Since not much has changed aside from the grandkids growin’, From 17 March 2016:
Sure, it’s St. Patrick’s Day, don’ cha know. Fresh buds are sheeting the landscapes with bright greens as if they too arrived for the Irish festivities.
FirstBorn phoned me early this morning while drivin’ into Chicago for the first of the big parades this weekend. As we chatted, I envisioned he and his wife riding side-by-side, dressed in full celtic regailia.
Yeah, my son wears a skirt: a kilt, a sporran (or pouch), fly plaid (depending upon the weather), hose, garters, spats and depending upon the event they’re attending, either Balmoral or Glengarry headgear. An’ it’s proud I am of him – and all my family.
This might seem a bit off the wall, but go along with me here.
I don’t typically watch daytime television (but I listen to the news on the radio). This week I recalled recuperating from an injury a while back when I discovered Rosanne reruns – all afternoon every day.
That was not only a physically painful time, but as is typical, my sister Roan and I were in a turmoil together.
Watching Roseanne helped us laugh at our brand of crazy. We roared over Jackie and Roseanne’s interactions. We relate to that family.
Unlike Leave it to Beaver. Although we had our Eddie Haskells, my family was so not like the Cleavers. But Erin’s was.
So here we are, more decades later than I want to count, Erin comes home from working on Keira’s property – where her two brothers live as caregivers – steam rising from her collar. She was upset about her brothers’ input and critique about her work. Her takeaway statement for me;
“The whole time I was sweating in the yard, they were checking gravity, playing Wii in the garage!”
I confess, I’m a little ashamed at the level of comfort I got from the familiar scenario. But instantly I recalled the Rosanne episode where very drunk Jackie falls on her apartment floor. I had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing. Once aright Jackie said,
“Whoa, there’s gravity all over here!”
I also remembered Roan leaping over the back of the sofa and landing inelegantly between the couch and the coffee table. No help at all. Back then I was initially startled, then relieved the old girl wasn’t hurt, but then we laughed together saying,
“Forget gravity, we got inertia goin’ on here!”
Still biting my lip in the present I scanned my memories for something awful so I wouldn’t inappropriately laugh out loud at Erin.
I’m very familiar with sibling rivalry at its best – and sometimes worst. From my perspective I get it; Life is scary fleeting. As Keira, who had always appeared timeless, seems to be visibly aging right before our eyes, they’re all freaked out. The guys can’t understand the girls and aim their freak at them – and vice versa.
I also get how pointing out one other’s short-comings and mistakes comes easy. Searching beyond them can be tricky when we push love and respect to the back of the shelf.
There’s nothing funny about this past week. From my twisted family, in my mind today comparing the family of man and the horrors in Baton Rouge, Saint Paul, and now Dallas to Erin’s family is not that far a stretch. We’re all hurting, not sure what’s actually what, except that people died. Their lives are over.
Without a huge shove of love, this fearsome inertia will tear our family apart.
It’s all about making good choices. My choice going into the weekend is peace – love – family.
“Where do you think your fighting and endless conflict come from? Don’t you think that they originate in the constant pursuit of gratification that rages inside each of you like an uncontrolled militia?” James 4:1 (The Voice)
Free Rosanne image courtesy, QUOTESGRAM
Free Leave it to Beaver image courtesy Fame Focus
I have an amazing gift for screwing up, and I’m especially good at misidentifying words. Yeah, I’m the writer that once saw the word flagellate and somehow worked flatulate into the context.
Weaving my literary tapestries, I must frequently check and double check that my words say what I intend. I practice reading sentences, formatting them in my head to ensure I understand correctly. But even so, stuff happens.
Not long ago, I wrote a lovely piece inspired by a quote. As I tweaked the media in the document, my last step before posting, I suddenly realized I’d incorrectly committed the message to memory from the start.I had read one word wrong, resulting with wrong imagery.
I had keyed the quote from the book exactly as it read, exactly how it was printed – and yet in my mind that one word was entirely different. But only in my mind. Days later I noticed how that one word changed my whole story line. Metaphorically speaking that one word changed a waterfall into a lawn sprinkler, for cryin’ out loud.
Once I realized what I’d done, I literally did cry out loud, “[colorful expletive!] Really? God, what’s wrong with me?!”
Maybe God spoke. I’m not sure, but I remembered – yet again – I’m a whole new brand of special. My brain doesn’t work like everyone else’s, or anyone else’s I know for that matter.
Health care professionals can diagnose and define all they want, but I learned ages ago I must approach some areas of life differently, like reading, writing and sometimes speaking. I’ve practiced this my whole life, and developed a workable regime. Once in a great while I will be late. I may need to rework a few projects, but I’ll eventually get them as I want them, in good time – or close enough to call it.
And yet, there I was, an hour from my self-imposed deadline, I stepped away from my desk, made some tea and walked a bit. Still wanting to cry from frustration, I had a chat with God.
In that conversation I remembered, it’s not the first time I had to tweak an entire article a degree or so. And if I must trash it and start something new it won’t be the first time for that either. And then it dawned on me I haven’t done this sort of goof in a very long time – possibly years. At least not an instance that lasted more than a minute – and those are always entertaining; no harm no foul.
Strangely, as I worked to clear my mind, the image of a toddler learning to walk came to me.
In nano-seconds I recalled how my firstborn, Iain began walking at nine months of age. Motherly pride quickly gave way to exhaustion. By ten months he loved to run – urging anyone to get him. With so many monstrous end tables, door jams and thresholds lurking around… Suffice it to say abstinence of stimulants was mandatory. I now recall developing a fondness for wine as Iain found his sea legs.
Already bigger than most two-year-olds, Iain was remarkably fast; often too fast. Despite his adorable pudgy bulk he was also remarkably agile. Still, when he stumbled and fell there was often blood shed. Fortunately, being the first of his generation, a host of doting aunts and uncles were usually handy to entertain – and spot him.
Among my fondest memories is my two brothers developing an obstacle course for Iain in the grassy yard behind the house. They set out a cardboard box to crawl through, a lawn chair cushion to pounce upon, a coiled garden hose turned into a tunnel and such. In no time Iain wore them down, and yet they both patiently kept close guard while the toddler squealed and bounced along with delight, rosy cheeks glowing in the patchy sunshine beneath the orange tree.
Iain couldn’t get more than a foot from both men, but I’m certain in his mind he was footloose and fancy free. Entirely forgetting his nearby sentries he ran, crawled, stooped, rolled and toddled until finally he sat down.
I doubt I’ll ever forget the image of the three of them sitting quietly, backs against the tree trunk until Iain’s head slid slowly onto Seagh’s lap, sound asleep. Or that these were the same guys that would catch farts in their hands to release them in my face. Don’t get me started on other things they taught my sons…
Peaceful, calm assurance restored, I wiped my eyes and got back to my desk. The rework actually went remarkably well and I posted the story in a record five hours later than I’d planned that day.
I sometimes imagine Father God like my brothers in that scenario. As we grow into the various stages of our lives, we often go so fast, too fast sometimes and want to run before we master walking. He gives us healthy obstacles to challenge us and yet, He is always close enough to stop us from running into harm’s way.
Sure, bad things happen. We all fall sometimes and occasionally face harsh consequences after landing. Especially when the pressure’s on it’s good to remember that despite the bumps and bruises, no matter the scars or how deep the wound is, for those who know and trust Jesus, the cross has made us flawless.*
*
“For you know that when your faith is tested, your endurance has a chance to grow.So let it grow, for when your endurance is fully developed, you will be perfect and complete, needing nothing.If you need wisdom, ask our generous God, and he will give it to you. He will not rebuke you for asking.” James 1:3-5 (NLT)
*I do not own the rights to Flawless, MercyMe. No copyright infringement was intended in the making of this video.
Sure, it’s St. Patrick’s Day, don’ cha know. Fresh buds are sheeting the landscapes with bright greens as if they too arrived for the Irish festivities.
FirstBorn phoned me early this morning while drivin’ into Chicago for the first of the big parades this weekend. As we chatted, I envisioned he and his wife riding side-by-side, dressed in full celtic regailia.
Yeah, my son wears a skirt: a kilt, a sporran (or pouch), fly plaid (depending upon the weather), hose, garters, spats and depending upon the event they’re attending, either Balmoral or a Glengarry headgear. An’ it’s proud I am of him – and all my family.
“Books are like seeds. They can lie dormant for centuries and then flower in the most unpromising soil.” (Carl Sagan); “Nothing ever dies on the Internet.” (anon.); “This is not your father’s Oldsmobile.” (Madison Ave. [m]adman). My posts amalgamate these three philosophical elements into one novel experience; they champion critical thinking, human dignity / equality, levelheaded / even-handed / liberty-based governance and solid environmental stewardship. C’mon in!
Sure, it’s St. Patrick’s Day, don’ cha know. Fresh buds are sheeting the landscapes with bright greens as if they too arrived for the Irish festivities.
FirstBorn, FirstBride and OtherBrother are members of The Band of Brothers Pipes and Drums Corps. An annual tradition, they gather in Chicago with thousands of celebrants, for the Dyein’ of the Chicago River, The St. Patrick’s Day Parade and the Southside Irish St. Patrick’s Day Parade.
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