Winter Warmth

It hadn't been snowing or very cold in Minneapolis when we left, headed home for Christmas break. But the closer we got to Iowa, the more trecherous the conditions became. The 80's Cavalier struggled to stay on the road, amidst the strong winds and the slippery roads. It was hard to see, so the rough-housing that Nathan and I were acccustomed to had to stop. No more teasing or half-arguing conversations.
He focused while we drove, each mile seeming to take longer than the last. "Are we going to your house or mine?" he asked. I was engaged to his brother, and hadn't seen him in four weeks, so I had no intentions of going home until I'd seen his face. "Your house," I said.
So Nathan decided he'd take the back way home. More direct, he'd said. Better roads, he'd said. I don't know what he meant by that, because it became clear that the back way wasn't better. We pushed through the drifts, the fingers of snow growing across each country highway with their ominous white claws. "We're not going to make it," I said.
"Shut up. We'll make it."
We were about one mile north of the farm, the warmth of the wood stove, the shelter from the wind, when I spotted a car in the ditch. Nathan spotted them too, only he didn't think they were in the ditch. He thought they were in the road. And so he veered toward them, solidly wedging that tiny car into a huge drift.
We pushed a little before he decided it was a lost cause. He got out to help the people in the ditch, who ended up being his dad and a neighbor girl.
After quick evalutation, it becae clear that there would be no pulling the cars clear tonight. We would walk.
I had my clothes for a month of break in the back of the car, so I added a pair of socks and pulled a pair of sweats over my pants. I bundled up in what winter gear I'd brought along, and then, the four of us stranded passengers headed toward home.
The wind had been so fierce, it had been hard to open the car door against it. Now, we walked through, completely exposed to the prairie wind, whipping across the fields.
We made it to a farm house, worried a little about frost bite and freezing, and we stepped onto the porch. This was before everyone carried cell phones, so the father sent me into the vacant house to search for a phone to call home. When I tried to call, nothing happened. And then, headlights in the driveway.
TThankfully, country neighbors are an understanding bunch. We got a ride home in their truck the rest of the way, and arrived at the farm, only partially frozen.
I'd pressed through it all, knowing I would see my love when we arrived. But he did not come to greet me like I'd expected. We came inside, and his mom told me that he had gone to my house in town to wait for me to get home. He'd have to stay the night there, and I'd stay the night at his house. Safe from the storm, but apart from each other.
I think about that night so often, when we arrive at my in-laws on wintery nights and find warmth in the fire. It's a vivid memory, every part of that night and the following day. The warmth of a home in the middle of winter, that welcoming feeling like you're home, even though it's not your home. That's something I want to offer to others. It's something I cherish, and even though we don't have to travel more than five minutes to get there anymore, it still feels like coming home to a long-lost friend when we go home to the farm

Hope. (or Why I don't Care about Duck Dynasty)

I don't care about Duck Dynasty right now, because my husband's out in the cold fixing a car for some people who are one month away from losing everything. Because my friend's husband lost his job unfairly and was unfairly denied unemployment and they don't know how they're going to pay for anything. Because my best friend wants to be wrapping up presents for children she hasn't been able to have.  Because there are Christians in Syria and Iraq and all over the world who are mourning the loss of their brothers and sisters who were brutally murdered for being Christians. Because there are orphans just wishing for a mom and dad. Because there are families that asked for snow boots and coats for their kids instead of toys.
I want Christmas to mean more than things. And I want us to not be distracted from what matters by worrying about what a TV network decides to do with a show that we were all surprised it ever even allowed to air.

Do you know why we put out lights at Christmas? I don't really know where the idea came from. But, in the bleakness of these cold days (sub-zero here), when darkness takes up most of our free time, and it's hard to go outside at all, we can drive at night and see these bright cheerful things shining out, telling us it's OK. It's not the end of the world, even though winter sometimes feels like it. There is hope.
The thing about hope, though, is that it's so closely linked with disappointment. We hope for these things that don't happen, for presents we don't get, for blessings we aren't blessed with.
But it isn't just a word that we put on an ornament. Hope is more than a feeling. When you're hoping for the right things. It's just that the way Christmas is these days, it's taught us to hope for things, for people or relationships, for brighter futures and for happiness. And it's not bad to hope for those things. It's different than completely setting your Hope in something.
I like lights at Christmas because they remind me about the Light of the World. Hope of glory. Hope for home. For heaven. For everything. Jesus is Hope. And if I can just wrap my mind around it, anchor myself there, instead of in things or people or dreams, then I can find real joy. Because hope in Jesus, is kind of like hoping for spring. The answers, the truth, the way we want it, might not always be right there, right when we want it. But we continue to hold on to Him because He will make things right. He will keep his promises. And spring always comes, even when it seems like it never will. It just does. That's the hope that doesn't disappoint. The light in the darkness and bleakness and hopelessness. The hope that makes joy possible. I want it for me so much. And I want it for my friends who are fighting with the darkness right now. I want it for you. Not just for Christmas, but for eternity.

Things I don't Like [confessions of a displaced rebel]

Some day I'm going to write a song to the tune of "These are a frew of my favorite things" only it will be "these are a few of my least favorite things."
On the top of the list will, of course, be Pintrest, the devil in disguise.
And then there will be another slew of things that most people in my place in life actually really like, and I sort of feel guilty to admit that I don't like them. Here's one. Pregnancy pictures. Gross. I mean, even the sweetest ones, I just don't like them. OK, get your family portrait done when you're pregnant. Whatever. But don't go out of the way to point out your huge belly. I know I probably risk offending my photographer friends, but... I seriously would never want to look at my own pictures of me being pregnant (ie fat), or (even worse) my husband doing weird, unnatural things to show his adoration. I know, some people like it. I do not. (Sincere apologies to those this offends. Personal preference, right?)

And another thing I don't like. Downton Abby. HATE. I watched whole first season waiting for it to get better and it just... didn't. It's like watching the freaking Kardashians dressed up in WWI. There are good things, but mostly, you just sort of want to strangle the whole manor. I do not understand the obsession, the absolute obsession, women have with that show. WHY!

And, for thirds, I'll just say, I hate Orange Leaf. I know, pretty much everyone loves it. Froyo at its best. But... ew. It doesn't taste good. I like the retro look of the place and the cool chairs and all that, but it's COLD in there, and there are TV's and that bothers me. Also, I just don't like how it tastes and I think they're ripping people off with their toppings and pay by the weight thing. Plus... it's just froyo, man. Not heaven in a little orange cup. Except, I have to make one concession for those little jelly balls that pop in your mouth and seep out liquid. I sort of like those but it is not worth the $7.

All right. Now I've let it out. My dark confessions of things I don't like that almost everyone else does. Now you know.  Stay tuned for next time, in which I will discuss pictures of "catz". Not impressed.

Joy

he told me to fight for you
but somewhere in these darkening days
you got away.
I forgot where to find you,
in all of those little moments like washing dishes and bath time
and piles of leaves outside.
I missed you there in those quiet moments before bed
wrapped in those blankets, the little giggles and tired sighs
And in the morning, in those bright little eyes.
All those momentary glimpses
like polaroid pictures
waiting to be glanced through
and put away again.
You were there, peeking out
pulling at my seams,
wishing I would seek you and find you there
I wanted you
but not badly enough to fight
and you got buried there in the middle of the night
When the questions and doubts clouded in
amidst the weight of all my sin
Things I never could carry
but liked to pretend I could.
You fight, but I fight harder
and the bitterness eats away at the places of my heart
that I hide from everyone but Him.
And that is where I'll find you, where I'll find you there to stay
in the middle of these darkest nights
in the battles I never should have fought
there in the middle of these tangled knots.
You, pulling through, shining the smallest light
like the breaking morning
after the biggest storm.
You, struggling to be seen in blessings and brokeness
in those beautiful smiles
in tears, and pain
amidst every struggle
in sunshine and falling rain
Joy. I'll fight for you now.
I'll never forget your name.

Finished

There's this great feeling when you write the final sentence in your novel.
I've done it maybe 40 times (because I've rewritten things). It's great. It's euphoric. It's amazing.
And then you read through the whole thing and do some editing, and you feel like it's really good enough. Perfect.
And that's when this sort of lost feeling settles in. It isn't like finishing reading a novel. It's sort of sad. Because you suddenly don't have anything to do. That's probably why I end up writing series so much.
Last night I did that. I finished it.
It's my favorite book I've ever written. And it isn't perfect yet, but I need  a break.
So. Here I am. Wanting to write something new. I want to craft. I want to think and create. But I'm sort of blocked. I think the energy the kids take from me is sapping my creativity.
Or maybe I watch too many TV shows now.
I'm just rambling. There is no point to this post. Read my previous one. It's better.

Music and Laughter

I guess in music years, the age is gone and past
but I still hear that dulcimer
and find myself back in 1996
listening to the wind
and wondering where the wilderness would end
I guess to some you're just a memory,
a song we sang at camp
and to some others you're a legacy
To me you were like a friend I never met
because you spoke about things no one else could
and though you and me were only poetry, you understood
something about broken hearts made whole
and beautiful things lost and buried
and how the world spins around us and leaves us cold
But redemption and hope
could be heard in your songs
and your words spoke to my very soul.
And then on a cold September morning
it was over just like that
I'd barely even found you, and then you were gone
Out the back door, while we were all busy singing
And to some you're just a memory
of a song we sang at camp
But to me you're some kind of missing part
because you played piano like magic
and I wish you were here still
to sing songs to my broken heart.

*

I'm not one to sentamentalize something that I'm really not part of. But every year, when September 19th comes along, I think about Rich Mullins, and I sort of... miss him? You can't really miss someone you don't know, you don't miss what never was. But you have this feeling that you're missing out. I'm sure he's happy and whole in heaven, singing songs full of joy and laughter, and I can't wait to see him there.
My friend Tony said it on the one-year anniversary of Rich's death. "Someone left us last year. He just slipped out the back door while we were all busy singing."
It seemed wrong that he died, but it also seemed like he longed for a real home.
If you aren't familiar with him, you might not appreciate the music any more. It's beginning to be "aged". But I recommend looking him up. He was talented, but he said things that people didn't like to hear. He didn't give pat answers, and he knew something about love that many people are missing nowdays. He makes you uncomfortable, but it's the good kind, the restless kind that makes you think maybe you missed something about God and now you need to go find out.
Here's a site kept up by his friends that lists all of his articles he wrote for Release Magazine:
http://www.kidbrothers.net/release.html
And here's a video (if I did it right).

You know you were a _______ if you ever _______.

You've all read these lists. They're sort of fun, sort of creative, but mostly just an excuse to reminisce about something a select number of people remember. You know you grew up in Iowa if....
You know you're an engineer if....
You know you're 11 years old if....
You know you're going to a jet pilot/brain surgeon/comedian if...

Like I said. Excuse to reminisce. So I comprised one of my own, extremely specific, but maybe vague enough that you're all going to laugh. Probably not.

You know you were a Christian girl in the 90's if....

- You read Brio Magazine
- Your favorite band was one of the following: Jars of Clay, Audio Adrenaline, Newsboys, DC Talk
- You had a crush on that kid from McGee and Me
- You know all the words to the Jesus Freak rap
- You still sing "Flood" in your sleep sometimes
- You listened to dawson McCalister on the radio. Or better yet, went to a DM conference!
- You signed a "True Love Waits" commitment card
- You know what I mean when I reference your "cross of gold"
- Your parents were a little leery of that edgy Micheal W Smith/ Amy Grant music
- You had a crush on Steven Curtis Chapman
- Your youth group room had the colors teal or hot pink or lime green somewhere on the walls or ceiling
- Your youth leaders used the phrases "The Bomb" and "Diss" to be cool.
- You know what DC/LA was
- You ever stayed up all night listening to Adventures in Odyssey, but you couldn't actually admit that to your friends
- Your best friend had big bangs
- You sang "Big Big House" every year at church camp
- You ever wore a Jesus tee-shirt big enough for Uncle Buck to fit into
- You didn't dance, and you didn't chew, and you still don't go with boys who do (Okay, that was totally outdated even then, but I think it's funny to say)

Enough. That was my trip down memory lane. I'm sure that is about as specific and vague as you can handle, because it's really either totally you, or totally not. Basically it would probably only specifically describe my best friend Bethany (and even she was too mature to have a crush on SCC), but hey. I'm amused by it. What would you add? Or what kind of list would you make to reminisce about your teenage years?

Broken Heart Montana

I just got home from a family reunion in Montana. Like it goes in our family, it wasn't really a planned reunion, and was therefore complete chaos. I got to see all of my cousins but 3, and my parents were the only ones missing from their generation (and I see them all the time). It was missing my grandma. But Grandpa was there. He's almost 94. He kept saying he wished he were 80 again, which I thought was funny. In a lot of ways he's still his spry, witty self, full of good stories and smiles and conspiracy theories. He's beginning to fade, though, and it breaks my heart.
It's always hard to leave. I choked up when we left the nursing home (he just moved there a few months ago), with the constant realization that it could be the last time I see him, the last time I say goodbye. He's a great man, despite his many flaws, and there aren't a lot of people like Alvin left in the world.
I wanted to stay longer. I wanted hours with each family member, time to talk and remember and catch up. I love my cousins so much, each one of them, and I'm happy that we're all still a part of each others' lives. I wanted those days to last forever. We stayed up late into the night and early in the morning talking and playing games, but it just wasn't enough. I crave time with those people who came from the same place I did, cut out of the Montana sky, familiar with suffering and restlessness, who share the wild spirit of wild country, who like the same jokes and movies, who love the same people, who understand parts of our childhood that no one else does. I wanted more time to walk on those windy hills in the young wheat fields, to take pictures of the sunsets, to show my kids the hidden beauty of the prairie. To pick wildflowers and run my fingers through the dirt, and swim in the river, and just be part of the land.
Mostly I wanted more time to sit with Grandpa. It was hard to be there with so many others who I wanted to see, because I had to split time. I couldn't just sit adn listen to him forever. He was tired a lot, too. But I wish I could just record every moment, every word he says. Soon that quiet voice will fade into history, and his wrinkled fingers will let go of the life he led there, and there will be 21 of us to carry on with his memories, to write them and tell them, and try to live out the things he passed down to us. He isn't gone yet, but the window is narrowing, and his memory is fading, and I don't want to let it go without fighting a little longer to remember and record it, and enjoy it.
I wrote this poem last year when I left, and I kept thinking about it. It's so hard to say goodbye.

Whispering Goodbye

And maybe I’ll always remember them that way

The grandparents

Standing there, waving in the driveway

As the station wagon pulls out down that long gravel road

The mile that passes, and me, still checking over my shoulder to see that they’re there

Barking dogs trailing behind.

That’s how it went every year

We’re waving out the windows

Saying goodbye to sunflowers and the sweet scent of alfalfa and dirt

Saying goodbye to those who loved us

Her, with her beautiful smile, walking in grace, even in the winter of her life

With a walker on the porch one year

And then never again.

And now him, the Old Man Patriarch

Standing there alone

With two fingers in the air, whispering out goodbye.

Wild Rose

Three years are gone now, memories still bright

Of your jokes and your poems and stories

The laughter in your eyes,

Your generosity and pure love and your peace

Three years have passed since I saw your smile

Or heard your gentle voice say hello

Or watched you wave goodbye.

And my mind knows you’re gone

I feel it in your empty house

But my heart can’t seem to let go.

I wish we’d had more time

I remember you like I’m still a child

Sitting on the couch and listening

And I miss the phone calls and the letters

And slow Scrabble games at the table

And those blue bonnet eyes, glistening

To me you were always like a wild rose

A beauty that struggled and grew in the wiles and the wind

Of Montana wheat

The thorns did not hurt you, but held you up

And with your faith you did not wither

You were my grandma but also my friend

Shining bright in the prairie sun

And this is the way I’ll always remember you

Sitting there at the kitchen table, coffee in hand

Taking  a moment to sit with me

Telling stories from your childhood, about life on the homestead

Your wrinkled hands holding postcards and pictures

Or your fingers clacking away on the keyboard in the den

And how you always invited me in

To your kitchen of  that patchwork palace in the prairie

Where you worked and wrote and welcomed

I remember Grandma Dorothy, red hair blowing in the wind

Dad

I started this yesterday and thanks to firefox, I have to rewrite it. And now I don't have the juju vibes going. Oh well. Sentiment isn't my forte anyway.

I used to think I was the neglected middle child who never got any attention from my parents. I still think that sometimes, a little, and they both know it's true. But I'm different from my siblings. I'm introverted and they just aren't. I'm quiet and reflective and anylitical and they are just less so. So when they were relating with my parents, they talked and did stuff and went places and got really engaged in what they did.
I didn't have as much to say.
I was thinking about Dad and the things he used to do with us when we were kids, so many things he did with all of us together. Like bike rides and walks at the park and playing baseball and soccer and fishing and reading Hardy Boys to us at night. I love those things. I love those memories.
When I knew I was loved the most, though, were those times I had a few minutes with just his attention. He'd sit and play checkers with me (and probably let me win) just so I'd know how to play. He also played thousands of rounds of Hang Man, which I think might be the most tedious game to play with a little elementary schooler who can't spell. Once in a while we'd go out to ride bikes just the two of us, and I wish now that I'd done it more. Toward middle school I stopped wanting to go and ride bike because I preferred to have time alone. Maybe he understood that. I still wish I'd gone with him though.
When we moved to town, I left my bike behind by accident, so one night he took me out in his truck back to the old farm to try and find the bike I'd left. I don't think we found it, but we stopped at the gas station and he bought me some gum. I don't know why it seemed so important at that time, but it was.
He took me shoe shopping once, and he let me get the expensive ones because I liked them. And I'd been fighting with my mom about them for a long time.
He was always letting us use (and lose) his tools to make things. Mostly my brother was the project lead on these activities, but I was always close beside. We made a raft once, and Dad took it down to the river for us and let us try it out. We watched while it floated away and sank in the river. Then we went fishing, and I guess that was the end of that.
He just had so many other ways to spend his time, but he spent it on us kids. On me. And that's why I am the way I am. I think that he helped me be my quiet self by not pushing his way in and trying to make me be like my brothers. Maybe I was overlooked some. But I don't mind. Because there are a lot of kids who never even knew their dad, or who had to worry about abuse or disappointments. My dad didn't break his promises. My dad didn't leave me to fight through things on my own. He loved me and he showed me how to love, and he taught me about God.
And I'l lalways love him, no matter how old we both get.
That's what I'm thinking of on Father's Day. A man who grew up with a less-than-ideal father, who chose to break the pattern and be a good one. A man who knows more than half the people around him but never bothers to point it out. A man who can figure skate, ride a horse, wrangle a cow, quote the Bible, drive a bus, and troubleshoot circuit breakers. He's the Dad who was there. The dad who has time. The dad who didn't leave me with baggage. He's wise and strong and lives faithfully to the God who called him. And I am part of his legacy. What a blessing.

The 60's

I don't know what's wrong with me, but I am on a major 60's kick right now. Entertainment wise. It started when we looked up some old Haley Mills movies on youtube for the girls to watch, and now I'm all crazy for ugly hairdos and people saying "Daddy-o".
I'm watching the Parent Trap tonight. It's really a genius movie. Timeless. Even though Haley Mills might be the most annoying actress ever.
Other favorite sixties movies (not including westerns which are their own category and blog post):

Doctor Doolittle
Davey Crocket (Western but stands on its own. It's freaking awesome).
Swiss Family Robinson
Bye Bye Birdie
The Music Man
Summer Magic (Haley Mills. Ugh.)
Cheaper by the Dozen

For fun while I'm feeding Lois, I've been watching "My Three Sons". And then I remembered another show I liked when TVLand first started called "Family Affair". I recommend both shows. The kids love them, and they're good, wholesome entertainment.
And that is the purpose of this blog post. Maybe I just like the innocence of it or the technicolor, or maybe I'm in love with nice, handsome men in suits like Fred MacMurray and Brian Keith.


Totally random post. What can I say? I'm bored and alone at home, and I haven't slept well in weeks.

Five Years Later

I was in no mood to write this on what should have been Grace's fifth birthday, so I'm going to write it now.  It's been more than five years now. Five years of crying on Mother's Day, five years of watching my three friends' babies the same age grow up. FIve years of missed milestones. Five years of sorrow and joy, five years full of love and regret and wondering and wishing. Five years of freedom. Five yeras of healing.
At first people were so sensitive and thoughtful and I've appreciated the gifts and flowers and cards over the years. I guess five years is the mark when it's time for those to stop coming. I know my friends remember. I don't expect them to grieve like I do.
She would have been five, and I have no idea what kind of kid she would have been. Sweet and mild? Ornery? Would she like dancing and dressing up like her sisters? Or did I miss out on a wild-spirited tom boy who liked to play in the woods? She would have been five and I still wonder, all these years that have gone by, who she was. And I'll always have to wonder, and I'll sit together with my three girls on earth and wish that we had a forth spot at the table for Grace.
When do you fully heal? When does it stop hurting when that wound gets poked? When does it not ache inside on Mother's Day, May 8th? I don't know because I'm not quite there yet. And I don't think I really want to be. People might not understand that, and they might forget that I ever lost a baby. And they might not even know if they met me after that point. It's not important who knows. I know. And for me, that little remorse and pain is all I have of that child. That, and a promise of heaven, where I'll hold her, and she'll be the one who shows me around, and I'll tell her all of the dreams I'd dreamed for her, and she'll say they all came true because she's been with Jesus.
I know I don't have to cry, but I do. On Mother's Day and the other times I miss her like January 29th, the birthday that never was. I cry because it reminds me of her and it makes my heart stay soft.
Five years have passed, and each one has hurt a little less. It will continue to hurt less, but I'll never stop missing her or wondering, and I'll always, always hold her close to my broken-made-whole-again heart.

Obnoxious words in the Ineternet Lexicon

My friend Dave (actually he's my husband's friend but he's so funny I claim his as mine too) recently posted this:

Question: What is the most obnoxious term to enter our lexicon in recent years?
Answer: The Selfie!
Seriously, can you think of one that is more obnoxious?

 

His friends listed a few (the last one is his wife being funny).

-Thundersnow

 

-What about totes; short for totally...since that is apparently too hard to say/type out

 

- i'm going to have to vote for "presh". shudder.

 

-cray-cray

 

- the phrase...."I know, right"...ugh

 

- yolo, and I've even seen it used as a verb. Shudder

 

- Hey, I know - there's this adorbs lil park on the way home from work. Why don't we stop & we could go totes cray cray getting some presh selfies, cuz ya know, yolo, right? oh, nevermind, supposed to thundersnow later. (I now want to shoot myself typing all that)\

Well. I can think of the obnoxious ones. I have lots to say about this. And MORE! There are more abbreviations in "webspeak" than there are in the military, and those aren't even as obnoxious as these actual words invented by who knows what mass of so-called intelligent being? I'm probably going to blame the teenage crowd, but really that should probably be blaming the writers of Nickelodeon and Disney shows, or some phantom entity even more evil and dark than those mentioned. Where do these things come from? Another time. Another time.

When I was in high school, internet really didn't have its own language. People started saying "lol" and "prolly", and of course those were annoying. But maybe someone actually started doing the lol thing because they really did laugh out loud. I do that on occasion and a REALLY funny email or comment.
However, some yahoo had to go and take it to another level. ROTFL. REally? I have literally, actually, rolled on the floor laughing, I think twice in my life. Once was when I was tweleve, so... let's just think about that. 
Would it be so hard to just say, "That's funny!" or "You make me laugh"? Or just enjoy your own laughter?

Then there's "Yolo" which, the online urban dictionary defines as:
Abbreviation for: you only live once The dumbass's excuse for something stupid that they did Also one of the most annoying abbreviations ever....
I concur.  

Really, though, those stupid abbreviations are just the tip of the ice berg. Let's go on. Has anyone noticed these phrases popping up WAY TOO OFTEN on facebook?
"So true"
"Worth passing on"
"I know, right!"
Think about it before you say it. Seriously. Was that picture with the victorian era woman complaining about her refrigerator running, or that picture of the American flag and some pithy statmeent about being a true patriot, or that (shudder) picture of a cat saying something grumpy  REALLY worth passing on? I'm just wondering, and I'm also wondering how very true those things you say "so true" actually are? Or you just think it's funny and you want to send it on but you feel like you have to say something? So true.

Then, there are these horrible abbreviations where we take off the last sylable of the word. What good does that do? Like this?
Presh - Eeww.
Cray Cray - What have you got against the letter z!
Delish - even tastier than the ious? I think not.
Totes - Totally is way too hard to spell. Way.
I've got one word for all of this. Obnox. (And my clever brain made that one up all on my own!)

And then there are the old school ones that have been just as annoying all along (now longer). Peeps. Did anyone ever actually call their peers or friends "People"? Besides Michelle on Full House, or maybe Jesus. Or some foreign dictator/monarch. And now, it's "friends" on facebook and followers on twitter. Maybe I should start calling them my "freeps" and see how that flies.

Well. Such is the world we live in. And it is entertaining when you think about it. We're all collectively losing our vocabulary, and our intelligence with every minute we spend on the webs. Reminds me of this:

Memorial Day

My sister sent me this cartoon:

Which inspired this poem (about my grandpa, of course). Not one of my best. It's hard to put those things in words which are really only shadows of thoughts.

One Man, One Soldier

He walks with courage

Though now with a cane, but once it was a gun

Now his steps are slow, but once he marched into war

Never seeing the man he would become

Maybe not understanding all he fought for.

He shuffles slowly down the hall

But once he ran full force onto the beaches of France

Screaming out over the mortars and cannon blasts.

Now that voice that carried commands

has become harder to hear. His eyes, once bright and soulful

now wear wisdom, wrinkled and woeful.

Now his steps are slower and he’s always being passed

by all the generations behind him

moving too fast

All those people who will never understand

the honor he deserves,

the indelible mark his actions made on the pages of time

in the stories they have never heard.

His tall frame now withers, hunching from age

And though that tired body has worked itself sore

The marks made that day have remained

The memories of war

The purple heart on a shelf in his closet

The friends who he lost there on the shore

The family he came home to

                He remembers what he fought for

He used to fight hard and long, but now he’s tired

And he already found his hill to die on

The man who stormed the beaches

Who limps with shrapnel in his side

Now walks with careful steps, leaning on his grandchildren

                who have always known his sacrifice

                Who listen to his tales of war and find

That ordinary men become heroes

 and courage shows itself in many ways

--sometimes in war stories and flashes of light

Sometimes in farming and strife

Sometimes in the faithful way you live your life.

This man, the soldier could teach them all that.

When they look into his eyes and listen

To one man’s journey in history, to one man’s scars

Teaching about bravery

Making his children who they are.