God Loves to Paint

by WVS

Nuff said.

Graduation Gifts that Keep Giving

Photo by CarbonNYC

Caps, gowns, and sitting in bleachers until one special person walks across the stage is a popular activity at this time of year.

I have several graduation announcements all begging for perfect gifts.  But what are they?

• A friend says she gives a small, black velvet bag with golden one-dollar coins inside.
• Another swears by the good ol’ Cross Pen set
• Probably the most logical advice I’ve received was:  “Give ‘em money. Everybody loves money.”

But I would like something more enduring. Something that would inspire hope in a dark period of life, because when you’re first starting out on the adult trail, you can expect that around one of the bends is a shadowy passage.

It made me think about what I received for graduation a million years ago.  I could have really used luggage, but I didn’t get any. I did get pens and money.  And I remember a thin, golden book called Apples of Gold. It was full of quotes and words of wisdom.

I didn’t read it until I was in graduate school. I probably didn’t think I needed it until I hit one of those dark nights of adult life.

Lisa of Tao of Webfoot says she still remembers a version of Rudyard Kipling’s poem, “If,” that had been adapted and given to her.

So maybe when we’re in grade school “Sticks and Stones may break our bones….

But when graduating into life…..

The gift of words have the power to inspire, heal, and give hope for a very long time.

What do you remember about your graduation gifts?

The Art of Lashing…Now We Be Ready To Sail

I know I promised  you all the adventure of driving somewhere unfamiliar and shopping in a store that had labels in another language. It still sounds like a good exercise to fight Brain Drain and help me sleep.  (By the way, I’m not having those work-all-night dreams anymore,  but I still wake long before sunrise.)

I began my groggy day by building a stupendous Powerpoint presentation using only my left hand on the mouse (like I promised).  Well….maybe it’s not so fantastic-looking because  I’m convinced there is no connection between my brain and the fingers on my left hand. It was taking  ten to twenty minutes to custom build each slide when it should have only taken 3-5 minutes. I believe those new synapses must have been trying to drill through cement in in my gray matter.

So you can understand that when Scout stuck his head in the door and shouted, “We need your help hauling  poles!”  I ran away from the computer like a woman escaping a diet farm.

That’s how I ended up learning how to build a 30 foot flag pole this afternoon. I learned clove hitches and how lash a tripod.  I’m a bit insulted that Scout declared my frapping too loose.  (Think of rows of rope woven and coiled around the tops of 3 logs. I was supposed to haul on each wrap with my full body weight–but I was a slacker).  Scout made me take it apart and do it again along with the  Tenderfoots.

I grumbled. The rope had already abraded my fingertips until they were smooth and grooveless.  I threw my body into the next attempt. Feet against the poles, I heaved until the wood screamed. They tested my couplings by having a Chuck-Norris-type-guy  thump, kick and hang off my tripod.  I passed.

I’m not sure if learning to frap and lash stimulated my brain as much as the wicked left-handed mouse, but I figure that if I’m ever a cast away with Tom Hanks on an island, I’ll be able to do my share.  And if the mast on your sailing vessel breaks…give me a call;  I can lash it, if you can hold it together.

The guys proclaimed my skills were sufficient enough to work on their trebuchet next, but I can’t…I’ve got a free Salsa class tomorrow.

Signs of Hope on the Road to Confusion

Which Way to Go

Before morning breaks into the thin hours of this night, I came to the conclusion that Hope is different than confidence.

Good ol’ confidence is born of success. I remember the first hook I baited all by myself. Then I spit on it for luck and cast it in the pond. I sacrificed several worms before I learned to yank the line after the bobber completely submerged in order to haul a catfish onto the bank.  I became a confident fisher woman, until I took up trout fishing (that’s another story).

Confidence comes in handy when you get behind the wheel of a car after you’ve had a wreck that’s laid you up for several weeks. You ignore the sweaty palms and tell yourself that you can drive because you’ve done it before. And you can do it again.

Confidence comes when you suddenly have to introduce a person, or open your locker at the gym that you haven’t been to  since waaaaay before the holidays. You relax, knowing that the name or combination will come to you. It’s in your brain closet somewhere and you know that if you take a deep breath, it’ll probably roll out on its own.

Hope on the other hand doesn’t need prior experience or success stories.  There are no boundaries or prerequisites.  A girl can hope that the school’s quarterback will ask her out, even if he’s never spoken to her before.  Every writer who sends out a query embeds a piece of their hope in it. Even if they’ve never been published before, they HOPE this is the one that will be accepted. And, I always try to fix my computer by pushing some buttons and then hoping it will work perfectly when I reboot it.

You can see that hope is based on pretty thin stuff.

I think that’s why we look for signs. Little things to grab onto to keep hope alive.  You might study the stock market each day, looking for signs of recovery to support your hope.

When I make a pitch, I look for light bulbs and glowing adoration to shine in an agent’s eyes. (Okay, really, I  just look for a sign that they’re interested.)

When my mother came out of her non-responsive, bed-ridden fog last week, I grabbed onto it as a sign and hoped that she was getting better.

You’re probably a step ahead of me here. Looking for signs is as subjective as trying to figure out if it’s your gut telling you to buy a lottery ticket or divine intervention.

I’m embarassed to admit that it’s taken me a while to see I was basing my hope on the wrong thing. Oh, I receive lots of signs, but they come from faith…not hope.

Faith is the rope that hope hangs onto. You know how they tell you to keep “hangin’ in there.” Well it’s faith that you’re sticking your claws into and holding on as life whips you around.

Faith in God’s ability to care for you. I don’t always see that God cares. I spend a lot of time spiraling off in worst case scenarios before I can get my engine stopped.

That’s where the little signs come in. Out of the blue—a friend calls.  A stranger does a kindness. A sunrise tells me—I’m not alone. Small (or sometimes large) pats on the back, remind me that there is a God who loves me as I am and will take care of me.

It restores my faith. And that give me hope.