Grace and the Golden Shoes

I retired a pair of shoes recently. I remember buying these particular shoes because they were too expensive, in my estimation, but, also, too pretty to pass up. They were flip flops goldflower2on a wedge heel decorated with tiny leather flowers, each embossed with gold. I adored them. You may be asking, “Why is she telling us this?” Who cares that she retired a pair of shoes?” I tell you this because there was an incident involving these shoes that brought out a side of me I’m ashamed of and as I picked those faded gold flowers off of them, I was reminded of it.

My daughter couldn’t have been more than four. She was such a beautiful child, springy head of blonde curls and blue eyes with an upturned nose. She was always happy to see me and generous with her affection. On this particular day, she bounded toward me angel-1009342_1280having made something for me—a card or picture. My gaze turned from approval to displeasure, as it surveyed the offering and fell on the gold flower she had plucked from my “too expensive in my estimation” shoe. My memory’s a bit fuzzy after that because I was possessed. I probably wailed some. I tried to stick the gold flower back on the shoe with no success. I scolded her. I’m sure I mentioned the cost of the newly defrocked item, as if a four-year-old would understand the significance of it. She was tearful. I was fuming.

I wish I could alter this memory. I wish I could go back in time and take her in my arms, congratulating her for her creativity and resourcefulness and admiring her work, but I goldheart2can’t. It was an instance where I valued a thing more than a relationship, a shoe more than my innocent little girl’s heart. I knew this, at the time, and was torn up inside, but was still too immature to downplay my true feelings. Thank God there’s grace. This was a minor incident; neither one of us was irreparably damaged. I’ve told this story since and we’ve laughed about it. My daughter is still making me things. I keep a special Mother’s Day gift she made me a few years back on my bedside table. I may have to add a gold flower to it. 🙂

 

Complete the experience. Listen to Laura Story’s Grace.

 

Mirror, Mirror

I’m so tired of worrying about what I look like. I’ve developed a new strategy and so far, it’s working well. I’ve stopped looking.

I’m not very good at hygiene or any kind of self-care, for that matter. When bedtime toothbrush2shows up, I have the dexterity of a drunk ready to pass out and lose the ability to use my arms. The urge to go to sleep comes on me so suddenly, so swiftly, I can barely drop my clothes to the floor, much less operate a tooth brush. In the morning, my breath smells like a fart on amphetamines and the stink wafts out of my mouth as I do the clean up. Mint toothpaste is my friend.
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Got Love?

Love makes the world go round and sometimes it makes me want to hurl.

I was recently thinking about what an amazing life I have and, as I tallied up the reasons, it became clear to me that it’s largely due to one thing; love. I’m loved. My parents, from chelsea-bock-65622a young age, taught me that God, my maker and sustainer, loves me with a passionate, unchanging, undying love.
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Beam Me Up, Scottie!

My husband was encouraging my teenage daughter to take home economics this year.

“That’s so I don’t end up like mom, right?”

It’s true. I don’t like cooking. Okay, I’ll be more specific. I loathe cooking. I would camp out in frigid weather in front of the first store to make a Star Trek food replicator available. I find the whole process as distasteful as, well, my cooking.spices-1914130_1920
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Dirty Work

I spoke with a doctor recently. No, it wasn’t concerning my health. He sat down to talk with me about my chosen profession as a health care aide on the geriatric unit of a hospital. He told me a story about a woman who worked in his office as a medical receptionist. She was a bright, intelligent lady and he thought her giftedness was wasted in her current position.
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To Kill a Plant

I’m a plant killer. It’s not intentional. I do enjoy plants. My sister-in-law has a corner full of plants and I could sit in front of them like a kid sits in front of cartoons. Their beauty and rich green life have a soothing effect on me. However, I still kill plants.
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Coming Back from the Dread

For the Spirit God gave us does not make us timid, but gives us power, love and self-discipline. 2 Timothy 1:7 (NIV)

Years ago, I worked as dental assistant. I handed instruments and materials to the dentist while he worked, took x-rays and impressions, and suctioned a lifetime of other people’s dentistry-316945_640spit, but the bulk of my work was cleaning; scrubbing blood and saliva off of instruments, bagging and sterilizing them and disinfecting all surfaces in the dental operatory between patients. I find cleaning grueling and so avoid it, certain that I don’t want to spend my diddly allotment of time here elbows deep in a pail of bubbles and that regret over a spattered mirror won’t haunt me on my deathbed. Consequently, this job was not a good fit for me. Over time, and I lasted almost six years before taking maternity leave, I descended into dread. Every day I had to work, I woke up with it sticking to me like sweaty sheets. There was a brief reprieve on the weekend, but its sour stench returned promptly on Sunday evening whenever I had to work Monday morning.

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I’m at a Loss for Hairs

Never underestimate the importance of a good hat.

I don’t enjoy getting my hair cut. It’s always a risk and I’ve had five too many bad experiences. When I was younger, I was very shy and found it hard to ask for anything. I used to get my extroverted brother to ask for me. Unfortunately, he wasn’t interested in sitting in on my hair appointments, selfish, selfish boy, and I wasn’t capable of expressing what I wanted. I still have nightmares about one cut, the queen of all bad hairdos.

I was in junior high and had a boyfriend. I didn’t after leaving that salon. His parting words were, “You should’ve left it the way it was.” Continue reading “I’m at a Loss for Hairs”