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Every day when I stumble to the bathroom for my morning routine, I end up scowling in the mirror at what I see. Now, if I were thirty years younger, famous and living in Hollywood, I’d make front page news on the scandal sheets with my noticeable “baby bump.” Problem is, I’m passed 50, nowhere close to famous, and my “baby bump” is merely a postmenopausal pot belly.
This unwanted protrusion motivates me to shop with extra care, ever searching for ways to disguise it through careful clothing choices, scrutinizing how each piece hangs on my body.
Every glance in the mirror reminds me of this major flaw I possess in a society mad for flat abs. I feel the stares of others and sense their rolling eyes as they smugly tuck in their own oh-so-firm abs.
After three years of battling my aversion with weight loss attempts, I am determined to correct my attitude—once and for all. I decide Google search my predicament. I type “pot belly” in the search box (don’t forget the quote marks — very important), and up pop four choices:
First result: Pot Bellied People. Yech. This is just what I’m trying to escape! Quickly I move on to…
Second result: Pot Bellied Pigs. Carefully I research all the positive data. These pigs are intelligent and playful. That’s good. They’re also odor free and generally non-allergenic. Hmm. Interesting. But, do I really want to align myself with the porcine population? I forge on to…
Third result: Pot Bellied Stoves. Ah, Americana at its best. That useful, practical, heart- and-butt-warming American fixture of yesteryear. But do I want to be associated with antiques? In desperation I turn to…
Fourth result: Pot Belly Song by Freshlyground. I click on the YouTube link. The lead singer croons, Fat thighs, flabby arms. A pot belly still gives good loving. Oh yes! I have found my theme song. I watch the video over and over again.
This morning as I staggered to the bathroom and caught my reflection in the accusing mirror, my face scrunched up in familiar disgust—until I remembered the Pot Belly Song. A smile chased the frown from my face while I hummed the words; “Fat thighs, flabby arms. A pot belly still gives good loving.” Yep. I thank God for this brave, young band that has adjusted my attitude—permanently.
published on epiffunnies.com 7/09
Monday, September 7, 2009
Pumpkin Perfect
I watch Richard trudging through the pumpkin patch, in search of the biggest, roundest, most perfect pumpkin ever.
“Hurry up, Mommy,” he yells back at me while the crisp glory of autumn brushes past us in puffs of red, yellow and brown. “Here’s the best,” he announces, smacking his hand on a huge pumpkin before dashing off to examine another. His voice rises in tandem with his excitement. I smile, savoring our yearly mother and son tradition.
Richard’s birth in spring turned into my winter of bleakness when I could no longer ignore his lack of progress. With a heart laden in denial, I took him to our pediatrician. Severe mental retardation tagged him and dogged me.
The endless whirring of how and what and why buzzed my heart like locusts in a cornfield, consuming joy and hope. I tried to understand why God did this to me. I worried about my son’s future. I bled for my son, his father and his siblings.
I longed to shelter my son from the remarks of cruel or ignorant people. Even though he didn’t comprehend the comments, they cut me deep. It took many more tears and prayers to repair me. My son was fine.
As each year passed and other children progressed in the cycle of life with school, graduation, marriage, and having their own children, my heart suffered pained loss with each milestone never passed.
Yet, drop by relentless drop, my tears came to water the flowers of a new spring. Just as the crocuses stubbornly push their way through lingering snow every year, so faith began to press past worry to find the higher purposes of God. While the dogwood displayed its delicate white blooms against the stark dark bark, peace budded in me against bleak loss.
Summer warmed my heart as I learned to view my son through new eyes. I grew to see the hidden blessings of having an eternal child. My son will always believe in Santa Claus, reliving the magic of Christmas with the same zest every year.
Richard taught me God because he holds no grudges and knows no prejudice. His love remains unconditional no matter how much I fail him. His enthusiasm for life continues unabated.
“Mommy, mommy, I found it,” Richard yells, waving at me to come join him. As he has done every year, for many years, he has found the biggest, roundest, most perfect pumpkin ever. I hurry to admire his prize, hugging him close.
“You’re the best mom in the whole wide world,” he announces with loud exuberance, leaning down to kiss my cheek. “The very, very best! Thank you, Mommy.”
My heart overflows in a cornucopia of gratefulness. I have harvested the fruit of those summer years in the autumn of worship. My garden is filled with the vibrant, aromatic blooms of love, joy and peace.
Thank you, Lord, for blessing me with this rare gift you entrusted to me—my son. Amen.
Author's note: I do not have a mentally disabled son. I work in a group home of 6 mentally disabled men. I wrote this short piece of fiction in honor of the mothers of these men I have grown to know and love.
“Hurry up, Mommy,” he yells back at me while the crisp glory of autumn brushes past us in puffs of red, yellow and brown. “Here’s the best,” he announces, smacking his hand on a huge pumpkin before dashing off to examine another. His voice rises in tandem with his excitement. I smile, savoring our yearly mother and son tradition.
Richard’s birth in spring turned into my winter of bleakness when I could no longer ignore his lack of progress. With a heart laden in denial, I took him to our pediatrician. Severe mental retardation tagged him and dogged me.
The endless whirring of how and what and why buzzed my heart like locusts in a cornfield, consuming joy and hope. I tried to understand why God did this to me. I worried about my son’s future. I bled for my son, his father and his siblings.
I longed to shelter my son from the remarks of cruel or ignorant people. Even though he didn’t comprehend the comments, they cut me deep. It took many more tears and prayers to repair me. My son was fine.
As each year passed and other children progressed in the cycle of life with school, graduation, marriage, and having their own children, my heart suffered pained loss with each milestone never passed.
Yet, drop by relentless drop, my tears came to water the flowers of a new spring. Just as the crocuses stubbornly push their way through lingering snow every year, so faith began to press past worry to find the higher purposes of God. While the dogwood displayed its delicate white blooms against the stark dark bark, peace budded in me against bleak loss.
Summer warmed my heart as I learned to view my son through new eyes. I grew to see the hidden blessings of having an eternal child. My son will always believe in Santa Claus, reliving the magic of Christmas with the same zest every year.
Richard taught me God because he holds no grudges and knows no prejudice. His love remains unconditional no matter how much I fail him. His enthusiasm for life continues unabated.
“Mommy, mommy, I found it,” Richard yells, waving at me to come join him. As he has done every year, for many years, he has found the biggest, roundest, most perfect pumpkin ever. I hurry to admire his prize, hugging him close.
“You’re the best mom in the whole wide world,” he announces with loud exuberance, leaning down to kiss my cheek. “The very, very best! Thank you, Mommy.”
My heart overflows in a cornucopia of gratefulness. I have harvested the fruit of those summer years in the autumn of worship. My garden is filled with the vibrant, aromatic blooms of love, joy and peace.
Thank you, Lord, for blessing me with this rare gift you entrusted to me—my son. Amen.
Author's note: I do not have a mentally disabled son. I work in a group home of 6 mentally disabled men. I wrote this short piece of fiction in honor of the mothers of these men I have grown to know and love.
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
Is Anyone Frightened?
Is anyone frightened out there? Our world is changing as fast as technology. The security of the USA I knew, growing up in the 60s and 70s, is gone. Any one of us could be blown into eternity at any time.
We are witnessing an unprecedented power grab in Washington D.C. The lust for absolute power which has been fermenting for years is finally making its move — against our citizens, our nation and our God.
When Ahaz…was king of Judah, King Rezin of Aram and Pekah…king of Israel marched up to fight against Jerusalem, but they could not overpower it.
Now the house of David was told, “Aram has allied itself with Ephraim”; so the hearts of Ahaz and his people were shaken, as the trees of the forest are shaken by the wind.
Then the LORD said to Isaiah, “Go out…to meet Ahaz…Say to him, ‘Be careful, keep calm and don’t be afraid. Do not lose heart because of these two smoldering stubs of firewood — because of [their] fierce anger…[they] have plotted your ruin, saying, “Let us invade Judah; let us tear it apart and divide it among ourselves…”
Yet this is what the Sovereign LORD says:
It will not take place,
it will not happen…
The head of Aram… is only Rezin
[ the head of Israel is only Pekah]
(kings yes, but mere men, pitting themselves against God)
If you do not stand firm in your faith,
you will not stand at all.
Isaiah 7:1-9
It is time for us to stop looking for pastors and priests to feed us God’s Word. We must study and learn for ourselves so we can stand firm in our faith no matter what the future holds.
Paul wrote:
I have learned to find resources in myself whatever my circumstances.
I know what it is to be brought low,
and I know what it is to have plenty.
I have been very thoroughly initiated into the human lot with all its
ups and downs
fullness and hunger
plenty and want.
I have strength for anything through him who gives me power.
Philippians 4:11-13
note — those incredible verses in Isaiah are JUST PRIOR to the prophecy of the virgin birth of Jesus. Praise God! He still reigns!
Friday, April 24, 2009
Memorable Quote
“Only through our prayers can we effectively influence the decisions President Obama makes…for God is our Supreme Lobbyist.”
~ PPT member Barbara Brown
~ PPT member Barbara Brown
Saturday, April 4, 2009
Carolina Sweet T.E.A. Party/Rally
April 4, 2009.
Today Bob and I attended a T.E.A. (Taxed Enough Already) party at a lovely park in downtown Charlotte. Only people who have known me from childhood will appreciate what a MAMMOTH step this was - getting out and actively protesting our government.
The keynote speaker was Mason Weaver. If you've never heard of him, google his name. It is well worth your time. Especially listen to his U-Tube on Forgiveness. Priceless.
I love my country. I distrust the government. I am ready to fight so our descendents can enjoy the freedom we have. The pen is mightier than the sword...in my case...keyboard!
LET FREEDOM RING!
Today Bob and I attended a T.E.A. (Taxed Enough Already) party at a lovely park in downtown Charlotte. Only people who have known me from childhood will appreciate what a MAMMOTH step this was - getting out and actively protesting our government.
The keynote speaker was Mason Weaver. If you've never heard of him, google his name. It is well worth your time. Especially listen to his U-Tube on Forgiveness. Priceless.
I love my country. I distrust the government. I am ready to fight so our descendents can enjoy the freedom we have. The pen is mightier than the sword...in my case...keyboard!
LET FREEDOM RING!
Monday, March 23, 2009
The Righteous Will Flourish
The righteous will flourish like a palm tree;
they will grow like a cedar of Lebanon;
planted in the house of the LORD,
they will flourish in the courts of our God.
They will still bear fruit in old age,
they will stay fresh and green,
proclaiming,
“The LORD is upright; he is my Rock, and there is no wickedness in him.”
Psalm 92:12-15
Here are some facts I learned about the palm tree:
· (Heb. tamar ) – the date palm. The palm tree
· frequently attains a height of 80 feet, but more commonly 40-50
· bears fruit after it has been planted six or eight years, and
· continues productivity for a century.
· trunk is straight, tall and unbroken
· crowned with emerald-green plumes
· leaves frequently reach 20 feet in length
· whispers musically in a breeze.
· it is a beautiful and useful tree.
· fruit-daily food of millions
· sap-wine
· fibers-woven into ropes and rigging
· tall stem-valuable timber
· leaves-made into brushes, mats, bags, couches and baskets.
· The, striking appearance of the tree, its uprightness and beauty, would naturally suggest the giving of its name occasionally to women (Tamar).
Psalms 92 pictures the righteous as a palm tree
· straight growth
· fruitfulness
· perpetual greenness
· height
· fruit-as far as possible from earth and as near as possible to heaven.
· elasticity of the fiber of the palm
· its determined growth upward even when loaded with weights.
· bears fruit well into old age
· palm a symbol of victory and peace
Now, this should greatly encourage those of us over 50!
they will grow like a cedar of Lebanon;
planted in the house of the LORD,
they will flourish in the courts of our God.
They will still bear fruit in old age,
they will stay fresh and green,
proclaiming,
“The LORD is upright; he is my Rock, and there is no wickedness in him.”
Psalm 92:12-15
Here are some facts I learned about the palm tree:
· (Heb. tamar ) – the date palm. The palm tree
· frequently attains a height of 80 feet, but more commonly 40-50
· bears fruit after it has been planted six or eight years, and
· continues productivity for a century.
· trunk is straight, tall and unbroken
· crowned with emerald-green plumes
· leaves frequently reach 20 feet in length
· whispers musically in a breeze.
· it is a beautiful and useful tree.
· fruit-daily food of millions
· sap-wine
· fibers-woven into ropes and rigging
· tall stem-valuable timber
· leaves-made into brushes, mats, bags, couches and baskets.
· The, striking appearance of the tree, its uprightness and beauty, would naturally suggest the giving of its name occasionally to women (Tamar).
Psalms 92 pictures the righteous as a palm tree
· straight growth
· fruitfulness
· perpetual greenness
· height
· fruit-as far as possible from earth and as near as possible to heaven.
· elasticity of the fiber of the palm
· its determined growth upward even when loaded with weights.
· bears fruit well into old age
· palm a symbol of victory and peace
Now, this should greatly encourage those of us over 50!
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
Elder Wisdom
The first time I met my uncle-in-law, I was slightly underwhelmed. Although pleasant, Uncle S bragged constantly about his two children, one of whom worked for NASA.
Each visit included a detailed rundown of their latest achievements. I found his bragging boring and slightly annoying. Soon, I dreaded any family gathering that involved Uncle S.
However, time and wisdom changed my perspective—and attitude. Uncle S’ motto was: Learn something new every day.
He took a mill job right out of high school so his higher education came in the form of voracious reading. He read in English and Polish keeping his mind active and productive all his long life.
I never heard Uncle S complaining over health, or the unfairness of life. I never saw him without a wide smile on his face. He was too busy learning and growing.
Without realizing it, I adopted Uncle S’s motto: Learn something new every day. I read. I write. I’m working on two foreign languages as well as sign. My late uncle-in-law is my example and inspiration.
Thank you, Uncle S.
Each visit included a detailed rundown of their latest achievements. I found his bragging boring and slightly annoying. Soon, I dreaded any family gathering that involved Uncle S.
However, time and wisdom changed my perspective—and attitude. Uncle S’ motto was: Learn something new every day.
He took a mill job right out of high school so his higher education came in the form of voracious reading. He read in English and Polish keeping his mind active and productive all his long life.
I never heard Uncle S complaining over health, or the unfairness of life. I never saw him without a wide smile on his face. He was too busy learning and growing.
Without realizing it, I adopted Uncle S’s motto: Learn something new every day. I read. I write. I’m working on two foreign languages as well as sign. My late uncle-in-law is my example and inspiration.
Thank you, Uncle S.
Sunday, January 11, 2009
Grandma's Trunk
Impatiently, I struggle to move Grandma’s steamer trunk…again. After eighty-five years, the leather handles have long since rotted off, making any transfer awkward. Inwardly, I mutter against my brother, who insists on keeping the trunk in the family, but lacks storage space.
After a great deal of pushing and tugging, I stop for a break. My glance falls to the letters painted on the lid. ALA. Adelaide Leonora Angwin. At that moment, our shared blood transports me to her time.
Cornwall, England, 1922. Thirty-four year old Adelaide lifts a favorite print dress from its hanger, momentarily caressing the soft fabric against her cheek before placing it in her new steamer trunk. Straightening, her gaze drifts to nearby St. Michel’s Mount, framed by the open window. Suddenly, she is seventeen again, dashing home from a visit to the mount, daring the oncoming tide to cut off her return. Warm sand squishes through her toes as she flies along. The wind catches her laughter, tossing it high for the pleasure of screeching seagulls marking her progress.
Two days prior, she had met Andrew, her older brother’s friend. Andrew’s eyes spoke what his lips wouldn’t or couldn’t. Later that night a phone call confirmed her suspicions; he wanted to see her again.
Tonight, they’ll stroll together along the seawall after sharing tea with her family. Her impetuous race is a joy filled gamble that she can challenge the sea and win. Impossible to sit demurely and await his arrival, she must run, run, run until she has exhausted the tomboy in her and only proper young lady remains.
A lengthy courtship, marriage and a baby boy completed Adelaide’s life. Then the Great War came, forever changing the course of this happy little family. Her beloved husband returned from France wounded in body and spirit. He determined to put an ocean between war-devastated Europe and his family by relocating to America.
Adelaide reaches for her wedding portrait, ready to tuck it among her dresses. She pauses to examine the couple contentedly gazing back. Absently, her thumb strokes her husband’s face, up and down, up and down. A tear drops from her full eyes onto his merry ones. Ah, the blissful ignorance of that happy day, oblivious to approaching war drums.
I run my hand over those plain, white letters. ALA. What thoughts occupied Grandma as she lowered the lid, forever closing it on her familiar life in England, and knowing she would not to open it again until she reached America and her new life? How could Grandma pack her entire life into so little space? How could she select, discard, select and keep, realizing the finality of each decision? My mind mentally wanders through my own home. What would I take? What would I be forced be left behind? Could I possibly pack my whole life into one trunk?
Firmly, Adelaide lowers the lid of the trunk, its weight matching the heaviness of her own heart. She runs trembling fingers over the leather straps and handles. She sees her own life in the leather; nothing fancy yet strong and dependable. She touches the shiny brass lock and trimmings. Perhaps her future could be the same; new and bright? But can she find the courage to sacrifice familiar security for unknown adventure?
A new respect replaces former annoyance for my brave grandma and thousands of others like her, who resolutely turned their backs on the old familiar life to step into an uncertain future with only one hope; giving their children a better life. They came to America, knowing they would probably never lay eyes on their homeland or loved ones again.
I finally tug the worn trunk to its new resting place. Even empty, this trunk is quite heavy, indicative of its sturdy construction; much like the sturdy constitution of the great lady who used it.
No longer do I grumble under my breath over this unwieldy nuisance. With respect, I pat the lid in thankfulness for my brave grandmother who so willingly sacrificed comfort for a distant dream. And I am only one of the many who have benefited from her courage.
Thank you, Grandma.
After a great deal of pushing and tugging, I stop for a break. My glance falls to the letters painted on the lid. ALA. Adelaide Leonora Angwin. At that moment, our shared blood transports me to her time.
Cornwall, England, 1922. Thirty-four year old Adelaide lifts a favorite print dress from its hanger, momentarily caressing the soft fabric against her cheek before placing it in her new steamer trunk. Straightening, her gaze drifts to nearby St. Michel’s Mount, framed by the open window. Suddenly, she is seventeen again, dashing home from a visit to the mount, daring the oncoming tide to cut off her return. Warm sand squishes through her toes as she flies along. The wind catches her laughter, tossing it high for the pleasure of screeching seagulls marking her progress.
Two days prior, she had met Andrew, her older brother’s friend. Andrew’s eyes spoke what his lips wouldn’t or couldn’t. Later that night a phone call confirmed her suspicions; he wanted to see her again.
Tonight, they’ll stroll together along the seawall after sharing tea with her family. Her impetuous race is a joy filled gamble that she can challenge the sea and win. Impossible to sit demurely and await his arrival, she must run, run, run until she has exhausted the tomboy in her and only proper young lady remains.
A lengthy courtship, marriage and a baby boy completed Adelaide’s life. Then the Great War came, forever changing the course of this happy little family. Her beloved husband returned from France wounded in body and spirit. He determined to put an ocean between war-devastated Europe and his family by relocating to America.
Adelaide reaches for her wedding portrait, ready to tuck it among her dresses. She pauses to examine the couple contentedly gazing back. Absently, her thumb strokes her husband’s face, up and down, up and down. A tear drops from her full eyes onto his merry ones. Ah, the blissful ignorance of that happy day, oblivious to approaching war drums.
I run my hand over those plain, white letters. ALA. What thoughts occupied Grandma as she lowered the lid, forever closing it on her familiar life in England, and knowing she would not to open it again until she reached America and her new life? How could Grandma pack her entire life into so little space? How could she select, discard, select and keep, realizing the finality of each decision? My mind mentally wanders through my own home. What would I take? What would I be forced be left behind? Could I possibly pack my whole life into one trunk?
Firmly, Adelaide lowers the lid of the trunk, its weight matching the heaviness of her own heart. She runs trembling fingers over the leather straps and handles. She sees her own life in the leather; nothing fancy yet strong and dependable. She touches the shiny brass lock and trimmings. Perhaps her future could be the same; new and bright? But can she find the courage to sacrifice familiar security for unknown adventure?
A new respect replaces former annoyance for my brave grandma and thousands of others like her, who resolutely turned their backs on the old familiar life to step into an uncertain future with only one hope; giving their children a better life. They came to America, knowing they would probably never lay eyes on their homeland or loved ones again.
I finally tug the worn trunk to its new resting place. Even empty, this trunk is quite heavy, indicative of its sturdy construction; much like the sturdy constitution of the great lady who used it.
No longer do I grumble under my breath over this unwieldy nuisance. With respect, I pat the lid in thankfulness for my brave grandmother who so willingly sacrificed comfort for a distant dream. And I am only one of the many who have benefited from her courage.
Thank you, Grandma.
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