Without the help of many, as a single mom, our Christmases would have been bare. When I was in college, we often ran almost completely out of food. I was Old Mother Hubbard with the bare cupboards more times than I want to remember. There were times we ate saltine crackers, peanut butter and raisins for meals because they were literally the only items in the cupboard.
You can imagine the challenge of this type of lifestyle when Christmas came around each year. My parents always made Christmas very special even though we grew up poor. They scrimped and saved all year to give us the very gifts we desired. I certainly wanted to do the same for my children but just couldn’t do it. My daughter asked for a Cabbage Patch doll for years and I couldn’t get her one. It broke my heart the year I had to give her a cheap imitation instead. I made her all kinds of doll clothes out of scraps to make up for it. (My parents eventually gave her a real Cabbage Patch doll.)
Because we were so poor while I was in school full-time, we were on the lists of local organizations that helped at Christmas. One year we were given an entire meal, including turkey, potatoes and all the trimmings. My kids were nearly jumping up and down as we went through that box. It’s very telling of the circumstances we lived in that they were excited to get a box of food!
Every year I was in school, we received gifts from different organizations. They would be nearly the only gifts under the old fake tree we had. My kids didn’t care where the gifts came from, they were thrilled to get them. I remember the red and white sweater my daughter received and wore until she wore holes into it. She loved that sweater and would not have had it if not for the generosity of the giver.
We had very few decorations for our tree and a local organization called P.E.O. learned of this and their members gathered brand new ornaments for our tree. We had so much fun putting those ornaments out. We still have some of them decades later. (The year before we were given all these ornaments, we decided to really dress up our tree and make all the decorations out of construction paper. We had paper chains, stars, and ornaments. And we loved our tree. I’m not sure if the kids would agree but that tree remains my favorite ever because we did it as a family and had so much fun together.)
Every year as I buy gifts for my family, I remember these sparse times and the many people who helped to make our Christmases less sparse. I’m thankful for those willing to sacrifice to give blessings to those otherwise doing without. I need to do a better job of paying it forward for sure. I have several times over the years but certainly could do more.
Are there organizations you can support so they can make a poor family’s Christmas better this year? Do you know a poor family you could personally help? From someone who has been on the receiving end and the giving end, I can tell you that both receive joy. Merry Christmas to you all! May you “receive much joy” this Christmas season.
God provides. I see that now. I have to tell you about two of my cars to give you an example of how.
When I was in college as a single mom, I drove an old Chevy Malibu. Ran great. However, rusty doesn’t begin to describe that old car. In fact, when my son was almost three, after seeing me do it a few days prior, he decided to wash the car without my knowledge. If you have ever been around a three-year-old, you know how fast they can act when out of your sight for a minute.
When he washed the car, the windows were all down. I had to take up all the carpet that was drenched and eventually stunk. We sat on towels for days. I discovered something pretty amazing, as far as my kids were concerned, when I ripped out that carpet. The floorboards were rusted completely through in the back seat. Holes about six inches in diameter were in both sides of the floor.
The kids loved it. They could watch the road fly by on our trips to Grandpa and Grandma’s. They could throw things out the floor as we drove along. I didn’t know that they were doing that right away but they thought it was fun until they got caught. The highlight was the time we went out to leave for school and there was a chipmunk in the car. Yup, climbed in through one of those holes. We had a heck of a time getting it back out. It was sure funny. We called that car our Flintstone car.
But sadly, that old green car met its end in an accident early in my last year of college. No one was hurt but you can imagine; a single mom with no money, no collision insurance because the car was so old it had no value, and hit by a car with an owner who blew through a stop sign, had no insurance and no money. Not a good day!
Enter the worst car buying decision of my life. I took my younger brother with me to help me choose a new used car. I chose a car lot that sold the type of car I could afford, cheap, really cheap.
I had $1,000 to spend from my student loan for that semester. It was my last semester before my student teaching. I would have to drive about 50 miles each way to the school I had been assigned to for student teaching. I needed a dependable car. My kids would be in daycare early and late and I had no family in that town to pick them up if my car broke down.
So, enter the Chevy Citation. It was the right size for me and my three kids. It looked good, no rust. It was the right price. Just $,1000. That salesman seemed to know exactly what I needed. One problem, it was a standard transmission (stick shift) and I didn’t know how to drive one. I knew I was smart enough to figure it out though. My brother could do the test drive.
The car was covered with ice and snow in the lot. Windows were scraped off enough to be legal and we drove away. Not bad. Drives OK. Went back to the dealer and bought the car and my brother drove it away. Then gave me a few driving lessons. And off I went back to my home. I can’t remember if it was a 4 speed or 5 speed but you get the picture.
Well, within a week I knew I had been taken. Here’s what I learned about that car. It had a crack the entire length of the front windshield. Ice had covered it up. It had no parking brakes, pretty important with a standard transmission. It had no catalytic converter, had in fact been bypassed by the prior owner. And two weeks later it had no second gear. The first three things were safety issues and the dealer had to fix them. The transmission though, that was my problem. Now, I don’t know that God chose that exact car with all those problems. I do know He used that car with all its problems to teach me some valuable lessons.
Learning to drive a stick shift is a challenge, learning to drive a stick shift with no second gear, well, I can’t think of any word bigger than challenge but it was bigger for sure.
I learned how to speed shift. I didn’t know I could be so cool! I didn’t know that was cool. I learned that if you took too long to get it into gear at a stop sign, you could get hit by the person behind you who thought you were long gone, twice! I learned it was really hard to speed shift from a dead stop on a hill. I learned you could roll all the way down that hill before you got it in the next gear. I also learned that the driver of the car behind you will be glad to back down the hill as well.
I learned to never drive on busy streets, to go around them instead. I learned to avoid towns with hills. Oh, the adventures of that car.
I had that car towed to the shop more times than I think I have in all the years and cars since. I don’t remember how I paid for it all but somehow I did. Probably more of my student loan went into the car.
I had some laughs with that car and I had frustrations for sure. One memory stands out though. I had to have the car towed to the shop yet again. My kids were in school and I was supposed to be but the car wouldn’t start again. I sat at the mechanic’s while they worked on my car. I watched the receptionist leave the building, walk to her car, get in and drive away. And I cried. As the tears streamed down my face, I remember thinking, “She has no idea how lucky she is to have a car she can just get in and know it will start for her. She just takes it for granted.” At that time, I doubted I would ever be as lucky as she was. I had been months without a dependable car at this point.
I drove that car for about two years. Finished school, moved to where I still live today, started a new job, and as soon as I could replaced it. But in those two years, I had learned to drive that car up steep hills without backing down them and I could drive on busy streets too. I gained confidence in my ability to drive a stick shift. I survived all those times of having to have it towed. My kids and I were never in danger because it wouldn’t start, although I remember standing in the grocery store in below zero temps waiting for the tow truck. I learned I was tougher than I thought and I had a determination that amazes me today.
For my kids and me, those two cars bring back funny memories. Looking back at all the trouble I had with that Citation, all the tears, frustration, embarrassment and anger at the dealer who sold me that piece of junk, and the naïve fool I was to buy it, God still provided. He still made sure I had the transportation I needed to finish my degree, to move and to get a new job. He provided the funds I needed to keep it drivable.
I drove to my student teaching school every day in a crappy little car with no second gear. I drove it 100 miles to a new home. I drove it to and from work. Because that was God’s plan for me at that time. I didn’t see His provision and certainly didn’t rest in it. Looking back, I see how He did take care of us. If only I had seen it then. Instead of crying, maybe I would have just quietly sat at the mechanic’s doing homework, knowing the Lord had me covered. How much peace I could have had! With that peace probably would have come more laughter instead of tears.
Being able to see His provision back then helps me look for and see His provision today. He has a plan for each of us and within our plans, He always provides exactly what we need. We can rest in that. I can laugh knowing my junk car experience is a bump in the road, not the end of the road. Those bumps teach us to depend on God and trust that He cares enough to take care of us. I can look back and chuckle and say I hope to never again own a standard transmission vehicle and I can say it with a twinkle in my eyes and a smile. And I can know that if I ever have to drive one again, I CAN do it. God took a junk car experience and turned it into a learning and leaning opportunity with some humor added in.
So, what’s your junk car experience and how can you see God acting through and in it? Praise the Lord that He does.
Boundaries! Who wants or needs them? Do you think the person in the picture below is glad for his boundary? I should think so. He would have a long drop if he should misstep without that fence to catch him. The fence is his protection as well as his guideline. What a gorgeous view he has from within his limits.
I am a person who detests boundaries. I have always been a rebel at heart. Now if you had known me my entire life, your jaw is likely sitting on the floor because someone appearing less rebellious possibly could not be found. Nevertheless, rebellion is in my nature. Give me a boundary, I will escape it as fast as I can. Tell me I can’t do something and I’m likely to do it.
My dad told me recently that when he bought a used bike for my brother, he got a second one free. That old adult size bike weighed more than I did at the time, I was about 8 years old, and he told me I couldn’t ride it because it was too big for me. Well, I learned to ride that bike that same day, by myself. Rebel!
Above is how I view a boundary. I’m on a short leash. I can only go so far but I want to explore. The best grass is beyond my boundary and I want it, right now. Rebellion. Why is this sheep tied to a tree? We can guess it’s to keep it from wondering off, protection, or it’s to keep it from eating grasses that will make it sick, protection once again. In my rebellion, it would feel like punishment to have to stay within the range of that rope.
So, why am I writing about boundaries? Because I have spent the last several days pondering them. I am participating in a weight loss Bible study with some close friends. The book we are using is great, finding the truth so the truth can set us free from our addiction to food. In the very first week of lessons, though, we are asked to start considering boundaries with food. And I’m thinking to myself, “No way, I detest boundaries, I can’t do boundaries, this is not going to work for me.”
In the past, when I have tried to create a boundary around food, I have always failed to keep it. Those failures have added up to a belief that it is beyond my capability to follow any type of boundary in any scope of my life. I’m committed to doing this study. I have friends who have committed to doing it with me. But boundaries, NO!
Well, as I read, as I prayed, as I pondered, I realized I am not boundaryless, if I can create that word. I do have several boundaries I successfully stay within. For example, when I was 18 years old, I discovered alcohol. And I drank a lot. I was drunk a lot. I went to work drunk. I passed out. I threw up. And then at 20, when I found out I was pregnant, stopped drinking. I wanted to drink but I wouldn’t risk harming my baby. That was my boundary. And after she was born, I didn’t want to raise her with an alcoholic mother so I didn’t go back to drinking even though I was sometimes drawn to it. For decades, I have not touched alcohol because I need that absolute boundary to keep me safe.
1 Corinthians 10:13 promises us we won’t be tempted beyond what we can bear and that the Lord will provide a way out. When I am tempted to drink, I pray and the Lord helps me move on from that temptation. Same thing when I drive by a casino. I went to a casino once. Not good. I spent every cent I had with me. I was a single mom so I only had $13.00 but I saw the potential. I have never been back. I keep a boundary from gambling because it’s dangerous for me. There are actually several boundaries I keep because they are unsafe for me in one way or another.
I look at this picture and I see peace. Not rebellion but peace. I see safe sheep waiting for their master to lead them. I see them grazing without fear on the provisions found within their boundary. They aren’t questioning whether the grass is greener on the other side of their fence. They are just enjoying their side. Within their limits is where they grow strong.
I crave peace and calm like is shown in this picture. Can I find that peace within a boundary? I sure haven’t found it outside of it. For this study, I have to consider what boundary I need around food, a boundary that I will stay within for the rest of my life. Like maybe never having sweets again. Or maybe just having them once a month. I have to pray and figure out what boundary will keep me safe from the addiction I have to sugar. What boundary will be most likely to keep me in God’s will instead of my own.
If I’m living within my boundary, I have to consider what can pull me out to the unsafe world on the other side? That’s where Romans 12:2 comes in for me. I have to renew my mind in order to be transformed. Renewing my mind right now means I have to see the lies in my life and replace them with truth. It’s a lie that I can succeed and flourish in life without any boundaries. The truth is that I can only overcome my food addiction and flourish within the safety of boundaries. I don’t know what those boundaries look like yet. I know what the rebellion looks like and I feel the damage within my body and mind every single day I continue to rebel.
Some rebellion is good. Don’t get me wrong. We can’t live our entire life within safe boundaries. Sometimes, we have to push through our fences in order to grow. Going into the mission field would be the best example I can think of. Leaving the safe boundaries of the United States to go to a Muslim country to be a witness. You have to be a rebel to be willing to take that risk.
I also think of the difference between being in the world and being of the world. We are in the world, yes, that is our home right now. But we don’t have to be doing all the same things as the world is doing, especially when what the world is doing is pointing away from God. So, we rebel against parts of the world in order to live godly lives. Our boundaries have to be God’s boundaries, not man’s.
Back to my rebellion and my boundaries. My rebellion has gotten me into this trouble with food. I’m thinking finding those boundaries makes a lot more sense now. I’m going to have to pray and experiment to find the perfect fence to live within successfully. But as long as I stay within the truth, I will know rebellion will not heal me, but boundaries with food will help along with letting God protect and lead me. I will find that peace I crave within God’s will for me.
How about you? Do you have the same struggle with rebellion and maybe need some safe and peaceful boundaries? Won’t you pray and open your heart up to hear God’s voice helping you to find the truth that will set you free? And God’s strength to keep you within those boundaries? Seems like an oxymoron to find freedom in boundaries but I think that is the truth for us. May God give you wisdom on your journey as He is giving me wisdom on mine.
A couple of weeks ago I was sitting in my dad’s chair next to my mom. I looked over at this woman who I love so much and saw that she was watching me intently. I didn’t know why and I couldn’t ask her. It was one of her bad days and she was struggling with her speech right then. My mom has dementia and is most affected by this disease in her ability to communicate especially when she has a UTI, which she had again that day.
I looked at her, wasn’t sure what I saw in her eyes beyond pain, and without thinking said, “Mom, you are such a beautiful woman.” And my mom smiled a small smile as she wiped a tear away. And I sat there pondering how truly beautiful she is.
My mom had a tough childhood. Raised by an alcoholic stepfather who could also be abusive, life wasn’t easy. She spent summers at her mom’s parents, helping on their farm. Those summers were the best part of her childhood, according to my dad. She had uncles and aunts not much older than she was and they were her best friends along with cousins near her age.
She has told so many stories about the farm, about her Uncle Charlie and Aunt Dorothy, her cousin, Sonny. She was able to ride horses, something she loved at the farm. Her nickname with her family came from a treasured horse, Toots. She helped with all the chores, butchering, haying, whatever needed to be done. She was loved and protected by her grandparents.
She grew up in a loud and boisterous extended family that was also very reserved with affection. My mom didn’t get hugged as a child. No one told her they loved her. It wasn’t that she wasn’t loved, she was. It was just their way not to express their love in this way. I believe this was part of her nationality.
As I grew up, I witnessed my mom loving her relatives, not through hugs and words, but through actions. She regularly took aunts to their medical appointments and shopping. She talked to them on the phone multiple times a day. She took her own mom to medical appointments. Raising six kids, she still made time to help family. And my dad worked two jobs most of the time I was growing up so that she could stay home and help us and others.
Mom loves flowers and had a beautiful flower garden for many years until it became too hard for her to maintain. Years later, many of those flowers still come up each year and bloom each summer. She also loved to go to thrift sales. She outfitted us throughout our childhood and into our young adult years with finds from these sales. She would search all over to find a particular item we wanted but couldn’t afford brand new. I remember my excitement when she found me the tennis shoes I had been asking for that were so popular when I was in high school. She has so many talents, sewing, crocheting, decorating, collecting and more. She has crocheted afghans for all of us and made tie blankets for every child, spouse, grandchild, grandchild’s spouse, and great grandchild and even great great grandchildren.
She is a wonderful and caring grandma. To save she loves babies is an understatement. She adores them all. We have watched her love on our kids and our grandkids. When I graduated from college as a single mom, and found a job two hours away but couldn’t find housing right away, she took care of my three kids for several weeks until an apartment opened up for us. The bus dropped the kids off and she had treat bags ready for them to snack on every day. She was always looking for ways to make her grandchildren feel special.
Mom and Dad have a special relationship. As kids, we saw them hug and kiss daily. We saw Dad pull her onto his lap quite regularly. They rarely fought in front of us. As kids, though, I think we wanted some of those hugs too. I know I did. Rarely were we hugged. Rarely did we hear we were loved. We were loved and Mom showed it in many ways every single day; just not with hugs or words. But I still wanted the words and the hugs. The first time I remember Mom telling me she loved me; I was seventeen years old, had just been in an accident in a city five hours away and was at the hospital. I marveled for days that she had said those three words to me, “I love you.”
As my siblings and I grew to adulthood, by silent agreement, we started working on Mom. She didn’t hug us and tell us she loved us because she didn’t learn that herself as a child. She repeated the pattern she was taught. We wanted more. We began hugging her even when she pushed us away. We joked and just hugged her more until she was comfortable being hugged. We told her we loved her. I never ended a phone conversation with her without telling her I loved her. Eventually, she said it back.
For decades now, Mom has been the one to reach out and hug us first. She is the one who will say the words, “I love you” first. We have always seen the love for us in her eyes. Now we feel the love in her arms and through her words. She has always been a beautiful woman and nothing will ever change that, not old age nor dementia. Her beauty is heart deep, not just skin deep and the love I have for her isn’t more because she now tells me she loves me and gives great hugs. I do treasure those moments of affection though and they are outstanding memories for me of the great Beauty that God has blessed my life with. I love you Mom.
If I were suffering from dementia, here is what I think I would tell you…
Don’t ignore me. I see you. I may not always understand your words or remember who you are but I see you. I already feel marginalized by my disease. Don’t make me feel more so by ignoring me. Don’t talk to the person right next to me but act as if I’m not there. All it takes is to look me in the eyes and smile. Now I know you see me.
Don’t talk loud to me. I hear just fine. I just don’t always understand.
Be patient with me. When I can’t get my words out, let me try unless I have indicated that I want your help finding the missing word/s. Watch my face for cues. Am I frustrated and looking at you like I need help? Then help me. Otherwise, it helps me to find the words myself as much as I can.
If I have told you this story already, just listen again. I’m sorry I can’t remember.
If you need me to do something, tell me in one step instructions. I can’t remember multiple steps anymore.
When I walk, I shuffle. That is normal for me. Don’t hurry me unless there is a bear after me. I walk slow. Part of the disease and part of aging.
Sometimes I pick at things, especially cords. I don’t know why. I just do. Just let me pick unless I will hurt myself or someone else. I love to look at things. Just let me look.
I still love to listen to people and when feeling accepted and comfortable will talk as well. Ask me questions and I will try to answer you as best I can. But when I get tired, my brain struggles more and then I will need extra patience.
I am still the same person I always was. I still have family I love very much who love me. My memories are there. I know a lot of people. Sometimes, I just can’t bring their names out. It’s not that I have completely forgotten you. Don’t feel bad. You are in my heart even if I can’t remember you or your name right this moment. I still love!
The more normal people treat me, the more normal I feel.
I never met my dad’s father. He died the year before I was born. I have seen pictures of him with all his children and my grandma, with just my grandma, with my dad and my older brother, and alone as a young person. In all the pictures of him, I don’t recall seeing any joy. In fact, in some, there seems to be a deep sadness in his eyes.
I wish so much that I had had an opportunity to meet him. I wish I had grown up loving him like I did my other grandparents. Cousins who are older than I am may have had experiences with Grandpa that would result in a completely different story than mine. I can only write about what I know and feel.
My grandpa suffered great sorrow in his life. I was not the first generation in our family to go through the pain of divorce. His divorce was very hard on him and his family from what I’ve been told. But I wonder if harder still was what we learned after my Grandma died and we found a letter he wrote to her.
My grandpa was married three times. His first wife died in childbirth when he was only 18 years old. She delivered a son before she died, a son he didn’t know how to raise alone. Back then, somewhere around 1900, he made the hard decision to leave his son with his wife’s family in South Dakota and he returned to Wisconsin. He never saw his son again. I’m thinking there are many in my family who don’t know about this wife or son because it wasn’t talked about.
He married again and had four daughters and lost an infant son. He and his second wife eventually divorced with him retaining custody of his daughters. Years later he married my grandma who was fifteen years younger than he was. They had eight daughters and five sons. Three sons died in infancy. The fourth, Jerry, died when he was six years old. My dad was the only son from both marriages to survive to adulthood. Oddly enough, only males died. All female babies survived.
I didn’t know about Grandpa’s first wife until after my grandma died. Grandma had lived in an apartment in our house and when we cleaned it out, we found a letter that Grandpa had written to her when she and Jerry were staying in the hospital in Madison, Wisconsin, where Jerry died. The letter was found probably 45 years or more after it was written.
What I knew of Grandpa to that point was what my dad had shared through the years. Dad was special to his dad, being the only surviving son he knew. Grandpa called him his little prince and Dad sat next to him at meals. Grandpa was a tough man. He worked as a carpenter both in Wisconsin and in South Dakota. He also traveled the country buying fur. Dad’s large family grew up poor.
I’ve been told that Grandpa had a temper and sometimes it got out of control. He also sometimes drank more than he should have. My Grandma’s mom told my Dad that Grandpa was a hard worker and a good provider. Opinions vary within my relation on his strengths and weaknesses. What I’ve written so far is the extent of what I remember knowing about Grandpa until the letter was found.
I only read the letter once and I have no idea where it is today or if it even still exists. But I can clearly remember the pain in the words on that piece of paper. Grandma had taken Jerry to the hospital on Madison, hours away from family to be treated for an incurable brain tumor. (From a picture I have seen of Jerry, he was a beautiful towheaded little boy.)
In the tearstained letter Grandpa wrote to Grandma, Grandpa poured out his grief at losing yet another son. The torment of his guilt that Jerry was dying and it was his fault was in every word. He confessed that if he hadn’t deserted his first son, God wouldn’t be punishing him by taking the rest of his sons. What a burden to carry! He was only a child himself when his first son was born. What did he know? So sad.
He could have gone back and found him later, but I suspect he was too ravaged with guilt to do so. Instead it ate at him. And each son he lost was further ravaging of his aching heart. No wonder he turned to alcohol to numb the pain sometimes. No wonder his pain came out in anger sometimes. I’m not excusing his behavior at all but a burden of guilt like he carried can cause things to happen that shouldn’t.
I grew up wishing I had known Grandpa. There was always someone missing in my life as a child. I loved my other grandparents and I wanted to love him as well. It’s hard to love a face in a picture when that’s all you have. When I read that letter, love was born for the grandpa I met through his words. I hurt for his hurt. I cried reading the letter of the man who fathered my father.
I wish I could tell him that God didn’t take his boys. God wasn’t punishing him. Life happens. We make mistakes. There are consequences to our behavior and choices, but God would not punish anyone in such a devastating way. I wish Grandpa had known the God I know; my God is merciful and extends grace to anyone who confesses their sins, comforts anyone who lays down their pain to Him.
Romans 8:1 tells us there is no more condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus. That means we stand guiltless once we accept Christ as our Savior, no matter what we have done in our past. We don’t need to carry that burden of guilt because He has removed it. We can let it go. How I wish Grandpa had known that. Maybe sometime between writing that letter and his death twenty some years later, Grandpa learned about the grace of our loving God. I sure hope so. I hope he had a time of peace on earth and eternity in heaven.
Thinking about Grandpa carrying that guilt for so long; well, that’s a lesson to me, to let go of guilt I have carried for years for different mistakes I have made in my life. Those mistakes, sins, were covered by Jesus on the cross. That’s all I need to know. If you are still carrying guilt for something you have done in the past that you have asked forgiveness for, please let it go. Don’t let it steal your joy.
Grandpa, I didn’t get to tell you in life that I loved you so I’m telling you now. I love you.
This past week I’ve been working on cleaning and organizing my pantry. My pantry isn’t a cupboard in my kitchen, it’s a little room attached to it, about 5′ x 8′ or so. My husband has been getting very frustrated with all the junk crammed in it, stuff falling off the shelves every time he reaches for something in it. And I couldn’t find what I needed when I needed it.
There are no doors in my pantry. Just curtains to hide the packed and messy shelves. My pantry is a direct reflection of my life. Lots of junk hiding behind flimsy curtains, falling out all over. The pantry contains small appliances, bakeware I never use, but might someday, and lots of food. Most of the food is food I will never eat but have bought because of the latest health craze that I plan to get on but never do, like dried seaweed that is a “power food”. I detest fish. Why would I actually eat something that smells and tastes like fish? So, it sits on the shelf, adding clutter.
Symptoms. My pantry is a symptom of my bigger problems. Trying to find an easy solution to bad health. More, more, more, needing more to fill that hole in me. Messy and chaotic, the state of my anxious mind.
So, I spent a week cleaning, throwing, washing, sorting, and contemplating my life. When I got done with my work, I had an amazingly clean, well organized pantry with products I will actually use and enjoy. Most of the weird health kick products are gone because, quite honestly, most were expired anyway. Our chickens ate some strange food this past week.
I put what I kept in labeled glass canning jars so I can see what is there and use it. I removed bakeware I won’t use as well as some small appliances. I moved what I need from the high top shelf to the lower shelves to be more accessible. I moved appliances I use but not all the time off the counter to give myself work room. And I permanently removed the curtains.
Open shelves. Open life. Organized shelves. Well, somewhat organized life. We can’t have everything. Chaos turned into peace is how I feel when I enter my pantry now. It’s a good start. Stillness. Simplify. My surroundings as well as my life. I’ve always known chaos. Most of it my own fault. Now to concentrate instead on simplicity and stillness because they calm my racing heart and change my focus to what is important, my faith, family and writing, instead of all that is cramming up my life.
While cleaning, I lived my favorite verse, Be still and know that I am God, I will be exalted among the nations, I will be exalted on the earth, Psalm 46:10. Being still is what I was while cleaning. Just being still, not in body, but in mind. No worries. No wants. Just being still with the Lord who loves me. Praising Him and thanking Him for all He has blessed me with and blessed our world with. That’s where my peace comes from. That’s what stills my anxious heart. And He is what fills that hole in me.
Who knew cleaning out a pantry could have such a profound effect on an anxious heart?