A home of remembrance...

     I will always cherish the gift of our  California mountain home.The seasons of quiet and beautiful chaos we had there are imprinted deep inside us. I learned to garden. And I learned to pick and pit sour red cherries better than most. And those pies, they were seriously the best ever. 

     It was in this place that we slowed down, breathed deep, praised God, and really began to see. And In the slowing and the quiet I also began to listen and hear. Not just God's voice, but the gentle sound of the creek, the frogs, and the breeze.

     It's where my husband got his first 2 brother labs and where they met their sister and their cousin. Oh the love. Oh the messes. 

      And oh...the memories...

      My daughter became a mother in this season, and then a mother again, and a mother again. Three boys, two years apart. More of their babies went to heaven than were born on earth, and that season was long and hard on them, but the time she and I got to spend together in that home with those babies. So precious. The most most precious of things. 

     It's where my son brought me baby turkey's for a house warming gift and where he'd jump and hang from the rafters in the den. It's where he made a new creek with his father. They turned it into a babbling brook. It's where he swam with dogs on his back in the pool, and where he climbed to the top of the windmill to fix it. 

     It's where a fiery redhead read books on the back porch, let baby lizards trek up her arms and took black and white photos on a walk. Its where she pulled wagons full of apples from the orchard to the porch. It's where she became an aunt, and cut all her nephews hair. 

     My first Christmas in that house I went crazy. I love Christmas and decorating for Christmas, and I now had a home that begged me. So... I had a tree in almost every room. Candles in every window. 

     It's where, for our anniversary one year, our children bought us a gift of a grafted peach tree with three different kinds of peaches. I smile when I think about it because it's just like our children. Each one different. And I got so excited the first year it peached. We had to leave that tree in the yard when we left California for Georgia, but when I picture it, and I do, it's full. 

     I see our strong-willed first born sassy Mama teacher peaches growing plump and beautiful on one branch. Next to that one, is our son's. Ever so charming and coordinated, his peaches are probably hanging upside down and tempting the picker with everything smart and Disney.

     And on the third branch, our fiery haird baby's peaches. They are one with the tree. In total communion with the roots and the trunk. Standing tall. Shining in the sun. Her fruit refracts the light differently.

     And then I picture the pickers. They cone to harvest, but pause at the first branch. Pulled by the strength and sureness of the beautiful peach. They touch it, knowing what it is. Then the charm of the second branch pulls them with a force they can't deny. 

 

The grafted peach tree Anniversary gift from our 3 children. 3 different kinds of peaches. Just like them.

           Decorating for Christmas with trees in almost every room.

           Spring bringing new life and promise with blooms on the fruit trees and berry bushes. 

           Sisters and brothers, nieces and nephews, very special friends, our memories.

           The family cherry pickers, and the pies that came after. 

          Mother daughter Christmas parties. Baby showers, Easter feasts, Super bowl parties and                          Weddings. Oh...the weddings.

          The baby boys, the rocking, the lullabies, the cuddles, the kisses, the cries the laughter. 

          The races around the house to tire them out, and the three brother baths that had me                                   laughing until I cried.

         

          The Papa who would take the three clean pajamaed boys and settle them in for snuggles and a                 movie while I took a break.

          

          The playing and jumping in piles of golden leaves.

           The new Puppy brothers, their Puppy cousin, and our girl Onyx who let them know whose                       house they were at.        

          

          Dirt box and sandbox garden time.

My first grandson. My best buddy for 2 years before his brother arrived. He is the one who named me, and he moved right into my heart. The amount of photographs I have of him is a bit embarrassing.

       

          The boy who ran and got all the ripe strawberries from the garden before he even came                            into the house. This is also the one who I followed to the pond every time he went that direction              because I knew he would fall in, He did, He was the only one. This one also climbed so high up              a tree that it scared me, and Papa wasn't home. And he always picked flowers for his mother.

  

The third baby boy. He's what made Paul see how God was redeeming his life. And I was so in love with this ones chubby hands and feet that I thought I might die from it. 

          Dinosaur books, and Mater and Elmo and Lightning McQueen. 

           Swords and shields and warriors. 

          Long walks and Rhino rides. My forever favorite Rhino rides with a picnic and my Man. our                  favorite dates.

Little hands dripping with creek water held up in front of eyes of wonder, as they show me the shiny treasures inside.

          Three seasons of singing and swinging with baby boys on a porch in the back by the pond.

Tummies that ache from too too many pears.

          Chins stained and dripping with juice from blackberries.

My miracle Sweet peas.

          My baby cows.

           Sunsets and sunrises and nights with more stars than I knew existed.

           Bike rides on country roads. 

          Summer picnics on a blue blanket in grass with goldfish crackers on white plates.

A daughter who laughs and cries and prays and waits

          The trips to feed the ducks in Bishop and the time Reed found a Duck egg.

           The amazing find of three dinosaur eggs in our yard and then an evening around then table                     excavating the baby dinos.

          The stunning winter snows. 

           The sleepovers, the books, and the bedtime stories.

          And a husband...who never stops...just makes it all beautiful for us.   

Mountains and sunsets. Morning light and promise.

Goodness, and God, and Glory

I plant memorial stones in this messy place. Deep deep in my heart.

I know. I will never forget. I will always remember.

Life and death and truth and love. And the greatest of these...

 

 

 

Boxes of treasure...

 

     One year when our Grandsons were little, instead of giving them Easter baskets, we made them treasure boxes. I found three raw wood boxes while I was thrift store treasure hunting one day and knew they would come in handy for something. Three boys, three boxes, right?

     Then, when Easter was on the horizon, I came up with a plan. I painted each box with a resurrection scene and found Scriptures that spoke about treasure and painted one on the front of each boys box. And then, the hunt for treasure box content begun.     

     Boys love stuff. Rocks, sticks, feathers, coins, too big watches, old tie clips, bolos, belt buckles, old coins, you name it. Anything their Papa found in the closet and gave the boys was a treasure. These boxes became so much more than I can even find words for. And for me, that's saying a lot. The boys loved them so much. We barely got a hug or a hello when they arrived for playdates after that. It was always, "Can we have our treasure boxes?" 

     Over the years, Paul and I would find things on trips that would fit inside them, and each time we presented them with something new, it was like we had given them gold. Little glass vials filled with colored ocean sand, little wooden turtles, cheesy painted surfboards on a string. Wooden mountain coins from our local Jazz Jubilee. 

     And so, when the boys came over the treasure boxes came out. They'd sit on the living room floor and dump out the contents. They would talk about their stuff, sometimes trying to trade, and then rearrange everything before putting it all back in. Over time though, as the boys got older, squabbles began as all the stuff on the floor got mixed together. "That's mine!", one would say. "No it isn't. It's mine!"  "Give it back!" "Mamo! He took my..."  whatever it was that he had been accused of taking. So I would have to intervene and the treasure boxes would be put away and there would be tears. 

     But over the years as I have thought about those boxes and the love the boys had for all the contents, which was mostly junk, my hearts swells with joy from the memories.

     And last week, when I was editing this story for the book, I thought again about the boxes, trying to picture the things inside. I was pretty sure we had given them back to the boys before our move across the country, but I asked Paul if he remembered. 

     "I'm pretty sure there upstairs in one of the guestroom closets." He told me. 

     A few days later, I opened the boxes and spread the contents across my bed. Flooded with memories I picked things up as sweet tears filled my eyes. One of the boys still had the baby dinosaur that came from the eggs I buried in our yard. One evening, after digging them up, we excavated three baby dinosaurs around our kitchen table. The next time the boys came over, we made nests for them from twigs and feathers we found on a walk. One of the boys boxes still had the nest inside. And there was money. Eight dollars in cash, and 100 dollars of Mamo money. But the sweetest thing, were the glass beads. I had no idea the boys had saved so many of them. 

     We had a creek that ran through our yard, so one day I decided to spread shiny glass beads in the creek for the boys to hunt. They went crazy filling their pockets with the shiny things. And if the sun hit them just right in the water they sparkled. 

     And so, it became a thing. Anytime we had a party or a celebration at our house, and we had quite a few, I'd fill the creek with shiny treasure and pass out little drawstring pouches for the kids to collect it in. I hadn't thought about this for years, but to see so many of these little beads inside the boys boxes almost made me cry. 

     We get to see these three grown up little boys soon, and I can't wait to see their faces when the boxes of treasure get back into their hands. I hope it brings them as much joy and happy memories as it did me.  

      Life and Love, Papa's old junk, three little boys, and three boxes of Treasure. Doesn't get much better than that. 

A whole new kind of love...

     There is nothing that compares to the love parents have for their children, but when my grandsons were born, I experienced a whole new kind of love. And I had a lot more time on my hands. I described it to friends as an explosion inside my heart that pumped a love through me I'd never felt before.

     Paul and I were blessed to spend more time with our grandsons than most grandparents get to do. Our daughter and son-in-law lived close, and we had recently purchased a beautiful home in the country. It was a perfect place to rock babies on my porch, sing songs about swinging, dig up dinosaur eggs, have living room diving Olympics, and let little boys fill their tummy's with fruit from the garden and trees. 

     One year, Paul made shields for the boys and I painted the spirit animal of their choice on the front. They became little warriors. And we had lots of sleepovers. And lots of baths. Little boys get dirty. Boy did we have those! 

     One year, I made, "Mamo money," and began placing it in cards for them. Mothers day, birthdays, Easter, Christmas. The recipient could cash in these $100 bills when they wanted some time with us. Ice cream dates, play dates, sleepovers, etc. Sometimes one of the boys would need a break from their brothers, and the oldest one asked me one day how much Mamo money it would cost for a 2 night sleep over by himself. I still smile at that memory. It became fun when the boys Mom and Dad wondered how much more Mamo money they might need for an Anniversary get-a way. I made sure they always had enough. And I have about 1,000 of this valuable currency left, so each of the boys will get some to remember. And if I'm lucky enough to experience another generation of little ones, I'll make some more.

     Each of these 3 darling boys wore the same cowboy chaps and stood by the same window in different seasons. And each of them got wrapped in the same lion towel at about the same age. They walked with me dressed as Ninja's, and hiked in a line behind their Papa. And oh...the Rhino rides.

     These three little boys who live in my heart are all young men now. They are strong mountain bike riders and Nordic skiers. Amazing, smart, charming and handsome. One does the craziest coolest yoyo tricks you've ever seen, another one has the most intelligent conversations of anyone I know, and one of them is full of charm and has started playing the guitar. And their smiles...

Man, their smiles.

    Their parents are the most self-less, generous, and best kind of amazing people, and I will forever be thankful that we got to share in their precious lives from the moment they were born and watch them grow. I love you boys so much!

     And lastly, I can't help but add one picture of Paul's and my own little group of three because they were the most adorable. And they are who taught me what love was all about. We didn't have smart phones back then. Our pictures were developed from rolls of film, and you never really knew what you were going to get. I wish I could lay my Mama moments alongside these Mamo ones, but I can't. So you'll just have to trust me when I say that these three...Man oh man! They stole my heart.

 

A forever remembered, "Homemade Christmas."

     

     It's the last thing I do before going to bed and the first thing I check on when my feet hit the floor. My projects. My Christmas. It came out of a need to save money, so I've been treasure hunting. I decided to make all my Christmas gifts this so I've been collecting things that have a past. I am going to make them new and they will become the next chapter of stories for my family.

      Today, as I began to sand through wood trying to erase scars and scratches I suddenly picture the hands and feet of Jesus. His scars changed everything, so I stop sanding. The nicks and notches in the old wood have suddenly become beautiful.

     I can't explain exactly how I feel doing this. but it's a joy I've never felt before. I  have come out of a really hard season, but I feel God's presence beside me. In this quiet time alone in my greenhouse God takes me back to places where I planted Memorial stones. He's been reminding me of the Praise on the hilltops, and also staying close beside me as go back together and skirt the darker valleys. He reminds me that my story was written by Him and he wants me to leave behind a part of Him in it, and so...

     I sand and stain and arrange and glaze and paint and wait and check on...

     Weeks go by and I sit here still, in this place of remembering. A place where God's truth, power, and promise rush around and through me so fast that I spin. Mostly with joy and love...and yet...most of my Christmas still sits in piles unfinished. 

     This room...a mess. But beautiful chaos I think. In the corners lay lovely things that wait. On a table, ruined by glue and paint, sits three cut out's of little boys hands and a box. The box is for Stella Grace.

     And then Fall came...

     And with God's very breath over our country mountain home, fresh inspiration came over me in the season I love the most. So I started to collect the pieces of our home that I can give away to remember. Our leaves. 

      I preserve, and paint and make remember...and I nowchave faith for my pile of unfinished...because there will be birthdays and weddings and babies and graduations and God stories. May our lives be full of these.

     And on Christmas I will give away forever remembered moments of a season in my life. A season written by God where a greatly loved daughter had a heart full of praise.