Don’t Save the Marshmallows

My mother used to tell me not to save my clothes. Go ahead and wear your best today, she’d say. Guest blogger Karla Foster explains how the same applies to the marshmallows.

Rummaging through my pantry, I came across a bag of marshmallows. I almost returned it to the back corner, but decided to bring it into the light instead.

Expiration June 2009. Oops.

Apparently, one day in 2008 I thought it might be nice to make Rice Krispies Treats. How many times since then had my hand brushed across the marshmallows looking for another ingredient?

I’d think to myself, “I should make something with these.” Then in the same breath, “No, I should save them.”

Not now. No time. Save for later. As I stared at the marshmallows now in our trash, I thought about what was missed because of my excuses.

marshmallowpillow — as seen at Good Works, www.goodworksfurniture4u.com

The marshmallows could have been a quick dessert for a family in need. A greeting to a new neighbor. A snack for a friend’s kids. Or even a sweet reward for lots of us working out at the gym.

Recently, a member of our Sunday school class entered the hospital in a life and death battle. This only gives me more pause to consider that I am not guaranteed a later. There is just today. There is just now to do what God is calling me to do.

Be holy as I am holy. Go and tell all the world. And so much more. There are kind words to share, notes of encouragement to be written, prayers to be lifted.

Why wait? And for goodness sake, don’t save the marshmallows.

Do not withhold good from those who deserve it
when it’s in your power to help them.
If you can help your neighbor now, don’t say,
“Come back tomorrow, and then I’ll help you.” Proverbs 3:27-28 NLT

The Winans’ voices are smoother than s’mores. This song is an oldie—even older than Karla’s marshmallows, but such a goodie. Take a listen now to Tomorrow.

Karla Foster and her husband Bill are dear friends of ours.

Besides teaching Bible study and apologetics classes with Bill, whipping folks into shape as an aerobics instructor, and making the occasional pan of Rice Krispies Treats, Karla enjoys a successful career in IT sales.

Oh, and she’s a Tarheel, which never hurts on this blog.

Posted on October 17, 2011July 14, 2012 by Aimee 17

Miss Ruby’s Wisdom

OPIaffairinredsquare — OPI an affair in red square

One of the best bits of parenting advice I’ve ever received came from a salon stylist in Nashville.

I’d known her for the length of my spa mani-pedi. Long enough to glean a jewel of wisdom.

She’d been through a lot in her life. Divorce, moves, changes, children.

Before settling down as a stylist, she ran a country restaurant. Woman after my own heart. Regulars called her Miss Ruby, not her real name.

We got to talking about our kids as the paint dried. She told me about her son who’s older than mine. He sounded adventurous. Recently tried sky diving.

I told her about my son’s daredevil tendencies. How they show up in his climbing antics, his inventions, his stories, and his wardrobe choices.

From across the manicure table, Miss Ruby looked me straight in the eye and said in no uncertain terms, “You let him be his own little person.”

Bingo. Exactly what I needed to hear.

What Miss Ruby didn’t know is that if I like you, I personality type you. I have also been known to do your colors and identify your fashion style, but that’s another post.

Using “Nurture by Nature,” written by Myers-Briggs experts Paul D. Tieger and Barbara Barron-Tieger, I’ve already guessed my son’s personality type.

So far it appears I’ve typed him correctly. Even if I’m wrong, his father and I will be wise to heed Miss Ruby’s advice.

We’d probably all be wise to heed Miss Ruby’s advice when dealing with the different characters in our lives.

So he wants to wear clothes that don’t match? Head-to-toe camo to school? Stripe on stripe?

Tell long, involved stories about the new Star Wars movie he will make when he grows up? Create “newspapers” and hawk them to neighbors for $19.99?

Describe in detail armament he will design when he joins the United States military? Stage a battlefield in my backyard with lawn care implements and vacuum cleaner attachments to reenact a siege?

rubyslipperdetailcrop — ruby slipper detail, as seen at Nordstrom

Let him be his own person, she said.

Much obliged, Miss Ruby. I believe your nickname has you pegged.

Who can find a virtuous woman? For her price is far above rubies. Proverbs 31:10 KJV

Cool song and fantastic video for this post. Watch the toys build music city as the Kaiser Chiefs sing Ruby.

Posted on October 12, 2011July 9, 2012 by Aimee 8

Moondance

Tposingwpumpkins — October 2, 2011 at Eckert's

We interrupt this cliff-hanger for a very important birthday.

I have always fallen in love in the fall.

The kindest boy I dated in high school. My nicest beau in college. The most amazing man I married when I was 25.

I fell for them all in the fall.

It should come as no surprise then that the sweetest one, my little boy, was born in October.

Funny, creative, sharp, sensitive, kind, energetic. He is a gift to his father and me.

Happy Birthday, pumpkin pie. I love you every season.

Happy Birthday!

Children are a gift from the Lord;
they are a reward from him. Psalm 127:3 NLT

Time for a song that is quintessentially autumn. Time for a Moondance.

Posted on October 5, 2011July 9, 2012 by Aimee 8

Wichita

Scarlett-O-Hara-vivien-leigh — Vivien Leigh as Scarlett O’Hara, image from fanpop.com

“Where?” I said.

“Wichita,” said my husband. And so it began.

The small successful company where my husband works has been acquired by a big successful company headquartered in Wichita. And they’ve offered him a job he really wants to do. In Wichita.

That’s Kansas. The state, not the band. Dorothy’s home turf before the tornado whisked her away to Oz.

All right. To my Midwestern friends, please excuse the sarcasm.

The Midwest is a mighty fine place and I understand why you like it, especially if you were raised here, went to school here, or got married here. That’s precisely why I like The South.

I’ve been very open about my desire to move back to The South and raise a Carolina boy who grows up to attend a fabulous University in an enchanted place called the Triangle. Wichita doesn’t fit into that plan.

Back in August when I posted Welcome to the Wild West, I boldly wrote: To the west, young woman, as far as this horse will take you.

That was figurative. I didn’t mean to actually go west.

Wichita doesn’t have a J Crew store. According to Wikipedia the city’s nickname is Cowtown, although my husband disagrees. He says Dodge City is Cowtown. Can you feel my pain?

However, we visited Wichita to discover the people are kind and welcoming. The schools and houses are great. And I’d have a chance to become a real cowgirl.

My husband is excited about the job. His mentors are positive. Lots of people move, they say. We shouldn’t worry about our son. He’ll adjust to it fine.

“Did you tell them it’s not your son you’re concerned about?” I said as my head fell to my keyboard. Crash!

We’ve relocated twice before. Vowed never again to follow companies around the country for jobs in states that don’t have ina at the end.

East coast, please. Thirteen original colonies, south by southeast. Lakefronts are beautiful, but they’re not beaches. I miss my family, my ocean, my people.

When my husband first mentioned Kansas, it took all my strength to pull my hair up into a ponytail and run to the mall. If I’ve said it once, I’ve said it a thousand times: Where else does a Gen X girl go when in flight?

As I brushed and gathered the locks, silver strands shined through winking at me like tinsel. I’m an adult. Have to act like one. Be thankful he has a job.

So does blogger girl put on the brave Midwestern face? Spit and shine her attitude? Think of this as a new adventure?

Or does she kindly, with the sweetest tea accent she can muster, decline the invitation to dance, hike up her hoop skirt, and get back to where she once belonged, bless her heart?

Gotta love a good cliff-hanger.

Have I not commanded you? Be strong and courageous. Do not be terrified; do not be discouraged, for the LORD your God will be with you wherever you go. Joshua 1:9 NIV

Ladies and gentlemen, The Beatles.

Posted on October 4, 2011July 14, 2012 by Aimee 58

Dead Man Walking

The man reading with my son in this picture is my Uncle Abe. He should be dead.

But he isn’t. This picture was taken in June. Abe’s still very much alive and well.

In late 2007, Abe began having chronic, acute digestive issues. After lots of tests, waiting and misdiagnosis, the real diagnosis fell like a ton of bricks.

Abe had a cancerous tumor on his right kidney. It could kill him. However, it was not responsible for his digestive issues.

So after a CAT scan and more waiting, the second diagnosis fell. Abe also had a cancerous tumor on his pancreas.

Anatomy is not my forte, nor is math my uncle would tell you. But I know you need your kidneys and pancreas to live. And I know my show biz obits. Pancreatic cancer killed Patrick Swayze in 2009 after a 20-month battle.

Uncle Abe was a dead man.

My experience with cancer and close relatives equals an immediate death sentence. Do not pass go. Do not collect $200.

I could hardly speak to Abe on the phone without crying. I knew I would never see him on earth again alive. That was 2008.

This is 2011.

Abe has always had a special something. He lives out loud. Gives generously. Exudes resilience. Manages to be both realistic and positive.

But that doesn’t buy a ticket to a cure. Or even a remission. Plenty of people who die of cancer have those strengths and more.

I don’t know why he survived and others don’t. I don’t know how he survived.

At 68 years of age, the man underwent a major surgery called the Whipple Procedure. And removal of his right kidney. And chemo. And radiation. For two cancers that should have killed him.

Yet today he is well. Thinner than he used to be, but just as sharp, sassy and humorous as ever.

Unashamed, he openly shares his experience. Credits God with sustaining him, providing the doctors and treatments, and letting him live. His Creator simply did not allow him to die yet.

A snapshot of Uncle Abe wouldn’t be complete without mentioning music. Abe is a masterful pianist and singer.

He’s directed or accompanied music in churches and choirs for most of his life. He sings and plays at nearly all our family reunions, weddings and funerals, including my mother’s funeral when she died of cancer in 1996.

Upon release from his treatment, Abe picked up right where he left off, playing and singing. He accepted a part-time job as music director for a small church. We attended that church with him and my aunt the weekend we visited them.

Abe sang with abandon. Gleefully he called my husband the tenor to join him. He worshipped with vulnerability, as one who was dead but is now alive.

When I spoke to him last week about this post, he was preparing to sing Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony in German with a collegiate choir. He’s 72, but I’m sure he’ll fit right in. Abe still has his edge, now tempered by fire.

On my bed I remember You;
I think of You through the watches of the night.
Because You are my help,
I sing in the shadow of Your wings.
I cling to You;
Your right hand upholds me. Psalm 63:6-8 NIV

Great is Thy Faithfulness is a cherished hymn. Sara Groves sings a beautiful interpretation in He’s Always Been Faithful.

Thanks to Tim Robbins, writer/director of Dead Man Walking, for inspiring this post’s title.

Posted on September 28, 2011August 10, 2012 by Aimee 15

Dogspeak

Gracious gifts. We all receive them. Much more than we deserve.

One of the best gifts I’ve ever received was and still is my dog Ella. Nearly 10 years ago, she was a birthday gift.

She was too young to live with us until after my actual birthday. So on my actual birthday in December 2001, I received two little stainless steel bowls. One for her food and one for her water. Sheer giddiness.

Mary, my dear friend of more than 20 years, believes Ella appears in my blog more than my son.

Jealousy may motivate Mary’s thinking. I’ve never mentioned her by name in a post until this one.

Just teasing about the jealousy part. You know I love you, Mary. Tried and true friendship is another one of those gracious gifts. Now back to Ella.

Today Ella the best birthday gift becomes Ella the first guest blogger here on everyday epistle. She weighs in with this short reflection about chewies.

Hello. I’m Ella the cairn terrier. I live with my best friend Aimee who writes this blog. I can read and type.

Chewies are my favorite thing to chew. If one is good, better are two. Rawhide, rawhide, rawhide three. Four, five, six, seven, eight chewies for me.

Proof that too much of a good thing is simply more.

Until next time, chew on this…

me & mary

From His abundance we have all received one gracious blessing after another. John 1:16 NLT

Better link to a song for good measure. Ah, Mary by Grace Potter and the Nocturnals. She’s the beat of my heart, she’s the shot of a gun…

Posted on September 26, 2011July 14, 2012 by Aimee 13

Falling In

Try as you may, sometimes, some days you can’t help but fall in.

Last week, my son and I walked to one of our favorite parks. The one with the big pond and the statue of the fish on the bicycle. Gloria Steinem and Irina Dunn, eat your hearts out.

My child played on the slides and climbed trees while I checked the iPhone. Then from across the way I heard him cry.

“Momma!” he said. “I fell in the water!”

He’d bounced up and out of the pond by the time I reached him. He was soaked from the chest down with muddy smudges of pond slime on his cheeks.

We’d been to this park and this pond 657 times before. This was a first.

“Oh, honey!” I said.

“I’m sorry, Momma,” he said, near tears. “I didn’t mean to fall in.”

“No, honey,” I said. “Don’t apologize. It was an accident. Momma’s not mad at you. I’m just sorry this happened to you.”

“I was reaching in and my foot slipped,” he said.

“You okay?” I said.

“Yes,” he said. “But my shoes are wet.”

We giggled. Removed his shoes. Called my husband to come with the truck. Sat on the bench. Help was on the way.

As we waited, my little boy crafted the tale of falling in.

“I have to tell Ms. Donaldson I fell in the pond!” he said. “I fell down into the dirty water! My feet touched the bottom!”

“Not many people get to do that,” I said.

“Because there’s no swimming allowed!” he said.

The longer we waited, the more animated the telling became. Then he began to shiver with cold from his damp clothes.

Evening was fast approaching. We couldn’t walk home with him in bare feet. So we waited and shivered and told tales together.

The truck arrived with a warm cab and blanket. The shivering stopped and the stories wound down.

Falling in can be a harrowing thing. But recovering to be safe and warm and at peace again can make it all worthwhile.

no swimming

I called out Your name, O God,
called from the bottom of the pit.
You listened when I called out, “Don’t shut Your ears!
Get me out of here! Save me!”
You came close when I called out.
You said, “It’s going to be all right.” Lamentations 3:55-57 The Message

Mama said there’ll be days like this. There’ll be days like this Mama said.

Posted on September 20, 2011July 9, 2012 by Aimee 8

Indian Summer

Today is Friday in September. Football season. My maroon and gold pom poms are calling.

They beckon me from the trunk of a 1980 maroon Camaro with gold pinstriping. When my dad selected the car, I believe he thought it needed to match my uniform.

The days are warm and sunny. Might think it’s still summer.

Then you catch a chill, the crisp crackle of fall on its way. The changing of the guard approaches. My body remembers it’s time to report to the field.

Hear the drumbeat of the marching band. Spirited cadence, rebel yells. Evening now. Almost time for the game to begin.

The home team bursts out of the locker room and breaks through the paper banner stretched across the end zone. Wild bucks, padded up and set loose. Stampeding leather cleats on sparkling green grass.

The horn section screams and flashes silver. The bleachers applaud. The pom poms dazzle and shake.

At some point in the pre game festivities, we cheerleaders gathered on the field. Maybe the football team too. It’s been years, I’ve been a long time gone, and I can’t remember exactly who joined the circle. But I do remember what we did.

Together we said The Lord’s Prayer before kickoff. A tradition and a covering over our game. Over our youth.

So very politically incorrect. Only we didn’t know that then.

Those were the days we could still call our team the Indians. Now it’s called the Storm.

How long, I wonder, until the National Weather Service complains? Good thing the replacement mascot wasn’t an animal or we’d have PETA picketing the commons.

I wonder, as did Bob Fliss in the Carolina Journal Online, if Wake Forest University has been contacted about discarding the demon Deacon? Couldn’t help but notice a neighboring school in Guilford County has yet to give up their Vikings.

And that’s just a wee little pocket in North Carolina.

Dare I question the state university due east of my current home in St. Louis? When will the Fighting Illini become the Fearsome Gully Washers or the Frightening Thunder-Boomers?

We weren’t perfect, but we were good kids. We proudly called ourselves the Indians, believing it meant brave, strong, fierce warriors. We wouldn’t have taken the name if we’d believed it to be oppressive or offensive.

Looking back, I hope no one felt oppressed or was offended. It pains me to think folks would actually take it that way.

In 2004, the Guilford County Board of Education prompted by the North Carolina State Board of Education and the North Carolina Mascot Education & Action Group (yes, there is such a thing) voted to “retire” the mascot that had represented my school since 1926.

The vote came without consulting the citizenry prior to proceeding. The board reasoned the community could comment in the 30 days before the policy would be finalized, as if community input mattered. (Guilford Schools Board Forbids Indian Mascots, Jennifer Fernandez, News & Record, 1.14.04)

So it changed. A lot has changed since I left my pom poms behind.

A couple years ago, the homegirls threw an awesome 20th reunion party for our class. In between all the hugging and laughing and reuniting, we gathered.

Before the dancing and the open bar, we prayed. A tradition. A covering.

When I think of those friends, those times, my high school—to me, we’ll always be the Indians, brave and strong, on a crisp, early autumn Friday night.

How do you know what your life will be like tomorrow? Your life is like the morning fog—it’s here a little while, then it’s gone. James 4:14 NLT

This version of Boys of Summer by The Ataris rocks. Sorry, Don Henley. As noted above, things change.

Posted on September 16, 2011July 14, 2012 by Aimee 18

Confessions of a Bibliophile

WashingtonLibraryRoofDetailsmed — Harold Washington Library owl, image from wikipedia.org

I have a problem with books. I cannot resist them.

The library is a refuge. Not a hangout like in college.

No, I am at peace walking through the aisles alone. Shopping titles. Dining on tables of contents. Being held rapt between stacks.

When we’ve moved to new cities, one of the first places I search out is a good public library. It’s easier to find than a good church. Quickly becomes like a second home.

(Once discovered, a good church does too.)

The huge owls perched on the acroteria of the 10-story Harold Washington Library in Printer’s Row were my guardians during our years in Chicago. Wise, familiar faces watching me arrive and depart on the train.

Now the headquarters branch of the St. Louis County Library shelters my son and I on our weekly pilgrimages.

And the books—they may be composed of dead trees, but they are alive to me.

The trend is electronic. But I like to physically hold the books in my hands. Turn the pages. Bookmark them with receipts, scraps of paper, bits of string.

The books feel earthy, grounded, solid. I breathe in deep and detect traces of turned dirt and soaked roots.

Blame my habit on my mother who introduced me to the High Point Public Library in North Carolina when I was in elementary school.

Empowered me with my own card. Let me check out books about whatever I wanted to read: dinosaurs, UFOs, Mary Quant.

I remember the illustration of the lime green extraterrestrial giving me nightmares. I recall the section dedicated to electric blue in “Color by Quant.”

Indirectly, my mom taught me if I have a question, somewhere in a book there is an answer. Or, somewhere in a book there is an admission that there is no answer. At least not one we know yet.

Few goals in parenting are measurable in the short-term if at all. Instilling a love of books, however, cannot help but become apparent.

Early on I toted my child to the library. Empowered him with his own card. Let him check out whatever he wanted to read: dinosaurs, rodents, tsunamis, airplanes, Star Wars.

It didn’t take long for him to catch on.

Soon I couldn’t carry all he wanted to take home. We employed his little metal grocery cart. I figure this way he is responsible to carry his own load.

That’s what you learn at the library. To carry your own load. To be responsible for your own learning.

I still check out materials as well. Still gravitate toward non-fiction. Carry my own load. How? I don’t know when I consider the piles amassed at home.

It’s tragic really. I’ll never get to them all before they’re due.

There’s never enough time to read all the books. Same as there’s never enough time to spend with all the friends, plant all the flowers, cook all the recipes, sing all the songs, travel to all the places.

But I keep those piles of books on hand. They are close when in spare moments I can indulge in their words. Theirs is a load I carry with pleasure.

All the days ordained for me were written in Your book before one of them came to be. from Psalm 139:16 NIV

Today is where your book begins. The rest is still Unwritten…

Posted on September 14, 2011July 14, 2012 by Aimee 25

Sweet Slice

“Half pound of Sweet Slice ham sliced thin, please.”

Our local grocery chain carries Boar’s Head lunch meats in some of their stores. We’re big fans.

It’s all good, but our favorite is the Sweet Slice. Tastes like Easter.

The clerk prepared my order and handed it to me, wrapped in butcher paper.

“Thanks,” I said. Then I looked at the label: Maple Glazed.

“Uh, this isn’t Sweet Slice. I ordered Sweet Slice ham.”

“Oh,” she said. “I’m sorry. Do you want me to do it over?”

“No,” I said. “This is okay.” Hated to make her cut it again and waste the deliciousness of Maple Glazed. Like I said, it’s all good.

Life went on as usual. Packed the child’s lunch the next morning. Sent him out into the world. Picked him up at carpool.

Later safe at home, I popped open the lunchbox to discover a nearly untouched ham sandwich. There was evidence of a nibble.

“You didn’t eat your sandwich,” I said.

“Why didn’t you eat your sandwich?” said my husband.

“It’s the ham,” said the child. “I don’t like that kind.”

“What do you mean?” I said. “It’s Boar’s Head ham. It’s Maple Glazed not Sweet Slice, but…”

“It’s not the same,” he said. “Don’t want it.” And off he trotted to shuffle his Pokémon deck.

“How can he tell the difference between Sweet Slice and Maple Glazed?” I said.

“We’ve created a food snob,” said my husband, “with lunch meat.”

No more Maple Glazed, Black Forest, or Virginia ham. I won’t make the mistake of buying anything but Sweet Slice again. Unless I want to eat it by myself.

Have we created a food snob? An inflexible, entitled consumer? I don’t think so. He’s adaptable in other ways. Rolls with the punches and changes of life well.

Perhaps he simply likes his Sweet Slice ham. He’s tasted the good stuff. Met his muse. There’s no settling for less.

Maybe that’s not such a bad thing. This is just lunch meat. One day it will be weightier things.

He’ll be faced with what to study, what hobbies to pursue, where to work, who to befriend, who to unfriend, who to date (or marry!), who to worship.

Kathyskitchensign — Kathy's kitchen (Hi, Brad!)

There’s a lot we don’t get to choose. A lot of areas where we’re responsible to others. We have to compromise or sacrifice. Do what we’d rather not do.

But in the places we do get to choose, how extraordinary to choose the good stuff and pursue it wholeheartedly.

To pursue the good stuff, you have to recognize it. To recognize it, you have to know how it tastes.

And when it comes time to choose, you have to summon the courage to say no to the others, pick the Sweet Slice, and eat your fill.

Open your mouth and taste, open your eyes and see—
how good God is.
Blessed are you who run to Him. Psalm 34:8 The Message

Ain’t Nothing Like the Real Thing by Marvin Gaye and Tammi Terrell.

Disclaimer: I’m not being paid to promote Boar’s Head products. But I’m telling you, it’s some of the best lunch meat ever.

Posted on September 6, 2011July 14, 2012 by Aimee 10

I Like My Bike

pickmecindyIIsm — Cindy II (not to be confused with my homegirl, the unflappable Cyndi Tew)

This post was featured by WordPress Freshly Pressed on August 31, 2011.

My friend Corey turned 40 this year and announced he would now be living as if he were half his age. I promptly decided to adopt this philosophy.

Of course there are many things I can’t do now that I could do when I was 20.

Well, I may still be able to do them. But just because I can, doesn’t mean I should.

Staying up past a reasonable bedtime? No longer a good idea. Drinking more than an occasional glass of wine? Not good either. Eating half a five-dollar pizza all by myself? No.

There are other things though. Things I haven’t done for many years that are good for me. Enter Cindy.

Cindy was my first bike, complete with a banana seat and streamers on the handle bars. A horse was not in the cards, but I could name a bike just as well.

I received Cindy way before I was 20. Probably around age five or six. I’ll never forget learning to ride that bike. How wonderful it felt to be free and go fast.

Somewhere in the murky years of high school, I gave up bike riding. And skating. And swimming. Fun things I once enjoyed. Why do we do that?

Then a couple years ago, I decided to take my little boy skating at Steinberg Ice Rink in Forest Park. It was a perfect December day. He was too young to be on the ice for very long. I, however, had a ball.

We went skating again this past winter. He got the hang of balancing and moving at the same time. But all he really wanted to do was spin around in circles and fall and laugh.

We go swimming too. Although momma doesn’t always let her hair get wet, the water is like a long-lost friend.

When my husband received a reward certificate with an option to redeem for a bike, I lobbied. I had my eye on a sleek, expensive model at Big Shark Bicycle Company in the Loop. But a free bike? We had nothing to lose.

My son was as excited as I was when the bike arrived in a big box last week. We unpacked it, all shiny and purple.

He helped my husband put it together. Insists I wear my helmet as we ride around the neighborhood.

When I’m with him, we go slowly. He’s still learning. When I’m alone, I fly.

Someday I hope he’ll fly beside me and know what I remember. How wonderful it feels to be free and go fast.

good night, sweetheart!

So, I’m all for just going ahead and having a good time—the best possible. The only earthly good men and women can look forward to is to eat and drink well and have a good time—compensation for the struggle for survival these few years God gives us on earth. Ecclesiastes 8:15 The Message

Be free, go fast, and meet me back here next week!

How could I forget to mention the bicycle is a good invention?

Posted on August 26, 2011July 14, 2012 by Aimee 163

Who’s on First?

Tomorrow is my only child’s first day of first grade.

I could laugh. I could cry. I could ponder his early childhood. The day he was born. How fast he’s grown.

How much fun the years have been. How we waited so long for him and how we can’t imagine life without him now.

Lots of parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles and friends are thinking such things about their kids this time of year.

So, since many of you are already doing that, let’s do something different.

Let’s think about puppies. Cute, but it’s not working.

How about ice cream. No.

Asparagus. No.

Chips and salsa.

Oreos.

Steak?

No, no, no. Exit the food section.

Republican hopefuls for 2012. Ugh.

The Cardinals.

The weather.

Shoe shopping.

Fall sweaters.

Soap.

Bubbles.

Tears. Tears. Tears.

My friend Jenn calls this the emotional roller coaster of raising children.

Another friend Kaisa once offered this sage advice: Children are like the ocean. Go with it or you’ll drown.

So here we go. Forward march in the constant exercise of trust. God, help us. Here we go.

You will guard him and keep him in perfect and constant peace whose mind [both its inclination and its character] is stayed on You, because he commits himself to You, leans on You, and hopes confidently in You. Isaiah 26:3 AMP

Put yourself in a time out to savor the perfect back to school song. I Can Tell That We Are Gonna Be Friends by The White Stripes.

Posted on August 22, 2011July 9, 2012 by Aimee 11

everyday epistle

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