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Archive for the ‘love’ Category

Newport, Oregon, Nye Beach We sit in the comfy chairs on the third floor of the Sylvia Beach Hotel in Newport, Oregon, gazing out at the gray sky and the rolling white caps. It’s our 36th anniversary, and we came to celebrate in this wonderful book-filled hotel. But my mouth hurts from the tooth that had to be extracted yesterday, and husband is coughing from the cold he caught recently. In our younger days, this might have ruined our special day.Sylvia Beach Hotel

However 36 years give one a little perspective. Seagulls soar past the windows, pushed by the wind. The sun peeks out briefly to light up the waves. Husband sketches a beach scene; I write these words. The ocean beats a constant rhythm into our souls. We are at peace.

Life needn’t be perfect to be good. So many times our expectations prevent us from enjoying the blessings we receive. We want the perfect job, the perfect wedding, the perfect spouse, house, and kids. But life has more glitches than a new computer system, and perfection is a rare commodity here on earth.

Newport, OR beach with gullsMy husband’s uncle had a stroke. While Uncle John partially recovered, he remained weak on one side and had difficulty speaking. A former outdoorsman, he took up painting with his good hand. He made the most of what he had. And whenever he was asked how he was—or many other questions for that matter—his answer was always “Good enough.”

And what’s so wrong with “good enough?” We all have things that keep our lives from being perfect—whether health issues, money problems, disagreements with family or neighbors, job hassles, whatever. We can spend our days bemoaning our problems, or we can accept what we are given and make the most of it. We can enjoy the blessings we are given.dark clouds at beach

The waves keep pounding onto the sand, an ever-changing, but ever-the-same pattern. Dark clouds promise rain. We sit side-by-side, staring out the window, sharing the beauty of the moment. Thirty-six years. Years filled with smiles and tears, joys and frustrations. Not perfect years, but definitely “good enough.”

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Kittens and Babies

grandson1 I read once that the reason babies are so cute is for their own protection. They can be so demanding and so noisy and so much work, but then they smile, and the whole world is beautiful. Same thing for baby animals. What could be cuter than a fuzzy little puppy or a teeny furry kitten with those huge eyes staring up at you so innocent and all?Fiona1

Anyone who has owned a puppy or a kitten knows they can be far from innocent. In December we acquired little Fiona. She was a tiny thing, runt of the litter, so sweet and cuddly. We fell in love with her. But every morning and evening—and a few other times a day—she morphs into something possessed. She tears across the room and across anything in her path—chairs, tables, couches, piano, computer—at breakneck speed, barely pausing for breath. She scratches the chairs, chews up any pens left on the table, zips between our legs as we try to walk. In the morning we find evidence she has been on the kitchen counters, even the refrigerator, and who knows where else?

Feisty FionaHowever, after each wild spree she finally winds down, out of energy. She jumps on my lap, stretches up to sniff my nose, and looks at me with those big, beautiful eyes. And I smile back at her and mutter, “Kitten, you would be in so much trouble if you weren’t so dang cute!”

What can I do? She’s effectively squirmed her way into our lives, and we adore the little beast. That’s how it goes with kittens.Fiona2

Of course, kittens are nothing compared to grandbabies. Want to hear about my grandson? I have a couple hundred pictures I can show you. I’d have even more if he didn’t live clear across the country. I swear he’s just about the cutest baby that ever lived. You sure you don’t want to see some more pictures??

grandson2Kittens and babies: you’ve got to love them!

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Foggy morningI hate goodbyes. I dropped my son off at the airport this morning, knowing I would probably not see him again until next Christmas. We hugged, and I watched him pull his suitcase toward the revolving doors. Around me, other people hugged their goodbyes, grasping that last touch, one final memory to hold them until next time.

Why do kids have to grow up and move away? I remember how excited I was when I went away to college. Did my mother cry as they drove away from my freshman dorm? Did a hole open in her heart that only my return could mend? I never thought about it much at the time; I was too busy living my own life.Son and husband

At my age, goodbyes become more common. A little over a year ago I whispered goodbye to my father as he lay silent in a hospital bed, his spirit perhaps already flown. That farewell was even more wrenching, tinged with the knowledge that I wouldn’t see him again until eternity.

sun shining through the fogAnd yet I go on. The sun shines through the fog and brightens the morning. I smile through my tears. Tomorrow my husband and I will be the ones leaving, off to see our other son and his wife. The hugs will be ones of gladness, as we reconnect after many months. The time will be all the more precious due to its brevity.

At the end of every hello is a goodbye. It’s just how life works. But the pain carves passageways for joy, and every farewell increases my longing for that day when goodbyes will be no more.

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Family is one of the most important things in life. I’ve heard that many times, and I really believe it. But often I get so busy that family gets ignored, particularly family that doesn’t live in the same house. I intend to call or visit, but time flies, while I crawl along, loaded with the chores of everyday.

Last weekend I spent time with family. My brothers, husband, sister-in-law, and I took our father to the beach for two nights to celebrate his upcoming 90th birthday. It was the first time I’d been to the beach with my brothers since we were kids. And it was wonderful!

We spent a lot of time remembering adventures—and misadventures—we’d had when we were little. “You know,” one brother said. “I can’t blame any problems I have on my childhood.” So true! We had a good childhood. Our parents weren’t perfect (although they didn’t make any more mistakes than I did with my kids!), but we always knew we were loved, and that they would be there for us anytime we needed them. That sense of security made childhood a safe place to explore and learn and grow.

We walked on the beach once the sun cleared out some of the clouds—at least all of us did except for my dad. Legs no longer steady enough for beach walking, he sat by the picture window, content to watch the crashing waves and kaleidoscope sky.

If any man fits Paul’s description in Philippians 4:12, it is my dad: “I have learned the secret of being content in any and every situation…” He has been widowed twice, survived four types of cancer, been on three-times-a-week dialysis for years, and yet I rarely hear a word of complaint. “The secret to happiness is not feeling sorry for yourself,” he told me.

I’m so glad we could all spend the weekend together. It’s good to be with people who know and love me just the way I am. Not all families are like that, I hear. I feel so blessed!

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The plane rises into the sky, lifted by forces I can explain but will never comprehend. Slicing through the clouds it disappears. Like magic. Like today turning into tomorrow, and present experiences becoming memories. For a moment, my heart flies with the plane as child of my flesh, child of my soul, you leave again.

Was it really a week ago you arrived? Why does now become yesterday so quickly? Christmas trees with glittering lights. Scones and fudge and decorated cookies. Cold sunshine and Oregon rain. Laughter amidst the warmth of family. Learning a new game where you are the master and we, your parents, mere apprentices. Chicken katsu with curry, artistically presented. You have grown into a strong and confident man, and our hearts glow with pride.

I drive slowly home, to be greeted by empty Christmas stockings and a quiet house. To embrace a husband whose heart also aches. Sweet memories have been added to my storehouse, and I will rejoice in those. Rejoice in love and family and faith—and all the blessings you have given me, often without even knowing. One day soon, those tomorrows will bring us together again. And that will be a wonderful day.

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Daisies

Daisies—little yellow suns surrounded by purest white petals. Whenever I see daisies, I think of my mother. I don’t know why, but she loved daisies. As a little girl, I had more than one dress with a daisy pattern on it, stitched together on the old sewing machine in her bedroom. Because of her, my wedding cake had sugar daisies spiraling to the top.

 What is it about daisies? They are simple flowers found in abundance in open meadows, as well as gardens, shaped like the sun that children draw: a circle with lines radiating out from it. Little girls pull off the petals, one by one, chanting, He loves me, he loves me not—or make bright garlands for their hair. Little boys present fistfuls proudly to their mommies.

 A member of the composite or Asteraceae family, the daisy is, in some areas, considered a noxious weed. A European immigrant, it apparently adapted well to its new land—too well, in places. It becomes a nuisance in rangeland, reducing foraging land for cattle. I guess it’s a little like the starling, but much prettier.

 Still, I like daisies. They make me smile…and sometimes cry just a bit. After my mother died, much too young I think, a large painting of daisies was hung by the office that had been hers. June’s Daisies, it was called. She would have loved it.

 Daisies will never be weeds to me.

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What is it about little birds that intrigues me so?

 Saturday I went outside to look for birds for the Great Backyard Bird Count. As I headed toward our little one acre woods, walking carefully over the damp grass, all seemed quiet. I entered the woods between alders and brown blackberry vines and stopped to scan the trees and bushes. A bit of movement caught my eye, and I raised my binoculars.

There! A little grayish bird darted from branch to branch. What could it be? I finally got it in my sights. It turned its head my way, flashing the yellow and red marks atop its head. A golden-crowned kinglet! Soon it was joined by a second kinglet. The two flitted from tree to tree, looking for insects on the branches. Such beauty in a small energetic creature.

 Big birds can be majestic—an eagle soaring high above or a snow white egret rising from a lake. Little birds often slip unnoticed through the trees and bushes, and may be hard to identify. “Little brown jobs,” they call those small birds that look so much alike. And yet I like those birds, even the gray or brown ones that get so little respect—the sparrows, the juncos, and those flocks of bushtits that swarm the suet feeder like big gray bumblebees. Each type of bird has its own special character, its own niche in the world.

Black capped chickadee

 I suppose I feel a kind of kinship with small birds. If I were a bird, I am sure I would be a “little brown job.” (There is a reason I named this blog “Sparrow Thoughts.”) I tend to blend into the crowd, to slip unnoticed through life with little recognition beyond my own small circle. And that’s okay. If someday the borders of my little woods expand, and I reach a wider audience, that would be great. If not, well, I’ll just continue to be a little brown bird, getting a little grayer every day…

 What are your favorite birds—and why?

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