I am an UN-reasonable Mom

I always thought I was pretty understanding about boys and their ways. But apparently I’m not. Some of my friends can’t understand why I let my son keep an ordinary yard lizard in the house for a year and a half. Some parents shake their heads when they see my children swinging from ropes and hanging from trees or dancing on the rooftop. They don’t understand why my kids are roaming the allies, diving in dumpsters and dragging home trash. They make their kids throw things away---the nerve! Some kids’ parents even have the audacity to make their children sleep in beds instead of on the floor piled high with the just-folded covers they drag from the cupboards. They have silly rules like “no food in the bedroom”. We don’t even have a “no snails in the bedroom” rule. You know, most moms and dads just don’t “get” why kids would paint snails and then load them into electric trains until the snails are dazed, forgotten or begin to stink.

I’ve known parents who never allow their kids to dig networks of grave-sized holes in the backyard. Nor do they let their children run pell-mell on four-wheelers inside the yard in the city limits, crashing into sheds and brick walls. Some parents have a problem with bows and arrows. Others have fear of explosives kids create out of old batteries and papers. What’s wrong with scraping gunpowder out of caps until you have enough for the big one? And matches? Well, they are baby toys compared to what we allow. My oldest sons most asked questions start with “what is____?” and end with “...how flammable is it?” Parents who may be okay with such outdoor activities bordering on pyromania sometimes object to more domestic set-ups like science labs in the bedroom. They don’t understand the importance of soaking turtle food in sprite in a open container. They can’t seem to grasp that anything thrown in the trash in fair game and will end up in a water bottle atop the lava lamp to let it “boil”. What’s the problem with storing fifty cans and bottles of smelly goo of various origins on your desk to watch it grow? Of course we need to see how air affects the specimens, so they must all be left uncovered as they seep. Most of these experiments are simply messy and sticky when they spill onto the floor, books and the clothing that we use as a dropcloth in the experiment area. But many of them “boil” until no one can pass the room without inquiring about the odor.

But me....I am a reasonable mom. Or so I thought...until today, when my son brought in mosquitos he found in a pail outside. When I asked him to please take them outside, I heard that old familiar whining again, “Ahhhhh, Mom. You never let us do anything!”

That’s it. I’m an unreasonable Mom.

Grandmama's Quilt

It's funny how a single object can remind you so much of the person it belonged to. Even if you never saw them use it or enjoy it, is connected to them. One such object, was this quilt, made by my Grandmother.

I remember one day going over to Grandmama's house to ask her to teach me how to make a quilt. I wanted to enter quilting in a competition at school. Grandmama was the kind of clothing seamstress that held up the fabric to you and laid it out on the table to cut. She got her patterns from things in her mind. Her quilting was the same way. She knew how a certain design should go whether she had an example or not. If she wanted to add a picture to her work, she would applique or embroider it on from a design she got from a paper towel or a coloring book. Grandmama never threw away anything. It might be useful or valuable someday. So when we found stashes of coloring pages, paper towels, napkins and greeting cards scattered throughout her house when she died we knew what they were for.

When I went to see her that day it was like she had been expecting me. Our new-found common interest in quilting would be something we could talk about and discuss for years to come. She dug through boxes and trunks and closet and brought out treasure troves of quilts. Where had all these been hiding? It was an absolute treasure trove, hidden away for fear that the priceless items might be unappreciated, mishandled and marred. Though she had dozens of handmade, beautiful quilts, her bed was covered in a store-bought comforter. All of those heirlooms were tucked away, like the paper towels, for 'someday'.

This day she took the time to lay each one out on the bed. I looked on in wonder as colors and patterns emerged from their hiding spots. She explained to me how just about every quilt consists of small patterns that repeat themselves to make a larger pattern. I was hooked. After that I saw patterns everywhere and could easily remember the names of many designs.

She chose a pattern for my first quilt that was very simple. It consisted of rectangular pieces of material to form a block. Then each block was turned a certain way to make diagonal designs across the quilt.

The design it created was called a rail fence. You could just see the fence swooping up and down across the quilt on the bed like it would if you were driving past it in the country. The example quilt that she had of that particular design was not pretty. The color combination was what I've heard people call "God-awful," although I was never really sure what that meant. but it couldn't be good. She explained to me her choice for the colors.

My Great-Grandmama (her mother) was bed-ridden most of the time. She was going blind. As the story goes, she told my Grandma near the end of her life that she wanted a rail-fence quilt. So, Grandmama went out and bought the fabric new (something she rarely did) at TG&Y, I think. She bought the brightest, cheeriest colors and strongest contrasts she could find so Great-Grandmama would be able to see the design in it. The quilt was put together pretty quickly and machine quilted to save time. It was then used as the top quilt of the bed where my Great Grandmother spent her last days. I'm not sure who the quilt was really for--Grandmama seemed to get a lot of satisfaction out of knowing that she had given her something she had wanted and could enjoy.

It was one of the few times anyone got opportunity to enjoy Grandmama's quilts in her lifetime.

When my sisters and I went through her things, we lamented that we had so few stories to go with the items we found. We wished these elements had been everyday parts of her life that she could share with us. But we do have our memories, and we do have our laughs connected to them.

One day, I took the red and yellow rail-fence to the park for a picnic with my sisters. As I spread it out, I remembered the day she had spread it out for me. I thought of Great-Grandmama and her dying days. Quite sentimentally, I said to my sisters, "Wouldn't Grandmama be glad to know we were enjoying her quilt this way?" There was a silence. Then, as the emotion of the moment wore off and we thought about what was said, there was a sputter, then laughter. "No, she wouldn't," we agreed. But we sat down on the quilt and enjoyed her memory, and the quilt, anyway.

On a hunt...

Did you ever hear someone up in years when they were looking for something? They might say "I'm huntin' my glasses," or "I'm on a hunt...". Well, this morning I am on a hunt. I'm hunting for God. Not just hoping to see Him today. Not just wishing to experience Him. I'm hunting Him.

I don't just want to hear it

I want to feel it too

It's less like I'm trying

It's more like I'm dying to know You.

I've 'known' God for years. Served Him just as long. But recently I learned what it's like to really have fellowship with Him. Since that happened, I'm never satisfied with my old way of doing things.

Old streets don't lead back where they used to

We blaze new trails to ancient places

I still love You just like I used to

But this love won't fit spreadsheets

Being a creature of habit, I need to remind myself that my old ways of "relationship" are not valid options for me. I used to try to work God like He was a formula. How sad that must be for Him. How sad that was for me. My old ways? They were ways of working to earn a sense of fulfillment and satisfaction instead of being fulfilled in Him. Yeah, they were those ways of waking up and not acknowledging Him. That is, until I needed something. My old ways were going about my day and if something happened that touched me in a meaningful way it was just extra. Like icing on a cake. Well, now that I've had icing I don't want plain cake anymore.

The last few days, I've been eatin' plain old sponge cake and I'm not happy about it at all. I don't know exactly how to go about getting back that feeling that I want. (Yes, fellow Baptists---feeling---it's not a bad word!) So I looked in my head for Scripture this morning to see what I know about looking for God and getting close to Him. I came up with: "Draw nigh to God and He will draw nigh to you" and "Seek ye the Lord while He may be found." Both begin with me. So I will begin with something pretty simple. I will start looking for him. My day then will begin with a cry to Him, telling Him just how much I long for His presence.

I'm dying to swim in Your sea
I'm dying to taste and see
I'm dying in all that I do
So come to me 'cause I can't get to You*

*words in italics are lyrics from "Dying to Know You" by the band downhere.

(Leave me a comment...Let me know your thoughts on seeking God and relationship with Him. Have you ever felt Him? Is it a priority to feel Him everyday? How do you feel about iced cake versus plain?)

Closet Artist (volume 4)

Everything was black here. The walls around me. The canvas. Even the tubes of paints held nothing but blackness.

From the dark interior of my closet studio I imagined beautiful venues. I dreamed of the freedom of an artist to do what she was created to do. I thought about how far I had come, from the little girl, through all the ugliness. My flesh literally ached to be outside. Nothing could penetrate this world. No one came knocking.

One day, a speck of light came through a crack in the door. It wasn’t much, but it landed on a bit of blue paint. I wished for more light. I cracked the door a little more and a dim shaft cast weak light onto colors waiting to be awakened. Violets, reds and oranges. Fear reminded to stay where I was safe, but beauty and life begged me to leave. Little by little I was prodded to go out.

At first I came and went. Then, one day I brought out all my paintings to take a good look at them. Some were not any good. That thought didn’t crush me like it used to. Admitting and accepting their faults cleared my eyes to see beauty in some of the others. Some of them were actually quite good. Though imperfect. I hung one on the wall. Yes, there was danger in displaying it. Danger that it wasn’t good enough. Danger that someone might even copy it as they had copied the childish princess on butcher paper. But there was a certain goodness in seeing that I was okay enough with myself to display it and say, “Yes, this is mine. Like it or not. Take it or leave it. It is mine. It may not be the best, but it is my best. And it is honestly and authentically mine."

Some time has passed since I've taken up living again. I've even renewed contact with the One who inspired me to paint in the first place. Life is good and inspiration is around every corner. There is more to paint than ever.

Maybe someday I’ll even take up teaching again. I don’t know. But I do know a few things I’ll change if I do: I’ll show students my own work, knowing that real works by real people will bring more discussion and thought than a fake. My students will have the benefit of seeing my mistakes. They may even come up with ways to avoid my mistakes. Who knows? Maybe they’ll develop an eye for faulty tendencies in their own work. They can learn to be artists, not copy machines. And I would be more proud of that than of anything.

Oh sure, there will always be people who would rather not see an imperfect work displayed. Maybe they would rather I worked in the closet and only brought out the best pieces. Or maybe they would like me to bring a fake to show and tell. Some, knowing my history and seeing my blunders, might like for me to give up the notion of being an artist at all. I understand their misgivings. I faced them every day in the darkness of the closet, and most days in the light of outdoors too. But the end of the story is that I know what i was created for. Is perfection required? Or is it enough for me to do my best and honestly assess myself and my work and share what I learn along the way?

And speaking of sharing what I've learned, here's a biggie. f you’re gonna copy, copy the Original Artist, not me. But I’m gonna keep on painting, too. No, it won’t always be pretty. But I’ll do my best. There will be days that I will question my right to paint as much as anybody does. And when things get ugly it’ll take everything I have to stay in the light.

So do me a favor, okay? If you see me with my brush in hand, heading for the closet, gently take me aside. I don’t want to live in darkness anymore.

John 3:21