It's the Little Things

 

           I did not display the four heart-shaped plates in my China hutch alongside Mother’s “good” dishes. Perhaps, unconsciously, I felt their mundane appearance didn’t warrant that kind of treatment. I really never gave it any thought.

I didn’t “save” them to be used for company or holidays. They didn't have a Spode or Wedgwood mark on the bottom; they certainly weren’t in the same category as Waterford crystal or Fostoria glassware. Rather, they were made of that durable material called Melmac, the stuff that lasts forever and doesn’t break unless you run over it with a semi-truck.

For the past several years, I’ve kept them hidden from view, tucked away on an upper shelf in my kitchen cupboard. I once considered giving them to a nonprofit organization as I no longer use them. I couldn’t bring myself to do that, though. They carried too many memories.

When my four younger grandgirls were little, they often begged for a sleepover at Neighbor Grandma’s house. For me, that entailed gathering enough activities, crafts, games—and food—to occupy them. My theory was if I kept them busy, the chances for confrontations were less likely.

I kept containers filled with crayons and paints, color books, activity books and colored paper. Legos, books, puzzles, games, and crafts were always available. In fact, I still have the remains of yesterday in one of my closets, a reminder of precious, priceless times.

The remains of yesterday. That is exactly what the four heart-shaped plates were.

           For the cousins, breakfast at Grandma’s after a sleepover was predictable. It never varied. I always prepared a fruit smoothy with the help of the little girls. And cinnamon toast—served on heart plates. I doubt it was the only time they had cinnamon toast. It was, however, a tradition when staying with Grandma, including the plates.

These four grandgirls are no longer little. They are now young women, ranging in age from sixteen to almost twenty. The sleepovers stopped when two of them moved out of state and the other two moved to another town.

While digging in my cupboard a while back, I discovered the four plates. I decided I needed to disperse them to each of the “sleepover” grandgirls—four plates, four girls.

The opportunity arose when three of the four happened to be in the same place at the same time. I told them I had something for them, so they stopped by, and I gifted each of them a plate. One was sent home to the absent grandgirl via her sister.

“Someday,” I told them, “You might want to serve cinnamon toast on them to your children.”

“I’m not going to wait for that,” I was told.

The comment didn’t register until I received a picture on my phone of cinnamon toast on a red heart plate. Not long after I received another picture of another grandgirl's breakfast--cinnamon toast on a red heart plate. Oh. My.

“I use mine all the time,” each of them tell me. My heart has melted.

It’s the little things.

So often we, as parents, friends, or family members want to create a lasting memory or have an impact on the lives of others. We spend money buying gifts, sometimes quite extravagant ones, with the hope we make a lasting impression. I suspect the underlying concern is that, after we have passed, we will be forgotten.

Recently I was in the grocery store checkout line behind a young man and his mother. The mother was living her life in the only way she knew as her adult son, hyped and revved up, was unable to stand still for a single moment. My impression was he was high on meth, though that may not have been accurate.

At any rate, I found myself sending a message to all my grandgirls: “DON’T. DO NOT. NEVER. EVER. Mess with. Dabble in. Experiment. Test or try out. Drugs of any kind. In any way shape or form." We did the pinky swear thing.

 I promised them if I pass away and find out they have even so much as considered it “just for the fun of it,” I will come back, hunt them down, and haunt them. The thing of it is, they may have believed me.

They know I love them with all my heart. And four of them have a reminder. They have their own heart plate.

It is the little things—wherever we are or whoever we engage with. Ironically, we may have grandiose ideas and thoughts as to what is important, things that will be remembered and make a difference in another's life. In reality, we have no idea as to what that might be.

 It is the day in and day out, everyday way we live our lives that makes a difference and matters.This is true not only with our family but those we meet along the way.  

Live honestly, without pretense or motive, in sincerity and love.  

It is the little things. And nothing could appear to be more insignificant than four, red, Melmac, heart-shaped plates.

On the Perception of Self

 

 

perception: n. Conscious understanding of something.

 

The tiny, elderly lady was in her driveway, getting out of her car. I approached her and introduced myself: “I’m Ladonna, and I hope it isn’t inappropriate if I ask you a few questions.” Continuing, I explained where I live in the neighborhood. "I'm in the duplex up on the corner.”

“I know where you live,” she commented. “It’s the house with all the flowers.”

I did the nervous laugh thing and kept talking. In all honesty, I was wanting to find some “dirt” on my next-door neighbors. Their home adjoins this neighbor’s property opposite mine, on the other side of their back yard. My neighbor’s desire to have a back yard farm has been a source of personal grief since they moved in. Most recently I took issue with their housing ducks in an unsanitary manner, and I filed a complaint with the city. I was hoping I could add these neighbors to the list, giving support to my cause.

We visited for a while as she shared their own animal issues with the neighbors. I had brought contact information for the city with me and left it with her. 

I headed back home. The house with all the flowers?? What an inglorious way to be remembered. Truthfully, I was kind of hoping my legacy would be one of “Wise Woman in the Neighborhood” or something more refined and wonderful sounding.

God and I have been wrestling for a while. Rather, I have been wrestling with God. It’s about the same as a toddler trying to grapple with his physical father. The winner is apparent from the start.

’Change me. Please change me, God.”

“Why would I do that? Why would I change you from the person I created you to be?”

“I talk too much, God. I need to shut my mouth and be quiet.”

I have always been a talker. I envy those who sit quietly as they listen and observe. It isn’t that I don’t like who I am. I just have this perception a better "me" would be more placid and less boisterous. All I'm asking for is a tweak in my personality, a minor makeover.

Tucked away in the files in my mind is a list of personal criticism and judgements directed against myself: I am a knee-jerk reaction person, one who is unable to hide my emotions or reactions. Just this afternoon, while working in my garden, I yelled across the street at two young boys who were arguing over an abandoned grocery cart. “Stop fighting! Stop fighting!!,” I shouted out spontaneously. “Whatever you’re fighting over, it isn’t worth it. Get along.” Surprisingly, they stopped their battle and headed on down the sidewalk.

Of late, consistency has not been my forte’. From one day to the next my mood may range from cynical to hopeful, somber to joyful.

Since I am unable to change myself into my perception of a new-and-improved "me", I have attempted to coerce my Heavenly Father into accomplishing that feat for me. I have not been successful.

Decades ago, I was in a world of hurt. I wanted another child but was unable to become pregnant. An eating disorder had overtaken me. The ensuing depression was an additional debilitation.

Where are you, God? Where are you? In the midst of such a state there is no hope. Daily living is difficult, often torturous. Sleep offers no reprieve. And it begins all over again the next day, with no end in sight—ever.

I remember every detail when He whispered to me. I know where I was. I know what I was wearing. I know what and how I was feeling--abject hopelessness. Our family had gone to a spot upriver where the kids could play in a creek with friends. I carried my devastation, a constant companion, with me.

 God spoke: “You are exactly as I want you to be." I understood that to mean not only me, but my circumstances. I can guarantee you I did not jump up and down for joy. My idea of perfection was a far cry from His reality. But I did hear Him, and I have never forgotten. In fact, He often reminds me: “You are exactly as I want you to be.” This is one of those times.

I may have a perception of what I think I should be like, but that is all it is. It is my perception. The clay is not in the position to tell the potter what the finished product should look like.

Right here. Right now. I am exactly as God wants me to be. And that includes the "talker" and the "just a little bit crazy, you never know what to expect old woman." If I need to be changed it will be at His hand and not according to my perception.

God pointed out that, after Creation, He placed Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden to tend it. I am in good company if the lady up the street knows I live in “the house that has all of the flowers.”

 

Yet, Lord, you are our father. We are the clay, and you are our potter;

your hands made us all.

Isaiah 64:8 NET

 

 

 

 

On Seeing

 

see: v. To perceive or detect with the eyes; to view, observe, behold, to witness or observe by personal experience.

  

It happened with a pair of socks while folding laundry. I paired two socks and, as I reached for a second pair, realized neither was a match. I had looked at them. The colors shouted a mismatch, but I did not see the obvious.

Have you ever had an experience where you looked but didn’t see? It’s not that it wasn’t there, right in front of you, “as plain as the nose on your face,” my mother would say. But somehow it did not compute in your mind. How many times have your eyes passed over an object of search, perhaps a set of keys or that rogue tennis shoe your child needed to head off to school, that important piece of paper you put in a special place for safekeeping? It seems if we are looking, we should see, but that isn’t always so.

Those are experiences of seeing with physical eyes. When I speak of seeing, I instinctively think of inner vision, that awareness or knowledge separate from eyes with which we view our material world. There are some who call such “having an epiphany or revelation,” an “aha” moment. Others would apply the description “getting it.”

For me, to see is to understand without words, to have knowledge of, or to have a grasp of, concepts, truths, and precepts I have not heard with my physical ears. Those revelations take place within my being. They aren’t visible, yet they are solid and real, often life-changing.

This is what I see: (Now, isn’t that an adroit application of the word?) Each of us falls into one of two categories at varying times in our lives. The first is not seeing what others see; the second is seeing what others do not.

There are those times when we are blinded to the severity of our circumstances, the seriousness of the state we are in, the dire straits of our behaviors, actions, and attitudes. We are blinded to ourselves. 

The resulting course of life shouts “Disaster!” as we head toward a cliff, but we continue, because we don’t see. Those around may observe and attempt to call attention and focus, but as a wise friend said, “If you don’t see, you don’t see.”

The second category is where we are the ones who have the sight, with clear vision of another’s state and situation. This is where a person can bump into a huge problem if not careful, that of judgment.

It can be easy to assume if things are obvious to me, then my friend, neighbor, spouse, child—you get the point—should be able to discern those problem-causing areas as well. The trap of pointing a finger, harshly judging, and criticizing sits at the door, and we can readily fall into it. Surely these people we love and care for cannot help but see those things which are crystal clear to us. “Don’t you see yourself?!” we want to shout. Not necessarily. If you don’t see, you don’t see.

Just as there have been plenty of times in my life when I didn’t see myself, so it is for others. When I see what another does not, it is important I consider taking that person before my Heavenly Father. Isn’t that what caring for one another is about? Standing in support and understanding rather than judging.

Inner vision and sight—seeing--is a gift. Often it comes in the form of a mirror, and we are unable to escape the truth.

Never take a single revelation lightly. Hold on to each one. They are given to bring about inner change, growth, maturity, and development. No man can ever take them away. In addition, be careful lest you judge others for things that are not clear to them, for things they do not see.

When I do see myself, I can no longer plead ignorance or denial. I am without excuse. When I have been shown the truth, when I see, I am then held personally accountable. I am responsible.

 

“I see,” said the blind man.

Therefore I counsel you to buy from me…

salve to anoint your eyes so that you may see.

Revelation 3:18