Dancing

There we lovers were, just dancing in the Dollar Tree
Swaying to lively holiday shopping music, you and me
Giggling like little kids when someone happened by
Couldn’t have been quiet, so we didn’t even try
I commented that we looked a lot like newly-weds
You just went all sheepish and we gently touched foreheads
You dipped me low, then lifted me, then softly kissed my cheek
Then let your hand slip from my waist to the pinch you tried to sneak
I yelped aloud in mock protest, then tugged on your goatee
And thought how blessed I am that you still dollar-dance with me

Time for Writing

During a tutoring session with a high-schooler this afternoon, I watched her write descriptively about a long-remembered place near and dear to her heart. As she described each room, she’d wander off momentarily revisiting memories of Christmas tree decorating with her grandmother, fishing with her grandfather, and game nights with cousins. I found myself getting lost in the reverie along with her, watching her choose the perfect words to describe the place in her childhood where she recalled being most deeply and truly happy.

In those moments, I envied her a little bit. Not just because I miss my own childhood memories and family reunions, but because she had both the opportunity and the directive to creatively write.

I miss writing.

I’m a language arts and English teacher, so I have plenty of time to talk about writing, to read about writing, to teach kids how to write well. I guess didn’t realize how much my heart longs for moments spent simply weaving words together in a creative form.

It’s been nine years since I wrote my first book, eight years since the second. Since that time, life has been profoundly busy with college and a transition into teaching. I love that after all those years, I went to college and earned an education degree. I love that I am firmly established in a teaching career I love with all my heart.

But I really miss writing. And I need to figure out a way to make time for it. Somehow.

Long before I wrote my first actual book, I wrote a children’s book manuscript I tucked away and guarded from the public eye. A children’s book needs an illustrator, and I didn’t have one. So I let it sit. And it’s been sitting for twenty-five years.

It might be time to dust it off.

There is a part of me I know will never be complete without a regular practice of creative writing. I tell my students that one of my main goals as a teacher is to instill such a love for writing in their hearts that they can’t not write. If I want my example to be a solid one, which of course I do, I reckon I’d better start practicing what I teach.

Grins, Gifts, and a Grateful Heart

“I think somebody forgot to rinse out his lunch bowl. This is going to need a good soak.” I filled the bowl with warm sudsy water, staring out the kitchen window at the reeds bending low over the lake.

“My bad,” came his voice from the next room.

“That’s it. I’m just done. I can’t do this anymore.” I retorted.

He came up behind me and wrapped his arms around me, my fake anger escaping into a fit of laughter as he joined in. “I guess I’ll just have to give you a reason to stay,” he teased.

“Just rinse your lunch bowl,” I teased back.

“Not exactly what I had in mind, but I’ll try.” He grinned and kissed the back of my head and went back to whatever he’d been doing before all the silliness.

I stood there for a few minutes while the bowl soaked, my thoughts steeping in the moment. It occurred to me as I stood there just how grateful I am to have been married to my best friend in the whole world for all these years, how privileged we are to share this connection that has only grown stronger and more intricate as the years have gone by.

It occurred to me that far too many people in this world never experience this kind of love, this certainty of foreverness that I have been blessed to know for most of my life.

I am sharply reminded that I can never take any of this for granted.

In the busyness of these days, it’s easy to forget to tell him how much I love him, how much I appreciate every tiny thing he does for me. Like the flowers he brings home the moment he sees the ones on the table even thinking about wilting. Last week, he brought some into my office and set them on my side-desk, explaining that since I spent so much time in here, he thought I might like some in here, too.

His is a beautiful heart. Best of all, his heart is for me.

If I am reminded of the special gift of this man in my life, maybe there’s someone in yours, someone you have forgotten to thank lately—like, specifically call out those little details that warm a heart and enrich a life.

Maybe it’s time to stop for just a tiny moment and let someone know your love, your gratitude, your joy at having someone so treasured in your life?

Steve will be home in a few minutes, and I will be looking for the perfect words to tell him how much he means to me.

He’ll probably be looking for a vase.

Mothering Grownups

It occurred to me this morning that I’ve had to become my own family counselor as a mama to grownups.

Mothering adults isn’t for wimps. If you are a champion mom of adults who glides through this season with ease, I’d like to know your secrets. It would be great to see a resource helpful for navigating this terrain without the negative responses of guilt, confusion, bewilderment, and even occasional anger. I think I can safely say there’s a market for your mothering prowess.

I have looked around for guidance materials on mothering adults, but thus far I haven’t found much. It seems there’s plenty out there on mothering babies, toddlers, and even teens. But adults? Not so much. Maybe it’s because everyone else is as clueless as I am.

When I have actually found relevant materials, they typically refer to damaged or toxic relationships with one’s offspring, and that doesn’t apply to our family.

I am learning that relationships don’t have to be destructive to be painful.

I’ve never fully understood the whole “leave and cleave” thing. Once in a class on marriage relationships, speaker Jimmy Evans explained that biblical “cleaving” actually does, as we might assume, mean cutting. I pondered that a bit and it made sense.

In recent years as our adult children have grown older, I have begun to more deeply comprehend the pain of that severance. I remind myself that this is the way it’s supposed to be. But it hurts.

To be clear, we have wonderful, even enviable relationships with our adult children. But as a mother to five adults, I am continually learning the ropes in this new season. And y’all, I’m a strong woman, but I’m about to buy some stock in Puffs Plus with Lotion.

I will quickly add that pain does bring growth, and for that, I am genuinely grateful. And to be fair, this season is certainly not all painful, and not even predominantly so. I think the hurt just sticks out because–if I’m completely honest–it was unexpected. I didn’t see it coming, and I guess that was rather presumptuous of me.

I have wonderful, amazing adult children whom I love with all my heart. And I am willing to admit that in my feeble efforts to mother them well, I’ve likely flubbed some of it up. One thing they can count on is that their silly, sappy mama is always working on learning and growing–even if I yelp every now and then.

I love them and I am for them, and that’s something they will never outgrow.

Lockdown

I’m on lockdown in my house with a pandemic out there and my mother-in-law in here.

A few weeks ago, my father-in-law, who has been my only dad since I was 15, took a fall and ended up in a rehab facility. The day he was put into that facility, it went on lockdown with no visitors allowed. No one. For the sake of brevity, I will skip to the part where he went sharply downhill, was readmitted to the hospital, and died a few days later. His graveside service was limited to family only, and the following day our county enacted an official stay-at-home order.

We asked my mother-in-law to stay here with us because we wanted to make sure she was safe, comforted, and among family instead of alone for the duration of the lockdown. She’s been with us now for two weeks, and when I think of being cooped up with my mother-in-law for weeks, the thought strikes my funny bone because I don’t imagine most people would think that sounded like a whole heap of fun. But she is, after all, a sweet little old Italian lady and she makes a great red sauce. She also made a really good guy who has been my husband for nearing 40 years, and she’s one of the kindest people I’ve ever known. We’re missing Papa, but we’re missing him together.

I don’t know how long this shelter-in-place will last. I don’t know how long we’ll have Mom in our lives. Hopefully soon, things will go back to some kind of normal. But I hope normal never looks quite like it did before because I hope we’ve learned a lot in the lockdown. I know I have. For now, I will be thankful for these days spent with a woman I am honored to call Mom. For now, I will be grateful for family and home and life. I’m glad she’s here.

Uncovering

I can hear the door creaking as I poke my head in, reminiscent of my childhood in southeast Georgia when we’d open the screen door slowly, trying to minimize that scranching sound the springs made. We never could fully drown out the sound. Part of the screech this time was having to retrieve my password, as embarrassing as that is. No denying it’s been a while.

I guess it’s weird that I’m back here, like coming home after a long time and everything looking and feeling different but vaguely familiar. Hopefully I haven’t been away long enough to be forgotten, but I would understand if I had.

I recently saw a post from Emily P. Freeman on social media where she re-introduced herself to her followers. What a simple but effective practice, right? I was intrigued reading the simple and lovely things she shared in a style that makes the reader feel like a friend. Somewhere in the nether regions of my overactive brain, I remembered having a copy of her book A Million Little Ways so I went into my office and retrieved it from the shelf. I’ve spent a few days getting back into it, and I admit I’m hooked. I feel like she is talking directly to this washed-up word weaver who wonders if she still has anything to say worth reading. I have to believe I do. So with her words encouraging me to dig down deep and find out, I’m going to give it a go.

I’m Lisa Easterling, waving from the Tampa Bay area of Florida where it is currently raining (my favorite kind of day) and because it’s somewhere in the upper 60’s, we have the windows open so the breeze can dance through our little yellow cottage. My husband Steve and I have been empty-nesters since our youngest got married in December a year ago. We have five adult children all married to amazing people we love as our own, and five grandchildren ranging in age from 2-19 whom we adore. After writing a couple of books a few years ago, I decided to go to college. I graduated last May with a B.S. in Early Childhood Education. I currently teach middle school at a local Christian community school, teach kindergarten and first-graders in a local after-school program, tutor at the local library, teach 5-year-olds at church on the weekends, and work on the editorial support team for an author friend. I love the ocean, but rarely get to visit it–a situation I would very much like to change. In addition to my deep love for teaching, I enjoy writing, reading, sketching, painting, photography, crafty things, music, cooking & baking, and perusing thrift stores for vintage kitchen items.

That’s enough for now. Hello again, and thank you for being here. Maybe we can uncover some deeply-buried God-purposed art together.

Smiles,
Lisa

Worshiping in Beautiful Diversity

I’ve noticed a disturbing trend lately, mostly circulating through social media, of Christians criticizing the worship styles and methods of other believers. This saddens me, brothers and sisters, on many levels.  If anything should be held sacred and apart from personal attack, it is our worshipful expressions toward our amazing God.

The trend seems to be specifically focused upon criticizing “modern” worship as “more like a concert than worship” and “just a loud, meaningless performance” and other such indictments. As though anyone can say for someone else that he or she cannot be worshiping as they make a joyful noise unto the Lord.

Our church has five campuses spread over the Tampa Bay area, and all five have modern worship styles. I am blessed to know–at least on some level–many of those who are leading worship on all five campuses, some of whom are in my immediate family. I don’t know a single person who is up there for a self-glorifying performance. Any performing I see being done is for an audience of One and for the planned purpose of leading those among them to God’s throne in corporate worship.

I don’t see a flashy concert with a frenzied audience. I see people praising. I see hearts softening. I see brokenness mending. I see lives changing.

That blonde girl up there jumping around and shouting, “In the name of Jesus Enemy’s defeated! And we will shout it out!” is currently saving for a missions trip. That guy playing the guitar? He was called to worship ministry in sixth grade and has never looked back. The guy playing piano? He just lost his teenage daughter and is infusing his grief into using his talent to worship the God who holds her in Heaven.

And that silver-haired guy down there dancing all around in bare feet? That’s a man who loves his Lord with all his heart and recognizes that in all of his unworthiness he is worshiping the One who alone is worthy of the praises of unshod followers and young missionaries and broken fathers and all the others living out their God-calling in wild abandon dancing on holy ground.

One day into recovery from wisdom tooth surgery, I awoke this morning with the words to one of our currently oft-sung worship songs running through my head.

God is fighting for us! Pushing back the darkness! Lighting up the Kingdom that cannot be shaken!

It’s downright Scriptural. In a manner I’ve not seen in many other churches, we cover a variety of musical styles from country to hip-hop to pop to alternative to rock to classical to jazz and all in between. And believe it or not, we sing hymns. Sometimes we sing them in their original versions, often in beautifully blended a cappella harmonies. Sometimes the words are sung in a varied musical style, and sometimes parts of hymns are woven into more modern songs.

It’s okay to sing only hymns. Never mind that many of our original hymns were sung to bar tunes, because all music was God’s first, and what better place to sing God-songs than in bars? My point is whatever happened to worshiping the way you want to, and letting everyone else do the same? We don’t all have to be holding our hymnals like a scene from American Gothic droning out “Bringing in the Sheaves” with all the joyful enthusiasm of a geriatric sloth to be considered real worshipers.

The real worshipers are all of us, friends. However we express it, whatever songs we choose, whatever styles we employ, whether we sit or stand or jump around or dance barefoot. All of us whose hearts have been lit up by the Holy Spirit to pour out our worship to the God who makes all things new. The God Who heals the broken and delights in the dances of the gray-haired and the missionaries, and works His perfect will in and through the kid who said yes to His calling at 6th-grade youth camp.

We’re all in this together, believers. Let’s worship together, all of us, all over the world, in the ways and styles that suit us best as we praise the Creator of beautiful diversity and wide-open worship. Are you in? I am.

Purposefulness>Deprivation

I mean no offense whatsoever toward those who promote weight-loss plans, but I find deprivation “diets” really depressing—and for me, totally ineffective. About mid-August I started focusing on drinking more water–a lot more–and once I did that, I naturally left soda behind. After a couple of weeks I noticed I wasn’t craving sweet tea any more, and by about the third week I noticed I was drinking exclusively water. I was feeling good, losing weight, and noticed a marked energy boost.

I never banned myself from those other things–it just came naturally–and that is why I believe it worked. I also noticed that I was eating less sweets to the point where now I rarely even want any. But I can assure you that if I had set out to deprive myself of any of those things, I would only have craved them more and my focus would have been annoyingly steered toward what I couldn’t have.

Not that I am knocking the value of self-control, because I truly believe God calls us to develop and exercise it. My point is that I don’t believe God calls us to blanket deprivation simply because a food is tasty/sweet/whatever. God gave us taste buds and made food tasty for a reason. I also don’t believe any food is more “righteous” than another. I am not closer to God because I eat more cabbage than I do M&Ms. I love them both, and I don’t think M&M’s are sinful any more than cabbage is holy.

Personally, I crave collard greens far more often than I crave candy, but when I do want candy, I have some. I am finding that my whole outlook on food is much healthier and more conducive to happiness as I take everything as a gift from God with gratitude and am watching extra weigh fall off as I follow God’s lead without a list of “NO”s to keep. My tummy shrunk considerably early on, and my portion size naturally adjusted to about a fistful at a time. Which is the size our tummies should actually be. Imagine that.

I do acknowledge that allergies and aversions/sensitivities exist and should be considered. I also am aware that certain foods are more nutritious than others, and that certain people have a harder time digesting food prepared in certain ways. I just happen to think that “all things in moderation” applies pretty well overall, and if you have a certain food sensitivity then pay attention to it without making the leap that such food/prep method is good or evil. It’s just food. All things in moderation with gratitude.

I guess my whole point is sharing the notion of purposefulness when it comes to what goes into our bodies. Stay aware, purposefully intentional, and grateful. That’s really all. I’m determined to find the size I’m supposed to be. There may not be a skinny girl trapped in here, but I’m fixin’ to find out who is and what she looks like. With all this water, at least I’ll have more energy for the quest. I’ll keep you posted on the excavation.

Seasons

For most of my life I have readily recognized the truth of the verse that says, “To everything there is a season.” I get it, the whole that was then, this is now thing. I understand that some life seasons are harder than others. I’m not sure I was fully prepared for how confusing and bewildering this season would be.

Becoming a mother of five adults crept up on me and by the time it popped out from behind the tree I was too far in to run and too scared to scream. Don’t get me wrong–there are some pretty awesome things about watching five adults grow wings and take flight and make their own way in the world. Something fulfilling, even, about knowing I had a key role and a ringside seat to who they have become.

But just about the time I get excited about being a big part of something so amazing, I catch a scent of something concerning going on with one of them and the creative in me goes all imagination-nutso and suddenly all the pride and joy gets vacuumed up in a whirlwind of worry. I like to consider myself fairly flexible and resilient, but this is maddening.

Maybe the truth is that I’m just beginning to realize what a key role fear has played in my life. What a key role it still plays, if I’m totally honest. The perfectionist in me grumbles that I should have grown out of this by now.

And yet here I am, in the throes of peri-menopause, with emotions flailing all over the map and me in the middle playing wack-a-mole to keep them subdued. I’m exhausted.

I find myself wondering what women do in my situation when they don’t have the fierce love and support of a family like mine. I know how the frustration mounts for me, how it feels like a vise I can’t escape, how on my worst days I wish I could start walking and not stop till I fall into an exhausted heap too far away to negatively affect my family. I can’t imagine doing this without the grace and patience of my people.

One bittersweet facet of this time in my life is that memory is acutely sharpened for times gone by. Someone asked today if I remember my childhood phone number. It’s 912-382-0273. I was eleven when that stopped being my phone number. Eleven was a very long time ago. Memory moments keep popping into my head–not just monumental moments but plain old ordinary ones–with an acuteness that has my senses piqued in ways it’s hard to describe. This is a part of my season that I don’t really mind; I find comfort in reminiscing.

All in all, I guess I don’t mind being here in this season. Things could be a lot worse, and I am not about to wish away the blessings that keep me rooted in the here and now. It’s hard sometimes, but it’s where I am. And even with the frustration and the occasional fantasy of heading for the mountains and the life of an old hermit lady, I’m glad I’m here.

Simple

“One day I will find the right words and they will be simple.”
Jack Kerouac

These days, they are anything but simple. They are complicated, complex, wrought with conflicting opinion and stand-taking and assertion. I am tired.

I long for calmer moments, of rainy afternoons and dark clouds gathered and thunder like the rumbling of a distant train.

Things are about to become much less quiet in my life as I start work as a TA and simultaneously begin work on my B.S. in Ed Studies full time online. This will be far from simple, but I need rest soul-deep if I have any hope of getting through the next two years.

I want the election to be over. Whatever we are going to wind up with for leadership I just want it done so (hopefully) the arguing and judgment will stop. If it doesn’t stop, then social media will not be seeing much of me. I need to focus in a positive direction.

I long for quietness, for lightness of being, for peace. I long for moments spent holding my husband’s hand or playing Little People with my grandchildren or making dinner for my big, beautiful family. I need to pull inward, to beckon my heart back home. Only then can I pour myself out the way God calls me to do as a wife, a mother, a Mimi, a teacher, a friend.

I am praying for renewal of purpose. For all of us.