Dancing

Left foot, right foot, left foot, right foot.
I'm a terrible dancer. I have no sense of rhythm and can't remember any dance moves to save my life. In college, I took two semesters of dance classes, but I can't even remember the names of the courses, much less the dances I learned.
No matter. Right now in my life I'm dancing my heart out. I'm learning to left foot-right foot and not put my feet in one circle too long. I'm learning how thin I can stretch before I have to curl back inside of myself. I'm learning how much weight my stretched shoulders can carry and what has to fall off.
Though I don't have musical rhythm, some days I catch a glimpse of what it must be like. Some days I dance from school to work to school to homework to dinner to monitoring bedtime activities and still have enough energy to have a coherent conversation with Adam when he gets home from work. Some days I stand up tall because I know I danced that day. I was able to balance on the right foot while stretching with my left arm to stir the dinner pot. I was able to balance it all without falling over.
Other days I have to recoil. I have to force myself to sit and breathe and appreciate. I have to take a nap. I have to read a book for sheer pleasure. I have to stop the clock and refocus before I'm able to proceed. These moments of relaxation, renewal, and refreshment are just as important as the times I'm fully-engaged with life.
Life is so short.
Occasionally I dance on autopilot. Out of sheer exhaustion or overwhelm, I just keep moving and going through the motions until they make sense. The fabulous and fascinating part of just putting one foot in front of the other and trying to make sense of it all is that some days it works!  The children will say something beautiful or share a concern and I will shout with joy because they have grasped the concept. Yesterday Paul cleaned his room on his own accord and I was as excited as the two times I met Anne Lamott!
On days of overwhelm, I remember the other people on the dance floor with me. I'm not dancing by myself and I have several loved ones I can lean on. This weekend I spent 12 hours on Saturday at a church event. It was important to be there, but then I woke up Sunday morning and realized Paul was out of pants because I didn't get to do the laundry. I later confessed to Adam that I was overwhelmed with my weekend duties and last night we spent a couple of hours and hung and folded every piece of laundry in the house. Engineer that he is, the folded laundry looks so much neater when he does it. Today I have empty laundry baskets and I am so grateful.
My life is dancing, and just when I catch my breath and sync with the rhythm, the song changes. I never get bored.

www.sxu.hu
(Don't I look fabulous here?)

My Grandmother's Quilt and Anne Lamott

I found this quilt at my grandmother's house when my grandfather moved to an apartment.  It's hand made and hand-stitched and sturdy and beautiful.  This summer I let Claire keep it on her bed as a "summertime" comforter and the quilt survived jumping on the bed and forts and two children giggling.  Now that fall is here, I got Claire's regular blankets out of the closet and reclaimed this beauty.

It's got some gaps in it right now where stitches came undone, but I've been repairing it stitch by stitch while watching television or praying.  I know my grandmother would be delighted that my kids are loving and using this blanket, even though that meant needed repairs.

This week my favorite author Anne Lamott will be in Fort Worth again.  This is her second appearance here this year.  Her book tours often haven't made it to our area, so for her to come back to my hometown is an exciting honor.  She's currently promoting her new book, Stitches, which is supposed to be a companion to Help, Thanks, Wow.

What I love about Anne Lamott is her transparent honesty and strong faith.  She knows she's imperfect and needs regular divine intervention and she shares that.  So many people try to look good or sound right.  Honesty in imperfection is like a breath of fresh air.  I strive for it as well, but I'm still practicing being transparent about my shortcomings and all the grace I receive on a daily basis.

While I've been sitting on the couch stitching the holes together in this beautiful quilt, I've been thinking of the rich metaphors that action brings.  

I have to sit down to repair the quilt, just like sometimes I have to sit down to be repaired.  When I'm running around like a chicken with my head cut off, I miss hands trying to help me or hug me.  I have to sit down to be repaired.

The string the I'm using to patch the pieces together is stronger than the original thread.  Similarly, when I fall apart, I come out of the repair stronger than before.  When I get overwhelmed with work, motherhood, or life in general, I have to be pulled back together.  Sometimes a friend helps me, sometimes a quiet prayer helps me, sometimes a walk by myself helps me.  Whatever it is that pulls me back together, though, patches me up stronger than I was before.

Each patch of this quilt has a story with it, just like each part of my life is a story.  Everyone's life is full of color, alternating between bright and dark, dull and glittery, busy patterns and calmness.  If you look too closely at one part you miss the beauty of the entire quilt of life.  When I miss the big picture, I miss beauty and how every part of life works together to weave a beautiful story.

I can't wait to meet Anne Lamott on Thursday and share with her what her story means to me and my grandma's quilt.  I can't wait to see the addition of new patches on my life quilt and how they make the blanket of life even more beautiful.

How I got here and where I'm headed

Growing up, my sister and I often chose occupations to role play.  I distinctly remember being a teacher and a fashion designer for two.  When I grew up I was going to be a comedienne.  No, I was going to be a
fashion designer because I was really into fashion.  My sister and I had a few scraps of fabric that we re-purposed over and over as a dress, a skirt, a veil, a hair tie, and on and on.  Plus, I had the super-awesome fashion designer play kit where you create a fashion with plastic plates and then place a piece of paper on top and rub the design onto the page with a crayon.
Early on I discovered writing and that I had a knack for it. Some stories I wrote in elementary school won a few campus awards.  So in middle school I was an honors student, and honors English was my favorite.  My teacher, Mrs. Bell, encouraged us to write, and write, and write. I had already been toting around a diary with a half-broken lock, but now I started writing in a journal.  Mrs. Bell also started a school newspaper, and I was a reporter.

www.sxu.hu

In high school, I took journalism class for all four years. My teacher Miss Hale taught me everything from how to write a lead to how to lay out a newsletter. We were just converting from taping down a layout to designing it on the computer. I loved journalism so much I remember staying up at school voluntarily until 11 p.m.  The night custodian, Lewis, was a special friend of mine.
In college, I continued on the journalism track. I was a reporter and editor for the Tarrant County Junior College paper.  With my associate's degree in hand, my best friend Adam and I transferred to the University of Texas at Arlington and I continued my journalism major and found my home in the student publications office.  Adam majored in engineering and we stayed best friends; enjoying the world through our vastly different viewpoints and weird senses of humor.  Then our relationship shifted and the week after we graduated college, we got married.
Just as we were approaching college graduation, the newspaper industry halted. Even though I  had contacts who would gladly hire me at several of the local papers, no one could. I was working part time at Half Price Books then, and I loved it. So I stayed there for a while until Adam encouraged me to do something with that degree I had earned. I ended up going back to school for an emergency teacher certification.
Then I taught first grade for six years.  When I was pregnant with Paul, I realized that I didn't want to be a teacher while my children grew up, and Adam and I decided I could be a stay-at-home mom.
Two years into being a stay-at-home mom, I started looking at part-time jobs to help make ends meet.  Nothing was fitting; I couldn't get an interview.  I also couldn't figure out what I would do with the children when I worked.  Adam came home from a church meeting one night and said that the church had to eliminate the communications position and they didn't have anyone to do a church newsletter anymore.  Immediately I knew that was the job for me.  A deal was brokered where I would be paid the exact amount I was seeking to pay bills and my children could attend the church preschool for free.
When Claire went into first grade, Paul started attending preschool full-time and I started working as a literacy tutor on my days off.  I love tutoring because it's pure teaching.  I have a several small groups who listen intently to what I say and work hard.  If anyone starts slacking or not paying attention, I send them back to their homeroom.  Tutoring two days a week let me know, though, that I don't want to be a full-time teacher any more.
Now Paul is in kindergarten and I've been restless.  I'm still working two jobs, which suits me well. I spend alternating Fridays with my grandfather at his retirement home.  Adam and I are finished birthing babies, so I'm looking forward to the next phase of my life.
I seriously considered getting a masters degree in library science and becoming a librarian. I did research and contacted various schools and districts about it.  It just didn't feel right, though, and the more I thought and prayed about it, the less appealing it seemed.
What I love, what makes me feel like a better person, what fills me up, what gives me something to think about for days on end, is talking to people about the intersection between faith and real life. I joyfully recognize God's presence and the power of love in common situations. I love listening to people tell me about their day; and what they struggle with.  I love reading the Bible and making sense of it.  I love recognizing all the ways that God is involved in my life and how people can complete everyday tasks with a sense of doing something holy.  I love seeking people out to encourage them and building relationships.  I love the power of story and the parallels between modern life and the struggles Bible people had.
So where do I go from here?
I've been doing a lot of research, praying, and consulting people in different jobs.  I've been weighing my options. I've discovered a couple of jobs that I didn't even know existed.  After a hard struggle, I decided that I want to go to seminary.  Last week I toured Brite Divinity School on the TCU Campus and I felt like I was at home.  Now I'm starting to work on my application to enter into a program to earn a Masters of Divinity degree.  I'm not sure what I'll do with that yet; the world may look different when I graduate.  I could be a communications specialist in the United Methodist Church.  I could be a pastor.  I could be a writer.  My job could be to write about the intersection of faith and the real world.
Of course I'm a long way from being accepted into the program; the application is no small thing, but at least I know what direction I'm headed. I smile when I think back on all the roads I've traveled to get to where I am and how they all have helped develop me into the person I am today.  I gratefully step forward into this new phase of my life filled with hope and excitement.

I am an avocado

I am an avocado and my life is an avocado slicer.
Depending on the day or season, my skin is either thick or thin.  I'm either bruised or healthy green on the inside.
By nature, I am a giver.  With two jobs and commitments all across North Texas, I often feel like a sliced avocado.

A slice of me volunteers at the kids' school.  A slice of me goes to church to work.  A slice of me goes to church to worship. A slice of me takes care of my grandfather. A slice of me serves on committees at church and at school.  A slice of me socializes. A slice of me tutors children at a different elementary school. A slice of me leads a Bible study. Another slice cooks, cleans, and folds laundry.

I have other slices that go to different places, but my pit remains intact.  My core and my faith are always there, no matter how many slices of myself I hand out.  The trick is to teach myself to transfer the pulp from the other half of the avocado to support my core.  I have to learn to refill myself after handing out all the slices.  Otherwise, I just become a bowl of guacamole.

Chicken Little and Me

Early this morning, I took Captain Midnight Sugar Dot Express for a walk.  For seemingly the first time this summer, I was able to stare at the stars.  The moon was hiding behind clouds, which were illuminated in a magical, movie-style fashion.  I kept looking at the moon and appreciating it and thinking.  I walked an extra block so I could keep facing it.  Then I had to turn and I was so disappointed I had to stop my moon-gazing. I considered walking backward but knew I would trip and fall.  Reluctantly, I turned.
When I turned I realized that the sky had been lightening when I wasn't looking and there had been a beautiful sunrise at my back.  I didn't see it at first because my eyes were focused on a small part of the sky instead of the sky's beauty as a whole.
In Chicken Little, a popular children's story, Chicken Little gets hit on the head when a squirrel drops an acorn.  He couldn't see the source of the acorn so he believed that the sky was falling.  It was just a little acorn, but since Chicken Little couldn't see the whole picture, he assumed the whole picture was that the sky was falling.
Everyone has brief bouts of Chicken Little-ness in life.  Whenever my world seems small the acorns are magnified.  Once I see the whole picture, though, everything shrinks to its normal perspective. I just have to remember to look at the whole sky and not just what's directly in front of me.

My stress scale

Lately I've been using a scale to measure my stress level.  I came up with this on my own, although I don't want to claim that this is a patented Sarah Boyette idea because I'm sure it's not unique.

www.garrisonphoto.org

Like the 10-point scale that doctors use to help understand your pain level, I've started using a 10-point scale for stress level.  A one on the scale is me on an island by myself with a book and a full-service waiter at my beck and call.  A ten on the scale is my tipping point, so stressed I can't see clearly and I start crying at illogical events.

During the school year, I find that I live on a five or a six.  It's not ideal, but I've got a lot going on, so during the months of August through May my life (two jobs, two kids, two dogs, two fish, a hamster, a house, and a husband) happily plateaus at a 5 or a 6.  During the summer, I'm at a 3 or a 4 because we're just not under the time crunch that we are during the school year.

This has been helpful for me to recognize my limits.  If it's a stressful week at work, I might be at a seven the entire week, and if three things are added to my list, I just end up crying.  So that means that I can easily say "no" to invitations to serve on a committee or other ideas that would not be necessarily beneficial to my health or family.

I'm always looking for metaphors to express and understand life, and this has been quite a useful one.  I share it with my readers as a way to communicate with others what you are feeling.  Recognizing where I am has helped me prioritize and focus on the happy more.  

Trees

I just heard the first bird of the morning sing a wake up song.  "Focus!" he said. "Remember what is beautiful!" he said.

Trees are an important symbol in my life.  Fortunately I live in an older neighborhood with many trees.  A walk to school is mostly shaded and my family is serenaded on the way by a woodpecker, blue jay, cardinal, and the ever-present grackle.

What a tree means to me:

A tree in our backyard.

If I'm talking about faith, a tree represents how, many years ago, I was rooted in faith and my faith grows deeper and wider.  I have experienced seasons of withering faith where the leaves fell off my branches, but spring/Easter/resurrection have always followed a season of winter.

If I'm talking about my marriage, a tree represents my relationship with my husband.  A carelessly planted seed of friendship sprouted a twig and as we've weathered winters and springs together, we've grown stronger and our love has grown deeper and wider. (We've been married almost 12 years!)

If I'm talking about my children, their life is like a tree.  When they were born, they needed constant nurture and care and shelter from their parents.  As they are growing, they are sprouting little timid branches, slowly stepping out into the world.  Some of their branches will break, but I am hopeful that the nurture Adam and I are providing while they are saplings will help them maintain inner strength and the ability to weather the storms of their lives.

If I'm talking about love, we all start out small and only loving ourselves and the people in our immediate environment.  As we age, we start branching out and loving others, and that love begins to feed our core so we can grow deeper and branch out more to love more and more until we have taken up the entire neighborhood with our love branches.

Trees are an important metaphor to my life.

Intentionally Slow

Today I am moving slowly intentionally.
I'm not being lazy and I'm not lacking for tasks to be completed, I just decided today will be a slow day.
Yesterday was a whirlwind, the day before as well.  In fact, life is more whirlwind than not, so that is why I feel the need to put on the brakes and slow down today.  How can I focus on the goodness of life when I can't even see it?
For me, slowing down means that I slept in a little.  I didn't hit the ground running, crossing tasks off my to-do list as soon as I woke up.  Instead, I left the computer turned off.  I grabbed a cup of coffee and read a book rather than my Bible study.  I ate breakfast instead of grabbing a granola bar.  I wrote thank you cards for birthday gifts.  I walked Claire to school and back and then trimmed the rose bushes at an abandoned house on my street.
I am ecstatic to say that even though I'm not full of frantic energy and productivity, everything is still getting done.  Claire and Paul both got to school on time and I was on time for work.
Oddly, less frantic today means more focused.  I've completed all my urgent tasks and still have two hours left in my work day.  I even sat and talked with friends for a few minutes!
About a year ago I read A.J. Jacob's book The Guinea Pig Diaries.  In it he describes several social experiments he participated in like brutal honesty, online dating, and outsourcing his life.  The book is funny and at some times appalling, but the chapter that stuck with me was "The Uni-tasker."  Jacobs sites scientific evidence that we are handicapping ourselves by trying to do too many activities at once.  As a mother and an American living in the 21st century, I can relate.
Some days I can wake up productive and some days I need to just focus on one task at a time.  So today I am a productive uni-tasker.  I am pausing to take a breath and focus on the task at hand.  I am reaching out of the whirlwind to touch base.  I am stopping to be thankful.

Working on the Outside

Yesterday Adam and I had a dilemma.  After our Sunday afternoon nap (mandatory around here) we had about two and a half hours flex time before we needed to begin our school night routines.  We talked.  What would we do?  Claire wanted to take a walk around the whole neighborhood.  I wanted to spend at least an hour cleaning the inside of the house.  Adam needed to mow.
We decided to focus on yard work with the possibility of coming inside to clean house later.
Apart from tending to my little garden and flowerbeds around the house, I don't do much yard work.  I'm not opposed to it; it just usually falls under Adam's domain.  Yesterday was different.  Each family member pitched in.
Paul and Claire tackled the leaves that were everywhere.  They rotated between using the good rake and the super-cool leaf blower.
Adam focused on trimming bush/trees.
I rotated between the groups bagging whatever they had collected.
We ended up having such a good time working together that we spend the entire time outdoors.  Toward the end, the kids got tired and switched to playing Frisbee, which was fine.  They worked hard at manual labor for about two hours, so 30 minutes of play was totally acceptable.  Adam and I circled wagons and focused on one side of the house, which is now free of leaves and unsightly branches.
While we were working, though, I began to see that was where we needed to be.  At home, I spend most of my time indoors, so I often have an urgency about maintenance for the inside of the house.  There's always a load of laundry to hang, dishes to wash, floors to vacuum, and the dust bunnies yell at me daily.
I rarely think about maintaining the outside of our home.  Sure, that bush is half dead and needs trimming and/or uprooting, but look at the dust in the house!  Yes, there are piles of leaves that are slowly turning to coal and diamonds around our driveway, but the dishes are overflowing!
This inside/outside struggle is parallel to another struggle I have.
I spend little time maintaining my outward appearance.  As long as I'm clean, I don't really think too much about being in fashion, wearing makeup, having the latest hairstyle or being physically fit.  Instead, I spend many hours working on inward maintenance.  In my life, inward beauty is more important than outward beauty, so I am constantly praying, journaling, replaying my day and analyzing how I can be a better person.
The problem with that is that I get so focused on that I forget the outside needs maintenance, too.
So today I have both read my Bible and done a short Pilates workout.
Today I will try to focus on not forgetting I have an inside and an outside.

Five Minute Friday:Jump

So I have recently stumbled upon Lisa Jo-Baker's blog.  She's a mama and a professional blogger. Every Friday she posts a prompt and readers are supposed to write about it for exactly five minutes.  Since I'm running a little late this morning anyway, I thought I could do that with a focus.  Today's prompt is Jump.



Today I will jump in the day late, oversleeping, but patient with myself because that's okay.  I will make the kids jump out of bed and later, Adam will jump on a plane and fly home.
Claire, Paul, and I will walk to school in this breeze, chilly air, and hopefully jump for joy at a few miracles we see along the way.  Look at the bird on our Little Free Library!  Look at that new rose blooming on that bush; better go back and cut that one.  Who will we give it to?
Look at me as I speed past you on my scooter.  You are an old lady.  Yes, that's right, I am sooo old.
Jump as we look at our watches.  Five minutes to go!  We can get there in time.
Jump as we see Claire's best friend getting out of the car.  Lola!  Wait for me!
Jump as we head home, just Paul and I because we don't have an agenda today, except for waiting for Home Depot to come measure our floors.
Jump because our day will be full of washing dishes, playing baseball, petting dogs, and maybe planting our sprouts.
Jump on the trampoline.

Running on Grace

Since Holy Week, the Boyette household has been running non-stop.  Every few days I've had a brief chance (an hour or so) to catch my breath, wash dishes, and carry on.  It is neither desirable or healthy to live life on the go, but sometimes life requires it of us.
When I was studying to become a teacher, one of my professors made me memorize the four stages of teaching.  I wish I had committed it to long-term memory because all I can remember is the first stage: survival mode, and the last stage: proficiency.
You could say that today I am living in survival mode, but I prefer to think that I'm running on grace.  I've been saying prayers of gratitude all morning that things are going better than they could be.

Here's a few examples of moments of grace that I've been aware of today:

1. I woke up late; at 6 a.m.  I usually get up at 5, so when I realized the time, I panicked, but our automatic coffeemaker greeted me with a fresh cup of coffee, already brewed.

2. The kids and Adam were able to get themselves out of bed mostly on time today by themselves.  Usually I have to stop what I'm doing multiple times each morning to get them all awake.  I only did that once today.

3. Last night was museum night, so both kids stayed up past their bedtimes, but neither one was grouchy and falling apart this morning.  Paul delighted in watching our hamster and announcing he was also a hamster.

4.  After we dropped Claire off at school, I was able to wash the dishes from last night.  That made me feel better.

5.  While I was washing dishes, Adam called to warn me of two policeman patrolling the area around Claire's school.  Since life has been frantic lately,  I am currently driving with an expired inspection sticker, so I was so grateful for the warning and took a different route.

6.  I didn't have time to eat breakfast this morning, but was able to have a healthy granola bar in the car.  On days like that, we often stop for donuts, but today Paul and I made healthy choices.

7.  It was barely sprinkling when Claire went to school, but as Paul and I started getting in the car, the rain came, just in time to remind me the umbrellas were in the house.  I was able to go back in and get them and avoid wet heads and grouchiness later.

8.  We were running a little late to church, but Paul prefers that I walk him to class, so I was parking the car to do that.  Then he decided he wanted to go through the carpool line, which eliminates me having to leave the car and saves me five minutes at least.

9.  I was able to arrive at school exactly on time and due to planning, already had my lesson prepared to go. I was able to immediately get to work and start a productive day.

I am so grateful for days like this when you see all the things that could have gone wrong, but none of them did.  It's a good day.  Tomorrow will be calmer and we'll all be able to catch our breath.

The first 35 years of my life

I turn 35 tomorrow.  Here's a short autobiography of my life so far:

I was born at Harris Hospital downtown.  Some could say I was born a Methodist.

My parents went to the Birdville ISD school board and petitioned for me to attend the elementary school of their choice because the one in our area was across from the high school.  As I remember, they said they were afraid high school kids would try to sell me drugs.  I attended Snow Heights Elementary.  In my day, Snow wasn't just the name of the school.  It was an all-white campus.

I received something of a culture shock in middle school when I switched to attend the correct school.  Haltom Middle was a cultural melting pot, and I loved that about it.  I didn't know anyone at first, though, so for my first year, my best friend was a book at lunch.

I caught my social stride at Haltom High where I was friends with everyone and usually succeeded in saying a personalized greeting to every single person that crossed my path.

During my senior year in high school, my father's job moved him to Austin.  I stayed in Fort Worth with my mother so I could graduate from Haltom and she could sell the house.

I went to Tarrant County Junior College and made great friends with a girl who was dating my future husband.  He was extremely skinny and I remember wondering about his nutrition.  We all hung out together for a bit.  I worked for the school newspaper and in my spare time, wrote features for two local branches of the Star-Telegram.

During college, I roomed with my uncle.  He's eight years older than me and a world record holder in wheelchair races.  He was an aerospace engineer starting his own business.  I pitched in on rent and made up the extra with cooking and cleaning.  He also was in a christian rock band and I was a huge groupie.  We had a lot of fun.

At the University of Texas at Arlington I wrote for the school newspaper and magazine, eventually becoming the last editor of the Tempo.  Adam and I became best friends and eventually we shared enough beers and laughs that we found out we were in love.

The week after college graduation, Adam and I married and moved to Fort Worth.  We visited many churches of various denominations but finally ended up in a pretty building on Camp Bowie.  We still attend Arlington Heights UMC.  For me at least, joining the Methodist church was like finding my home.  Although I was raised, saved, and baptized in a Southern Baptist Church, the more I learned about the Methodist doctrines and beliefs, I realized I had been a closet Methodist my whole life.

My final years at UTA, I worked at Half Price Books, but when we moved to Fort Worth, I decided to use my college degree and become a teacher.  The school I taught at was the cultural opposite of the one I attended growing up.  I learned just as much as my students when I worked there.

In 2005 I got my wisdom teeth removed, we had just bought a house, and I decided, while on painkillers, that it was time for us to start having children around the house.  I didn't change my mind when my gums healed.  Claire was born the next year.

Adam and I attended Love and Logic parenting classes, which set us on a parenting style we stick to together.  I continued to teach for a couple of years.

Paul William Boyette was born and I quit teaching for pay to be a stay-at-home mom and teach my own children.

The year before Claire started kindergarten, I began working at church.  Paul still attends preschool there.  Now I rotate between church work and tutoring elementary students on reading.

Tomorrow is my birthday.  I am mother to two kids, two dogs, two fish, and one hamster.  I am wife of Adam.  I am a Jesus lover, a writer, a church staffer, a teacher, a cook, a voracious reader, and a person constantly striving to improve myself.  I love to help others, give hugs, and talk to friends.  My house is a mess but my kids are smart.  I am part of a happy family.  I am content.

Paul and I at the Mother-Son Dance in Grapevine this year.

Gardening

Several of my friends have traditional gardens in their backyard, but I've always struggled with that.  We don't really have a place for a garden, with the pool, the playset, the deck, and the trampoline.  I also don't have a rototiller to dig up the dirt to get it ready.  Although I've wanted to garden for a long time, these details have impeded me.
This year I decided to poo-poo traditional.  I'm successfully gardening in every terra-cotta pot I own.  We've got lavendar, tomatoes, cilantro, okra, squash, and bell pepper.  None of it has been ready to harvest yet, but I think we'll be able to eat a tomato by this weekend.
What I love about gardening, is that it is a lot like my church--full of love.  When I look outside, I see the aloe vera that my late grandmother started in pots and that I have continuously repotted and shared with others.  I see the Rose of Sharon bush that grew from a seed from my great uncle.  We've got a beautiful hot pink oleander bush that was a housewarming gift from my grandparents.  There's mint, marigolds, and lamb's ear from our friend Ann-Marie.  And I've got my daisies which I planted from seeds five or six years ago.  Those make me happy every time I see them.
So like the church, I am filled with love every time I interact with my potted garden.  When the plant grows out of a pot, I share it with others.  If I fail to water and pay attention to the plants, they die just like a relationship that's not cultivated.
Excuse me while I go water my church.

Blackberry Bush

About six years ago, when I was still a teacher, one of my friends gave me a cutting from her blackberry bush. I was very excited about it and went home and planted it immediately. My thought was that it would grow in the corner of my flower bed and I could save money on buying blackberries.

The first year, it didn't do anything. I vaguely remember stepping around something kind of spiky next to the pool.

The second year, a couple of blackberries sprouted, but they were immediately eaten, and I couldn't figure out what that spiky vine growing was. Sometimes I just don't connect the dots.

The third year, and each year subsequently, I have gotten zero blackberries, but the vine has taken over my little flowerbed! Apparently the blackberry "bush" didn't grow to be a bush, but a vine that is choking everything else out.

Each spring I put on my garden gloves and pull up the sprouts. I always get part of the root but not all of it. Every time I think I have it cleared out, it just grows back. It's quite frustrating and painful if you step on it.

Last week when I was pulling up the sprouts, I thought about how life is sometimes like a blackberry bush. Something small and good, if unchecked, grows into something bad that takes over your life. Also, if you're completely oblivious to the vine that is taking over your flowerbed, you're likely to get a thorn in your foot.