tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27447044658245441892024-03-18T21:36:23.846-07:00Journey with HonorLesliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03682962360349281375noreply@blogger.comBlogger81125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2744704465824544189.post-39998713981137018182019-12-12T13:08:00.000-08:002019-12-12T13:08:27.789-08:00Well, I'm certainly setting no records on posting frequency unless it is one on how long you can go before coming up with something new to say. But whatever. The point is, I have just written something and here it is...<br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">It’s Christmas season again, and all the old carols are filling my world with an invasive nostalgia I’ve both both loved and hated most of my life. For me, they’ve represented so much longing and so much hope spread over an underlying pain. But this year, I think I finally understand why. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Growing up for me was pretty much a semi-lethal mix of moments of intense connection and equally or even more intense loss of connection. Like the proverbial little girl with the curl, “...when it was good, it was very, very good, and when it was bad, it was horrid.” Christmas was one of the rare times when the good seemed to stabilize and prevail. We’d make all sorts of lists, treats, and shopping trips, eyes sparkling with excitement, and Mom was happy. That was really the key, though I didn’t recognize it then. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">And we went caroling. It was just what we did. She was the orchestrator, and when she created an event, it felt exciting and complete. In the back of our old farm truck loaded with clover-scented hay, we’d nestle down against the cold Montana night while snow like a blue-white blanket softened field and fence. And oh, the stars! They were like a thousand thousand twinkling Christmas lights on a vast black canvas stretched above as we laughed and sang our way down empty country roads, unloaded en masse, and tramped up neighbors’ walks to knock on doors.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“O little town of Bethlehem, how still we see thee lie,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Above thy deep and dreamless sleep, the silent stars go by…”</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXZaXSYSnH7KA_vBmldVGKKkFBoavN0Ys6n1MwP-28fYkvymiKqej-hcscqzyaIRUHmugu1LgFzJlmmrFx7DBbJGJizqJJvu1vmS7gnps_dHvFxin7xIVA070KaZNnal0paIKKo1QIvJrC/s1600/Holiday+6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; display: inline !important; float: right; font-size: 11pt; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1600" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXZaXSYSnH7KA_vBmldVGKKkFBoavN0Ys6n1MwP-28fYkvymiKqej-hcscqzyaIRUHmugu1LgFzJlmmrFx7DBbJGJizqJJvu1vmS7gnps_dHvFxin7xIVA070KaZNnal0paIKKo1QIvJrC/s320/Holiday+6.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I loved to watch my mother’s joy as she sang with us, she who made this whole experience happen. Oh, and I adored whatever treat the neighbors shared afterwards--cocoa, fudge, or popcorn balls. I reveled in the cold of the wind on my cheeks as I cuddled next to my siblings and later on, next to my sweetheart in the back of that same old truck. Every moment breathed connection, shared wonder, and beauty of dear old songs and familiar harmonies blending as if this was how our everyday life really was.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Yet in thy dark street shineth</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The everlasting light…”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Our voices rang out, sweet sweet bells in the night, our laughter like honey and wine, and every year it was just as magical for me. Between the caroling, classic movies with their I’ll-be-home-for-Christmas vibe, and the excitement of planning and executing the “perfect” gifts for each person, the whole month seemed steeped in connectivity. My mother was at her creative best, and the annual Christmas Eve program we put on for each other was only one step less anticipated than Santa himself. I loved it all.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoY4LiJbiaKdyCgKXeHjf3vgqOwVnGpM49cm2x5HKkkc6vwKPwA3AbBqyNA3TSbjXb3dBWgvTa6ABV1H19S9rYQ67yzAhpentRhB_hCwQbyz5zAcLMvSdtYgZfceMPph7k7MSmuaUwWv8g/s1600/lantern.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1117" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoY4LiJbiaKdyCgKXeHjf3vgqOwVnGpM49cm2x5HKkkc6vwKPwA3AbBqyNA3TSbjXb3dBWgvTa6ABV1H19S9rYQ67yzAhpentRhB_hCwQbyz5zAcLMvSdtYgZfceMPph7k7MSmuaUwWv8g/s320/lantern.jpg" width="223" /></a><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“The hopes and fears of all the years</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Are met in thee tonight.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">And when we went caroling, I poured all my longing into those songs at every neighbor’s back door. Joy of the moment. Fear of loss. Hopes for connection. All mingled with my voice and rose as prayers to that Savior whose birth we celebrated: prayers that the heart-healing connection woven into the warp and woof of Christmastime would transfer into the rest of the year with the same solid sustainability. That somehow the joy in my mother’s eyes would remain after Christmas, rather than draining away to the bare survival level of “okay-ness” she maintained for most of the rest of the year.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOH4SddfefJqqFfGS2Ov6fbgPZGPUUFbXs_7Yty8yEoF3Hmy-iQYx3roVNUAU_w3FdJ-KuiwaqTLTtMPRRmiljcWNHE5o312FKcNEgOWQbUqkjWZpZrLdD0ZlNZsFXUtVYiaNOQQ879GDJ/s1600/Manger.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1215" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOH4SddfefJqqFfGS2Ov6fbgPZGPUUFbXs_7Yty8yEoF3Hmy-iQYx3roVNUAU_w3FdJ-KuiwaqTLTtMPRRmiljcWNHE5o312FKcNEgOWQbUqkjWZpZrLdD0ZlNZsFXUtVYiaNOQQ879GDJ/s320/Manger.jpg" width="243" /></a><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I don’t need to figure out why it was easier for her to be happy during the Christmas season. That’s her journey. But at last I understand my own why. Why the bittersweetness surrounding Christmas music, and why I was always hoping I could get my kids and hubby to go caroling with me or sit around singing those old sweet songs. Clearly it is not about the singing or the songs. It’s about the connection that always happened as we snuggled down in the sweet-smelling hay on those star-spangled, snowy Montana nights. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“The morning stars together proclaim Your holy birth,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">And praises sing to God our King, and Peace to men on earth.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">And here’s the thing I also now understand: I don't need us to go singing door to door to experience that connection. It is enough just to be with the ones I love and who love me. We are always connected, through the good and the bad. It’s all I ever really wanted all those years ago, but didn’t know how to experience. So no, this year, let’s </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">not</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> go caroling. Let’s just let those wonderful Christmas songs play as we experience being “with.”</span></div>
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Lesliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03682962360349281375noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2744704465824544189.post-4993747962068116272019-03-31T12:26:00.000-07:002019-03-31T12:30:24.459-07:00Making a Difference<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I often wonder how to make a difference in this beautiful yet struggling world. I also wonder if the world needs one more blog entry or if my words just add to the onslaught of minutiae that hits the world wide web every day. But on the off chance that it's really true that the pen is mightier than the sword and that one raindrop, be it ever so small and ordinary, does indeed raise the sea, I write.<br />
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In the stillness of a cloudy morning while the trees and birds and croaking frogs wait for rain, I feel guilty. Guilty that my little universe is currently at peace. Yes, I have my dilemmas, my concerns, my disappointments. But then there's Mozambique, where entire villages are flooded to the treetops and thousands of people are unaccounted for. I can give money, and I will, but I wish I could do more. Give more tangibly. See into the eyes of the people there and tell them that we who are safe really do care and desperately want them to be safe as well.<br />
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In some ways it feels as detached as when our mothers used to tell us to eat everything on our plates because kids were starving in China. Now as then, I'd gladly share my liver and onions with all takers! But really, how? And perhaps the brooding question below that layer is whether one unknown person going about her routine activities as best she can could add a big enough contribution to the collective need that it is actually felt? Because that's what most of us are: unknown. Lacking a huge footprint. Though our hearts may be as big as Desmond Tutu's, our spheres of influence and our resources seem woefully inadequate to ease the pain around us.<br />
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And yet--if we were able to see with the eyes of another realm, perhaps we would see spots of beauty glowing gold around the edges, slowly expanding until they touch and mingle with each other. Maybe as we--you and I and all the others who long to make a difference--do all we can to release love in our unknown sphere, it will circumnavigate the globe like a grid of light. Together, we will cover the earth in kindness.<br />
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Will it make wars go away? I don't know. Will hurricanes and droughts and earthquakes still happen? I'm guessing yes. But if we can see with other eyes that greatest of gifts--love--and give it wherever we are in the world, people will know they are not unseen. Not dispensable or insignificant, but loved and longed over, and it can comfort their hearts in the midst of whatever disaster they may be facing.<br />
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Adages abound--"Bloom where you're planted." "Light your corner of the world." Either those who penned those words were also hoping that the way they live their life would make a difference, or they actually knew that it would. I'm banking on the latter, because that's what I feel, too, if I drill down below the surface doubts and the guilt that follows on its heels.<br />
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And one thing I do know--that small though my sphere may be and limited my reach--if I do not live and love and try with all my heart, the world is the poorer for it. I may be just one small light, but if all the small lights decide they make no difference anyway and decide not to shine, the whole is diminished.<br />
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John Donne's immortal poem comes to mind:<br />
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No man is an island, entire of itself;</div>
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Every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main;</div>
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If a clod be washed away by the sea,</div>
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Europe is the less.</div>
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As well as if a promontory were,</div>
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As well as if any manner of thy friends or of thine own were;</div>
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Any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind.</div>
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And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls:</div>
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It tolls for thee."</div>
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In the same way, if any man's death diminishes mankind--us--then one person's life enriches it. One small light reaching out and uniting with other small lights increases the shining. Tiny raindrops you and I may be. But let us cast ourselves wholeheartedly into that great ocean, confident that no matter how little we may be, one raindrop really does raise the sea.<br />
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<br />Lesliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03682962360349281375noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2744704465824544189.post-72899797000741462282017-12-25T07:51:00.006-08:002017-12-26T14:34:24.087-08:00Christmas Musings 2017<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I've always loved Christmas, but as it's changed through the years, I haven't always changed with it. So the last few years, instead of trying to recreate "the perfect Christmas," I'm more interested in capturing the present iteration. Because really--comparing the present to past will by necessity show one as lesser. Beyond that, it is only today that exists in real time, and I want to be fully present in the present.<br />
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I've also been experimenting with a type of poetry called an American Sentence. 17 syllables, and thus this Christmas Musing:<br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i>Can anything ever feel like Christmas? And by that very phrase fall short</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i>Of cumulative childhood magic where fantasy and reality</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i>Blur together in nostalgic haze--enchanted mists built of giggles</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i>At midnight, Santa visits, cookie crumbs on his plate proving him real.</i></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNSXjd3O2fFBgC67-lBN38luyILho5eqT-7ZID7FKn58BrCnVbX579UTX8u402XzYvE7fchnuBKJAYpkM5q-YpF91MxUtvECB76OgVBFc8AsumSQo4QDhxLuy4TSv7EGgPEGJ4zovZEy0v/s1600/IMG_8563.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNSXjd3O2fFBgC67-lBN38luyILho5eqT-7ZID7FKn58BrCnVbX579UTX8u402XzYvE7fchnuBKJAYpkM5q-YpF91MxUtvECB76OgVBFc8AsumSQo4QDhxLuy4TSv7EGgPEGJ4zovZEy0v/s320/IMG_8563.JPG" width="240" /></a><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i>Months of dreaming culminating in twinkling tree and presents beneath.</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i>We grew up, and in place of past magic created Christmas dreaming</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i>For our kids, thus breathed the wisps of wonder once again. Then they grew up.</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i>And there is no capturing of past twice removed, so I surmise...</i></span><br />
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<i style="font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif;">Christmas is not a magic to create. It's a moment to live.</i><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i>Let us live it fully, freely, dimmed by no taint of comparison;</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i>Lessened by no impossible longings of childhood reminiscing.</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i>Complete in itself. Perfect for the one-off event that each day is.</i></span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFQ_KDxCa7ccEUT8BsPQHCP6kypbkcEda0Xd6KEbbvQ1SeruLNuf1lsaX9_90A3786rlxlPern9_fdMNfXa4JWWmeCr8bj62v8ltf2ecj6w7V4oM_Tq-3DvazPJYvWFAwmkLIuPZ7DU5AA/s1600/House.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1366" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFQ_KDxCa7ccEUT8BsPQHCP6kypbkcEda0Xd6KEbbvQ1SeruLNuf1lsaX9_90A3786rlxlPern9_fdMNfXa4JWWmeCr8bj62v8ltf2ecj6w7V4oM_Tq-3DvazPJYvWFAwmkLIuPZ7DU5AA/s200/House.jpg" width="170" /></a><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i>Oh yes. We shall capture Christmas this year, and it will be beyond compare.</i></span><br />
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Blessings on your Christmas and may it be not what once was, but steeped in the richness of today.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKY70sNfChPkyQA_enDXWYJCogTA7kxF7pkisICl804BvP45jmbAJlvDdk8tlV3rgu0AOMQ0txAOyndvqwWn3GVhXHHMC-7PCgc2vJ-PYuoSC0lVLzS-IoWm90M6Sx_GxjGYgKurRZXEC9/s1600/IMG_8559.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; display: inline !important; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1226" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKY70sNfChPkyQA_enDXWYJCogTA7kxF7pkisICl804BvP45jmbAJlvDdk8tlV3rgu0AOMQ0txAOyndvqwWn3GVhXHHMC-7PCgc2vJ-PYuoSC0lVLzS-IoWm90M6Sx_GxjGYgKurRZXEC9/s320/IMG_8559.JPG" width="244" /></a>Lesliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03682962360349281375noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2744704465824544189.post-35956634644556391442017-08-29T08:13:00.000-07:002017-08-30T06:52:25.457-07:00Empty Nest Season: Last ChildWell, clearly I've been doing other things than keeping my blog updated. Sorry! But thankfully I doubt that anyone has actually died or even been caused to have a bad day because my last entry is stalled in --gulp!--December :-/<br />
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But anyway.<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bLS8ZEEAAPQ" rel="nofollow" target="_blank"> I just posted a YouTube video about a poem</a> I wrote when my last child graduated from high school, and wanted to put it here in text so it can be read without mistakes and for further pondering, should that help your heart in your own parenting journey.<br />
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<span style="color: #990000; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i><b>Last Child</b></i></span></div>
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<span style="color: #990000; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i><b>Last night was the last time</b></i></span></div>
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<span style="color: #990000; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i><b>I'll sit on hard metal bleachers</b></i></span></div>
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<span style="color: #990000; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i><b>Eyes searching through hundreds of red-robed graduates</b></i></span></div>
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<span style="color: #990000; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i><b>For that one familiar face.</b></i></span></div>
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<span style="color: #990000; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i><b>My child's.</b></i></span></div>
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<span style="color: #990000; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i><b>Last night was the last time</b></i></span></div>
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<span style="color: #990000; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i><b>I'll brave thousands of parents on the field</b></i></span></div>
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<span style="color: #990000; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i><b>To find that one precious person surrounded by all the others s</b></i></span><i style="color: #990000; font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif;"><b>omeone else loves as much.</b></i></div>
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<span style="color: #990000; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i><b>There she is and she's smiling.</b></i></span></div>
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<span style="color: #990000; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i><b>My child.</b></i></span></div>
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<span style="color: #990000; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i><b>Last night was the last time</b></i></span></div>
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<span style="color: #990000; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i><b>I'll have a schoolchild of my own</b></i></span></div>
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<span style="color: #990000; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i><b>And all those years of ABCs and schedules and catching buses by the skin of teeth</b></i></span></div>
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<span style="color: #990000; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i><b>Are over with one last march to measured music,</b></i></span></div>
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<span style="color: #990000; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i><b>And I wonder if I should laugh or cry</b></i></span></div>
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<span style="color: #990000; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i><b>For this last child.</b></i></span></div>
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We've loved and nurtured and taught these dear ones and now that they are fully fledged, it's time to let them fly. No, not just fly. Soar. Soar to new heights, exploring their lives and what they are capable of doing and being. Their journeys are their own. We have ours, in which they figure large.<br />
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But they are more than just part of our journey, and that is one of the challenges of an empty nest season: rejoicing for their journeys even as our paths divurge. It is good. But it's not always easy.<br />
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More later on the Empty Nest Season...</div>
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Lesliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03682962360349281375noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2744704465824544189.post-2144624759609299462016-12-22T12:02:00.000-08:002016-12-24T08:46:02.973-08:00Today has Never Happened Before<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Last year I struggled at Christmas time, and I think it boiled down to the fact that despite my best efforts, I was not able to recreate what we'd had in prior years. Despite the traditions we held to, despite the constant chorus of carols, it fell short of magic for me.<a href="http://journeywithhonor.blogspot.com/2015/12/capturing-christmas.html" target="_blank"> I wrote a poem. A lament of sorts</a>.<br />
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But then it began to dawn on me that I was looking at this all wrong. So I wrote yet another post: <a href="http://journeywithhonor.blogspot.com/2015/12/fresh-christmas.html" target="_blank">Fresh Christmas</a>, and I felt better because I had a plan. But I'll be honest--it felt thin and unsatisfying, because I came to it barely in time to give it a try.<br />
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However, now that another year has sprinted by, I'm having a chance to practice in real time what I glimpsed last year: to add to my collection a newly minted, never-happened-quite-like-this Christmas. And I'm glad to report that the sadness of last year is not gnawing at me like a hungry shadow.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhED6DHv5oJ5qGa1YC31eE39C7c8gzDOvGSu0Sioq5aFsBAcFuyR5kmShq3pQH7RABcFXSEsb3r9xw3-u15KbsjkpstUWzJzg75O5fkPzRi9I31wSL6H-EEF61Amo9a_gS6v291LDo_8IaZ/s1600/IMG_2222.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhED6DHv5oJ5qGa1YC31eE39C7c8gzDOvGSu0Sioq5aFsBAcFuyR5kmShq3pQH7RABcFXSEsb3r9xw3-u15KbsjkpstUWzJzg75O5fkPzRi9I31wSL6H-EEF61Amo9a_gS6v291LDo_8IaZ/s400/IMG_2222.JPG" width="300" /></a>Instead, I'm finding that this year, I want Christmas to be whatever it will be, and what it is--a day, a season that has not happened in quite this way before. Rather than trying to make it fit a pattern I absorbed when I was a child and then have tried to re-capture every year since pretending lost its realness, I am watching Christmas 2016 unfold.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBKZmQergMiTt-Uu1UC2wY_MOauZKN8tKNaec_V-TzIIYjfySA0gcd3-91dAExvR1YEUSnFm0zBTqRNtwpXpcVqXxSo562Op-Dq3Ik1TjRYLgYuXpmChsR4re7llwIS0oPBnes3MToFLaZ/s1600/IMG_8561.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBKZmQergMiTt-Uu1UC2wY_MOauZKN8tKNaec_V-TzIIYjfySA0gcd3-91dAExvR1YEUSnFm0zBTqRNtwpXpcVqXxSo562Op-Dq3Ik1TjRYLgYuXpmChsR4re7llwIS0oPBnes3MToFLaZ/s320/IMG_8561.JPG" width="240" /></a>This is not a lesser season for the fact that members of our family are halfway across the country, and others halfway across the world. It is not a lesser season because gift giving this year looks different. It is not lesser because activities are not as group oriented as on other Christmases. Something can only be lesser by comparison.<br />
And how can we judge as lesser a day that has never happened just because it doesn't mimic one that has?<br />
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To re-create Christmas is an impossible task. Even if every piece matches, we're older, changed, and it's not the first time. In the act of re-creation, the magic of discovery is replaced with the damper of comparison.<br />
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And it is not by comparison we discover new treasures. It is by viewing each day, including this Christmas as a one-of-a-kind event, a day, a season that has never happened before and will never happen again in exactly this 2016 way. We can do familiar things with an eye for the unfolding of the new day, and let each variation and repetition of traditions be part of a unique occasion.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeIzCvsA6jfzERddNrCpedK455pdJZyTQ8KjnzH8SdJ3r2u9FD9M3W_uHWqw3Occs2rVc-OOqoBSrS1HWcGQl_GJ7aPjse-kGp7s7UmlvUKJ2MUF9NZ42OkgOQbdarkGUzKHSrrfAHIcvm/s1600/IMG_2223.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeIzCvsA6jfzERddNrCpedK455pdJZyTQ8KjnzH8SdJ3r2u9FD9M3W_uHWqw3Occs2rVc-OOqoBSrS1HWcGQl_GJ7aPjse-kGp7s7UmlvUKJ2MUF9NZ42OkgOQbdarkGUzKHSrrfAHIcvm/s400/IMG_2223.JPG" width="400" /></a>In holding too tightly to Christmas past, we can miss the wonder and the gift in Christmas present. In measuring this day against others, we risk missing the wonder it holds, risk not being fully present or fully enjoying what is. So I don't know what Christmas 2016 looks like.<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I'm going to find that out, one new discovery at a time. </span>Lesliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03682962360349281375noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2744704465824544189.post-73570207589963636742016-10-24T15:22:00.000-07:002016-10-24T19:43:53.103-07:00Eyes to See<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdPirE0PoJTTlStXMx5beULbjqebP-8JIZ5nma3jsjbBoe3KRNQ-OF5LW3QVPE6WWfw1UCQfazWP5T1TqGS9IG2ues_Z7gp7tKjh9Qwdhx3FdUA1Bvif5i-MOx9Jd0siJG-roiaxLgy53w/s1600/Eire+with+headband.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdPirE0PoJTTlStXMx5beULbjqebP-8JIZ5nma3jsjbBoe3KRNQ-OF5LW3QVPE6WWfw1UCQfazWP5T1TqGS9IG2ues_Z7gp7tKjh9Qwdhx3FdUA1Bvif5i-MOx9Jd0siJG-roiaxLgy53w/s400/Eire+with+headband.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
In a world of information, where every other new blip is negative, it's easy to feel discouraged about the state of the earth. But the truth is that all around us, common every day people are carrying on their lives with courage, perserverance, and kindness.<br />
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I've been thinking: what if there was a Good News Gatherer--a person who ferreted out all the acts small and big that separate humans from inhumanity? What if we could begin to hear about all the good stuff? All over the world there are brave and wonderful things happening. Inventions. Breakthroughs. Grandmas and grandpas that know their grandchildren are the best thing ever and who celebrate these little and big people with delighted eyes.<br />
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I'd also like to see the truth about high schoolers <br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_BcNaUbnvEpPdLGd5RIUj5gk6YCJekPv1uoCrJkDT6rOWACp-Q8sFwnj7SEG3yuWpdUDa5QvzMWP7yQbskLzblfhrv8xWIf62v9KfxOce_iLcZSax8hYFdE2IMOu_-glZA0Eu7VrX9KSj/s1600/3+guys.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_BcNaUbnvEpPdLGd5RIUj5gk6YCJekPv1uoCrJkDT6rOWACp-Q8sFwnj7SEG3yuWpdUDa5QvzMWP7yQbskLzblfhrv8xWIf62v9KfxOce_iLcZSax8hYFdE2IMOu_-glZA0Eu7VrX9KSj/s320/3+guys.jpg" width="232" /></a>featured, these up-and-coming leaders of tomorrow who despite their ubiquitous electronic devices are sweet and savvy and full of dreams. They have a high value for loyalty and belonging, teamwork and equality. I'd love to hear more about what is right with them and less about what is wrong.<br />
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Seriously, how many more scary stories do we need about all the bad things that can, are, and have happened?!--so much so that this beautiful, precious world of ours feels more like a war zone than the cradle of creativity that it really is.<br />
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Yes, there's bad stuff out there. Yes, there are people who do bad things, and I'm not advocating we pretend otherwise. But what about the tragedy of going through the gift of each day in fear, in battle armor, scaring ourselves and our kids about possible catastrophes and things to fight against,<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiu5pfS6daqZddpDAl9WpyzIX-VXwzdTae5eSrIPQUsffiuOxm7upFA222oX3bSKZdTH1Dso08c-wEUZTmtAgoJHK281xDOfYx2e2VN1MrGYJ8e2H146FS7NwifmFbRS7Qjt043ZB1569mH/s1600/box+girls.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiu5pfS6daqZddpDAl9WpyzIX-VXwzdTae5eSrIPQUsffiuOxm7upFA222oX3bSKZdTH1Dso08c-wEUZTmtAgoJHK281xDOfYx2e2VN1MrGYJ8e2H146FS7NwifmFbRS7Qjt043ZB1569mH/s400/box+girls.jpg" width="400" /></a>while being blind to the unwavering beauty of the people and the world around us--hunkered down in preparation for the apocolypse when all around us eternity unfolds?<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimFWYQe0vr8dkPDofmX8vTs1wX7xq291rKXSm-GPiXwJVjkWSum91c1w5hQm1EmyqXCZZsqFi18Gzne0YxiF_t6lbJrjwBbo6ORJ93BoVQoWgEJf5oLl3wa4s0Ejtte3L5sHwKfefKCVi0/s1600/coffee+guy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimFWYQe0vr8dkPDofmX8vTs1wX7xq291rKXSm-GPiXwJVjkWSum91c1w5hQm1EmyqXCZZsqFi18Gzne0YxiF_t6lbJrjwBbo6ORJ93BoVQoWgEJf5oLl3wa4s0Ejtte3L5sHwKfefKCVi0/s320/coffee+guy.jpg" width="202" /></a><br />
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It's easy to be scared: Vaccine disasters. Isis. Polictical bashing, failures, and "what's our nation coming to?" is plastered everywhere. But what about the good news? People rescuing, caring for, empowering other people. Helping. Feeding. Loving. These things are newsworthy, too. Good things are happening in this old world of ours. The next generation of mothers and fathers are having<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5Wgk8h0OY0zj9k7Y63t614AqwlJguGyilBV1ddwXQFCpOrVZI0OxJmw8IzVnzWBb1Pj9CuL5H3f3UaDKwQfK104AunMvbnrP9YvgWVDKNgrD9IiTyAYo8yaqET0zWCEpJf3qa61mGjRty/s1600/steps.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="235" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5Wgk8h0OY0zj9k7Y63t614AqwlJguGyilBV1ddwXQFCpOrVZI0OxJmw8IzVnzWBb1Pj9CuL5H3f3UaDKwQfK104AunMvbnrP9YvgWVDKNgrD9IiTyAYo8yaqET0zWCEpJf3qa61mGjRty/s320/steps.jpg" width="320" /></a>children and loving them as fiercely and wisely and with as much passion as previous generations. Sure, there are different challenges and different philosophies. But have you watched a young mom cudddle her baby lately? That's a timeless beauty unfolding right before our eyes.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAg0u4lsO6hYED1ZW4Py6MelGFg_1fVIQ4h3npK_0GBn8Pa-kMtx56aqMRIJbjBwlI0aE3nzsyqTPhyufDGSYPsYh5rE9Pr8EewRWQcPbjJcu0pVEAuZbHwy7HW8zfvCLT96Yvy9xDFIYY/s1600/Fall.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAg0u4lsO6hYED1ZW4Py6MelGFg_1fVIQ4h3npK_0GBn8Pa-kMtx56aqMRIJbjBwlI0aE3nzsyqTPhyufDGSYPsYh5rE9Pr8EewRWQcPbjJcu0pVEAuZbHwy7HW8zfvCLT96Yvy9xDFIYY/s400/Fall.jpg" width="300" /></a><br />
And then there's the everyday bravery of farmers in the field, up before dawn planting, cultivating, harvesting. Mothers and fathers coaching soccer. Brothers and sisters laughing and loving and playing together. It's happening all around us in big and small ways, and if the truth were known, more frequently than the bad stuff.<br />
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<span style="font-size: medium;">Fear is invasive,</span><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span><span style="font-size: small;">but it doesn't stand a chance against hope and joy and love</span><span style="font-size: small;">. </span>And here's some more good news--we get to choose where to focus. That's not living in denial. That's living in balance. Evil is not greater than good. One tiny little candle causes darkness to flee, and we need to be reminded of that. Why live in fear when you can live in hope and love?<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhP4eheAYAnhlQNvfA7-DbgTEjuJW2q_QL6LXrnITYR4Wa9yxuBfjKuBsHumN8Ee_sYH166CxcayDDZPYoNvcQVxy1awE_4i19ZA46Ehksyq-PL4KSn4kjCvC1DPkvPJpbzN4_9qQntc4MM/s1600/sunset.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhP4eheAYAnhlQNvfA7-DbgTEjuJW2q_QL6LXrnITYR4Wa9yxuBfjKuBsHumN8Ee_sYH166CxcayDDZPYoNvcQVxy1awE_4i19ZA46Ehksyq-PL4KSn4kjCvC1DPkvPJpbzN4_9qQntc4MM/s400/sunset.jpg" width="400" /></a>So I'm thinking we need a revolution of good news gatherers. What if each of us set out to discover one brave or beautiful or precious moment out of each day, and flood our world with the proper ratio of good to bad. I'm not talking about instagram moments that present an unreal picture, as if every moment of our lives is amazing and photo-worthy, but the<i> true</i> riches in the everyday-ness of life. There's so much good news and so many great people around us, like gold and silver and precious stones laying right in plain sight. <span style="font-size: medium;">We just need eyes to see them.</span><br />
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Check out some good stuff happening: <a href="http://www.goodnewsnetwork.org/">http://www.goodnewsnetwork.org/</a><br />
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<br />
And here's another good link: <a href="http://www.goodnewsnetwork.org/the-america-i-know-the-humanity-i-know/">http://www.goodnewsnetwork.org/the-america-i-know-the-<span style="font-size: medium;">humanity-i-know/</span></a>Lesliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03682962360349281375noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2744704465824544189.post-14336053893841992682016-07-26T10:41:00.000-07:002016-07-26T10:44:29.156-07:00On Being Known<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgmnrA2vsKxcEibJzlKXeFs-n6SMkG34i53V1gn64h7kN7arAJnisGDUFrnapFQJbJ2_m7qNfIXKbShSoRfgc4Kbg0TfC0nS5JMLD6iJPGvUjdzqJtJ2HVhi0JbYc0ZQ-xrqKlpSFl89Vr/s1600/Porchie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgmnrA2vsKxcEibJzlKXeFs-n6SMkG34i53V1gn64h7kN7arAJnisGDUFrnapFQJbJ2_m7qNfIXKbShSoRfgc4Kbg0TfC0nS5JMLD6iJPGvUjdzqJtJ2HVhi0JbYc0ZQ-xrqKlpSFl89Vr/s400/Porchie.jpg" width="300" /></a><span style="font-size: large;">We all want to be known, don't we?</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span>--Known for who we really are. Our essence, the real us under all our socially acceptible or unacceptible behaviors and herculean efforts to do--and be--that which others will value. I find this exhausting: rather like a merry-go-round that is spinning way too fast to jump off from without sustaining injury, but from which I cast longing eyes to the stillness of the ground beyond vertigo and white-knuckled hanging.<br />
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I suppose that's rather dramatic for a quiet July morning. Certainly my current oasis of trickling stream, hot coffee, and cool mountain-morning air seems the exact opposite. But in this quiet moment I'm wondering why we keep that inner merry-go-round whirling. We want to be known, and yet--<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdtAZzuWnY3Nh_74oDadnwKKRNFVZUNQcZ6TmlFgs41ZlMWucSWK1x2GN46qEr8kqWNlpQrrhqupm5RYYf5suC8fr_0S1ZnMVd4U-as1BF7e7Kbydr_-kNosPGAR1IE7hLnggHG2vL_ZJg/s1600/Leaf+contrast.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdtAZzuWnY3Nh_74oDadnwKKRNFVZUNQcZ6TmlFgs41ZlMWucSWK1x2GN46qEr8kqWNlpQrrhqupm5RYYf5suC8fr_0S1ZnMVd4U-as1BF7e7Kbydr_-kNosPGAR1IE7hLnggHG2vL_ZJg/s400/Leaf+contrast.jpg" width="300" /></a><span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;">Ultimately, I think it boils down to </span><span style="font-size: large;">fear.</span></span><br />
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Fear that if we are seen--really seen for who we are with all our bumps and baggage and not just the good stuff we hope people see--that they will not find us worth knowing. Doesn't that phrase just put a weight on your chest and a twist in your gut? It does in mine. But here's what I'm finally understanding on a more than intellectual level:<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I'm just me.</span><br />
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That includes all my bumps and baggage. And while I'm seeking to systematically chuck that baggage and grow more whole, if someone cannot look beyond it and find the real me--mistakes, shortcomings, and all--then I will never be completely safe with that person. If I am only "safe" as long as I don't scare them by my thoughts, choices, or actions, then I am not truly safe. It's merely a momentary lull.<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">But to be known <i><b>and</b></i> safe--now that is a rare gift. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVjBxmvzUuqg3QGioxifNrzPgwfqCtlWRW4kun9v0XOxvZBwWLVf5jhVuoX-GSpO4ATCf6_csgD-7eeH2NDckNHGq_HkfYQz_85_MKTTAu7BEWU8SMsrJwgrT1_1BdKv0VDVT8ugukeXa-/s1600/hugs.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVjBxmvzUuqg3QGioxifNrzPgwfqCtlWRW4kun9v0XOxvZBwWLVf5jhVuoX-GSpO4ATCf6_csgD-7eeH2NDckNHGq_HkfYQz_85_MKTTAu7BEWU8SMsrJwgrT1_1BdKv0VDVT8ugukeXa-/s400/hugs.jpg" width="333" /></a></div>
If we're casting about in our minds trying to think of even one relationship where that level of peace exists, I've got to say, the good news is that every one of us has at least one; God knows us each completely. Loves us with our bumps, baggage, and beauty, though these have absolutely nothing to do with <i><b>why</b></i> He loves and values us, and I find that in the face of this level of acceptance, fear dissapates.<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">He sees the real us. </span>The us that He created and called very good. It is said that we are not born afraid. We learn fear. Well, I'm thinking it's high time we <b><i>unlearn</i> </b>it. Hop off that whirling round of performing to get love, and find out how amazing it feels to be as happy about the real us as He is,.<br />
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<br />Lesliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03682962360349281375noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2744704465824544189.post-26098648607728556752016-05-13T07:32:00.000-07:002016-05-13T07:34:58.048-07:00Today's Little Wonders<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_5TXWjXV1G-rFprmq364jRBnExeVRRTLAdXZKiztdr6M_-EDtNoBHqdix69C1CUd7vkhhHRnSqnlERFMkNkJmVffpQarBC7Vjcvco-CDV2TmRe-eUiTHC8wStrNUlVl_6ByQ_NBJpiSCR/s1600/clock.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_5TXWjXV1G-rFprmq364jRBnExeVRRTLAdXZKiztdr6M_-EDtNoBHqdix69C1CUd7vkhhHRnSqnlERFMkNkJmVffpQarBC7Vjcvco-CDV2TmRe-eUiTHC8wStrNUlVl_6ByQ_NBJpiSCR/s400/clock.jpg" width="303" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">Ha. I just scrolled back about four years</span> <span style="font-size: large;">on this blog</span> to an entry titled <a href="http://journeywithhonor.blogspot.com/2012/02/drawn-by-pleasure.html" target="_blank">"Drawn by Pleasure."</a> I find that lo and behold, I am on the very same quest. Still. Or again. Or perhaps both. From the standpoint that I should be a pro at something I've been working on for four years, this was not an encouraging thought. But on the other hand--I'm thinking that it is still my quest because this is one of my passions in life--to discover the big and small joys of the present, to be fully alive in this moment in which I live, and to see the wonder in the everyday.<br />
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So I ask myself what I have learned about this in four years, and I am glad to say that here are several things I know a bit deeper now than I did then:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEil9ZylZ32ynTPCk55CxmQMPlxlPHuaneFpEJsH83F4xQiYrK3CHCved7eerIB-ZUsk2FmRQvCqbRA2Y-vKUl0Uwq9F4hUc06WsZDMJeBl7VrL8ytDyFG1-vBoGn10aan5cBxNoWqcmqGsZ/s1600/Sunset.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEil9ZylZ32ynTPCk55CxmQMPlxlPHuaneFpEJsH83F4xQiYrK3CHCved7eerIB-ZUsk2FmRQvCqbRA2Y-vKUl0Uwq9F4hUc06WsZDMJeBl7VrL8ytDyFG1-vBoGn10aan5cBxNoWqcmqGsZ/s320/Sunset.png" width="320" /></a><span style="font-size: large;">1</span>. <b>Busyness moves me out of the zone of seeing the little things: </b>breathing the air, gazing on the sky. Well, I still breathe the air, but I don't even <br />
notice that. When I load my schedule, dovetailing appointments, deadlines, and chauffeuring teens, I sprint through the moments. I live for the future, a nebulous intangible promise of rest delayed by this frenetic effort of mine to keep all the irons in my fire equally hot.<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">2.</span> <b>I'm in charge </b>of not just what I put on my schedule, but how much I allow that self-imposed merry-go-round of life to pressure me with oughts, shoulds, and guilt for less-than-brilliant follow-through. No one else can slow my merry-go-round down. Just me.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgE1_p2IIMQHK3cbwnuZMRZYBE3l06Z6RoFgIrTNZX9X7KynEDgS2FuJyqmSA32aPXEFJxxgZfyTT7XAhxd3MrIz6U4BUr-IyCZfuMFQn5fqKah-laseuv93Qt35Xcf9OrfZcQX9g7uDiSw/s1600/Poppies.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgE1_p2IIMQHK3cbwnuZMRZYBE3l06Z6RoFgIrTNZX9X7KynEDgS2FuJyqmSA32aPXEFJxxgZfyTT7XAhxd3MrIz6U4BUr-IyCZfuMFQn5fqKah-laseuv93Qt35Xcf9OrfZcQX9g7uDiSw/s400/Poppies.jpg" width="332" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">3</span>.<b> No matter how often I find myself in one of these times </b>when I'm moving too fast, feeling out of touch with myself and wondering how I got there, I can start over. I can slow down. Rework my schedule to include more moments to smell the roses, sip the coffee, laugh with loved ones. If I scale back on the activities that are crowding out these small and oh-so-vital-to-me wonders, I will be much more able to live in the present.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg26QCPcKqIBmAEdicBmHiFev-5swXRlMpwMxQxt_wQJ5m7mxmj-uqy26zFGhck_P9sXZn9S3cloKkmpLWf7ZqR1ksEec_t_ON4OgxlocFCbTlhGOJlAlXIdwj5apf42CXbq1wtfyd8OQ-v/s1600/coffee.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg26QCPcKqIBmAEdicBmHiFev-5swXRlMpwMxQxt_wQJ5m7mxmj-uqy26zFGhck_P9sXZn9S3cloKkmpLWf7ZqR1ksEec_t_ON4OgxlocFCbTlhGOJlAlXIdwj5apf42CXbq1wtfyd8OQ-v/s320/coffee.jpg" width="304" /></a><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>4.</b></span> <b>And finally,</b> <b>I'm learning that it's okay.</b> For me and any of you that might be reading this and seeing yourself reflected, we need to remember that we're eternal beings. If we rush through some of our moments, in the long run it will still be a mere blip on our timeline. We'll lose a lot more of our peace and enjoyment if we spend our time regretting what has already passed. It's the now that needs our focus. This morning. This minute in which I'm watching the sun come up, hearing a whippoorwill calling in the creek bottom, and yes, sipping a good cup of Colombian Supremo. What does this moment hold for you? What are you seeing, hearing, smelling, tasting?<br />
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These moments are gifts. But we'll whiz right by them in our busyness if we're not mindful. I'm in the process (once again) of re-working my calendar to include a lot more of these moments; and if your merry-go-round of a schedule is moving way too fast, I invite you to join me!<br />
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<span style="color: #783f04; font-size: large;">These Little Wonders</span>Lesliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03682962360349281375noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2744704465824544189.post-33929596334337770452016-04-01T09:55:00.000-07:002016-04-07T01:45:11.752-07:00The Magic of ChildrenI just returned from participating in the <a href="http://clf.ucmo.edu/authors.html" target="_blank">48th annual Warrensburg Children's Literature Festival</a>, and I want to say that it was an honor and a pleasure to get to stand before a classroom of youngsters and take them on a journey with me.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlJxllttZX8Ypslz4kvtvcw7Si1q490N-RujEXnVtKtmCSZYDXUFwfwqfXYpZfczBYKRYp_f7IBkXam2sV_QR3w74ht4HNVCSsMfUSrLgMe-Is47Y6vXHjJGGpxUQ1fJ29FLY7okSnRSHy/s1600/Lit+Fest+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="331" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlJxllttZX8Ypslz4kvtvcw7Si1q490N-RujEXnVtKtmCSZYDXUFwfwqfXYpZfczBYKRYp_f7IBkXam2sV_QR3w74ht4HNVCSsMfUSrLgMe-Is47Y6vXHjJGGpxUQ1fJ29FLY7okSnRSHy/s640/Lit+Fest+1.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMw-i63cF8p3p6Vw6Vgl-Wi9DzdleaOKgT4tGnENzSs_l_uj_8pWUfuisJC_S1e5xqeM5o5pBYuiUZ2v56RzsryWzs5ma-QuVaQEZKMQtKfEqr5r28GlgNUuWCgKRGvowue8sKqmdNkNZ0/s1600/Cowboys.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMw-i63cF8p3p6Vw6Vgl-Wi9DzdleaOKgT4tGnENzSs_l_uj_8pWUfuisJC_S1e5xqeM5o5pBYuiUZ2v56RzsryWzs5ma-QuVaQEZKMQtKfEqr5r28GlgNUuWCgKRGvowue8sKqmdNkNZ0/s320/Cowboys.jpg" width="320" /></a><br />
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...Imagine you're a cowboy.<br />
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It's December, and you and your buddy are riding on the Colorado mesa searching for stray cattle.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdgYw-EdQU7bkQkTGyYVdCaXQ7_LPWqTeyd4I0LMJzn8Ga3IA21l5YemkRelU4HR1XIKTLNh8hUF5gnnZ7hjXa58y_YdUC98U0LQmpIpjxVfK-mihz5fulByufJPCrIObH6VcsV3zIeZU9/s1600/cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdgYw-EdQU7bkQkTGyYVdCaXQ7_LPWqTeyd4I0LMJzn8Ga3IA21l5YemkRelU4HR1XIKTLNh8hUF5gnnZ7hjXa58y_YdUC98U0LQmpIpjxVfK-mihz5fulByufJPCrIObH6VcsV3zIeZU9/s320/cover.jpg" width="240" /></a><br />
And then it starts to snow...<br />
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I loved watching them dive deep into the scene. Loved introducing them to one of my most favorite places on the planet, Mesa Verde National Park in Colorado, and incidentally, the setting for my latest book for middle graders, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Flight-Cliff-Bird-Leslie-Wyatt/dp/0898244935/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1459526101&sr=8-1&keywords=The+flight+of+the+cliff+bird" target="_blank"><i>The Flight of the Cliff Bird</i>.</a><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgz4vPic-tlLJRXGxOs1aGDkcWMbsZdMkq7aJI6Zh1pvrvGsgIfiy7DkeaRZQLAOHKYmQAqGCvYVVRoIIOsWfRrorp_jf0qxpmZhcZKImXCOcGoGKHDv480ovrTiJHYLdPGIhrVtqusaQiA/s1600/by+campfire.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="228" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgz4vPic-tlLJRXGxOs1aGDkcWMbsZdMkq7aJI6Zh1pvrvGsgIfiy7DkeaRZQLAOHKYmQAqGCvYVVRoIIOsWfRrorp_jf0qxpmZhcZKImXCOcGoGKHDv480ovrTiJHYLdPGIhrVtqusaQiA/s400/by+campfire.jpg" width="400" /></a>Their eyes were alight with the magic of imagination, wide with wonder, and for those few brief moments, we became cliff dwellers together.<br />
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The classroom fades, and it is just us and the scent of sagebrush and the comfort of sun-warmed sandstone at our backs. The cliff dwellings begin to glow with the light of cooking fires and a cool wind sweeps up from the canyon floor.<br />
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Don't let anyone tell you that this generation of children is somehow lesser. Somehow lacking. Yes, they're dealing with elements that we of earlier generations did not--electronic games, images, accessibility beyond belief.<br />
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But consider this: they are dealing with the challenges they have been handed. Denial is not a good option. Even if they were to live the electronics-free lifestyle of earlier days, when they emerge into the real world at age 18, they would be handicapped to deal with the freedom and opportunities of a world that is constantly progressing. Better, then, to help them learn to steward those freedoms.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhs2vHJ_DbRKycTosYXCCeaP-QbbapP8-LYlR6FttrZCQ5YsWiOrRI7FTsG2mUuTcnM7VGATz9tffn3mqOJZPAZhcZjgDg5aEvmbdlX31g9cZ5VhWVVmsk80SWU16oHgOlzTG3-EQg1oVxx/s1600/Lit+Fest+3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhs2vHJ_DbRKycTosYXCCeaP-QbbapP8-LYlR6FttrZCQ5YsWiOrRI7FTsG2mUuTcnM7VGATz9tffn3mqOJZPAZhcZjgDg5aEvmbdlX31g9cZ5VhWVVmsk80SWU16oHgOlzTG3-EQg1oVxx/s320/Lit+Fest+3.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="295" /></a><br />
They are not a lesser generation. I saw in these children the same intelligent wonder, the same innate questioning, the same ability to explore the unknown and unseen as that of children from earlier decades. I'm excited for them and for the world which they will in their turn curate for a generation not yet born.<br />
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Their eyes were full of wonder and hope, and although I was taking them on a journey back in time, they left me with renewed expectation for the future.<br />
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Lesliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03682962360349281375noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2744704465824544189.post-70701684439681519472015-12-25T09:22:00.001-08:002015-12-25T09:36:07.981-08:00Fresh Christmas<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVddRKdxIG2_x4ODHuQFKoN4dYPm7T9hS4W8G5pxjK6NTJe2WGBU2kE_mSU57F2VlWaMQAJlloEP1yLPtnnqZrW_w2zWSgy1K_ocr-VugvHU0iQqSpoB0MureL33AboN9QJm4CovL5nyqb/s1600/tree.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVddRKdxIG2_x4ODHuQFKoN4dYPm7T9hS4W8G5pxjK6NTJe2WGBU2kE_mSU57F2VlWaMQAJlloEP1yLPtnnqZrW_w2zWSgy1K_ocr-VugvHU0iQqSpoB0MureL33AboN9QJm4CovL5nyqb/s400/tree.jpg" width="231" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="http://journeywithhonor.blogspot.com/2015/12/capturing-christmas.html" target="_blank">I've spent the last month or more capturing Christmas</a></span>--to try to feel once more what I felt as a child, and to help my kids, now almost all grown, capture it as well. But this Christmas morning, I find I have a new perspective. Despite what I've just been doing, I now realize that it's not about trying to relive Christmas past, as if those few fleeting years of my childhood or my kids' childhoods were the epitome of what Christmas <i>should </i>be.<br />
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This is the last year I'll do that. From this morning on, what I want to do is let each Christmas season unfold its own unique treasures. We can't always have everyone here. We can't always do exactly what we did that one year when it was perfect for me or some other person. But we can live in the now and treasure what's happening this day.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMCH-bmB8Od6b1mu51w23hku2Zy0Tw2szUXa60mgQx-UGAwpuAUDwldDvxfKF3THjkwKvte9BKr27Z0-4OWGM8igtoKOhFPhXvSUPWuIoHd1F50WHp47PWDwpHRDIuUNnxjIUarpv-UW8q/s1600/sweetrolls.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMCH-bmB8Od6b1mu51w23hku2Zy0Tw2szUXa60mgQx-UGAwpuAUDwldDvxfKF3THjkwKvte9BKr27Z0-4OWGM8igtoKOhFPhXvSUPWuIoHd1F50WHp47PWDwpHRDIuUNnxjIUarpv-UW8q/s320/sweetrolls.jpg" width="240" /></a>Of course we'll probably still have our traditional foods: grasshopper pie on Christmas Eve. Cinnamon rolls on Christmas morning. (Why we use this occasion to slam ourselves with sugar, I have yet to define, and truthfully don't want to, because we literally only make these things once a year. Some things you just have to hold on to)!<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjACjxb4QzAipgVexr8hia6Z_xNBvJzZpVKR8G8VHcllm1bEWHjW4YOfzUfXXOMao-u6lNjAcZEJybqTFz4CcE1CYre93RjoJH2Dn7BoteIx5ngr03s8RRizwCNDedtw-xqbd4Y9EbQYzgY/s1600/Eire+at+Christmas2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjACjxb4QzAipgVexr8hia6Z_xNBvJzZpVKR8G8VHcllm1bEWHjW4YOfzUfXXOMao-u6lNjAcZEJybqTFz4CcE1CYre93RjoJH2Dn7BoteIx5ngr03s8RRizwCNDedtw-xqbd4Y9EbQYzgY/s400/Eire+at+Christmas2.JPG" width="300" /></a>But with the possible exception of food, I don't want to be looking backwards at Christmas except to reminisce. I want each December 25th from here on out--and I figure I've got at least 35 more to go--to be uncharted territory, as in reality, each new day is never and can never be a repeat of the one before it.<br />
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I want to add to my memory bank a newly-minted, one-off Christmas, vintage 2015, instead of trying to relive but never quite recapturing the magic of some other time time. Next year, besides God, who really knows how it will be? Who knows who will be here. Who knows what the weather will be, the dynamics, the tree.<br />
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We'll have to discover what unfolds. That's what we're doing today, and rather than feeling like it is less than other years because not everyone is here or no small child is present to add wonder, this Christmas is perfect because it is fresh and new and unexplored.<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Let the celebration begin! </span><br />
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Once everyone else gets up, of course. Me? I'm on my second cup of coffee :-)<br />
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<br />Lesliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03682962360349281375noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2744704465824544189.post-50055314544906669562015-12-22T17:41:00.000-08:002015-12-22T17:41:51.453-08:00Capturing Christmas<div style="text-align: left;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhC4cCx42NJUidtoZiz68xtwRQiMkoMb5l2GLOCWK2tSEqy2o_ZIfRz393aWlHUj3COluk3ls5GkVjTvDQNJpI8aetEYxr7zcqJPZM7RA5HN-wj767QZ4t5GN6TSGpaTuLYeCDiPnXXR4s/s1600/Snowflake.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhC4cCx42NJUidtoZiz68xtwRQiMkoMb5l2GLOCWK2tSEqy2o_ZIfRz393aWlHUj3COluk3ls5GkVjTvDQNJpI8aetEYxr7zcqJPZM7RA5HN-wj767QZ4t5GN6TSGpaTuLYeCDiPnXXR4s/s200/Snowflake.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="173" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Christmas is almost upon us</span>, but I feel as if I'm running after it, trying to capture its essence as if it were an elusive snowflake caught on a current of wind. So I play carols on spotify. I stare at the lights on our Christmas tree, and I ponder how to "feel" Christmas-y</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhniczCBBOvEIai_AjqfjT5WV4LMewVkAJWAzHWWQVzQuPPbtp4v8QnFHIBLLmlLUURyBpsB7RIcPc3hAr4dD9SdJvlex55mrJLy-K0kCmvGG0JiqX76mHXyg6UF2S4WJDacMwAmcxlZ7D4/s1600/Goose.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhniczCBBOvEIai_AjqfjT5WV4LMewVkAJWAzHWWQVzQuPPbtp4v8QnFHIBLLmlLUURyBpsB7RIcPc3hAr4dD9SdJvlex55mrJLy-K0kCmvGG0JiqX76mHXyg6UF2S4WJDacMwAmcxlZ7D4/s200/Goose.jpg" width="175" /></a> And I also wonder:</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBtA1QLybh-KcQQBZAxOlY9Mjpx1LhHxZ7DmY897Yk5p48WqEpZhUWvoC_TrN7msRj6K9c5vGcBrriUyIEYg9VtRLIYW4711rEoToIft_-kHDCCft-S0rj-qWxUYfDzkxO7X11DUcUvj-f/s1600/House.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBtA1QLybh-KcQQBZAxOlY9Mjpx1LhHxZ7DmY897Yk5p48WqEpZhUWvoC_TrN7msRj6K9c5vGcBrriUyIEYg9VtRLIYW4711rEoToIft_-kHDCCft-S0rj-qWxUYfDzkxO7X11DUcUvj-f/s320/House.jpg" width="228" /></a></div>
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Where has Christmas magic gone?</div>
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Did I leave it in the land of childhood where</div>
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We breathed the rare air</div>
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Of bigger-than-life hopes and dreams</div>
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All hanging on the happenings</div>
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Of one December night</div>
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When sleigh bells </div>
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And angel songs </div>
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Shimmered the air </div>
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Like silvering of the veil between seen and not seen?</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr_IOjNYu-ImMLUWCK-W8NMX5wksVwpJKWWpjZKOogmWxQec8iwpbh2GplVPFSSA_21DntRkNnDv9R7ncWIFIUNVpZzPWSPOWApjlr8ojZs_YxAZ2X5SGE_G5rLq9bd7SlCai0_cnhEDk3/s1600/Presents.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr_IOjNYu-ImMLUWCK-W8NMX5wksVwpJKWWpjZKOogmWxQec8iwpbh2GplVPFSSA_21DntRkNnDv9R7ncWIFIUNVpZzPWSPOWApjlr8ojZs_YxAZ2X5SGE_G5rLq9bd7SlCai0_cnhEDk3/s320/Presents.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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When did sleepless eves of Christmas past</div>
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Bright lights and starry eyes</div>
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Give way to growing up?</div>
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And when did suspension of belief </div>
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Meld slowly into a surer and less sweet knowledge that magic,</div>
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Christmas magic,</div>
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Is fragile?</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiU1K7ZXq0K1Qb3c9Hlj477_LdqwBTSqOtSU78e6kJj_l3XOnLzYT0f-1Cz0yJdnzb1nQujdqv7RWUYjA1g2DWQTbDWQnm-PGu0BSuuXZ78qe5uZiDVznHZbIWMtD7dsLwp9r4NhEk8yWuE/s1600/tree.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiU1K7ZXq0K1Qb3c9Hlj477_LdqwBTSqOtSU78e6kJj_l3XOnLzYT0f-1Cz0yJdnzb1nQujdqv7RWUYjA1g2DWQTbDWQnm-PGu0BSuuXZ78qe5uZiDVznHZbIWMtD7dsLwp9r4NhEk8yWuE/s320/tree.jpg" width="184" /></a>I don't have those answers,</div>
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But I do know this:</div>
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Christmas magic may be fragile </div>
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And yet it endures</div>
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Preserved by the strong belief of children</div>
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And the strong love of adults who hold the stage curtains as backdrop</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitSy3SUWJzlH57z1gYUhfES6P9ORocBskI043oDEGM-gBg3WtT5To8JglrpCFVuNivjXijtl7B9hqMA7B3tg9M82f4IOZ8MpBmpsNkVj8LmEMzEAlQO6ZeXv2BYpma-fMffrF6CcdhjqNs/s1600/Manger.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitSy3SUWJzlH57z1gYUhfES6P9ORocBskI043oDEGM-gBg3WtT5To8JglrpCFVuNivjXijtl7B9hqMA7B3tg9M82f4IOZ8MpBmpsNkVj8LmEMzEAlQO6ZeXv2BYpma-fMffrF6CcdhjqNs/s320/Manger.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="243" /></a></div>
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For a generation who in their turn will grow up and light the lights, </div>
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Play the music,</div>
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Tell the Birthday story,</div>
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And keep Christmas magic shimmering</div>
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And alive for one more year.</div>
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<br />Lesliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03682962360349281375noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2744704465824544189.post-52641452939019801522015-11-11T14:02:00.000-08:002015-11-11T14:09:55.822-08:00On Behalf of a Grateful Nation<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 1.38; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The closing strains of the national anthem drown in the roar of the U.S. Air Force jet </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 1.38; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">as it buzzes low over the line of veterans in their vintage cars. World War II. The Korean War. Vietnam. The Gulf War. POWs. Iraq, Afghanistan, and more. They're all represented here on the street of small town Shasta Lake </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 20.24px; white-space: pre-wrap;">where babies, teens, parents, and grandparents line the streets </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 1.38; white-space: pre-wrap;">under the cool northern California sun. No one cringes at the thunder of the fly by. No one fears. And that in itself is tribute to the veterans we honor. They've won and preserved our safety. They defend us. They are the "good guys."</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtTUbDXdzijYneXThjKGuO8CrACHv5frrhpe9AVDh8I1Ku61atxreresB9oPcG16tRuJDWNsp-ZrutLMTk3HLkO-2Z-3iH4HKAtpP2Lm50U-1bGHN8oNZM2LD4xkaPqt_37h3XEeIkeEaD/s1600/helicopter.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="303" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtTUbDXdzijYneXThjKGuO8CrACHv5frrhpe9AVDh8I1Ku61atxreresB9oPcG16tRuJDWNsp-ZrutLMTk3HLkO-2Z-3iH4HKAtpP2Lm50U-1bGHN8oNZM2LD4xkaPqt_37h3XEeIkeEaD/s400/helicopter.jpg" width="400" /></a><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="line-height: 1.38; white-space: pre-wrap;">“What a great country we live in,” says a random man who strolls out to a </span><span style="line-height: 20.24px; white-space: pre-wrap;">convertible to shake the hand of</span><span style="line-height: 1.38; white-space: pre-wrap;"> CA senator Ted Gaines, “when a military jet flies by to commemorate a parade," and the Senator, just one of us, agrees and calls attention to the blue sky and the beautiful day. There's honor in the air.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: "arial"; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Yes, it's tangible, the honor for these veterans and the ones they represent who have served and are serving in our great nation's military. With tears in my eyes and a lump in my throat, I watch the cars pass, waving my flag and feeling so thankful. One old vehicle passes carrying a veteran of 35 missions on a B24 in World War II. He rides quiet and silver haired, looking like someone's grandpa dressed in military uniform: but there was a day--many days, when he was a young man in the belly or the pilot seat of a bomber, not sure he would make it back to friendly soil. Doing something he wished he didn't have to do, but proud on the behalf of a nation that depended on him and all those like him to hold onto freedom with their bare hands.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="line-height: 20.24px; white-space: pre-wrap;">I see another WWII veteran--James Broack, 102 years old, with as brave a heart as ever beat, even though he rides quietly in the parade. Yes, </span></span><span style="font-family: "arial"; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">the bravery is palpable today. I'm feeling the weight of it. Heritage and history strung out in front of me, and the weight of generations represented here. That's another thing that strikes me. Kids and grand kids ride police launches, Swiss ammo carts and firetrucks; </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 20.24px; white-space: pre-wrap;">middle school to high school marching bands blazoning out She's a G<i>rand old Flag </i>and <i>Salute to the Armed Forces. </i>Two</span><span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 20.24px; white-space: pre-wrap;">-year-old baton twirlers; a tiny BMX rider with a pink helmet and maybe three years to her credit join soldiers, sailors, and special forces. These are the ones those military personnel held in their hearts in the jungles and deserts of their campaigns. And these are their reward.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="line-height: 1.38; white-space: pre-wrap;">My dad, a machinist's mate on a destroyer in the Korean War could have been in this parade, and how he would have enjoyed the quiet company of his fellow sailors. I want to run out and hug the </span><span style="line-height: 20.24px; white-space: pre-wrap;">valiant</span><span style="line-height: 1.38; white-space: pre-wrap;"> men and women I see passing before me, and I hope they know that all across the country</span></span><span style="font-family: "arial"; white-space: pre-wrap;"> in</span><span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 1.38; white-space: pre-wrap;"> thousands of parades small and great, </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 1.38; white-space: pre-wrap;">grateful people gather to say thank you and to</span><span style="font-family: "arial"; white-space: pre-wrap;"> give honor. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; white-space: pre-wrap;">Thank you veterans old and young, active or retired. It’s because of you and your fellow soldiers we sit safely by the sidelines in a little California town. May we who now run carry the baton in a worthy way, worthy of those who did and still do their best on our behalf, and remind those children twirling batons or playing the drums what it costs to be this safe and this free</span><span style="font-family: "arial"; white-space: pre-wrap;">. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Happy Veteran's Day. And on behalf of a grateful nation, thank you!</span><br />
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Lesliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03682962360349281375noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2744704465824544189.post-44828682742731659602015-11-01T20:08:00.000-08:002015-11-01T20:08:58.135-08:00Grit isn't just Something you put in the Bottom of your Birdcage<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcSJn8nhbHh8HqlRaSe9aezt1manRoWFnhkGLELHemyTbhUhLwuvlCoDuqkflqn3zWX65K1DKFmUHlNSbuh689t0W85yepnCnXAjZ2YRv1j-Xs5HGciekOVoBpZDXf69MXtAzMK7zswCWD/s1600/Window.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcSJn8nhbHh8HqlRaSe9aezt1manRoWFnhkGLELHemyTbhUhLwuvlCoDuqkflqn3zWX65K1DKFmUHlNSbuh689t0W85yepnCnXAjZ2YRv1j-Xs5HGciekOVoBpZDXf69MXtAzMK7zswCWD/s400/Window.png" width="400" /></a>I'm pondering perseverance right now. This is partly because I need some, and partly because as I take a closer look at it, this particular commodity has all the earmarks of the legendary "silver bullet"--the one element that can move us toward success, toward our dreams, toward deeper connections in relationship. That's the amazing good news. The not so amazing news is that perseverance is not easy.<br />
Not usually pain-free. And very rarely fast.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjEzM1U6302PvIwwveCE8zhAniYcvLR1YCPt_tenMB3GI20PkMfHVI-BLb1hYqX1kOekquxQpK4yC20LVpobDILMxeI8TdvVuxHv5KvPQGwXCExmrQRNak_P5eT22bFVwl9z0h9r422lEg/s1600/poppy+house.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjEzM1U6302PvIwwveCE8zhAniYcvLR1YCPt_tenMB3GI20PkMfHVI-BLb1hYqX1kOekquxQpK4yC20LVpobDILMxeI8TdvVuxHv5KvPQGwXCExmrQRNak_P5eT22bFVwl9z0h9r422lEg/s400/poppy+house.png" width="265" /></a>What good is a slow silver bullet, for heaven's sake?! Not much, if you want what you want and you want it now. (That would be me a lot of times). But it strikes me that hoping for that magic "suddenly" is not good policy for a couple of reasons. For one, if you don't know how you got somewhere, you won't know how to sustain that position. Think about it: if you "fall" in love, will you know how to stay in love year 5? 15? 25?<br />
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For another, human nature seems to assign less value to what we have not worked for. Whether it's a college education or a hamburger, if you have it handed to you on the proverbial silver platter, you may leave it half uneaten because you're unaware that someone, somewhere spent part of their life to put it in your hand.<br />
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And that leads me to this thought: in reality, there are very few "suddenlies." Whether it's parenting, personal achievement, or pretty much any other realm, a "suddenly" is but the culmination of a whole lot of time and effort and not giving up. You keep doing that long enough and "suddenly" the cup is full. The degree is in your hand. The relationship is solid and healthy.<br />
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Grit isn't just something you put in the bottom of your birdcage. It's that never give up stick-to-it-iveness that we reach for when all we really want to do is call it a day. Yup, I'm thinking that perseverance is worth the price, the closest thing to a silver bullet out there, and ammunition well worth carrying...<br />
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<br />Lesliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03682962360349281375noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2744704465824544189.post-11968261542275449012015-09-26T13:42:00.000-07:002015-09-26T13:42:21.900-07:00Super-extraordinary Heroes<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghmlt5yLOYc-0XTDh2sPAkaMFnZhpD9LdhqCC_MocZXaPD0UhT9HwGbuTpWhXlAOhNlJzLrMHloiXc61iAPsWw-tColvYKkT5qLnJulDAJtYFJQ5fIsX6TuEZtZwKIK_WdOcyOSGxs3a-Y/s1600/IMG_7911%255B1%255D.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghmlt5yLOYc-0XTDh2sPAkaMFnZhpD9LdhqCC_MocZXaPD0UhT9HwGbuTpWhXlAOhNlJzLrMHloiXc61iAPsWw-tColvYKkT5qLnJulDAJtYFJQ5fIsX6TuEZtZwKIK_WdOcyOSGxs3a-Y/s320/IMG_7911%255B1%255D.JPG" width="320" /></a><span style="font-size: large;">I saw a hero in action this morning.</span> While on my run to drop my teens at 0 period (that unearthly hour before buses run and thus the period to which many parents must drive their students), a car pulled to the curb by the high school's flagpole. From the driver's seat a high schooler emerged, and a father exited the passenger side. The first waved goodbye and headed onto campus. The latter waved, walked quietly around the car, got into the driver's seat, and drove away. No fanfare. No "hey-look-at-you-rockin'-fatherhood" cheers from the sidewalk. Just a quiet departure like many other mornings. But it touched my heart because that father and a whole unnamed multitude of parents do these and uncounted thousands of heroic acts every day.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcW-wJ7aTgGw5JPMEn-2Evz1PzdI6pcPHgzJQgQaCJu1WT7FQvFxC4mb1ox5LUBHRseITUU_bhLSZJaeopLyBOioahjgnwtUdhbayruspJUyGPeg-ymtbSObKYbK-_DpKisvhCfImybcH5/s1600/IMG_7721%255B1%255D.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcW-wJ7aTgGw5JPMEn-2Evz1PzdI6pcPHgzJQgQaCJu1WT7FQvFxC4mb1ox5LUBHRseITUU_bhLSZJaeopLyBOioahjgnwtUdhbayruspJUyGPeg-ymtbSObKYbK-_DpKisvhCfImybcH5/s320/IMG_7721%255B1%255D.JPG" width="320" /></a><span style="font-size: large;">They seek to empower their kids, to help them rise beyond what their parents have achieved.</span><br />
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Parents really are extra-ordinary heroes. Whether they're still in the young stages--nighttime feedings, toddler meltdowns, food battles, everyday routines; in the middle years of elementary challenges,science projects and soccer seasons; to the last few years where parenting burgeoning adults is a delicate mixture of holding on and letting go--the sheer amount of love and nurture and flat-out endurance that millions of parents around the word exhibit is nothing short of amazing.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnpD-NplnazknydpZGf__vMo9Rm1AUdQ1G0nKare-agTwm4oQwdvplb9Cd9xALhMOZJnZua8ZPanVDZXlMgujYtHOSt8mZmtwEZMJP7SMkI1vRbkF-8kUhG1Vf6RLRtgRbzgtXiZLCXXN5/s1600/IMG_7974%255B1%255D.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnpD-NplnazknydpZGf__vMo9Rm1AUdQ1G0nKare-agTwm4oQwdvplb9Cd9xALhMOZJnZua8ZPanVDZXlMgujYtHOSt8mZmtwEZMJP7SMkI1vRbkF-8kUhG1Vf6RLRtgRbzgtXiZLCXXN5/s320/IMG_7974%255B1%255D.JPG" width="286" /></a><br />
CEOs get award banquets. Sports heroes rake in money and kudos. But here in the trenches of parenthood, acknowledgments are delayed--often only in retrospect do those same kids look at us and see actual people--people who love and dream and sacrifice on their behalf. But that's okay because we're extra-ordinary heroes. Our reward is not so much that they would look us in the eyes and say, "You're an amazing parent," (though that is definitely music to our ears), but that they become who they were meant to be, climb the mountains that are theirs, and plant their flags at the summits. That is our reward. That is our mission. <span style="font-size: large;">That is our joy.</span><br />
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<br />Lesliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03682962360349281375noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2744704465824544189.post-87917091477249542102015-09-05T10:09:00.002-07:002015-09-05T10:17:29.818-07:00We Are the Ocean<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPQ29P5OsPri9TRMKYzCxb9REAC3dHcckshpjUQDUVbtKzS7xlrG0uF_JufUbSdYaACWPw4NkLVq4bKjnC2AWGvMU7Dqq4nWdLVgpEYqdy5JfYiZ8KgAayFopXhCv8xOVYjUkCgEazYqm5/s1600/IMG_6574.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPQ29P5OsPri9TRMKYzCxb9REAC3dHcckshpjUQDUVbtKzS7xlrG0uF_JufUbSdYaACWPw4NkLVq4bKjnC2AWGvMU7Dqq4nWdLVgpEYqdy5JfYiZ8KgAayFopXhCv8xOVYjUkCgEazYqm5/s320/IMG_6574.JPG" width="320" />I</a></div>
<span style="color: #073763; font-size: large;">We are the ocean, you and I.</span><br />
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The accumulated courage and gifts and incredible riches that lie within each of us overwhelm the sand in sheer weight and glory. Strange how we rarely understand this, how we can journey through our lives wondering--fearing--that we are not enough.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7WWhizlp0Fdh0Bu4nbVBAE0aOCVuL6Zl5d-dPE5ATPtOqIJ4vA88nxG39_-QUwSMAbkoKepw-XjXbhnhoSJdmoTxHs_QsnmSYSlxFlhrUiehXbTBOCd-d2syGCOexqJLv_5sy6sqAal3M/s1600/IMG_6583.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7WWhizlp0Fdh0Bu4nbVBAE0aOCVuL6Zl5d-dPE5ATPtOqIJ4vA88nxG39_-QUwSMAbkoKepw-XjXbhnhoSJdmoTxHs_QsnmSYSlxFlhrUiehXbTBOCd-d2syGCOexqJLv_5sy6sqAal3M/s1600/IMG_6583.JPG" width="320" /></a>There's so many people in the world--sometimes I think about how each person, each dwelling has a whole life all its own--mothers, fathers, siblings, children, cousins--like waves going out and out and out. All across the country and the world, each life is lived in full color, Tragedies. Triumphs.<br />
Precocious toddlers. Talented teens. Aging parents. It boggles my mind to ponder the multiplied millions of ripples going out from every person, but God knows us each one.<br />
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I love that.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGkop2dlbTyYBFHRHkRDtzSyF0meA7AFxJzvdIrakYW5GUuvehyW5ZthVagcANXInxtqHqv8rFaxPUMQFtXozA7plFGlt1RFF-7nXsV69Xs5x5pjzJuF_wZjLPWtvDR0ZeofweRCvFPBiC/s1600/IMG_6594.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGkop2dlbTyYBFHRHkRDtzSyF0meA7AFxJzvdIrakYW5GUuvehyW5ZthVagcANXInxtqHqv8rFaxPUMQFtXozA7plFGlt1RFF-7nXsV69Xs5x5pjzJuF_wZjLPWtvDR0ZeofweRCvFPBiC/s1600/IMG_6594.JPG" width="320" /></a>He knows each individual "us" as if we were the only one He ever created. That intimately. He not only knows the names and the number of stars in the sky, or the sand on all the seashores, He knows the number of hairs on each of our heads. We are not "the masses" to him. We are known. Valued. Loved. He is not overwhelmed by the ocean of humanity that lives and breathes and calls out to Him in need and in love and in etremities often. No, not overwhelmed. Quite the contrary:<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">He is delighted with us!</span><br />
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Lesliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03682962360349281375noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2744704465824544189.post-65201932003089567832015-08-08T06:06:00.000-07:002015-08-08T06:07:36.452-07:00Ponderings on Summer's End<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8Jcj3fG8xWWuohHDaVJ-fu5iETt8RtvidTVGEcaUxLRJ1HKKyNnUp0lGGXQRt6ADkOJHB7wBX-zuy3jCSlM8vzxX6q0yIRjelKGvUpN9HSTlGHmNotNU2r6kQ0ixc1lFbczcXBFC9VGr0/s1600/IMG_7392.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="306" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8Jcj3fG8xWWuohHDaVJ-fu5iETt8RtvidTVGEcaUxLRJ1HKKyNnUp0lGGXQRt6ADkOJHB7wBX-zuy3jCSlM8vzxX6q0yIRjelKGvUpN9HSTlGHmNotNU2r6kQ0ixc1lFbczcXBFC9VGr0/s320/IMG_7392.JPG" width="320" /></a><span style="font-size: large;">Poor neglected blog. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Y</span>ou're just not keeping up with the times. But then, it's really not your fault that the summer has flown by with express train speed, blurring the flowers by the wayside. It's August, and you're still back in May.<br />
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But that's okay. Sometimes life is like that. Still I'd say it's time, now, to take what is left of these last couple of weeks, grasp time firmly by the hand or throat or whatever you can manage to get hold of, and<span style="font-size: large;"> slow. It. Down</span>.<br />
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Breathe deep. Notice the sky.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTa1yJrwXe7F17GKv1NI8RGtHD6Vv9QPjEm3HcwZDsMGeoti1BiMx90sio4t3K8cBrENOcu_kSoGdVnro4upVyJTPW6lbI3iUGYAthpyUbsKvX_AO5-74e52JhIYKwWclP6r4eLMVNlH0Z/s1600/IMG_7390.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTa1yJrwXe7F17GKv1NI8RGtHD6Vv9QPjEm3HcwZDsMGeoti1BiMx90sio4t3K8cBrENOcu_kSoGdVnro4upVyJTPW6lbI3iUGYAthpyUbsKvX_AO5-74e52JhIYKwWclP6r4eLMVNlH0Z/s400/IMG_7390.JPG" width="400" /></a>Make actual appointments to spend time with priority people (because <br />
you know it rarely just "happens").<br />
Do the necessary chores. Only the necessary ones. Then take the time gleaned from non-essentials and use them to restore your soul.<br />
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Ponder cloud pictures.<br />
Stand under the trees and look up.<br />
Sip excellent coffee. Nibble just a bit of chocolate.<br />
And live. Really, intentionally experience these last summer days.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjudV98h-snesoBphCHpyX4zsZ2H1oDiUEtOdLG4lMG_NYs1252wr1J_GmKELqa4P3uQoY5cxQICLa7Scqod3fRhzJnuuuNl4_BBsmyw5ihEfI1Wbrvc75_quDFJW3CZvVukD39YFEW3LgI/s1600/IMG_7391.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjudV98h-snesoBphCHpyX4zsZ2H1oDiUEtOdLG4lMG_NYs1252wr1J_GmKELqa4P3uQoY5cxQICLa7Scqod3fRhzJnuuuNl4_BBsmyw5ihEfI1Wbrvc75_quDFJW3CZvVukD39YFEW3LgI/s400/IMG_7391.JPG" width="300" /></a>Yes, it's hot. But there's something soothing about breathing pre-warmed air.<span style="font-size: large;"> As if God has been there first.</span><br />
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Yes, there are a multitude of things all clamoring to be done. But separate them. Put the essentials in one pile and turn away from the rest. Then with careful, quiet fingers, sort gently through until all those treasured things large and small find their place in life. Slow that train down until individual flowers stand out in clarity, and when the moon comes up and the stars come out, you notice. Then go to sleep content with how you have wooed and wrestled time into something well-spent and rewarding.<br />
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So many beautiful things. Beautiful people. Beautiful truths.<br />
We are closing in on the ending of summer, but I will not say there is so little time.<br />
I will reorder time so that it stretches like the extension of eternity it really is.<br />
<br />Lesliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03682962360349281375noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2744704465824544189.post-20124601127156077212015-05-27T17:21:00.000-07:002015-05-27T17:21:23.442-07:00Of Blogs and Beginnings and other misc. Stuff<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuZNJpTqjYy__En20l8jZmwa6Q11-GCQJg0ZSaxdLM897PBFaJv6LxB4iXhyphenhyphenOPxhfzViS3iXr0-mkOca_1z7LXQlhTm5vngD7PKu-8yJK-OWtiJT-n85FB_086T6S3XCDg7vEyqz8XWSVe/s1600/DSCN0820.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuZNJpTqjYy__En20l8jZmwa6Q11-GCQJg0ZSaxdLM897PBFaJv6LxB4iXhyphenhyphenOPxhfzViS3iXr0-mkOca_1z7LXQlhTm5vngD7PKu-8yJK-OWtiJT-n85FB_086T6S3XCDg7vEyqz8XWSVe/s400/DSCN0820.png" width="325" /></a><span style="font-size: large;">I'm pondering this blog</span>--its beginnings way back in 2011. Originally, I began it as a way to chronicle my journey with Honor, my Quarter Horse-Arab gelding, as I sought to transform him from a snarky<br />
and disrespectful rascal into a trail horse I'd feel safe and happy to ride. That, and to have a place share various musings and happenings. <a href="http://journeywithhonor.blogspot.com/2011/11/musings-horse-happenings-and-other-odds.html" target="_blank">[See Musings, Horse Happenings, and Other Odds and Ends of Life</a>]<br />
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<a href="http://www.lesliejwyatt.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/12/Sunset-house2-1024x768.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="Sunset house2" border="0" height="150" src="http://www.lesliejwyatt.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/12/Sunset-house2-1024x768.jpg" width="200" /></a>That feels like a lifetime ago, in a way. A different life. The big Victorian house and 20-something acres with a milk cow, horses, chickens and the works exists now in memory and pictures, not in real-time. At least not for us. I loved the years we spent there--our family growing up. The green, green land, the rolling hills, the big gracious rooms and wrap around porches. It was magical. Perfect. I thought I'd be there the rest of my life. Host grandkids and holidays, and maintain my battle to keep flowerbeds weed free, animals healthy, and that type of thing. </div>
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Now here we are, having traded Missouri for Northern California in 2012, rolling hills for mountains and miles and miles of trails to ride. I'm loving the smaller house. Less land to take care of. Having three chickens instead of 30 and one horse. Honor has become the wonderful trail horse I hoped he would become, so in a way, one of my original objectives for this blog has changed. But I continue to muse, so it's a good thing my title was multi-purpose!</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRV1_925jCVYAJwcY07w0whGN27MbA4wUkA3rHRVxWQmCrflOrYKIe8A9fvmpU8L8Y3xbRQi43x28VwBIc6JUnZN6D0J1j_BfafBE9jHu_t8ysIDCDxwtW4fvL38C_6Jo85kA4OZcFhJZI/s1600/IMG_6227.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRV1_925jCVYAJwcY07w0whGN27MbA4wUkA3rHRVxWQmCrflOrYKIe8A9fvmpU8L8Y3xbRQi43x28VwBIc6JUnZN6D0J1j_BfafBE9jHu_t8ysIDCDxwtW4fvL38C_6Jo85kA4OZcFhJZI/s320/IMG_6227.png" style="cursor: move;" width="249" /></a>I'm loving this adventure of life, this unfolding of new things. Not quite sure what shape these will lend to this blog, but like all of life, every step of the journey is the journey. So on that somewhat vague note I pause. Some of my original objectives still remain valid--that the everyday-ness of life has a dignity often uncelebrated, and all the people who are not famous--of which I am one--live their lives with every bit as much dedication, intensity, and hope as the few we see in the headlines. People matter. Their lives matter. You matter!</div>
Lesliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03682962360349281375noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2744704465824544189.post-8064087505761728522015-02-14T08:20:00.000-08:002015-02-14T08:21:12.601-08:00Through Chicken Eyes<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: large;">Meet our new ladies. </span>They came to our house this week, and I'm pretty happy about that. I like chickens. They are not my favorite animal, nor do I find them as enjoyable as cats or horses, but I do like them. There's something about the way they meet the world with hopeful, satisfied clucking that lends a contented color to barnyard or backyard.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJmBBL5qidx-8Psfq3h1mPPzT7uvhIg8m7g5A5WbS-5T57syXEl8e4uaK4P_RzjHZI5sqx2_NnVP89gQ8QwRnDmbGSpdZEmq9ejxRAWTWWGNm0i7JcmJwu6-hwQiO7HCyZN4rfVBrrnfzu/s1600/Gentille.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJmBBL5qidx-8Psfq3h1mPPzT7uvhIg8m7g5A5WbS-5T57syXEl8e4uaK4P_RzjHZI5sqx2_NnVP89gQ8QwRnDmbGSpdZEmq9ejxRAWTWWGNm0i7JcmJwu6-hwQiO7HCyZN4rfVBrrnfzu/s1600/Gentille.png" height="320" width="253" /></a>To me they epitomize the phrase, "Bloom where you are planted." They scritch and scratch and search for bugs with the same concentrated effort whether they are in a small and already barren run (it doesn't take long for them to reduce their space to bare dirt) or ranging in the open where blades of grass and bugs have yet to be consumed.<br />
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I'm thinking that the world would be better off if we viewed it through chicken's eyes. Because it really is an amazing world, and it is our priviledge to be living and breathing and creating. So much to be thankful for, just on that level. I know chickens have tiny brains, but I admire how they focus on what is at hand (or foot as the case may be!) and do not stress over all the things they don't have or don't know or are afraid of.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlrtpVr30cRohNctu1WYPrzQWBSjheL1C7cidw6wLdf0xQ5g7X0Gde6JbJf4oh9gnBq82hI0kuOPGLLeMvzzxcVpRUDkd4LdR1oScoFeYL9hd2pMIobtvfiuz3N8VhbjW67vhuH4sUgI8P/s1600/Petite+Poule.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlrtpVr30cRohNctu1WYPrzQWBSjheL1C7cidw6wLdf0xQ5g7X0Gde6JbJf4oh9gnBq82hI0kuOPGLLeMvzzxcVpRUDkd4LdR1oScoFeYL9hd2pMIobtvfiuz3N8VhbjW67vhuH4sUgI8P/s1600/Petite+Poule.png" height="372" width="400" /></a>We could take a page from their proverbial notebook. Focus on what we do have, not on what we do not. Enjoy what our days hold, not spend them wishing for something yet to come or something that once was while effectively wasting the moments we have today.<br />
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I'm going to enjoy having chickens again. They will keep me mindful to look up at the blueness of the sky (or to revel in the rain). They will remind me where my focus needs to be--in the bounty and beauty around me.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8knQFrZQeOjAhlJTtZTrWJ3atab7Grki-rM47rTYnXY8cwV6E9AHTTldL_fAzsM3gYZAd66FeualipKy3YkFxc1Rs9lV6hMToN0UKPeM3uPZ1qkSQaNFi5A0AtRSeGJmj7mLyhK0Nb6l2/s1600/D.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8knQFrZQeOjAhlJTtZTrWJ3atab7Grki-rM47rTYnXY8cwV6E9AHTTldL_fAzsM3gYZAd66FeualipKy3YkFxc1Rs9lV6hMToN0UKPeM3uPZ1qkSQaNFi5A0AtRSeGJmj7mLyhK0Nb6l2/s1600/D.png" height="288" width="400" /></a>I'm under no illusions, though. They will also remind me of why I haven't really missed keeping chickens--shutting them in for the night. Letting them out for the day. "Has anyone gathered the eggs yet?" (The answer always seems to be no.) Lining up someone to care for them while we're out of town.<br />
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Life has these complications, as we all know full well. But nonetheless, as I watch these biddies scratching in the dust and crooning to eachother in the warmth of the afternoon sun, I am reminded and challenged to see through their little chicken eyes and glimpse the treasures of the everyday.<br />
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Thanks, Laura, for sharing your girls :-)Lesliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03682962360349281375noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2744704465824544189.post-85050102387166773352014-12-16T21:28:00.000-08:002014-12-16T21:28:48.171-08:00Thankful<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_DAij3iSeWPBKvChtWbihPv6g_xPtc7HU_eMEKFiw4uIMR4tvdryd5NO5CiOTkEF5b09ANte9pX1qVl9GzXZIt5OLW9Fxo6JZCJh3KC2uu7bfK_zE7zIzL53Dw6pB9XqPop8Vy-1bhU-y/s1600/christmas+tree.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_DAij3iSeWPBKvChtWbihPv6g_xPtc7HU_eMEKFiw4uIMR4tvdryd5NO5CiOTkEF5b09ANte9pX1qVl9GzXZIt5OLW9Fxo6JZCJh3KC2uu7bfK_zE7zIzL53Dw6pB9XqPop8Vy-1bhU-y/s1600/christmas+tree.png" height="400" width="277" /></a>I'm sitting in a quiet, evergreen-scented house. Christmas carols play in the background and the cat snoozes on the back of the couch. We're alone. Momentarily.<br />
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In this moment before people arrive, I just want to say that I am thankful. Thankful for this moment to reflect. Thankful for all the blessings in my life. The people--so dear, so diverse, so complex and amazing.<br />
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Thankful for warmth on rainy nights and laughter in unexpected moments. Thankful for times when I am alone. Thankful that I am not always alone. Thankful to know that no mattter what happens--the good, the bad, the things difficult or easy---there is a God who loves me.<br />
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Yes, very thankful.<br />
<br />Lesliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03682962360349281375noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2744704465824544189.post-27575992654486464612014-09-27T06:59:00.001-07:002015-09-05T10:16:36.028-07:00We Are the Ocean<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWGpjbkFizZ1uMzI2V8WEx-1HR7HRebOEw9lETgt1d6slNKthyx1FhNGe7NF5dhISFWTRSFA8b__Q5B7IlmNJbn_iAS06O4v-5ey9NEldLeCPs3OKAThnJ0RN-SyZ33y99Jz4IWnRpDuzG/s1600/IMG_6574.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWGpjbkFizZ1uMzI2V8WEx-1HR7HRebOEw9lETgt1d6slNKthyx1FhNGe7NF5dhISFWTRSFA8b__Q5B7IlmNJbn_iAS06O4v-5ey9NEldLeCPs3OKAThnJ0RN-SyZ33y99Jz4IWnRpDuzG/s1600/IMG_6574.JPG" width="400" /></a><span style="font-size: large;">We are the ocean, you and I. </span><br />
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The accumulated courage and gifts and incredible riches that lie within each of us overwhelm the sand in sheer weight and glory. Strange how we rarely understand this, how we can journey through our lives wondering--fearing--that we are not enough.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7WWhizlp0Fdh0Bu4nbVBAE0aOCVuL6Zl5d-dPE5ATPtOqIJ4vA88nxG39_-QUwSMAbkoKepw-XjXbhnhoSJdmoTxHs_QsnmSYSlxFlhrUiehXbTBOCd-d2syGCOexqJLv_5sy6sqAal3M/s1600/IMG_6583.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7WWhizlp0Fdh0Bu4nbVBAE0aOCVuL6Zl5d-dPE5ATPtOqIJ4vA88nxG39_-QUwSMAbkoKepw-XjXbhnhoSJdmoTxHs_QsnmSYSlxFlhrUiehXbTBOCd-d2syGCOexqJLv_5sy6sqAal3M/s1600/IMG_6583.JPG" width="320" /></a>There's so many people in the world--sometimes I think about how each person, each dwelling has a whole life all its own--mothers, fathers, siblings, children, cousins--like waves going out and out and out. All across the country and the world, each life is lived in full color, Tragedies. Triumphs. <br />
Precocious toddlers. Talented teens. Aging parents. It boggles my mind to ponder the multiplied millions of ripples going out from every person, but God knows us each one.<br />
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I love that.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGkop2dlbTyYBFHRHkRDtzSyF0meA7AFxJzvdIrakYW5GUuvehyW5ZthVagcANXInxtqHqv8rFaxPUMQFtXozA7plFGlt1RFF-7nXsV69Xs5x5pjzJuF_wZjLPWtvDR0ZeofweRCvFPBiC/s1600/IMG_6594.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGkop2dlbTyYBFHRHkRDtzSyF0meA7AFxJzvdIrakYW5GUuvehyW5ZthVagcANXInxtqHqv8rFaxPUMQFtXozA7plFGlt1RFF-7nXsV69Xs5x5pjzJuF_wZjLPWtvDR0ZeofweRCvFPBiC/s1600/IMG_6594.JPG" width="320" /></a>He knows each individual "us" as if we were the only one He ever created. That intimately. He not only knows the names and the number of stars in the sky, or the sand on all the seashores, He knows the number of hairs on each of our heads. We are not "the masses" to him. We are known. Valued. Loved. He is not overwhelmed by the ocean of humanity that lives and breathes and calls out to Him in need and in love and in etremities often. No, not overwhelmed. Quite the contrary:<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">He is delighted with us!</span><br />
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Lesliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03682962360349281375noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2744704465824544189.post-68713257460844517922014-09-02T08:41:00.000-07:002014-09-02T13:22:20.122-07:00One Raindrop Raises the Sea<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoYl7SUnewRhcaXfXcZuOJN-WyTv-Bi3BaebwyjHGoL58lowWz7dHr2JN74TUIOSu5hjg5WS5R32WD1W2qQpk97P1LxS0dCHS0cWg_cMfH_030iXeT_lKgkNUOfQfAW12SW0j1uAYvYRcg/s1600/beachcombing.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoYl7SUnewRhcaXfXcZuOJN-WyTv-Bi3BaebwyjHGoL58lowWz7dHr2JN74TUIOSu5hjg5WS5R32WD1W2qQpk97P1LxS0dCHS0cWg_cMfH_030iXeT_lKgkNUOfQfAW12SW0j1uAYvYRcg/s1600/beachcombing.png" height="400" width="300" /></a> Everyday I get up and I write in hopes that something I say
will encourage, will lift, will touch
someone else so that they can go through their day not because they have to, but
because they <i>get</i> to. I want to write in such a way that those who read my words will glimpse that life is not a given, but a gift.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhFv5yD9-aq72kjEd8bzTJkOC7oU2YTc9e6u7hyoHsrswrORsSWm-16GIxOkolhs-I7w37rxSXD0yQhHdlYzSQItBPDo726Mih8_k-k9WJAeVlGZdFwT7skybYwcTce1WbbUAz3UhB8N35/s1600/starfish.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhFv5yD9-aq72kjEd8bzTJkOC7oU2YTc9e6u7hyoHsrswrORsSWm-16GIxOkolhs-I7w37rxSXD0yQhHdlYzSQItBPDo726Mih8_k-k9WJAeVlGZdFwT7skybYwcTce1WbbUAz3UhB8N35/s1600/starfish.png" height="320" width="217" /></a>Sometimes what I do in my life seems very small. Like one raindrop on the surface of the sea. And yet, as has been said, one raindrop, though very tiny, does indeed raise the sea. So if I continue to get out of bed, continue to pull words together from somewhere within who I am and have the bravery to put them out where other eyes can see and study them, I will have made an impact. Perhaps not a crater, nor even much of an indentation, and no great fanfare will accompany the process. In the early hours before the sun brings on the day and only small nocturnal critters are awake, I write. It's a quiet thing (save for the clicking of computer keys): sometimes almost a meditation, this reaching within myself for unformed words; to bring to life ideas, to clothe in concrete terms what exists only in one person. Me. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3CYB-Y_tKglcrO-4DNDlnwilsNswvTi__litJ2m9MV4VvCVR5ztiy6hvIxmtr3cwkAhtMz-wpIZgpZl38QblGf8kZYuJxNW5gn9WJAx8JwmqlJcCHfkxyZ71cPJEA6OoWWtm89EXlIQqt/s1600/Paul.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3CYB-Y_tKglcrO-4DNDlnwilsNswvTi__litJ2m9MV4VvCVR5ztiy6hvIxmtr3cwkAhtMz-wpIZgpZl38QblGf8kZYuJxNW5gn9WJAx8JwmqlJcCHfkxyZ71cPJEA6OoWWtm89EXlIQqt/s1600/Paul.png" height="311" width="320" /></a>It's strange, isn't it--though academically we understand that there is only one of each of us, so often we do not feel that we are enough. Just me. Just you. Our essense without all the trappings. And yet--if I did not get up and write, the earth would be the poorer. Few might mark the absence or mourn the lack, but that's all right. I don't write so that the whole of humanity can say, "Wow! Look at her." I write to give wings to what lies in my heart--small and great things, soft and harsh things, sad and glad things--because it brings me joy. And I am fueled with the hope that those words once honed and polished may slip inside another's soul and give them similar courage to be who they are and to know they are enough. I'm content with this hope, this knowledge that a seed sown will bring forth a harvest according to its kind. I write for the one child, the one adult, the one fellow sojourner, that they may gain courage to continue to be who they were made to be, and that we all might know and understand that truly, one raindrop raises the sea.</div>
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And all of us together--we are the ocean. </div>
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Lesliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03682962360349281375noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2744704465824544189.post-84582711330333166192014-07-04T07:12:00.001-07:002014-07-04T07:12:24.395-07:00Oh Freedom!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEix6hj6nXVmiy-19ncmT8rqyrHd2R2BqnfH20r6uuYxQ40uBtR3SDnTgfDBQf0d-ZmHmq4YymrF7KJgkld0-tZtH7eSVlMFDNotI9guJ-xIMKXBpXKbFRF7QkSxDw8WkTIDVBstaUyQRwLY/s1600/IMG_5875.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEix6hj6nXVmiy-19ncmT8rqyrHd2R2BqnfH20r6uuYxQ40uBtR3SDnTgfDBQf0d-ZmHmq4YymrF7KJgkld0-tZtH7eSVlMFDNotI9guJ-xIMKXBpXKbFRF7QkSxDw8WkTIDVBstaUyQRwLY/s1600/IMG_5875.JPG" height="400" width="300" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">Oh, freedom!</span> Nations fight for you. The brave die for you. Little ones live in you, running, laughing, sleeping in peace.<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Oh, freedom! M</span>uch more costly than gold, not bought with something as easy and as base as money. Oh no. You come at a price, and those who love you must never forget that they live free because people have bought that right at the ultimate price. To all the defenders of our freedom and for champions of justice in the earth, wherever you may be--<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">Thank you!</span><br />
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<br />Lesliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03682962360349281375noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2744704465824544189.post-45120456261521300742014-06-15T19:39:00.000-07:002014-07-03T06:48:13.150-07:00A Time to Sow<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOamuxkjonOtmKgdh-OYBi9aIBYeOBq1GERT9OxT3PQ4C-jlYvNJPtMz6WB8JhyphenhyphenJ5b2T6Vk5Du7whAdaPoi4P2I5XNdwxI3eKahk3ytlKY5GkGXcJ6PIQskWYWbTn-X9E8zWTfvYIkOGfO/s1600/photo+(4).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOamuxkjonOtmKgdh-OYBi9aIBYeOBq1GERT9OxT3PQ4C-jlYvNJPtMz6WB8JhyphenhyphenJ5b2T6Vk5Du7whAdaPoi4P2I5XNdwxI3eKahk3ytlKY5GkGXcJ6PIQskWYWbTn-X9E8zWTfvYIkOGfO/s1600/photo+(4).JPG" height="400" width="357" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">It's Father's Day, and we're planting trees. </span><br />
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Redwood trees.<br />
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I'll admit it--compared to their 300 ft. anscestors on the coast, it boggles me to think that these six foot saplings will ever someday tower so tall they will scratch the sky. Yet barring unforseen problems, the only thing that can prevent them from doing so is if we never actually plant them.<br />
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Elementary, isn't it--that we must sow in order to reap? But how often we look at the barreness of a hillside, the lack of fertile soil, the circumstances that seem contrary, and give up without ever actually planting something. This happens in the realm of people's hearts as well--our own and others'. Maybe we look at the level of emotional disconnection and we think "what's the use of even trying to fix this relationship?", or at the discrepancy of what we long for compared to what we actually experience, be it in relationships, dreams, or destinies.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBlv3VdyTX__GkeYGmAr9Zde08u4Q_Emgkgic6ras0lgtOaQYQ0UuJmC7eZQsXEgvpQfSf_eCquoqitbZkm4bAlCNwHPqGgrWSmJCm6njffo6iZ1XlXvGDuUdP5zHEMAiottyXMsz4IFro/s1600/redwoods2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBlv3VdyTX__GkeYGmAr9Zde08u4Q_Emgkgic6ras0lgtOaQYQ0UuJmC7eZQsXEgvpQfSf_eCquoqitbZkm4bAlCNwHPqGgrWSmJCm6njffo6iZ1XlXvGDuUdP5zHEMAiottyXMsz4IFro/s1600/redwoods2.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a>In the midst of the process it's easy to overlook the simple truth that we must sow today what we want to harvest in the coming years. Love. Kindness. Wisdom. Vision, effort, grace. And sometimes it appears as if these seeds are dying in the ground, for all we see happening on the surface.<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">But we sow in hope.</span> Ecclesiates 11 says, "He that observes the wind shall not sow; and he that regards the clouds shall not reap..." I, for one, have often questioned the value of casting seed into the face of the wind, or looked at the storm and wanted to draw back. And yet--if that's what we do when the ground seems unfriendly, the weather unrelenting, then indeed, we will never reap.<br />
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Because the flat-out truth is-- <span style="font-size: large;">We only have the harvest we plant. </span>No sow, no grow.<br />
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Of course there's watering. Tending. Weeding. Watching and praying, even. But no one incubates empty ground in hopes that the seed that was never sown will somehow miraculously spring up out of the dirt and bear fruit.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz3takreOr5MWm6b7cAyyISvrxY2CqrTHJoF7hw4YAHHDui5qrlrmWyWIfMM7dn5fyVmsV7W7Y39jOPGEtH_LDZ1bKZSohxo0OC3jpsCjs2xO1zDWuJp6R2c3ZFHN89Cz60LZs1m3A_80L/s1600/photo+(5).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz3takreOr5MWm6b7cAyyISvrxY2CqrTHJoF7hw4YAHHDui5qrlrmWyWIfMM7dn5fyVmsV7W7Y39jOPGEtH_LDZ1bKZSohxo0OC3jpsCjs2xO1zDWuJp6R2c3ZFHN89Cz60LZs1m3A_80L/s1600/photo+(5).JPG" height="320" width="292" /></a><br />
It's Father's Day today (as if every other day in the year is not!?), and that's just a good time to count precious the many ways we can sow into our kids, grandkids, greatgrandkids, honorary kids--into people, related or not--for of all the places we plant seeds, seedlings, or saplings, <span style="font-size: large;">only people are eternal</span>.<br />
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When our great-great-great-great grandkids dandle their great-great-great-grandkids on their knees (or give them rides on their shoulders, as the case may be), these redwoods we've planted will tower hundreds of feet into the air, and that will be amazing. But it is the people, in the end, which carry the richest results, eternal rewards, the harvest of our labors, and they carry them infinitely forward.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic_5xNeUWuj1O3OBYsCHH-rDqZ7SJ8Gmw29Pg4XCXX59lWwVjzCQ3yAVw4AgTk3lydxdRl2Aeau6SQOrUxL6O0mcJd3jxTjzkVUEEbc4IsidCZp9tSxLDgVoyLrDD11qGWs2YhfbJeuqCg/s1600/Grampas+are+the+best.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic_5xNeUWuj1O3OBYsCHH-rDqZ7SJ8Gmw29Pg4XCXX59lWwVjzCQ3yAVw4AgTk3lydxdRl2Aeau6SQOrUxL6O0mcJd3jxTjzkVUEEbc4IsidCZp9tSxLDgVoyLrDD11qGWs2YhfbJeuqCg/s1600/Grampas+are+the+best.png" height="331" width="400" /></a>I'm thinking that is enough incentive to sow in all seasons, in all places, in all soils. Or as the writer says in Ecclesiastes: "In the morning sow your seed, and in the evening do not withhhold it, for you don't know which shall prosper; this [seed] or that, or whether they both shall yield good increase."<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">Happy Father's Day and happy sowing!</span>Lesliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03682962360349281375noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2744704465824544189.post-16848606277105899892014-05-26T07:49:00.000-07:002014-05-26T07:49:02.968-07:00To All the Unsung Heroes<span style="font-size: large;">Though I posted this last Veteran's Day, I decided to put it up again. Some stories cannot be told too often. I want to dedicate this piece to all our soldiers past and present, and as I do, I also want to say a special thanks to Charles, to Brandon, and to Joe for giving your strength to preserve our freedom. You know who you are :-)</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJTKaghZB2602fk7lcZuRetCzszgfy0d9FWn_U71Ehw_u93-Nni4I7m4EOeDdC1uQoof3BQReVOG_Q5A0yzte1PD9VNHMclfW01v52Zd5wGs6-fcr-j4qjcVgGlA8RTSGyTiLPDnMXge03/s1600/ww2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJTKaghZB2602fk7lcZuRetCzszgfy0d9FWn_U71Ehw_u93-Nni4I7m4EOeDdC1uQoof3BQReVOG_Q5A0yzte1PD9VNHMclfW01v52Zd5wGs6-fcr-j4qjcVgGlA8RTSGyTiLPDnMXge03/s320/ww2.jpg" height="214" width="320" /></a>Someone very important died not long ago, but only a few people noticed. Where were the headlines for Ace Gibson? Surrounded by family and staff at the veterans’ home, he quietly exited this earth. Why did no reporter show up to cover this, his last great act of gallantry? Though we live in a world of million-dollar sports contracts and block-buster movie earnings, surely the passing of an old soldier is still important.</div>
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I know he wasn’t famous—not in the way other men have obtained fame. He was not a film star. Not a NASCAR racer, rolling out of control on a dangerous curve. He wasn’t even a politician or a small town businessman. Yet surely this must be one of life’s more glaring ironies: Often those that live and die for themselves receive much public acclaim, while those that live and die for others, die in obscurity, unseen and unsung.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXP89ghvvuwkvXwjXaxjCbwoxkU0EcqUEC8uXBE493bTEck71BLMbbn7JfqMaAlBCADqgC_Bgnv6t5gADV1J84NKR5uiGxlY9XINjJYFGqUtbm0i9RsOMUbTW20FDQuxOXIhv3UhR-bqyR/s1600/boots.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXP89ghvvuwkvXwjXaxjCbwoxkU0EcqUEC8uXBE493bTEck71BLMbbn7JfqMaAlBCADqgC_Bgnv6t5gADV1J84NKR5uiGxlY9XINjJYFGqUtbm0i9RsOMUbTW20FDQuxOXIhv3UhR-bqyR/s320/boots.jpg" height="212" width="320" /></a>That’s how it was for Ace, anyway. What he accomplished on the battlefields of <st1:place w:st="on">Europe</st1:place> was infinitely more important than any celebrity “job” which ultimately benefits only the celebrity himself. But to be fair, barely a handful of Ace’s buddies are even alive to remember the days when they were all young together, and others knew him to be just a regular guy who looked like any other old man, and they never knew his past. He was a quiet man who lived a quiet life. He stayed married to one woman for 60 years, raised a family and worked with the railroad in <st1:city w:st="on">Kansas City</st1:city> for thirty years. He never talked about war experiences. Oh, he’d share the funny things—frying “borrowed” eggs in his combat helmet—things like that.</div>
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“Did you ever kill anyone, Dad?” his daughter asked one day.</div>
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His eyes looked far past her, and finally he answered. “Yes.”</div>
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But that was all he ever said. So maybe it is not anyone’s fault that no fanfare was blown and the nation’s flags never moved to half-mast when Ace passed on. There he lay, where the frailness of age and the ravages of Parkinson’s disease had brought him quietly to the end.</div>
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It wasn’t until his funeral that things began to surface. “Did you know that the battalion he was in landed on <st1:state w:st="on">Utah</st1:state> Beach at <st1:state w:st="on">Normandy</st1:state> just days after DDay?” someone said. “He fought in the <st1:city w:st="on">Battle</st1:city> of the <st1:place w:st="on">Ardennes</st1:place> and was on hand for VE Day.”</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh26Lx1IO_DThvrWDnIZkhmf2Eorx5JZb2l-PS-7tvWG-YfP_qU8wu_idArRIDetcLzCh3sHCsW2XwFyLCmxMKYRXG_2LkKxcXIakWJbhINOVUSbKCTroi7H6nzTuoPn5fpSqVseHMKm0cp/s1600/graves.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh26Lx1IO_DThvrWDnIZkhmf2Eorx5JZb2l-PS-7tvWG-YfP_qU8wu_idArRIDetcLzCh3sHCsW2XwFyLCmxMKYRXG_2LkKxcXIakWJbhINOVUSbKCTroi7H6nzTuoPn5fpSqVseHMKm0cp/s320/graves.jpg" height="212" width="320" /></a>“He received five bronze stars for gallantry in action,” shared another.</div>
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His wife doesn’t know where the medals are, but she found an old map, yellowed now with the years. It shows the path his battery, part of the Super Sixth Armored Division, took on those sad, weary days so long ago. A dotted line shows where his young feet walked, the battles he fought, the victories won. But it doesn’t begin to tell what his eyes saw, what his hands had to do, and what he was willing to give for our freedom.</div>
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More than sixty years have passed. Other wars have come and gone. And other men like Ace—some older, some younger—still hide their stories behind quiet eyes. And this is what I wonder: How do I say “thank you” to them before they, too, pass away unsung? Is there a way I can let these soldiers know that someone somewhere appreciates what they did on the behalf of women, children and a nation still free?</div>
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They don’t want to talk about it. But I do. I’d like to speak to each and every one—the pilots, the sailors, the infantrymen, and somehow convey to them that the hardships they endured, the atrocities they witnessed and committed to purchase freedom—were not in vain. I want to show them my children, laughing and carefree, and say thank you. Thank you for doing what you did, so I and my children could grow up in a safe and free country, where we can meet without fear and speak without apprehension.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgK1yXWKgXkoCXUxH4smtm1vCDKVOB6Y1IE2excRdO6kdb1XteYSCnf104oY90KeK__v_oG5EI1X_q-XTrXdXUUQziQbmPZuKAv903uFp5ZVGSJs-jxn1h4yaDhMBa4fK8XQ3cB52A7WvUa/s1600/airborne.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgK1yXWKgXkoCXUxH4smtm1vCDKVOB6Y1IE2excRdO6kdb1XteYSCnf104oY90KeK__v_oG5EI1X_q-XTrXdXUUQziQbmPZuKAv903uFp5ZVGSJs-jxn1h4yaDhMBa4fK8XQ3cB52A7WvUa/s320/airborne.jpg" height="212" width="320" /></a> </div>
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I also want to say, “Thank you for risking your youthful dreams to purchase mine.”</div>
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I’m sure they’d brush it off, saying, as one has already said to me, “The real heroes are underground.”</div>
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But here’s what I cannot comprehend, as I look at soldiers—some in nursing homes now, some still strong in the power of their youth, and just returning from Iraq or Afganistan—why should men and women die for people and children they don’t even know? And yet I know the answer, even as I ask: Because within each is heroism, is gallantry, is the willingness to fight for the things that are precious, even to the giving of life. Truly, “…greater love hath no man than this, than that he lay down his life for his friends.”</div>
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So what I’d really like to say to Ace and to each and every soldier, sailor, flyer and marine, alive and dead is this: “May He who sees all things, bring to remembrance and hold in honor your quiet heroism. God bless you, Ace—you and those like you. And on behalf of all Americans—a deep and heartfelt thank you.”</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhma-OZqoq0l5T4kyADIE7mvxFKiebQQ-fLBDuQDu6UTa81nIBTTtCzyAH3N0Q0ItH3lr8cSbiTRGjhTX4mRajtYqO_r298vyttXDu6rI_-UvkfGWQ_e41ulpRtSlCKGwoeWOBUU6h4l1xx/s1600/helmets.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhma-OZqoq0l5T4kyADIE7mvxFKiebQQ-fLBDuQDu6UTa81nIBTTtCzyAH3N0Q0ItH3lr8cSbiTRGjhTX4mRajtYqO_r298vyttXDu6rI_-UvkfGWQ_e41ulpRtSlCKGwoeWOBUU6h4l1xx/s400/helmets.jpg" height="265" width="400" /></a><o:p> </o:p><br />
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Lesliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03682962360349281375noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2744704465824544189.post-75907344072557395582014-05-03T14:31:00.000-07:002014-05-03T14:31:16.806-07:00Wild Flowers<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKM2MbUSFqv9GBIMloeughprclP8bZrIarRxIAu0_LjHGF4tQMICScdyu6BXncClliKUw0VnRFuho3l32y_0_iAmoKfWf45E6dEF25lCK4wAHVnEe9wjQHNtXtkVaSroJV8xE8TZcnLPM5/s1600/poppies.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKM2MbUSFqv9GBIMloeughprclP8bZrIarRxIAu0_LjHGF4tQMICScdyu6BXncClliKUw0VnRFuho3l32y_0_iAmoKfWf45E6dEF25lCK4wAHVnEe9wjQHNtXtkVaSroJV8xE8TZcnLPM5/s1600/poppies.png" height="400" width="300" /></a></div>
I've been noticing wild flowers lately. California poppies. Wild lupine. Roses. They're blooming in gardens, in the woods, and by the side of the road: so brightly orange, so deeply purple; pristine, perfect. Wherever they grow, they are content. It is sufficient that they bloom and they bless us as we pass by. They don't have to be showcased to be beautiful. Even if no one sees them, they are enough. They are perfect.<br />
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Just like each of us. We don't have to be showcased in order to bloom, to be beautiful, to be enough. We don't have to be noticed by anybody in order to be sufficient or lovely. We are not just "okay." We are perfect, and like flowers, we can bloom in contentment, completely without the notice of the rest of humanity, because we are good and beautiful in God's eyes. <br />
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Its not about where we bloom or how we bloom at all. It's the fact that we <i>do</i> bloom--sometimes in spite of where we're planted. For us, like for the flowers, it's not about needing to be seen. It's about us being who we were made to be--the colors, fragrances, and infinite variations, being content and being fully who we are--okay with being different from the next person. Okay to be unseen if we happen to bloom somewhere off the beaten path.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj75qVF_Rx3rrPcRiSQNvlfA27FiBoSYZqSHq2W6qJe2o6gi31bBfTqReB2Tl24LrLK8mNNlMzIeVCRk14yxcu8_SD2nxfFaJYrxNk3bBy0RG7ONCyfT2MZqqtpGXLoo1m3uP7DePy_1HdQ/s1600/photo+(3).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj75qVF_Rx3rrPcRiSQNvlfA27FiBoSYZqSHq2W6qJe2o6gi31bBfTqReB2Tl24LrLK8mNNlMzIeVCRk14yxcu8_SD2nxfFaJYrxNk3bBy0RG7ONCyfT2MZqqtpGXLoo1m3uP7DePy_1HdQ/s1600/photo+(3).JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a><br />
And if we seem to be growing far from where others might notice us, we need to know that ultimately, we are not unseen. We are celebrated; we are known; we are loved by our Creator, and He knows exactly what little corner of the earth we inhabit.<br />
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It is also beautiful to me how content flowers are to bless the earth. Whether we transplant them into places where a lot of people see, or leave them in the jungles or the mountain pastures where they spring up, bloom, and then fade unseen by human eye, wherever they find themselves, they do not change their behavior or their focus. They're humble. They're content. And they are fully given to blooming.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1McROn5Chmi9NL_NGYdmmxnXK5vlD1pQpqqndnpDEU4alYMcxDtWI8fplBkJ_KndiF3slK0_ynirAyjYB_EOGNYwsOqZ_CXEaM3HrHQMZxfi3VT_bo5fZ9UjxL87dzbrp7wqfiz_jx-ET/s1600/Eire.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1McROn5Chmi9NL_NGYdmmxnXK5vlD1pQpqqndnpDEU4alYMcxDtWI8fplBkJ_KndiF3slK0_ynirAyjYB_EOGNYwsOqZ_CXEaM3HrHQMZxfi3VT_bo5fZ9UjxL87dzbrp7wqfiz_jx-ET/s1600/Eire.png" height="355" width="400" /></a>In fact, flowers don't care where they bloom, because ultimately they're focused on seed, on generations to come, on spreading and filling the earth with beauty. <br />
I want to be that way--happy to bloom where I'm planted without a need to be noticed, singled out, or exclamed over. I am enough. I am beautiful. I am perfect. And so are you :-)Lesliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03682962360349281375noreply@blogger.com0