer long? This year, that fear’s been replaced. Trumped by thoughts of the children lost at Sandy Hook and Plaza Towers.
I want my child home. With me. Where I can see him and hear him and hug him and know he’s safe.
Truth be told, he’s probably not much safer at home than he is at school. I can’t protect him from all the dangers in the world any more than his teachers can. It’s just that these days this worrisome hesitation pulls at my heart when I send him off in the mornings. I kiss him goodbye knowing there are parents who did the same and never saw their children alive again.
I admit it. I’m powerless against murderous shooters, wanton bombers, natural disasters, accidents, and illness.
The best I can. That’s what I’ll do. While he’s in my house and under my care—while we’re together—I’ll do the best I can and ask the sovereign God to help me trust Him with the rest.
Cast all your anxiety on him because he cares for you. 1 Peter 5:7 NIV
I can’t listen to this song without crying, but it fits the post. In My Arms by Plumb.
Parents, do you find yourself holding your children tighter these days?
“So I’m writing this story about Monsanto,” I said to my friend.
corn field, image credit: James Jordan
“Who?”
“Monsanto.”
“Never heard of them.”
My husband’s career in agriculture spans nearly 30 years. I take it as a given that everyone’s heard of Monsanto.
The company is one of the big dogs in farming and biotechnology. If you live in St. Louis, as I did for almost 13 years, you know Monsanto. If you eat food raised in the United States, it’s possible Monsanto has been involved in the production of that food in some way.
But I discovered from talking with my friend that there are people who don’t know Monsanto or what they do. And then there are a lot of people who only know what they’ve heard from activists and Food, Inc.
With that in mind and with the guidance from my editors at BlogHer, I tried to write a story that gives readers some context for what Monsanto does and communicates the thoughts of four women I interviewed who work there.
There’s the over scheduling of events. End of school programs, concerts, field trips, parties, sporting events, conferences, graduations—all squeezed into a few weeks, just like at Christmastime. There are weddings, retirements, and going away parties. There’s May Day, Cinco de Mayo, Mother’s Day, and Memorial Day, not to mention the lesser known holidays like Candied Orange Peel Day, Frog Jumping Day, and Dance Like a Chicken Day. No kidding.
In some parts of the country (Kansas), the seasons are changing. The weather’s finally beginning to level out, if gale force winds can be considered leveling out. At least it’s sunny. Flowers bloom. Winter wheat fields turn from brown to green. Bunnies the size of my dog saunter about the yard. Nature’s in flux, pressing on to summer.
Add to that a stressful life event or two, like moving, and you could wind up dancing like a chicken. The one that flew over the cuckoo’s nest. Yes, change is stressful. Even good change is stressful. We’re allowed that, I think.
We go to sleep in some of the darkest winters of change. We wake up to clouds, gray, drizzle, snow, cold, bleh. Night comes again. Then gray. Then night. Then gray. Again and again. We get up. We sojourn on. Maybe for years.
Then one morning, a little light. The twinkle of an idea.
The whisper, “Hey, this could be the beginning of something beautiful.”
robin, image credit: cruadinx
The next morning, a little more sun. The wink of possibility. The glimpse of a robin or a rabbit, rabbit, creature of habit.
Another morning, and the sky is the brightest shade of blue. The sun, oh, the sun is shining and we are warmed by it. Sweet promise of a brand new day.
Let us hold unswervingly to the hope we profess, for He who promised is faithful. Hebrews 10:23 NIV
My house smells like cardboard boxes from packing. Stuff isn’t where it should be. I wonder if it ever will be again.
My thoughtful, kind, generous neighbors threw me a party. They gave me gifts from Kansas. I will miss these ladies. Our neighborhood has been one of the biggest blessings of our short time here. It’s hard to say goodbye.
Our son’s school and teacher this year have been huge blessings, too. His class performed a Salute to America program this week. They sang patriotic songs and gave speeches as famous Americans. They ended the show with a fitting quote from Ronald Reagan:
“I know that for America there will always be a bright dawn ahead.”
the stage is set
Could you just absolutely weep?
The program was noble and right and good. It’s what American elementary school students should be doing. I will miss this school. It’s hard to watch my child say goodbye.
A family member in North Carolina was unexpectedly hospitalized for most of the week. It’s nauseating to know that although we’re so close to being there, we’re not there now when we could possibly help. It’s hard to feel helpless.
I worked on writing a challenging assignment this week. Wrote my little heart out, or at least it seemed to me like I did, and I’m not sure it matters. The question of what will Aimee do when she grows up remains outstanding, unanswered, and flapping in the wind.
Life feels out of control and unsettled. So I wave my white flag.
But those who hope in the Lord
will renew their strength.
They will soar on wings like eagles;
they will run and not grow weary,
they will walk and not be faint. Isaiah 40:31 NIV
White Flag by Dido is one of my favorite songs. I know she says she won’t wave a white flag and I just wrote I will, but neither of us is giving up, so there you go.
Or it lost you. You knew it was lost when you left it, but you didn’t know the full measure of what the leaving meant.
Once you grasped the leaving and the loss, it was too late. There was no going back. You were certain you would never find it again and it would never find you.
Then one day, quite by surprise, there it was. You could see it in the distance. And all you could think was how to get to it.
Put on your red shoes and click your heels. It’s time to go home.
* * *
One Wednesday morning last October, I rounded the corner onto my street. Something was out of place. My husband’s truck was in the driveway.
A little background: my husband’s marketing prowess helped the company where he had worked in St. Louis to sell out of their product all three years he was there. That success in turn attracted a buyer to purchase the company. My husband was wooed to Wichita, family in tow, to lead marketing at the acquiring company. He was supposed to be at work, but he met me at the door.
tornado shelter
“What’s wrong?” I said. “Are you sick?”
“No.”
“Did you get laid off?”
“Yes.”
We’d been nine months in Wichita. Enough time to uproot a family, plop them down on the flat prairie of Kansas, cycle them through homesickness, new schools, new churches, new grocery stores, positive performance reviews, and one nasty tornado. Nine months in Wichita and they cut him loose.
I bought my ruby slippers when he still had a job. Little did I know, they were ripe for this journey.
* * *
Within weeks, colleagues called upon my husband as a consultant. This comes as no surprise to me. He’s a creative, strategic thinker. A rainmaker. A walking encyclopedia of agriculture. A good man who’s really good at what he does. We thought consulting would be a temporary gig, but he enjoys the work and he’s doing well. Maybe he’ll just keep right on building his business.
Wichita is not our home. Without the job, there’s nothing to keep us here. But where to go? Home of course. And where is that?
deja vu
Home for us is a toss-up between Missouri and North Carolina. We love them both. We didn’t expect to have to choose. Not now, anyway. The last seven months have been a roller coaster blur of weighing good options against each other and agonizing over what to do.
All that is about to end.
We’re surrendering to our inner South. Moving back to sweet tea and barbecue. Home to where we met and married.
Friends and family wait with open arms and long drawls. Fireflies and tadpoles, tall pine trees and dolphins arching out of the Atlantic at dawn—I like to think they wait for us, too.
We’ve coaxed our son with tales of your finest, North Carolina. There’s no place like home.
Even the sparrow has found a home,
and the swallow a nest for herself,
where she may have her young—
a place near Your altar,
Lord Almighty, my King and my God.
Blessed are those who dwell in Your house;
they are ever praising You. Psalm 84:3-4 NIV
While many websites with clever names compete for attention in the blogosphere, Project Underblog speaks to my heart.
Project Underblog
Project Underblog honors the small and mighty blogging voices. The Underblog is more interested in your words than your page views. Novel concept these days. Underbloggers are resilient, determined, thoughtful. They’re genuinely nice people. Low on snark, high on encouragement.
Content for Project Underblog comes from a pool of submissions along with posts from a core group of monthly contributors.
Guess who’s the newest monthly contributor?
image credit: The J Train
My first post as a Project Underblog contributor is live today. It’s a humorous look at Debunking Eight Rules of Blogging. Those of you who blog know there are a lot more than eight “rules,” but I was already waaay over my word count and had to stop. That’s your cue to pick up the ball and run with it. Go, read the post, and comment on your favorite (or least favorite) blogging “rules.”
As a contributor, I’ll be on the lookout for great posts. Don’t be surprised if I encourage you to submit a post for consideration on Project Underblog. I’ve suspected all along that several of you are superhero material. Perhaps you are an Underblogger?
We shall see. I might even let you borrow my cape.
Do not despise these small beginnings, for the Lord rejoices to see the work begin… Zechariah 4:10 NLT
image credit: Gord McKenna. Click to read Debunking Eight Rules of Blogging on Project Underblog
From the girl with the Hello Kitty kitchen, here’s a link to Underdogby Lisa Loeb. BONUS link: Ride your inchworm down memory lane with the theme song from the cartoon Underdog.
