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March up to the gate and bid it open.

July 29, 2007

My favorite movie as a girl was The Wizard of Oz. One of the networks always aired it on a Friday night in the fall. So every Saturday towards the end of the summer, I would find the TV guide section of the newspaper and check the listings for Friday night. We had no VCR, no blockbuster, no netflix. If I missed it, that was it for a whole year. Missing it was not an option.

I remember the night before the movie came on, my knees would ache and I couldn’t sleep for all the excitement. I loved the music, especially the quick, high-pitched chorus that played when they first glimpsed the Emerald City right after the snow wakes them up in the poppy field….You’re out of the woods, You’re out of the dark, You’re out of the night! Step into the sun, step into the light!

I idolized Dorothy…her dark, swiss cake roll ponytails that changed lengths drastically from scene to scene; she was patient, loving and kind; her voice, her dress, her dog. She was beautiful and perfect.

I’ve thought about this movie a lot as I have grown up. The Scarecrow wanted a brain, the Tin Man, a heart. The Lion longed for courage and all Dorothy wanted was to find a way home. They followed yellow brick roads, ran from flying monkeys and even risked their lives to get the broomstick of the Wicked Witch just like the Wizard asked them to…who really was no Wizard at all. They did it all because they longed for something they did not have. In the end, though, we learn along with them that they had it all along, they just didn’t know it.

After all, the Scarecrow was often the one to devise all the plans, the Tin Man rusted from crying real, heartfelt tears and the Lion found the courage to save Dorothy all before they even met the Wizard. Dorothy was the most obvious of all. She couldn’t take a step without being aware of those shiny, ruby slippers. Still, when she finally sees Glenda, she cries out for help and is told she’s always had the power to go back to Kansas. The slippers she had had all along were the very means by which she would make her way home.

But she didn’t know it.

I can relate. As a believer, sometimes I find myself living a defeated, burden-filled life, unaware of the victory I already have in Christ.

His divine power has granted to us everything pertaining to LIFE and godliness, through the true knowledge of Him who called us by His own glory and goodness.
1 Peter 1:3

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a story bigger than mine

July 26, 2007

Another memory.

I am in 9th grade English class and we are reading The Glass Menagerie. I’ve just been assigned to read the part of Laura Wingfield. I always hated reading plays out loud in the cold, fluorescent classroom. It was all so…unnatural. I always ended up reading the descriptive stuff in the brackets on accident. I don’t know which I hated more: when there were too many characters and everyone had to double up on parts (you get to be the bagboy, girl with the basket and man #2) or when there weren’t enough characters to go around and you didn’t get a part at all and just had to listen to the monotone.

I much preferred reading plays alone, in my own head, so I not only could imagine the scenes playing out like a movie but I got to be every character. You know how it is in the classroom: you are assigned the part of Laura Wingfield so instead of listening to the story and following along as the action plays out, you find yourself skipping ahead, marking all of Laura’s lines, sure that you can clearly pronounce all the words in the script so as not to make a fool of yourself…until you become aware of the long pause that has settled in on the classroom and someone mercifully whispers “Hey, aren’t you Laura? Go!” And you’ve kind of missed it, the very thing you’ve been preparing for, however small.

Sometimes I feel that way in life. I can get so focused on my part, my role, my purpose, my story, that I miss the bigger story. The bigger story that isn’t just the bigger story, but it is THE ONLY STORY. Because “It isn’t a flood, it’s not a tornado, Mother. I’m just not popular like you were in Blue Mountain” makes no sense if you say it out of the context of the whole play. Yeah, I had a moment with the attention on me…but so what? That isn’t a story, it’s only a part…a fragmant of a story. To me, my story only makes sense in the context of a story that is bigger than mine.

God has a story He is writing and He has saved a part just for me! There are days when I falsely believe I would rather BE the story than just play a part, but I think there is relief in realizing that we get to be a part of something bigger than ourselves. And as I trust Him to live in and through me, there is no concern as to whether I will be able to pronounce all the words.

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learning from a memory

July 23, 2007

I‘m 16. Just got my braces off. Its the summer of 1993.

I’m driving in my parents’ black, Chevy Spectrum (the extra car)…complete with no a/c (or heat). I swear that car was made of plastic. Cheap, thin plastic…like a Barbie car without the stickers. But one thing it definitely did have was a working tape player. And when you’re 16 with straight teeth, that’s all you need.

I remember driving with my window (manually) rolled (halfway) down (if you rolled it all the way, the door would fly open) along the winding, two lane back roads in Columbia, South Carolina. I can still hear the bagpipe and the strange, haunting, off-beat sound of Peter Gabriel’s Come Talk To Me mixing with the wind that pushed its way heavy past me, through my window and out the other side.

That memory came to my mind today as I drove my kids to chic-fil-a in my Honda Pilot. I rolled my window down for a breeze before the a/c kicked in and one of my girls called out to me, “Mommy, turn the music on…” How does she know that a window down on a summer day means music? I guess I’ve taught her that, without trying, of course.

It makes me wonder what else I’m teaching them without trying…

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one of a thousand lives

July 17, 2007


Lately I have realized that the time had come to sort through and get rid of some of the girls clothes from when they were born. I have gotten rid of a lot already, but the stuff from their first year has been sitting in plastic storage boxes in the attic. Knowing I couldn’t part with all of it, I told myself to just keep those things that held meaning or special memories. I was surprised to discover which items that turned out to be.

Having twin girls will bring outfits out of the woodwork. I was given more matching dresses, jackets, and cute-never-worn hats than I know what to do with. All so small, so detailed, so matching. But it wasn’t the baby Gap outfits that are hard to let go of. It was only when I opened the box labled “6-12 months pjs and onesies” that my eyes welled up and I had to pause and remember. What is it about those worn out, pink, kitty cat jammies with a stain on the sleeve that so swiftly bring tears?

It was like those jammies hold something within them. The babies are growing up, but the jammies are still there, small and faded, as if worn only last night. The jammies represent so much…clean, wet hair after a bath; snuggle time with milk and mommy; sweet dream wishes and baby blankets.

I don’t know what it is about the jammies. But I have to keep them, at least for now. Nobody else would want them anyway. But I look at them, folded away in a plastic bin, and realize we live a thousand lives in one lifetime…and one of those lives has already passed me by. While I lived it, I could hardly wait for it to pass; the sleepless nights, the feedings, the culture shock of firstime motherhood…the first year of having twins. Now that it’s over, I can never get it back.

But I can keep the jammies.

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i’d rather be sleeping.

July 9, 2007

So awake. So very awake. Looking around my dark room, bored. Never be bored at 11:35 pm. Be ASLEEP.

I think it’s the Rocky Road ice cream that I ate at 9pm that is causing me trouble. My sister thinks it’s wrong to have chunks of nuts in ice cream. It’s like, an interruption. Tell me about it.

I’m not normally awake now. At least not now that we have passed the newborn stage with our baby and entered into the big baby stage (what do you call the “bigger than a newborn, not yet a toddler” person?)

I looked at the clock at 11:22 and decided that if at 11:32 I was still awake, I would get up and do something. The following is a loose outline of my thoughts during that time.:

I like The Man’s new office. He needs to take a coffeemaker there. To make his own coffee. If I had a job and an office, I would be sure to take a coffeemaker into the office with me to make my own coffee in the mornings. What a great idea that is! But can you do that? It seems like maybe you can’t, like its a fire hazard. What? You’re so stupid, if you can have a coffeemaker in the breakroom, then you can have one in your own office. I worked in an office once. Nobody brought their own coffeemaker. Why not? I would! But wait, I didn’t. But I would now. And leave creamer in the fridge. Maybe I would just make coffee in the breakroom. A full pot? Everyone could just drink it. A half pot? What if I had to pee and came back and it was gone? I could just make a lot every morning and wait until it brews and take the first cup, who cares if others drink it? But then, I would become the coffeemaker. Not the coffeemaker. The Coffee Maker. The one who makes the coffee. How do you spell “coffeemaker”? Maybe I should call it a “coffeepot”. What time is it?

Only 11:29. I’m getting up anyway.

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