The Smile Speaks for Itself

I do not know whom she will marry.
Or the name of the street she'll call home.
Not the mountains she'll conquer or the hills she'll traverse.

Really, I know very little of precisely who this lovely little girl will grow to be.

But of two truths, I'm certain:
she will know her Maker. And she will always love the creatures He makes.

She woos them.
Or they woo her: one can never clearly espy the difference.

This time, I got it on film.

Step 1: Spot them from afar.

Step 2: Bribe their territorial mother.

Clooooser.

 

Clooooooooooser.

Got 'em!

The smile speaks for itself.

Epilogue: The girl who tried this same approach moments later was flogged by the territorial mother. Just sayin'.

Beautiful Just the Same

Vacation is a strange neither here nor there portal that brandishes a considerable effect on the soul: it requires you to be. Usually not where you want, how you want, or when you want, granted: but, ironically, no matter how you map it or plan it to an early grave, the very "free nature" of vacation muscles you into simply being.

It comes as little surprise to me, then, that I can't remember entirely every time we stopped for gas on our road trip...but I remember how that gas powered the Silver Bullet while we shed tears of joy laughing at Elijah inquiring, "Um, did that guy singing just say he farted?" (The lyric is "She got too close so I fought it." But in Elijah's world, he heard...yeah. Funny, right?)

It comes as little surprise to me, then, that I don't care if my derriere is in the shot (at least not for myself: to you, I extend an earnest apology): I love this

because it's a moment captured of me mothering my tiniest son. It's simple. And endearing. And I don't know what that looks like because, well, I'm the one doing it and I don't have eyes outside my body. (Don't tell said tiniest son, though.) Someday, this boy will tower over me. But I'll have this picture to remember my last begotten blessing was once my tiny gift - and, in the heart, always will be, no matter his height.

It also comes as little surprise to me that my honey snapped this one since it's quintessentially me:

Even in the midst of eye-popping mountains, Aspens, and Evergreens, I must stop and check the time (being back before our designated 45-minute time slot expires is essential, dontchaknow?) But you know what else is me? The woman changed by four beautiful hearts who remind me to stop and preserve this sensory delight.

The early 20-something too focused on a task, not yet broadened and deepened by The Love of Four would have paid little to no mind. But, seriously, just look at it.

Want to hear it?

Uh-huh.

I really do have that!

Here ya go.

And let me not forget to mention the least surprise of all: that the escaping moments of vacation push me faster - deeper - into a freefall of love for her.

 

And him.

Or them.

They enlighten me to what is beautiful around me...               

beside me...

 Touching me.

And coming to life from within me.

These moments are of what the heart is made.

Not perfect.

But beautiful just the same.

When You Go

C.S. Lewis wrote, "No book is really worth reading at the age of ten which is not equally – and often far more – worth reading at the age of fifty and beyond." Of course, he also wrote, "A children's story that can only be enjoyed by children is not a good children's story in the slightest."

I imagine it's a rare production of the written word that satisfies both such requirements.

 But I'd say The Potter 7 fits the bill.

Last night, in a parade of well-orchestrated plans about which I'll spare you the details, Zee and I hit the Cineplex for The Deathly Hallows, Part 2. At this point in our lives, such a date must be greatly wanted (by us) and then heavily supported (by Steve and Craig). But, when we get them, they are an oh-so-good treat.

Watching the film actually felt (Dare I confess?) a bit like history in the making. Grace was a wee babe when first I entered the hallowed halls of Hogwarts; first explored the sundries of Diagon Alley; imbibed my first mug of butterbeer; and painted the skies on my first Nimbus 2000. Now you allege I wasn't actually there, I know. But, when you encounter such a spectacular writer as J.K. Rowling, you truly enter the world - her world...a magical envelope containing bravery, sacrifice, destiny, and secrets enshrouded within the choices that define us all - the ones that cost us the most.

And I got to see it with this dear friend.

Which made it all the better. You really should go see it with your Ron. Or your Hermione. Or your Gryffindors even. Because we're all a little bit of Harry Potter, with our longings to do what's right in the face of it all going so wrong. We all want to have our loyals standing tall beside us, vowing never to leave us in the face of our greatest fears. We all want to fight the good fight...and win it in the end.

If you have those someones, then go with them.

Then you'll enter the world, too.

And discover a bit of history while you're at it.

As the gal next to me expressed to her friends, "That was the last first time we'll see a Harry Potter movie in the theater." True that. But you don't have to leave all of the world of wizardry and magic behind.

You can always take your Ron's and Hermione's with you when you go.

I Am, Among Men...

A visiting pastor shared this as part of his sermon at church today. Found in the pocket of a Confederate soldier at the close of The Civil War, perhaps you've heard it, read it, or caught it skirting some conversation you've had in the past. To my great chagrin, I have never encountered it - a fact neither here nor there in relating its simple but poignant message.

In any event, I found it moving. 

Convicting.

Reminding.

And oh, so true.

I asked God for strength, that I might achieve;
I was made weak, that I might learn to humbly obey.
I asked for health, that I might do greater things;
I was given infirmity, that I might do better things.
I asked for riches, that I might be happy;
I was given poverty, that I might be wise.
I asked for power, that I might have the praise of men;
I was given weakness, that I might feel the need of God.
I asked for all things that I might enjoy life;
I was given life, that I might enjoy all things.
I got nothing I asked for but everything I had hoped for.
Almost despite myself, my unspoken prayers were answered.
I am, among men, most richly blessed.

About Yours, Too

After spending restorative, relaxing, edifying six days in High Country with the four best things He's ever given me, I can tell you - unequivocally - this is true.

And I hope you feel the same about yours, too.

Dinner of Champions

In Iowa, this was a dinner.

And I don't feel badly about it.

Not one bit.

Happy Summer Vacation!

235

Aaron Sorkin is a good writer.

Say what?

Why would I start a 4th of July entry with that statement? Because he's the chief writer of the expertly-tweaked cadence of The West Wing (seasons 1-3) and American President. As such, he wrote the following excerpt from that movie, one of my favorites about our country.


America isn't easy. America is advanced citizenship. You gotta want it bad, 'cause it's gonna put up a fight. It's gonna say "You want free speech? Let's see you acknowledge a man whose words make your blood boil, who's standing center stage and advocating at the top of his lungs that which you would spend a lifetime opposing at the top of yours. You want to claim this land as the land of the free? Then the symbol of your country can't just be a flag; the symbol also has to be one of its citizens exercising his right to burn that flag in protest. Show me that, defend that, celebrate that in your classrooms. Then, you can stand up and sing about the "land of the free".

No, America isn't easy. But it's worth it...by far. My FB status today reads, "America, 235 years ago, you were an experiment. A daring dream. A defining hope. Today, you are the reason I can choose my husband, buy property, vote, and celebrate a God-given right to pursue life and happiness. Happy Birthday: you are the land of the free and the home of the brave." This is true. Startling. But true.


240 years ago, there was no United States of America. I was considered property, to be bartered and bargained for additional land holdings or advantageous family mergers. I would have had no money, little or no education, and should the arranged husband take the notion, he could abscond with my children - who would have been my only light and hope in an otherwise shadowy existence. And, though it took some solid decades for our country to grant me full freedom from such snares, it did. The fact that the time is enumerated in generations rather than centuries is more impressive and less dejecting, if you want the truth. Nations existing six times as long still aren't there yet and, if their tenets of priority and purpose are any indication, they never will be.


You have to want America. But she'll give you way more back than you'll ever give to her. 

I am a patriot.

I am proud to be an American.

I am proud of our troops who promote democracy and freedom, here and abroad. 

My heart is reverent toward those who've died for the idea, laid down life for the cause.

So Happy Birthday, America.

You are not perfect, but you are brave. 

You are the stuff of dreams and the land of opportunity. 

You are the impossible made real...one nation, under God, indivisible.

You are free.

For 235.

Never Really Ends

In A Place to Grow, I tossed a few renderings on midwestern upbringing, which seemed to be a bit of a theme for me this trip. Each time we return to Iowa, I scoop up a new marble of reflection on the differences between big city life and what amounts to country rhythm, at least in comparison. I think we usually stick with what's familiar when offering a thumbs-up but, this time, I saw more pluses for the Heartland.

"Such as?" you say??

Well, the pace for one. Here, most everyone's gong or coming in lieu of just sitting - which is more what you schedule, less how you live. There, porches are for swings and fireflies; cutoffs and sweet tea - which you can actually order at a restaurant, by the way. Here, if you want sweet tea, they bring you the fountain stuff and direct you to the Sweet-n-Low on the table. Uh, not the same...at all.

Or how about the pride? Now and again, I'll catch a mention of a youth's big endeavor on the local midday news. Conversely, The Quad City Times has a section every Sunday announcing engagements, 25th wedding anniversaries, and weddings. Whole columns in the daily run are devoted to scholarship recipients and 4-H ribbon winners, proving that there really is something to gain by keeping it small - especially since, in a 450K populated city, those posts would be a newspaper in themselves.

And, pray, do not get me started on how much cheaper it is to live there: a gallon milk, dozen eggs, 1/2 gallon of ice cream, and a pound of fresh-sliced spiral ham (um, can I even get that at my deli counter?) for the same price as three boxes of cereal here? My wallet does a happy dance!

Small (or at least smaller) town living is still going strong: if big cities are the wings of industry and technology, small towns are the roots that got them there. And it's good to know impromptu drop-bys and fellas who still open all your doors, tipping their baseball caps still exist in our beloved midwest corners of the earth because, seriously, those are long-forgotten traditions in these necks of the woods.

I'm proud of midwestern roots and even prouder to know great people who still live there, farming for near povertous wages in a lifestyle few city folk would understand. Now, I love where I live, and the people here are their own kind of marvelous - but who says you can't go home? It's always there, reminding you of history and childhood, and the things that made you you.

So if it's the South, the North, the East or the West...or somewhere far and abroad... give a nod to your homeland, your very own heart-land, if you will: 

after all, home is where your story begins...and never really ends.