Long Lost

We're taking a trip this weekend to attend a family reunion of sorts. My great-aunt Margie will celebrate her 90th birthday and her children and grandchildren will travel in from around the country.

I love to visit with this side of my family. I am very grateful for their warmth and kindness.

Sitting next to my great-uncle feels just like sitting next to my own grandfather, his brother. I don't know exactly why...could it be the height of his shoulder or the similar bone structure? The Pittsburgh dialect and the tone of his voice?

A long time ago my mother remarried. My "new father" asked this side of the family not to spoil me anymore.

He was doing what he thought best at the time, I'm sure.

I'm really in need of some spoiling right now. I can't wait to hold Aunt Margie's hand, listen to the sounds of my cousin's voices, and if I'm really lucky, there will be pierogies too.

Bittersweet

We went to the cottage on Saturday. The little neighbor boy immediately ran outside to play with the other children. They, in turn, invaded his tree house, doused him with water balloons and scarfed up his toy tractors.

He is far more reticent and well behaved than my gang.

His mother came out later to talk to me about the sale of the cottage. They are hoping to buy it.

"It's bittersweet, she said, because H was so very excited to see you all today." She kept herself from saying, "and you won't be coming anymore."

"Those boys are back!" he'd exclaimed, happily (H and J are only a month apart in age).

Consider it all joy.

Ohhhhhh, it's so hard. I find myself with far more bitter thoughts than sweet ones as I mow, weed, and drive.

I can't focus.

My phone seems to be ringing off the hook. There's another buyer interested. My brother texts to find out the status of things. I need to clean out the cottage shed, including kayaks left there by friends. Carpenter ants are eating up the wood in the bathroom there. A laundry list of things to do and an even longer grocery list.

Garbage bags, ant poison, polyurethane for the walls, wood glue for the broken bed.

It would even seem that someone is using the cottage without permission. We found items strewn about, the faucet taken apart, tools left out on the counter top.

Joy.

On Selling the Cottage Part 1

Within twelve hours of making the difficult decision to sell the cottage, we had a buyer. Someone who, like me, grew up in cottage country and understands the rarity of a site on the market, is ready to snatch it up.

These cottages pass down from generation to generation. It's nearly impossible to "break in" to a line, something like trying to purchase season tickets at Yankee stadium.

I always thought I'd be passing our cottage down to the boys. They assumed that too, and the oldest, who best understands this "new" reality, is disappointed and angry.

All the way around, emotions are running high.

As for me, I'm trying to keep in mind, "this world is not our home."

Our inheritance is in Christ.

New favorite song (an old hymn!), "Oh Glorious Day" (here performed by Casting Crowns)

A Perfect Fit

While I'm a firm believer that "this earth is not our home.," we've struggled for quite awhile with the fact that we've outgrown both our property and our house.

The farmer behind us refuses to allow us to use or buy more land for the sheep.

All four of our boys live in one room.

Most of our things reside in Rubbermaid containers. We battle for quiet, peace, and space.

Along came the opportunity to tour a beautiful old farm house a few miles away.

15 acres, geothermal heating and cooling, two BIG barns and many, many windows and porches

We took 6 children with us to tour the property with the real estate agent. Out of the car they burst into a game of hide-n-seek. The house has many "little brother torture chambers" like a closed off staircase and a dry well.

It has a LAUNDRY ROOM! Beautiful old shade trees. A room for every boy and even a room for guests.

It's a perfect fit. It's also pretty expensive.

Knees bent, hands folded.

Outcast

In Sunday's sermon our pastor read from the Gospel of Mark. We read about the disciple Matthew and his profession as a "publican" (tax collector, social outcast) prior to being called by Jesus to "Come and follow me."

The message focused on the uniqueness of each of us and the ways that God uses what the world sees as a weakness as a strength for his good. I really enjoyed the sermon and I'd been meditating on it.

Fast forward several days and I found myself in a tizzy over "The Ladies Tea" at a local Bed & Breakfast. I'd invited our pastor's wife (our babysitter) and she only recently said that she was unable to attend.

My sister Sara, thankfully, will be there. She is thrilled to see inside of the mansion. Beautiful antiques and expensive works of art. I've been inside and it is beautiful. Ironically, perhaps, I prefer to remember the house as it was during its dark days when I visited my with family there.

My girlfriend Bonnie will be there. She's excited about dressing up and wearing a hat. Every time she talks about fancy hats and clothes I sink deeper into a panic. Dressing up is definitely not my strength.

The situation was complicated by the fact that some of the guests on the lists are people with whom I'm currently "estranged." (Essentially, I've been requested to stay away from them. Caught between a rock and a hard place because I'm required to attend this event for other reasons.)

And then yesterday in the store I waited on a very disagreeable customer. I'd never met her before. She was loud and rude and confused over tablets and mobile broadband pricing. After much conversation I learned that she is the daughter of a local farmer, who had been jailed after growing our county's most legendary marijuana seize. He, now 95, lies in recovery after surgery and infection. Her husband is back in Florida, also under hospice care. She is the sole guardian for her mentally handicapped brother in Mass.

I invited her to tea at the mansion (right down the road from her childhood home).

This woman's friend, Mrs. Starkweather, was going to the tea (so she promptly dug into her purse for her cell phone in order to leave a lengthy voicemail message with her about meeting a nice young woman who happened to be the great-granddaugther of so and so...and that she was also going!)

There happens to be an available ticket. Her meal is already paid for.

And I was feeling like the outcast. ("So what?!")


From Kerrie Roberts, Outcast

The Cared and Feeding of Young Men

Now that our youngest is 4 and 1/2 and can steadily reach glasses in the cupboard and the water faucet independently, we have moved across the border to a new phase of parenting.

We have four young men in the house. Granted, each one requires a very different regimen one from the other. Two are on teen vitamins, for example. One still chews gummy vitamins and takes flouride. And the fourth licks the sour powder off of the gummy vites and leaves them on his plate.

1. The eldest, J. "To take care" of him means giving him money and leaving him alone to do his thing. Take Thursday of this week. He left for school at 7 a.m. After school he pulled his drum line out for extra marching band practice and then arranged for his own band to use the a school room for an hour-long jam session. They wrote three songs.

After that he hiked to Subway ($) and then hopped a bus to the Auditorium Theater in Rochester to cheer on a classmate in the Stars of Tomorrow competition ($). I picked him up at 11:00 p.m. from a dark, deserted parking lot.

16 plus hours away from home.

2. 13-year-old N. We took his poodle to the groomer's yesterday. Little did I know the process would take HOURS so while we waited we went out to breakfast, treated ourselves to carmelattes, and completed the family's grocery shopping. We poked through buttons in an antique store. We picked out some pleasant smelling cologne.

It was a rare pleasure to spend time alone with him. We talked about modesty, media, cell phones, his girlfriend (good friend) and more. Later in the day he STAYED with us when we went to the local amusement park (in the pouring rain).

This morning I dropped him off at his girlfriend's house - and I won't see him again until tomorrow afternoon (he will rendezvous with a friend, go camping, and more in the interim).

3. 6-year-old W. Since he and his younger brother didn't go to the Amusement Park last year, the whole show is new and exciting. He is old enough to ride some BIG rides (although he still suffers from panic attacks. Yesterday he rode the corn popper alone and cried. But wanted to go again when the ride was over). He has learned to read so he is now aware of prices and menus. He was thrilled to get his "first credit card" (a season pass).

4. J., 4 and 1/2. The dog just bit him. I really need to find a new home for that poodle.

Business as usual

The store where I work is being renovated and we are expected to maintain "business as usual" during the project. Carpet layers glue and cut under our feet. Sign hangers work on ladders over our heads.

The store smells horrible from the fumes emitted by liquid cement, un-encapsulated epoxy and sawed metal. Our eyes and throats burn and we feel nauseated and dizzy.

We've alerted our Supervisors and I have written several notes to HR. Yesterday I asked if "Health & Safety" had given their blessing to the situation. Is it really safe for us to be there?

It's hard not to feel angry and resentful. There is no "relaxation" for our sales quotas or store goals. At night, I'm exhausted.

I feel robbed of time with my family. Last night I threw away another pair of gas permeable contacts.

Why are we, as a culture, so unwilling to take a break from "business as usual?"

Even in our relationships we sometimes choose to retreat in times of discord rather than "rock the boat." In my experience, further ugliness grows when what was needed was a "clearing of the air."

I'm all about clean air.