Stepping into a new position

In a very short time, I will be moved up in the dental office I have worked in for the last ten years to the position of office manager. My dear, longtime friend and current office manager, Kathy will be retiring.

Thinking back to June of 2006, I remember being overjoyed at being hired in this office. The ladies I worked with, and even the female dentist all got along amazingly well. I made some of the best friends of my life here. We worked hard, but made time for laughter.

I'd come from a small town, and a very small dental practice that had been there for years. I worked for an excellent dentist whose work was impeccable. The patients in that practice were mostly elderly folks that I would come to love and care for in such a way, that when I moved away from my hometown and had to leave the comfort of the place I'd worked at for twenty-seven years, it would be with many tears that I would do so.

Kathy would make me feel welcome, she would believe in me when she taught me computer skills that I hadn't possessed at my old job. She would encourage and teach in such a way that I wouldn't even see her doing it. She had a warm, listening ear, and a sassy sense of humor. Though she was my boss, my superior, she never made her employees feel less than. Kathy had a way of building each of us up, stating our accomplishments and cheering us on when she believed we deserved it.

When she announced her retirement two short months ago, my first thoughts were selfish ones. Oh no, I thought. What are we going to do without her? And most importantly, who is going to step into her position, or who might we hire to fill her shoes?

When I was told it would be me, at first I declined. I'm not good enough, I thought. The words that have always been such a part of my vocabulary. And of course, I can't do things as well as Kathy can.

My next thoughts were worse. I've got to say goodbye to someone I really care about. A friend who has given me advice and counsel. A woman I've shared some of the deepest thoughts of my life with. I am going to miss her terribly. I don't want her to go.

Kathy has been teaching me all along even though I didn't realize it. The few more difficult tasks that I've learned recently are pushing me well out of my comfort zone. And that is a good thing. For when we get stuck doing the same things day in and out, not challenging our minds, we become stagnant and a little stuck. How on earth are we to advance in our lives if we don't embrace something a little harder than we've always done?

I'm ready to embrace a new title. And once again, we have a super team of co-workers and a newer boss whose enthusiasm is contagious and fun. I'm finally eager to take on more responsibilities with the same poise and grace my predecessor had done.

Oh, and the best news of all: Our dear Kathy has decided to remain with us one day a week. I will certainly look forward now to this special day, a day when we can catch up as friends, a day when we will have so much to talk about. I count myself blessed to have this lovely woman as one of the best friends I've ever known. And I'll take her words and sayings with me forever.

Here's to you, Kathy, for all you've done for us through the years. You truly are a very great lady.

A Godly Marriage

Marriage. What a topic. We could write for hours about it. What works, what doesn't, and what just plain annoys the heck out of us. Two imperfect people in a perfect union. A union created by God. And He doesn't make any junk, my friends.

Take a moment to consider what you saw in your mate when you first met. Take a good long look back. It may not be easy remembering those things, but if you dig a little for them, you'll find them. Pull out an old photo album and savor the memories, the really good ones. Doesn't it feel different?

But now he's lazy, she thinks. She's not attentive to me, he thinks. He never surprises me with anything. She doesn't give me any compliments. The list goes on and on, doesn't it?

What if we were the ones to make the first move? Give that compliment, surprise your husband or wife with a small treat, even a candy bar you know they like. Tell them thank you for working so hard at their job for the family, especially if you are married to a workaholic type.

What about communication? For all the things you say he or she doesn't do any longer, or for the things you wished they'd do, did you ever really ask them about it? We expect a partner who has been with us for years to read our every thought, every body innuendo. It isn't so. Did you ever sit down next to your spouse, putting the cell phone away, the television set off for just a few minutes and say the words, "honey, I'd like to talk." Powerful little words that may open up a whole new world for you.

My husband and I are Italian, so we speak a lot. Communication is a big part of this marriage. We are not the strong, silent types, neither of us. We air grievances quickly, tell each other what we like or don't like about a particular situation, but we never keep one another guessing. Even when the topic may turn to something difficult, or perhaps something that means a little more to one partner than the other, it's best to give all the reasons, present your case so to speak so that your partner truly understands where you're coming from.

Do you want him to attend church with you? Did you ever think of saying "I'd really love it if you'd come to church this Sunday with me." What we often say is, "You never want to go anywhere with me." This sets our spouse up to make excuses and retreat into their own little world, when we really want them in our world.

What about, "Would you mind if I picked the restaurant, movie, or store that we shop at this time?" And not, "You never let me decide about anything." Try it. It's so simple.

Now for the biggest news. Did you ever pray for your spouse, really pray for them? I'm talking about crying out from your very soul when nobody else is around? Perhaps they have an issue from their life, or you two have been arguing for so long you've forgotten how to be kind to one another. Take it to the Lord. Speak it out loud, ask Him for answers, but not until you've prayed for that man or woman. Ask God to bless them, take care of them, protect them, and ask Him to help you to have a heart of love toward them. Even if your marriage has cooled, God can ignite the spark of true love once again if you agree with Him.

Prayer is not empty words. It is God's promise to us that whatsoever we ask....It's God's covenant with us, a direct line to our heavenly Father. He cares about the details. He cares about your marriage. He loves your spouse with an unconditional love, one we can't even begin to understand. And He will make a way in the darkest places when you do not give up and call upon Him to be your guide and Light.

May you rekindle love with open communication and prayer.

Bonding over food

Is there any greater enjoyment than a good meal, especially one that reminds you of your youth, and simpler times? They call such things "comfort foods" and for very good reason. Today, my elderly Mom and I decided to make such foods.

With Mom's dementia and learning so much more about it, I've seen that the very strengths she once had, such as cooking and baking are traits that can withstand the test of time and memory especially if a loved one shares that passion as well.

I entered the warmth of my mother's kitchen today, (well, a little warmer than usual because with her condition, Mom is always very very cold. The heat was a blaring 74 degrees at the time.) to find my mother sitting at the kitchen table, a well-worn recipe card in front of her, studying it as if the meaning of life was written upon it.

"What's that?" I asked Mom.

"My old recipe for Strufali," came the reply.

Strufali, for those of you who aren't Italian, are little fried dough balls, maybe an inch or so in diameter. Made almost like a pie dough, dropped into boiling oil, then after they are drained on paper towels, put into a pot of heated honey and turned over again and again. These little delectables had usually been made for New Years in my family in the past. My Nonna had made them, and Mom too, bringing to mind my youth and the above mentioned simpler times.

I made up my mind that I was going to be Mom's kitchen slave for the day. Rolling up my sleeves, I began measuring out the ingredients, after putting on a pot of homemade chicken noodle soup, stir-frying another cut up chicken breast, throwing together a meatloaf and oven roasted potatoes too. Did I mention I was a kitchen slave earlier? Indeed. But it was one of the most bonding, fun times with Mom in recent memory. I'd taken one of her favorite things, cooking and baking, and turned it into an afternoon of bonding together. Each time Mom would say, "Please, I want to help," I'd politely turn her down and say, "No, you're the master chef, and I'm your pupil." Now you have to understand, I think I'm a fairly good cook and baker myself, but to let my mother think she was teaching me precious gems of kitchen duties was priceless. Though she did help a little, and later would tell my brother she made the whole meal, it didn't bother me a bit.

What is it with us sometime when we feel we must take credit for everything, or we are completely slighted? It took nothing from me to let Mom think she made the whole delicious meal and the Italian dough balls as well. Her hand had certainly been in it, so in many ways, it was her cooking and baking. I've taken her ideas from many years, and have incorporated them into my own kitchen. Many of the things I make come lovingly from little old scraps of paper, splotches of food encrusted into them as I study Mom's handwriting from years ago. I don't deviate from much of it, though my mother was one of those "pinch of this, dash of that" types too.

When the Strufali were finished yesterday, and we dug into the tasty, honey-coated treats, the look on my mother's face was priceless. A smile, eyes closed, a moan of ecstasy when she bit into one. And when Dad walked into the kitchen and tried his own, the compliment of "these are the best ones ever," was like music to my ears.

What a good day, a bonding day, a day of love and understanding. A day to treasure as her memory may fade, her moods worsen, or God forbid, she forgets any of us some day.

I hope to have more days like this. Days where a mother and daughter can giggle like schoolgirls, talk about old times, work side by side, and share the love and stories that all have come out of an Italian kitchen and bonding over comfort food.

Recipe for Strufali from Grace Massa Langlois, in an article on La Mia Vita Dolce from 2010.

Cicerchiata-Struffoli, Italian Honey Balls

• 6 large eggs
• 375 g (3 cups) plain (all purpose) flour
• ¼ teaspoon salt
• Canola or vegetable oil for deep frying
• 710 ml (3 cups) honey
• 75 g (½ cup) candied fruit, optional
• 50 g (1/3 cup) slivered almonds, optional
• Candy sprinkles, optional
• Vegetable cooking spray (if shaping cicerchiata into a wreath)

1. Crack eggs into a small bowl, cover and allow eggs to come to room temperature, 30 minutes.
2. Add salt to eggs; lightly beat together with a fork.
3. Place flour on a clean work surface or in a large bowl.  Make a well in the centre.
4. Pour egg mixture into centre of well.  With the tips of your fingers or with a fork gradually draw the flour into the egg mixture.  Continue until all or most of the flour is incorporated.
5. Use your hands to gather the dough together.  Knead the dough until smooth and no longer sticky, 5 to 7 minutes.
6. Shape dough into a ball, cover with an overturned bowl, kitchen towel or wrap in plastic.  Let dough rest at room temperature for 30 minutes.
7. Fill a large, heavy-bottomed sauté pan with 5-cm (2 inches) of oil.  Attach a thermometer and heat oil over medium heat to between 185° C and 190° C (365° Fand 370° F). (If you don’t have a thermometer, drop a 2.5-cm (1-inch) cube of bread into hot oil.  If it takes about 1 minute to brown all sides of the cube and the cube floats to the top the oil has reached the appropriate temperature for deep-frying.)
8. Prepare 2 baking sheets line one baking sheet with non-stick baking paper (for cut pieces of dough) and line the other baking sheet with 3 to 4 layers of paper towels (to absorb excess oil).
9. Knead rested dough for a few minutes.
10. Cut dough into 12 equal pieces.  Work with one piece of dough at a time, keeping remaining dough covered.  Using the palms of your hands roll each piece into a rope 1¼-cm (½-inch) thick.  Cut the rope into 6 1/3-mm or 12¾ mm (¼-inch or ½-inch) pieces. Transfer pieces to prepared baking sheet (lined with non-stick baking paper); cover dough pieces with a kitchen towel.  (Cicerchiata puff out quite a bit when frying.  If I am preparing a wreath I prefer to cut the dough into smaller pieces.  You may want to fry a small batch before cutting all the dough to see which size you prefer.)
11. Cook dough pieces in small batches (do not overcrowd pan), stirring occasionally with a slotted spoon, until lightly golden on all sides, 1½ to 3 minutes (depending on size).
12. Transfer cicerchiata to baking sheet (lined with paper towels) with a slotted spoon.
13. When all dough is fried allow cicerchiata to come to room temperature.  Transfer cicerchiata to a large bowl.
14. Meanwhile, in a medium saucepan bring honey to a simmer over low heat. Simmer at low heat, stirring occasionally, until honey is melted.
15. Gradually pour honey (reserving 59 ml or ¼-cup if shaping into a wreath) over cicerchiata stirring with a wooden spoon until well incorporated.
16. If using candied fruit, nuts or sprinkles (or all three), sprinkle over top of cicerchiata and stir to well combine.  (If shaping into a wreath, reserve a portion of the candied fruit, nuts and sprinkles to decorate wreath.)
17. To serve, spoon into a bowl, pile onto a serving dish or shape into a wreath.

Introducing C. H. Armstrong

In honor of a new friend I made this year, I'd like to introduce C. H. Armstrong to you all. Today is her book blitz, and I'm happy to be a part of this exciting venture for a very talented author!

Here is a little about her awesome new book:

The year is 1992 and Victoria Hastings Harrison Greene—reviled matriarch of a sprawling family—is dying.

After surviving the Oklahoma Dust Bowl and the Great Depression, Victoria refuses to leave this earth before revealing the secrets she’s carried for decades.

Once the child of a loving family during peaceful times, a shocking death shattered her life. Victoria came face to face with the harshness of the world. As the warm days of childhood receded to distant memory, Victoria learns to survive.

No matter what it takes.

To keep her family alive in an Oklahoma blighted by dust storms and poverty, Victoria makes choices—harsh ones, desperate ones. Ones that eventually made her into the woman her grandchildren fear and whisper about. Ones that kept them all alive. Hers is a tale of tragedy, love, murder, and above all, the conviction to never stop fighting.

LINK TO VIDEO TRAILER

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cKRsh85aWDQ

All the places to find her:

LINKS TO PURCHASE

Barnes & Noble: http://tinyurl.com/BNNookBook

iBooks: http://tinyurl.com/TheEdgeOfNowhere

Kobo:  http://tinyurl.com/KoboEbook

Amazon:  http://tinyurl.com/Ebook4Kindle

Facebook:  www.facebook.com/catherinehedrickarmstrong

Linkedin:  https://www.linkedin.com/in/charmstrongbooks

 

A little about her:

 

 

AUTHOR BIO

C.H. Armstrong is an Oklahoma native transplanted in Minnesota.  A 1992 graduate of the University of Oklahoma, “Cathie”is a life-long lover of books, and staunchly outspoken on subject of banned and challenged books.  The Edge of Nowhere is her first novel and was inspired by her own family’s experiences during the 1930s Oklahoma Dust Bowl and The Great Depression.

I hope you'll have a chance to check her book out, and take the time to read a little more about her on her website and social media.

Wishing you all the best my friend!

The Best Worst Year Ever

I got the title from a good friend of mine. There was a time in her life that she was going through one of the most difficult events ever, the death of her father. But, she said, there had been so many blessings that year, that she didn't want to look back at it as the worst year of her life. The good events were so abundant, so truly from God, that she told me "It was the best worst year ever."

That got me thinking. I, too, am in one of those best/worst times right now in my life. In early December, my stress level was at an all time high. My husband and I were fighting over pretty much everything. We had four days off together for Christmas shopping and frivolity, but we were both at a power struggle for first place with ideas and "how to do everything correctly." I was at the point that I wanted to go back to work to escape the most wonderful time of the year and the man in my life. My husband's stress level had also been through the roof as well, with extra long work hours and other issues he struggled with. I couldn't find a happy thought toward him, or one iota of compassion. My aging parents lay heavily on my mind at all times, and I felt the joy being sucked right out of me.

But. . . there were several blessings that crept up sneakily. I opened an email one morning from a Pittsburgh publishing company that wanted to feature my new book on their online television show. Now, I must admit, I was more than a little suspicious that this was a fraud. I chuckled about it, secretly wishing it was true. I did a little homework, a bit of research and found out it indeed was a real event! Eight other local authors and myself included, spoke about our books for the television cameras. I'm not quite sure what may come of this, but as I always say: Any publicity is good publicity. This unknown girl who struggles to make a name for herself as an author was given this incredible opportunity. It was a dream come true. But. . .

My husband took a terrible fall during a holiday family get together. It was so bad, he ended up in the hospital. Now, I must admit, the "Christmas Cheer" was flowing pretty freely during the party. So his faculties weren't quite up to par to begin with. But when he broke facial bones and scared me and his children to death, I couldn't help but become angry with liquor and the fact that he'd come from a family that liked to indulge. I was not brought up that way. It's odd for me to see people needing a drink to have a good time. So I haven't been thrilled with this type of behavior throughout our marriage. However, a few great things did come from this. No major problems for my husband. No neck or back fractures even though it was a tumble down outdoor cement steps. And the best part: A complete change of heart. My husband has not touched a drop of alcohol since it happened. This was something I'd been praying for many years.

Another sneaky blessing came in the form of another email one day. A popular cat anthology that I'd submitted a few paragraphs to, had accepted my story! Never before in my writing career have I been "chosen" for anything. I felt as giddy as a child while I danced around my house the day I found this news out.

My brother phoned me two nights ago. He said that our mother, who has dementia, had a terrible bout of diarrhea and was bleeding. He called an ambulance to take her to the emergency room. My husband and I were in the middle of watching the movie "War Room" at the time. I had been completely immersed in the story line and hoped it was only a fluke with Mom, I must confess. She'd mentioned eating a whole box of chocolate covered cherries, and we all wondered perhaps, if it was the "red" of the cherries they were seeing. I got a call later that they were admitting Mom to the hospital to run more tests. It was indeed blood that was found.

Now anyone with a parent or loved one with dementia must realize that a hospital visit can be devastating. Mom had been in the hospital last year, and it had wreaked such havoc with her mind, she truly didn't know where she was and why my father wasn't there with her every moment and sleeping with her at night. She came home depressed from that episode and way more confused than she had been. So I fretted: would this time be like that too? I went on to Facebook and typed a quick status about Mom going into the hospital. And about sixty-five people later, prayers were being offered in a major way.

Talk about the blessing this time. Not only did my family have the stamina needed to be there for Mom, but every hospital attendant, nurse and doctor treated her extremely kind. Everyone took the extra special time to explain things patiently to her again and again, and to comfort each one of us as we awaited tests. The biggest blessing came in the form of the male nurse I'd left Mom with last evening. I stayed as long as I possibly could. The male nurse whose name was Matt, had promised me she was in good hands. But Mom wasn't having a good night. Especially since she'd needed to drink prep for stomach tests in the morning. I had a very rough night, unable to sleep much, tossing and turning from worry. Would the test have to be cancelled if my mother didn't drink enough prep? Was she giving that nice male nurse a rough time?

When my father and I arrived at the hospital this morning, I walked over to Matt the nurse. He admitted that Mom had a fairly rough go of it through the night, but he'd been with her as much as possible, actually spending several hours with her. His demeanor and way that he spoke, assured me that he had been the right nurse for the job. He'd comforted her and reassured her. And when I talked with Mom a few minutes later, she couldn't stop talking about the wonderful young man who'd been with her through most of her scary night.

Mom's tests turned out wonderfully, she went through with flying colors and even had a clean bill of health. A very small issue had caused her problems, and she would be discharged in a few hours.

I sit here tonight thinking back over a full month. From early December when I thought I couldn't take another minute from the holiday stress, to today when I thought I couldn't take another minute from how tired I was. I believe with my whole heart and everything in me that it was prayer that sustained us all through these times. My husband and I have prayed out loud together for at least five years before we go to work every morning. Is our marriage perfect, nope. But have I seen some amazing changes in both our lives, some blessings that only can truly be accounted to our Heavenly Father? You bet. And the prayers of the Facebook friends during these last few days for Mom. They weren't only for her to be "okay." Those prayers sustained every member of my family, gave us the strength, humor and tenacity needed for all that we had to do. Those prayers helped put the right people in our paths, great nurses, good doctors and a positive experience for my mother. She talked with me earlier tonight about how nice everything was. She thanked me for being there and spoke highly of her care and treatment. For someone with dementia, she was acting pretty normal.

Yes, life is hard. I've made some of my own problems, and there are others that come from the natural rhythm of things. But in the midst of some of the worst times ever have come the best ones as well. For God has promised us that He will never leave us or forsake us. He upholds us with His hand. He loves us unconditionally and He is a blesser, my friends. The things I spoke about in this blog may not look to some people like miracles or really great things. But to me and my family, they are answered prayers. And the little extras, the little sneaky bonuses I've been given on top of it all, have really made this time of my life the best ever.

Peace above all else

A woman walks through her door and sighs. She smiles, a tired, careworn look upon her face. Her work day was eight hours long, but felt much longer. For the burdens she shoulders add to the moments, almost like lead weights. She is the caregiver. The wife, and mother. She is the daughter of parents now old, and she has become the parent. When her mother asks a childlike question and she's taken the time to give her kindest answer, in that moment, she knows the roles have reversed.

She holds memories in her heart. Some moments of laughter from a close family, holiday memories, times that were lighter and carefree. She remembers that she, too, was once a little girl, the whole world before her, innocent and unknowing.

Past mistakes tickle at the corners of her mind, but she pushes them away. For they do no good at this moment. They only remind her what was, and torture her with what should have been. She's learned much from them though, and vows never to repeat them.

She thinks about him. Their marriage built on rocky ground, yet the solid moments they share. He's not perfect, she thinks, but then again, neither am I. But can she truly change? If she stood up for what she believes, if she voices her true opinion, if she stops pretending. . . Perhaps then, she will have peace, for that is what she longs for at this time in her life.

She is a praying woman. She's fallen asleep at night, hot tears streaming down her cheeks. Are her children safe? Will her parents live to see another holiday? Is there enough money to pay the bills? Am I losing myself? God, I trust in you. I need to sleep tonight. Take these cares from me. Hold your precious little girl in your arms, please.

In the quiet of her soul she gives herself completely. For God has carried her through before. Whether the future holds change, uncertainty, loss or gain, she has known true, complete trust. And when she awakes the next morning to the challenges of a new day, hand in hand with the knowledge of her Father's unfailing love, she rises to the tasks before her, and vows with all that is within her that it will be a day of true peace.

A little fun, a little mystery and a lot of heart!

Sometimes in life we are fortunate to make new friends, people we'd have never known otherwise due to the most interesting circumstances. Where else could I have met a woman who shares the passion of writing, the love of cats and an Italian heritage close to my own?

Facebook and the internet can be a wonderful venue to meet just such a person. And today, in her own words, I introduce the lovely Mae Clair to you all. Mae has written a tale in time for Christmas that I think you'll enjoy. A little mystery, a little romance, and as Mae puts it: "a smidgen of horror." I believe you will be glad you've met this talented, fun author.

Cats, Christmas, and Romance by Mae Clair
It’s hard to believe that Christmas is looming just around the corner. I have no complaints though, because Christmas is my favorite holiday. Not only do I enjoy December 25th and Christmas Eve, but I love the entire month of December. It’s like one long holiday with all the merriment, festivities, and spirit of goodwill that leads up to that very special day. I’m a Christmas sap.

So it stands to reason I’d eventually get around to writing a Christmas story.

Those who know me also know there are two things (other than writing) I’m passionate about: folklore and cats. When it came time to dream up a Christmas story, I decided to weave both elements into the tale. The result is FOOD FOR POE, a short Christmas novella that is also a tale of sweet romance, twined with the paranormal, and even a wee smidgen of horror (just a smidge, I promise!).

Take a look:

When a blizzard strands Quinn Easterly at a handsome stranger's house on Christmas Eve, she doesn't realize her newly adopted cat, Poe, is the catalyst responsible for bringing them together.
Breck Lansing gave up on relationships after his wife, unable to cope with their daughter’s illness, left him. But the pretty blonde he rescues from a snowstorm has him rethinking his stance—especially when Quinn’s arrival coincides with a dramatic change in Sophie’s health.
Unfortunately, that change also attracts something only whispered about in folklore. Together, Quinn and Breck must defeat a sinister creature intent on claiming the ultimate payment.
Warning: A clever black cat, Christmas magic and paranormal trouble
~ooOOoo~

I’m happy to announce that FOOD FOR POE has just released. YAY! In celebration of the holidays, you can grab a copy for $.99 at http://www.amazon.com/Food-Poe-Mae-Clair-ebook/dp/B01800L6UE . If you don’t have a Kindle, you can download a FREE Kindle Reading App for your PC, MAC, iPad, iPhone, Android or tablet: http://www.amazon.com/gp/help/customer/display.html?nodeId=200783640 . Cats and Christmas. What could be better? J
Merry Pre-Christmas and Happy Holidays!

Mae Clair's Bio:

Mae Clair opened a Pandora’s Box of characters when she was a child and never looked back.  Her father, an artist who tinkered with writing, encouraged her to create make-believe worlds by spinning tales of far-off places on summer nights beneath the stars.
Mae loves creating character-driven fiction in settings that vary from contemporary to mythical. Wherever her pen takes her, she flavors her stories with mystery and romance. Married to her high school sweetheart, she lives in Pennsylvania and is passionate about cryptozoology, old photographs, a good Maine lobster tail and cats.

Discover more about Mae on her website and blog at http://maeclair.net/
Sign up for Mae’s newsletter http://maeclair.net/newsletter-sign-up/
You can find Mae Clair at the following haunts:
http://maeclair.net/blog/
https://twitter.com/MaeClair1 (@MaeClair1)
https://plus.google.com/+MaeClair/post
https://www.facebook.com/pages/Mae-Clair/219356774828949?ref=hl
http://www.amazon.com/Mae-Clair/e/B009I61ND0/ref=sr_ntt_srch_lnk_1?qid=1394989729&sr=8-1
http://www.kensingtonbooks.com/author.aspx/29541
http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/6468716.Mae_Clair
https://www.pinterest.com/maeclair/
Purchase FOOD FOR POE from Amazon:  http://www.amazon.com/Food-Poe-Mae-Clair-ebook/dp/B01800L6UE

Thanks so much for participating, Mae!

Different but better

As Thanksgiving approached this year, I found myself angry and upset. Because of Mom's dementia and confusion about so many things, I'd wanted to take the full responsibilities of the dinner upon myself. I wanted her to relax, sit back and let someone else do all the cooking, all the preparation, all of it. No such thing happened.

About a month ago, Mom announced that she wanted to buy the turkey. I begged and pleaded, telling her it was way too early, first of all. I told her that they've come to my house for the last five years, and wouldn't she like to do that again? Wouldn't she like to just enjoy the meal and get out of her house for a change? Nope. Mom would get upset every time the turkey battle would ensue. She'd huff and puff on the phone when we spoke, acting what I thought was rather childish. Little temper tantrums about how she wanted to do this, and a day or so without speaking to me after she got upset over mashed potatoes.

I cried myself to sleep a few nights about this change of power. I felt wronged and I grieved over the injustice done to me. Then it hit me. This is not about me. This is about her illness. An illness of the mind. She doesn't have control over much these days, not her thoughts or actions at times. Perhaps this Thanksgiving meal is the last hurrah of sorts. Her one way to gain control over a situation that is important to her. For cooking and baking have always been Mom's strengths. We had meals through the years, and not only the Italian ones, meals that were homey and good. Baked goods and homemade pizza that rivaled most of the best pizza parlors in town. This is where Mom felt safe. Her kitchen. A place where she always had control. And here I was trying the power struggle to take it away from her.

When I let my pride go and got into the spirit of things, I immediately felt a release of all the pent up emotions of the last few weeks. If it was this important to her, then I'd make it my priority for it to be important to me. Mom started days before Thanksgiving with a chocolate cake. Then another dessert she always makes called refrigerator cake. (Recipe to follow.) She threw together a batch of unbaked cookies. She made potato salad even though I told her we wanted mashed potatoes. There was no stopping the whirlwind frenzy that was my mother in the days leading up to the Thanksgiving.

I fretted over the bird most of all. I wondered if she remembered how to make one. Was her stuffing going to turn out? Would that turkey be fully cooked? Were we all headed to the emergency room afterward?

My brother and father helped Mom best they could until I arrived early Thanksgiving morning. And I was surprised that the turkey sat in the oven, already stuffed, already baking. As the hours ticked by, and each additional preparation began, the heavenly aroma lay about the house as the bird continued to roast.

I found a meat thermometer which pleased me to no end a little later. And when I inserted it into the breast, I saw it jump to the proper reading. It was finished! Wow, and it looked great! The picture above is indeed of the main event. On the old stove sat the pride of my mother. She'd remembered and done well I might add. Yes, she talked about the same things over and over yesterday. She checked and double checked things many times. But each of us handled it with good grace and a sense of humor. We enjoyed the day, so thankful for the blessing of our family. So grateful to still have Mom and Dad with us and the closeness of the loud Italian family I speak of so often.

No, it wasn't like Thanksgiving's of the past. It was different, yet somehow better. Years and memories have come and gone. Good times and bad, happiness and sadness. One thing remains: the love.

Refrigerator cake:
Package of graham crackers
Large box of Vanilla pudding, the type you have to cook
Large box of Chocolate pudding,the type you have to cook
Milk
Bananas optional

Layer graham crackers in a 13x9 pan across the bottom, breaking them to fit. Do not crush them, lay them flat.

Cook vanilla and chocolate puddings according to package directions.

Begin with a thin layer of chocolate pudding across the graham crackers, spreading it evenly. Then layer graham crackers across the top. (Remember do not crush them, lay them whole.) Alternate with vanilla pudding, etc until you end up with pudding on the top. Now you can slice bananas onto the dessert if you wish, then refrigerate. No baking involved.

Our talented youth

When I was fifteen I wrote what I thought was an extremely good short story. I'd certainly read enough books to understand the dynamics of writing, or so I'd thought. I listened to lyrics of songs, picturing grand novels from them, and obsessed over the movies I loved. How difficult could this be?

I handed the story that was about two best friends to my mother. It was a tragic tale, since one of them dies. I sat nearby waiting for the reaction I was sure would come from my mom. She'd clutch the pages to her chest, tears rolling down her face. She'd tell me it was Pulitzer Prize worthy, and she'd take me out of high school so I could begin my journey as a best-selling author.

Nothing of the sort happened. You see, Mom did something totally unexpected. She broke into gales of laughter instead. First, a slight chuckle emanated from her. Then total guffaws racked her body. My young fragile psyche was ruined. Laughing! You should be crying, Mother dear. I grabbed the story from her, ripping it into the smallest pieces I possibly could, and promptly threw the offensive story into the trashcan.

Nowadays, we parents try a little too hard to be our child's best friend. We praise them for every little deed they do, acting as if they'll win the prize for best daughter or son if they simply wake up in the morning. Now I realize what happened to me as a teenager might be a bit extreme. I'm not damaged or anything from my mother's reaction to the story I'd written. I mean, yeah, years of therapy and hundreds of dollars later, I'm okay, at least I think so. . .

Seriously though, it's good to have a little dissension. It's good for kids to have to work hard at what they do. They shouldn't automatically receive an A+ for a job that isn't their best. It's too easy to praise without the effort put forth into most things our children do. We shouldn't protect them from every scrape or bruise either. Because one day, they'll walk out into the world, and someone or something will hurt them and they will crumble right on the spot. But if we, as parents let them try something, fail perhaps at it, pick themselves up and do it again, but better this time, our child will have learned a valuable lesson.

I have gone from being laughed at to becoming a published author. And it wasn't overnight and it certainly wasn't easy. There were bumps and bruises along the way. Rejections and negativity. But there also is joy. Joy in encouraging someone with a piece I've written. A book that resounded with them, and a person shares with me their own tales because a character of mine touched a sensitive nerve or reminded them of someone they encountered.

Recently I've begun to mentor young writers. You can ask them if I'm fair. I think they'll tell you that I am. I give praise where it's due, and critique when necessary. But you can see the look on their face when they realize that they've pushed themselves out of their comfort zones. The moment when what I'm teaching them clicks into realization about a sentence or paragraph. When I ask, "would your character really do or say that?" They may even tell you that one day, they, too will become a published author. Chances are, they probably will.

He Ain't Heavy

This morning in church I saw a sight I would never have believed. As service was about to begin in my non-denominational church, a man walked in with a large child across his shoulders. At first glance, I thought perhaps they were joking around, and that the dad would place the child down after a few giggles.

We all stood to our feet as the band came out onto the stage, the first chords of music punctuating the air, and the wonderful feel of community and oneness. The father chose to stand two rows in front of me, and the child remained across his shoulders. What on earth? I began thinking. Then I saw the child had bare feet and had an I-pad of some sort clutched in her hands. She was older, perhaps ten or so. As the music progressed, the father adjusted her in his arms, never losing grip of this large child over his shoulders as her hands played across the I-pad.

In my judgmental mind, I thought it was the most insane sight I'd ever seen. Then realization dawned on me finally of the situation. This child was handicapped. And the father never blinked an eye, stood with the rest of the congregation swaying back and forth in a soothing motion to the music for his child as he readjusted her weight only a few times as he kept her across his back.

Wow, I thought, he must be one strong man. His neck and arms were heavily corded with muscles. No wonder, I thought again, he must do this all the time. I felt drawn to watching this scenario as the music played on. I found myself offering prayers for this man and the burden he literally shouldered.

When the music had finished and it was time to welcome one another with a greeting, this man didn't hesitate to turn in all directions to say good morning to those of us who were seated near him. He had a smile on his face that I'll never forget.

Even when we sat, the father took his child to him, placing her in front of him this time, cradling her throughout the service, occasionally soothing her with his body language.

Wow, Lord, I thought. Is this how you care for us? You are known as the Good Shepherd. You are known to take care of us, your flock. You are known to go back for that one stray lamb who wanders from the fold every so often.

It hit me how great the love of our God is for us. If a man can love his handicapped child so much that he puts his own comfort aside and can bodily carry her across his shoulders, how much greater is the love of our Heavenly Father who carries our weight and burdens across His?

Think about it friends. We serve a most awesome, powerful God. A God that adores us and carries us when we need it most. Let's let Him into our hearts. Let's not miss the beckon of His hands when it's time for Him to pick us up and put us onto His shoulders.