Small House, Warm Thoughts

“We cleaned the house yesterday. Sorry, you missed it.” Have I said this on a number of occasions? Yes. Yes, I have.

And also this:
“If you want to see us, come by anytime. If you want to see the house, call for an appointment.”

And (with apologies to quite a few of my fascinating friends who – beyond the scope of my comprehension – have discouragingly perfect homes), the patently untrue yet popular saying:
“Boring women have immaculate homes.”

Ever heard comments like this? I’ll bet they came from a family living in a small house. Cramming a busy family of five, two dogs, two cats, and a home business into our 1645 square foot house with one shared common area – a combined living/dining/office/project/kitchen space – definitely creates clutter! But, y’know, as long as it’s creative clutter . . . (cue eye roll).

On the upside, love does grow best in small houses, right? And I must admit that togetherness is probably some kind of blessing for us since we are mostly introverts who might otherwise be inclined to go the isolation route. Hah. No chance. Compromise and cooperation are not options here – they are mandatory life skills. We love each other and – aside from the occasional water, pillow, or tickle fight – we are not particularly fond of conflict, so we do our best to figure it out.

It’s pretty clear in God’s word that we show the love of Christ in us by loving others. We are to pursue maturity not separately, but together. Loving God = loving people. It’s not that we all get along beautifully all the time – not at all! We definitely have our high blood pressure moments. But I think living in a smaller space keeps us working on the issues, fighting for each other, loving each other, forgiving one another, and laughing together. I like to think that we would do all these things even living in a ginormous house, but the smaller home definitely provides motivation.

Now, I’m seriously off to clean. Really. I’m sincerely hoping to have the house reasonably in hand by noon Friday (so, basically, maybe by Saturday evening . . .) and the orderliness should last several whole minutes. If you plan to drop by, better not be late or you’ll miss it.

Sweet, Sweet Mardi Gras

Tuesday was Mardi Gras. There are not a lot of places to celebrate in our area that don’t involve over-21 activities, expensive restaurants, or events that already occurred the previous weekend. But I have a daughter who likes to celebrate EVERYTHING with celebratory food so I looked online and found many lovely King Cake recipes requiring yeast.

Well. That’s not gonna happen. My bread-baking days are over. Maybe. I think. (At my age, I’ve learned to never say never.)

A web search for “easy king cake” netted a delightful recipe using canned cinnamon rolls. Ding! Ding! Ding! Folks, we have a winner! We made a quick trip to our local grocery store and came home with the required items, plus fruit (because something healthy seemed to be called for), breakfast sausage (Deal of the Week: Buy the sausage, get the cinnamon rolls free – what’s not to like?) and, of course, Mardi Gras ice cream. I kid you not. The carton says “Limited Edition, Mardi Gras” and is decorated with people who appear to be playing jazz. I have been quite successful on my diet lately, but I knew right then that Fat Tuesday would not be Dieter’s Paradise.

I usually go light on sugar, but my darling daughter is dieting with me and had strong, profound, and fairly articulate feelings that if we were already messing around with gluten-infested cinnamon-roll based King Cake, we might as well go all the way. She made a reasonable argument and she has high functioning autism, so we take all the good, clear communication we can get. I bought the ice cream because sometimes I’m just a squishy bunny like that.

It all went down much as expected. My hubster came home from work and we had King Cake for snack. I made a celebratory tamale chile bake for dinner, and we had a little more King Cake after dinner with our Mardi Gras ice cream. I consumed the ice cream in extreme moderation because dairy is not my friend, but I definitely consumed enough to form an opinion.

So, what – you are asking – does Mardi Gras ice cream taste like? WELL, if you took a cinnamon King Cake with cream cheese frosting, added something green, something purple, and sprinkles, AND you whipped it with frozen whipped cream, AND mixed in approximately 40 lbs. of undiluted, refined sugar, THEN you would have ONE (and only ONE) gallon of Mardi Gras ice cream. To say it is just a bit sweet is like saying Niagara Falls is just a bit wet. A spoonful would probably be enough to keep your average 3 year old up all night.

My children stay up later than I do; I’m not saying there’s a correlation, but the rest of the King Cake was inexplicably gone by the next morning. I don’t ask questions. The Mardi Gras ice cream languished in the freezer for a day or two before finally succumbing to whatever mysterious force made the King Cake disappear.

I have decided to give up Mardi Gras ice cream for Lent along with any other foods that are in any way reminiscent of cotton candy on steroids.

May God bless you during this season of Lent!

Selfie Time. Be Still My Heart –

WordPress wants my photo. Badly. Every time I log in, they ask. I like to assume it’s because I’m (pick one) gorgeous, charming, aged, not millennial, parent of millennials, rocking the baby boomer thing, incredibly popular, moderately hot, screamingly sexy, or possibly ___ (provide your own adjective).

As much as I would like to take it as a personal compliment, I suppose they nag all their new bloggers so I remain unmoved. I have been calmly searching my technological devices for a recent and decent photo to satisfy the obviously passionate need of my new blog site, and have discovered something weird.

Current photos of solo me are nonexistent.

I have a gazillion photos of my family, friends, events, and scenic views. I have saved memes (“I don’t always drink wine . . . But when I do, the day ends in the letter y.”), saved quotes (“You can’t go back and change the beginning, but you can start where you are and change the ending” – C.S. Lewis), pictures of our pets (four of them – not four pictures, four pets; we’ll address that another time), and the occasional amazing photos of cakes and cupcakes my youngest daughter has decorated. I am in photos with others, but nothing croppable. Huh.

So I dug through my bathroom cabinet, found and applied my rarely used make-up in a manner my cosmetically gifted older daughter would find utterly appalling (I plan to wash my face before she sees me) and began to take selfies. Many of them, trying to get a good one, Because – wow.

I appear to have aged. What are the odds? I feel a perky and youthful 30 inside, but I promise you that the outside most certainly does not match the inside.

Of course, I am aware that I have white hair. No self-deception there. I once had a friend who whispered that her decidedly graying husband saw only blond when he looked in the mirror. Since I was originally an auburn-level ginger, I could not claim as blond the white strands that started appearing before 30 and created a snow-on-the-mountain effect by 40. Matter of fact, a friend once hauled me into an unlit traveling TARDIS (I kid you not) to shine a sonic screwdriver blacklight on my head. Does my hair, in fact, glow in the dark? Yes. Yes, it does – but I digress. Even though the white was premature, I have apparently grown into it now. And I am a bit surprised and slightly appalled to discover that my eyes and other parts of my face have become riddled with smile lines. Many smile lines, going all different directions. One might even say my face smiles no matter the expression, and not just around the mouth.

And now you know why I appear mildly shell-shocked in my photo. So this is me, in make-up (don’t expect to see that again), wearing reading glasses, taking a selfie. Now, look back to the first paragraph – did you pick an adjective? I most certainly did. After pondering my inside, my outside, and my photos, I have finally decided I’m a hot, rockin’-the-boomer-vibe babe. That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it.

Fierce Forgiveness

Christ tells us to forgive 70 x 7. That sounds like a lofty goal, but have you ever had to work so hard at forgiving – or been offended by the same person so repeatedly – that you actually counted up to that 490th time? So does that mean when we hit 491, we are exempt from forgiving? If so, I think there should be a revenge app that plays the theme from Jaws when the counter flips to 491.

Sometimes forgiveness is easy. But sometimes – well, sue me – sometimes I don’t feel particularly forgiving. Forgiving certain offenses rips at my brain and tears at my gut. My anger is especially fierce against hurts to my children or others I love.

But carrying unforgiveness causes me to hold anger in my soul and bitterness in my heart – the very same heart and soul that I have given to Jesus as a dwelling place within me. Who would want to live in that? Who would even ask anyone to live in that? There is a reason He tells us to love our enemies and pray for those who curse us. I have discovered it is quite difficult to hold a grudge against someone I pray for regularly – or even irregularly. When I close my eyes to pray for someone, God opens my heart to the fears and struggles causing that individual to be unkind or thoughtless. That makes me look at my own fears and failures, and then I see how much I share with that person, after all – and my heart breaks a little, surrendering my grip on the negativity. I cannot help but release my resentment and forgive. This does not relieve the hurt entirely, but the bitterness and the anger are lifted and compassion flows instead.

Not all offenses are major – some are light and easy to forgive. But others generate pain, and pain leads to anger, and I must wrestle fiercely with myself and God before finding peace in forgiving those offenses.

Offense can be fierce. Anger is fierce. Forgiveness must be fierce. There is nothing more fierce than battling the powers of Hell and death in order to offer grace. As a Christ-follower, I am called to be a living, breathing carrier of the very grace and forgiveness that was given to me – no matter the circumstances. So on the days when my heart burns with hurt, I remember that Christ burned with so very much more. My soul is humbled – my defenses are lowered. His mercy flows hard and fast through me. And the light of forgiveness bursts outward in a fierce healing rush.

Let’s Start Here . . .

Sometimes life throws so much at you that there is a need to step back, ponder, recover, and renew. Like the mythological phoenix, you learn to have faith that you can arise anew from the ashes left by the changes and struggles of your past, no matter how far back, or how recent.

The past is behind you, the future is unwritten, and you can only live in just this moment – in the very breath you are taking right now.

So, welcome to my blog! This is me.

Breathing.