Sunday, October 27, 2013

Some People

Some people are meant to work with kids and minister to them.

Some people are not.

Some people can be in the room with 14 loud 3 year olds, and it be music to their ears.

Some people want to go hide in the closet.

Some people are amazed by the fire in a child's eye when they talk about their dreams.

Some people tell them it will never happen.

Some people are at their happiest place when their house is full of children.

Some people are better suited for a more quiet and clean atmosphere.

Some people see a baby in the store and feel an overwhelming sensation to squeeze him/her.

Some people only feel that way about their own children.

I worked in the nursery at the church for several years with 1 year olds. I taught preschool for 5 years, toddlers, two's and threes. I have four children. Children make me happy. I always believed that being with children whether it be working, volunteering or raising my family, is my gift. When I made this life change and started school last month, I was trying to figure out why I abandoned the one thing in life that I feel is truly my specialty in life and if God had his hands in it or not. I said things like...."I have four of my own kids, and they deserve all of my attention and patience." "I need to do something that doesn't involve kids."

Then it hit me. I'm still ministering and giving my time to children. The average age of the students that I am going to school with is 18-22. God knows that I have raising little people down to an art. Now he has opened up the opportunity for me to get my feet wet with older children. Possibly to pave the way for me as my own children grow older. I am exactly where I need to be.

Sunday, October 13, 2013

Hair (Soul)

When we're born, our hair is new. It's shiny, and soft. In it's natural state. Untainted by the world and all of its harshness.

It's not broken, or weathered. It hasn't been changed by something that seemed like a great idea, but doesn't always turn out that way.

It's in its purest form. It is innocent. Untouched.

Sometimes as life goes on, our hair changes. It falls short. It can stay long and strong for a while, and then suddenly break. It's bright and vibrant. It gets dull, and tired.

Sometimes we need to cut off the dead parts, to make room for new growth.

There are times when we know we need a change, but we are scared to make that step.

Times that our hair has been the same way for way too long. It's weighing us down. It's tangled, and knotted. Lacks luster.

As we grow older, we learn what's best for our hair, and stop trying to find a temporary fix.

We find a happy place for it that we know works best, and is pretty easy to maintain. It's natural, it's shiny, but not screaming "Look at me!". It's out of harms way. We've learned how to protect it.

So we nurture it, feed it, and work on continuous maintenance so we are always at peace with it.

Our days of looking back at it and saying "What was I thinking?" have come to pass.

The road is long. It's wavy. It's curly. It's straight. It's bright. It's dull. For some, it's short.

It's in your hands. It's whatever you make it.

Tuesday, October 1, 2013

James Hasty

An elderly woman and an ever more elderly man sat down at the table.

They were hard to figure out.

The woman appeared to be around 70. The man had a hair piece on, and I was impressed with his real, yet worn and discolored teeth. He was wearing a sweater with a collared shirt underneath. He was handsome. Distinguished. Adorable.

It was a woman, and as she called him, her Daddy.

So I headed to the restroom, and I wept. I was jealous. Jealous of what will never be. I will never be sitting across from my father on his 94th birthday. Or any birthday. I had a rush of emotions....why? Why not? What if? I collected myself, and headed back out. The daughter was telling me how he lives alone, and he still took James Hasty a long time to eat his hamburger and French fries. In between bites he told me about when his wife died, and how long he was retired from the service. Each time I walked away I cried a little more.

 This man was seasoned. Historical. He was born in 1919. He was sweet and polite. I wanted to take him home. I wanted to replace what I had lost. I crept off into corners of the restaurant and cried throughout their visit. James Hasty and his daughter touched my soul that day.

How do I know his name? When I gathered people to sing to Mr. Hasty on his birthday, I asked him his name. His reply was "Hasty". I had a split second to think...."What a strange name?" and repeated it back to him. "Hasty?" He replied:

"Yes, Hasty. Mr. James Hasty." Just like they used to introduce themselves when he was a young man.

I feel privileged and honored to have met Mr. Hasty. An experience I will never forget.

Tuesday, September 24, 2013

Just Like Me

When you have a daughter, I think in the back of your mind, you assume she's going to grow up to be just like you. And then she grows up, and she's not just like you. She's just like her.
She is social, but she's not a butterfly.
She saves her tears, you rarely see them.
She prefers one on one friendships rather than large groups.
She has a closet full of jeans and t-shirts.
She would rather not fit in, than go along with the crowd.
She prefers to sleep in her own bed rather than anywhere else.
She never runs around looking for things because she's neat and orderly.
She's never going to have more friends than she can count like I did.
She's never going to borrow my peep toe leopard pumps.
She's never going to wear her heart on her sleeve like I do.  
She's never going to crash on someone's couch after a night out like I did.
She's never going to borrow my make-up bag or my curling iron.
She's not going to go crazy looking for something like I do.
She wore a dress last week for the first time since 8th grade, and she looked absolutely beautiful.
She's not just like me. She's just like her.
She's Amber. And she is perfect.