I think November-the-fourth was my cousin Diana's birthday. Whether it is or not, every year on the fourth of November, I think a lot about her.
My childhood came to an abrupt halt when we left my birth city of Des Moines when I was 10. We moved across the state where my parents would start a new church and life never felt quite the same to me. Wherever we lived after that, I always felt like a visitor, but was never "home."
But in Des Moines, other than the fact that I was indeed a Pentecostal preacher's daughter, which is a little "different," I did practically live the Leave-it-to-Beaver existance. Dad worked (AND pastored). Mom was at home with a fine apron collection. We lived in a big stucco house on a tree-lined street with an alley in the back, near which we burned our own trash. We created ballerinas from toothpicks and hollyhocks. I walked the few blocks to and from a school where classes began at 9:05 am and dismissed promptly at 3:10 pm. We chased fireflies on summer nights, outside with neighborhood friends way past dark, and our good neighbors would actually buy pretty rocks and shells from us (which we sold from old egg cartons) just to finance our trips to a corner grocery for penny candy.
Geez. I sound like I was born before electricity.
One great thing about my years in Des Moines was living near family. Almost all the grandmas and grandpas and aunts and uncles and cousins lived nearby. There were lots of impromptu family gatherings. I could walk to Grandma Baker's house. And when I started school, my cousin Diana was there to escort me to Wallace Elementary, where she also attended.
Diana was only about 4 years older than me, but to me she was all-wise and fully mature. Anything she thought or said or did seemed glamorous and exciting. The cool thing about that is that she was not at all bothered by my adoration or hanging on. There was a softness and gentleness in her, a graciousness. She watched over me and out for me.
I remember some girls, Jill and Jacquita, being mean to me one day in the first grade. Usually they were my friends, but for some reason that day they weren't and it was very upsetting. I had had a really bad day and I told Diana the things they had done and said – something I'd never have mentioned to my parents. On the way home those girls ended up in front of us on the sidewalk and I cannot remember what Diana said to them, but whatever it was caused Jacquita, the daughter of my mom's Avon lady, to sit on some one's front stoop and cry. I felt a little bad for her, but I felt totally protected by Diana. The next day, Jill and Jacquita were nice to me again.
I have rarely seen Diana since I married over 26 years ago, or maybe even since she married over 34 years ago. She is a pastor's wife living in Illinois now – a long ways away. Time and space comes between us all. But when I do think of her, and that is often, I remember the ornery twinkle in her eye – she found humor all around. And I recall how she snuck fingernail polish to me when it was forbidden. She was the first person I ever watched fall in love and she let me in on the secrets of life and love. I recall singing a lot with her – she playing the blond-wood piano and singing lead, me belting out the alto ("Lonely road…Calvary's way was a lonely road…"). I remember her as a good and kind cousin and I think of her every November the fourth with great fondness.
A cousin is part sibling, the same blood coursing through your veins, and part best friend. There is the safety of a sibling and the excitement of a person with a whole new perspective and address. A cousin understands where you came from because they came from there, too, in a roundabout way. But they expose you to new things and your parents totally trust them in that.
If Diana's birthday was November 4, I hope it was vey happy.
Love, Jeanie
pictured; My brother Joe recently forwarded this photo of Diana and her husband Tony and their grown children and grandkids to me. I still think she has the kindest eyes.
NOTE TO SELF: Maybe the holidays will be a time to catch up with the cousins…?
Stormie got in trouble with her Kindergarten teacher for telling other children there wasn't really a Santa Claus.
We're not those Christians that think "Santa" is just a mixed up way of saying "Satan." Au contraire. We just let Santa Claus be a part of the whole kit and caboodle of the celebrating, but his part was just a fun story for my kids, "'Twas the night before Christmas…". No way I was going to let some fat guy in a red suit get the credit for buying all those gifts. We figured we'd let them know right from the start and then there'd be no disappointment later or wondering what else we'd been dishonest about.
Rocky and Stormie went through a phase of thinking he was real on all their own. Their reasoning? "We saw him. He was walking down the mall." It lasted about 2 days.
But Stormie, against our counsel, I assure you, told other poor, unsuspecting children. And she got busted. She probably wishes she hadn't known the truth because to have that kind of knowledge – to be able to tell a secret so powerful it will destroy another child – that is heady power, my friends. Heady.
I'm already dreaming of Christmas…Jeanie
NOTE TO SELF: Better find out what all my kids are telling my grandkids before Stormie gets to them.
I recently wrote about being a baby-book-challenged mom and my failure to properly record, in book form, the history of my 5 children (see it here). Oh, occasionally I did some work on the baby books. I started pretty well with Tara's before she was born. I got all the baby shower gifts recorded. Each book had some photos and hospital braceletes tucked in. There was an attempt. It was just a failed attempt.
But I DID keep lots of the bits & pieces of their childhoods – totes full of memories sat on garage shelves waiting for the right time. They were filled with school artwork and favorite little baby outfits from each child. There were special blankets I had sewn and sweet sweaters made by now-deceased aunts. Treasures!
So, I went through everything and kept some of it for the chronicles I am assembling that scream of the faithfulness and goodness of God in our family for the past 26+ years. But mostly, I decided to give the things my children had made and the things we'd collected to represent their lives back to them. I filled these giant hot pink bags with the scraps of their pasts and tied them with big bows and attached my apology-of-sorts letter to each.
Here, in part, is what the letter said:
"THE CHOSEN TREASURE OF YOUR HEART
To my children – What do with this stuff…
I know receiving all these odds and ends and bits and pieces of your lives may cause you to wonder: what am I suppose to do with all this stuff? And why is mom giving back to me the things I made for her as a kid?
Well, I am keeping plenty of little momentos and scraps myself. As you know, I am hard at work cataloguing our lives, creating a chronicle of the adventures that we have enjoyed. I am placing everything in books that I can pull out at a moment's notice and peruse and enjoy, but I am simplifying at this stage in my life. I hope the fact that I have held onto these things for so many years will speak to you of the importance they have had in my heart.
As I have prepared to give these things to you, I have looked at every single item again. I have touched each memory, smiled and cried over piece after piece of our family history. There were little scribble drawings and coupons you gave me along with your incredible artwork and report cards filled with teacher's notes (nearly always good!), and it is all so precious to me. Now I hope you can enjoy it, too.
But, more than anything – I don't want you to be overwhelmed by it. So I am sending along a few suggestions.
When I was a little girl, one of my favorite "books," was the scrapbook my mother had created as she was growing up. She had glued napkins from special parties and locks of hair (hers and family members), photos of her pets and poems she wrote when they died. She filled her book with certificates she won in Sunday School and letters from her mom. There was a hand-written note from Marty Robbins and pictures of Roy Rogers and Dale Evans with their horses. They were her treasures. I loved looking at that book. My mom would only let me see it on special occasions because it was getting old, even then, but sometimes I sneaked to look at it because I found it all so interesting. It told me about my mom before there was me and it contained the true essence of her. The things she saved then, some as far back as over 60 years ago now, still speak about who she is, still bring insight into her heart.
So, I truly see the value in scrapbooks and keeping momentos and keepsakes. There is a huge scrapbook "movement" going on and this really isn't about that. This is just about organizing the pieces of your lives so you can enjoy them. In that spirit, here is what I suggest you do with this huge bag of goodies:
Sit down and start going through.
Anything that brings a bad memory or none at all – toss it immediately. It has no value to you.
Anything that reveals a little about who you are or makes you happy when you see it, glue it into a scrapbook or place it in a page cover in a notebook. Then, every birthday, get it out and remember and think about how these items contributed to who you are. Share it with your children. They will love it, they will love your story.
It is amazing how the things we write or draw or won as a child shape us as adults. I recently went through many of my belongings and ended up throwing away a lot of things that reminded me of a person I no longer am and never again want to be. But I am choosing, from the chosen treasure of my heart, to hold onto things that have brought me to where God always wanted me to be – the person He originally intended.
Memories are a tough thing sometimes. They can play tricks on us. At [48], I have made a decision to spend the last half of my life remembering the good stuff, the laughs, the successes, the wins – my chosen treasures. This is why I am cataloguing the blessed life I have been given. I am remembering the goodness of the Lord, the heritage He gave me, the legacy He is allowing me to leave. I am recalling His provision and His confidence in me to be your mother.
This is my chosen treasure. I hope you'll find some of yours in this collection of stuff."
Blessings my parent-friends – it's not too late to bless the kids!… Jeanie
NOTE TO SELF: As I look around my house, the photos, the objects d'art, the books, the letters, the stuff…I am blessed, rich, at peace. There has been some pain along the way, yes, but it has been gloriously outweighed, richly overtaken by blessing. God is faithful. He is so faithful.
Pictured: the kids as three mice and 2 kittens and as beauty contestants and MC (clothes from various weddings they did that year), October 1987.
Who will buy this beautiful morning
and put it in a box for me?
So I can see it at my leisure,
whenever things go wrong.
And I can keep it as a treasure
to last my whole life long?"
I failed my children in baby-booking. I did. I just stunk at it. Their entire lives, the guilt of the knowledge that I had not filled out the dates on the teeth-cutting-arrival charts gnawed at me relentlessly. Pages with the words paste photohere nakedly jeered at me, taunting my inability to create a wondrously meaningful book for posterity.
It wasn't that I didn't have photos to paste. It wasn't that I didn't delight at the clink of the spoon on a newly-emerged tooth or want to remember every single, tiny moment of their first days. I saved everything for each of my children from the second I knew they were coming. It was almost a sickness, induced, I fear, by having a parent who saved nothing. We took untold thousands of photos of these 5 incredible children.They were also often undeveloped for a really long time.
But somehow, I just didn't do well at putting things in their books. I think my perfectionistic tendancies (aka my all-or-nothing sickness) interferred. "Today I must focus entirely on the babybook and fill in each line and glue the proper photos as directed," was my heart's desire, but didn't happen, couldn't happen, because life was happening. When you are deeply involved in your husband's ministry, right at his side AND almost annually producing a new human being, leisure time to cut and paste and record gets put on the back burner – or in my case, books safely tucked into their original boxes, high on a closet shelf.
The other day my daughter Stephanie kind of snickered that when I'd presented her baby book to her there was nothing in it. I guess I thought maybe "the thought" would count. "Yeah-there is nothing there, but look at this beautiful book I was thinking about fixing up for you!?" Stephanie has Gemma's babybook close by, on top of the television armoire and is a really good baby-booker. She obviously did not inherit this from me.
But momentos and keepsakes? Oh, I kept them. I kept the baby advertising magazines from 1979, 82, 83, 84, and 1986 so they could know what having a baby "looked like" when they were born. I retained ticket stubs and mimeographed school programs. There were hastily ripped-out Family Circus cartoons that reminded me of my own crew ALONG with newspaper clippings of letters to the editor I had encouraged my kids to write. I kept Mother's Day's cards (I have a lot of unredeemed homemade coupons I'd like to cash in on now!) and "I'm sorry" notes both from and to me. Our annual family Valentine's Day love letters to each other filled decorated cereal boxes. I kept report cards and test scores and Sunday School papers and snippets of hair.
But I didn't keep baby books well. Not at all.
Recently, Tredessa and Stormie helped me go through totes and totes of keepsakes. Our whole family's lives were contained in them. We read their stories and laughed until we cried. I put aside love letters between Dave and I for another day and started a collection of favorite letters from my parents because someday those will be all I have to hold close. We threw away report cards with grades we chose not to recall and saved only the cards which told the truth of how delightful and perfect my children are. We threw away sad junk and chose the treasures of our lives which will become memories we hold close.
I saved a bunch of things for a project I am working on. I am creating something of a "Chronicles of the Dave & Jeanie Rhoades Family," so I need material. And I am not lacking. It is probably 20 volumes with photos and special momentos and written memories, by now.
But there was a lot left over. So I decided to give my kids each a big, big bag of their stuff, their history, their past. Because really, it is in adulthood that we start to appreciate and relish each "scrap" of our lives. Maturity brings a reverence for the past in a strong way, causing us to realize how all the little tidbits carefully glued into a scrapbook or baby book or stored in a dusty box are really the materials that mirror the essence of us.
Some one else may look at our things and wonder why we are keeping them, but we can look at them, just as I have often looked at my mother's crumbling and deteriorating childhood scrapbook, and see ourselves in the reflection of it. And we will hold on to those things as long as we are able, because they are our history, our beginnings – the story we will tell and pass on, the legacy we will leave.
So – my kids each got this giant, colorful bag of stuff with a big bow on it and a letter from me – an "apology" of sorts. They didn't get a well-put-together baby book. I failed at baby-booking. But they got the treasures I safeguarded while we were creating the histories they have. They got some scraps of this and that that prove that I love them with my whole heart – baby book completed or not.
Now you know for sure – I wasn't a perfect mom…Jeanie
NOTE TO SELF: Keep only the chosen treasure. Throw everything else away.
NOTE TO MY KIDS: I got lots of glue sticks at a back-to-school clearance sale. Wanna glue your own stuff in your baby books???
Pictured: Dave and "the tribe" June 1987. L – R are Stormie (1), Rocky (2 1/2), Tara (8), Stephanie (5), and Tredessa (4)
People wonder, "Is that really his name?" And yes, it is really his name – although not his actual, legal name.
We were rolling along having babies left and right. We'd had Tara, who was 5, Stephanie, who was 28 months and Tredessa, who was 15 and 1/2 months when baby number four was to arrive. "The early eighties were a blur," is a famous quote by…ME!
By this time, having picked out boys names before and never getting to use them, we really had no big list going. In fact, the girls were such a delight, we were Ok with the fact that we might be an all-little-girl-family, save Dave. By then it just seemed that a 4th daughter made more sense. Wherever we would live, either there'd be 4 girls in one giant room or 2 girls each in 2 rooms. And naturally we had quite a collection of adorable girl's clothing awaiting this baby, should baby require it.
So, people would ask: is this it? Are you having more kids? Do you just really want a boy? I know people were were concerned for my well-being, but my sanity was in a happy state of suspension at that time. I was in the baby-making zone, loving the pregnancy experience, enjoying the birth experience and entertained nightly by the most amazing children. My little family was my life, my joy, my everything.
Dave and I prepared a pat answer for people, which was pretty blase, actually: You know, we don't really care. A girl will be wonderful. In fact, if we have a boy, we'll probably have at least one more baby because we wouldn't want the boy to be the hen-picked-baby of so many older sisters. After having given said pat answer to my brand-new sister-in-law, Robin, her eyes grew wide with concern and she said something like, "Well, then, I hope you have girl so you don't kill yourself having babies!"
Imagine the surprise when the doctor announced, "It's a boy!" I had been fine with the possibility of a girl, expecting it , really. I hadn't even dared to hope we'd have a boy. More powerful than the force of my son being born was the torrent of raw emotion following like afterbirth: I laughed. I cried. It was mixed. I couldn't get my breath. "You're kidding!???!," I was incredulous. But no, they were not. All of my "even-steven" girl and frilly-dresses plans were out the window.
He was born late (on a Saturday night) and when I finally got to my room, I was in a state of euphoria you could not believe. I couldn't sleep all night long – I just wanted to hold him and look at him. I can still, 23 years later, recall the smell of his head, the warmth of his skin, the weight of his fresh-born body fitted perfectly into my arms. Sometime just before sunrise the nurses convinced me to get a little sleep, even though I just felt like dancing. As they put him in his little bed, I looked out the window at the twinkling lights of the city and felt new and full of hope – the feeling of God's favor on my life keen and clear. He was our baby boy, a first, so very different.
The memory is so strongly emblazoned that when Rocky told us a few months ago (on a Saturday night) that he and Jovan were going to have a baby, I dreamed of it – a baby boy in my arms – I was re-living looking at Rocky, but this baby had Jovan's baby hair. It was so real I cried the next morning when I told him about it. I am already in love again.
We named him David Allen Rhoades II after his daddy. Dave didn't want a David Jr., but having been adopted, he had come into the world without a "biological history" so his name, I convinced him, was a great gift to give – the beginning of his legacy to his children. But within in few days, we knew what a hassle the same name would be throughout the years and we announced that he would be called "Rocky." And thus he has been since.
When he was little, Rocky actually thought the cereal, the ice cream and the TV show by the same name were titled in his honor. When he'd get away from in a store, you'd hear snickers throughout as the loudspeaker announcement declared: Rocky Rhoades, meet your parents at the Service Desk. Rocky Rhoades, please come to the front.
Any fears we ever had over whether or not he'd turn out feminine with 3 older sisters were put to rest as he grew. They were girly, liked hair ornamentations and sang silly songs. Rocky was rough and tumble, could climb cabinetry before he could walk and liked bugs. The girls were lady-like and polite. Rocky made school teachers and Sunday School teachers alike cry. Slightly ornery, I guess. Adorable to me.
Happy Birthday, Rocky! Every single day of your life I have loved you deeply and passionately. Every single day of your life I have believed in you with my whole heart. Everytime I see you, I see into your future, I see things God has planned for you and paths He is preparing. I watch you doubt yourself and sometimes question your value in the kingdom and I rebuke the accuser on your behalf. Every day of my life, I am grateful because you are the son I secretly wanted so badly, but hardly dared to believed I'd ever have.
I have always been so proud of you. You were the classic brother, teasing the bewillies out of your sisters, but by the time the voice changed and I started having to swat all the little girls away – I could see a depth of character emerging in you, I could see God placing His imprint on you.
Once, when you as a young teen-ager were really taxing my nerves, I was walking into a store on a snowy day just saying "God, give me insight into Rocky – this strong will, this tough exterior." Immediately – the Holy Spirit told me you were a David (The Psalmist, the worshipper) – just out in the field throwing rocks, maturing. The Holy Spirit also told me you were a Peter, whose name means "rock," (the impetuous disciple – ready to cut off an ear to defend Christ). I had to laugh and cry like I did the night you were born – I could see it clearly. Not because you were singing yet, because your whole life you didn't – wouldn't sing. Our whole family sang our heads off, loved worshipping God. You were silent. But suddenly God showed me what He was working in you – you'd be David-worshipper and even though Peter struggled in his faith and even denied the Lord at one point – he also stood boldly and preached the gospel without apology and the church of Jesus Christ was born!
Rocky – can you comprehend the size of the lump in my throat when, at a family Bible study just a week later, you shared that you'd been looking at the people of the Bible, wondering who you were like and felt God had told you: David, like your name, and Peter. Upon this rock of revelation, my son…You said you wanted to be the man spoken of in Psalm 112 – the blessed life of the man who fears the Lord.
I will always remember 2002. At 17 1/2 you had attended a worship event over New Year's and you came home with a song in your heart. Our eyes widened in amazement as we begin to hear you worship in your room hours on end. There were nights I'd peek out at 2 am and see you in the living room by the light of the moon singing to the Lord. After years of trying to get you to sing – it was pouring out of you, pent-up passion and the fire shut up in your bones for the Lord had began bursting forth, but in a private holy way.
It was months before you began to share it with the family. At the slighest provocation, you'd whip out your guitar and we'd all be caught up in the Presence. No matter how tired you were from a hard day of work at Discount Tire, if you came in and I was at the piano, you'd grab your guitar. Much worship was rising from that place, then. I remember you getting hoarse from singing so much. I suggested once that you take a few days off from singing and you said, "Mom, I can't. I withheld singing to the Lord for so long, I have to sing to Him now."
When, after 9 months of secret worship, you were given the opportunity to lead publicly and the Spirit of God came in to that place like a heavy, powerful wind, some one asked me, "Wow – are you surprised that was in your son?" I wasn't. I had watched you carefully and seriously worship God in the secret place for nine months. So, on your 18th birthday, in a new birth of sorts, God let you invite the rest of to go with you into that place adoration and praise.
I love you, my son. You were born to worship God. That is your call, your purpose, the thing God loves about you the most – that you give Him your song. Your are the son I love, I am so pleased with you.
We love you, Rocky. We bless you. We are blessed by you. Happy 23rd birthday. Happy love and marriage with the beautiful wife of your youth. Happy daddy soon…Mom
Pictures:Rocky at 4, Rocky in 1st grade,me adoring my 5-week old, Rocky at his 13th birthday with the Stormtrooper gun he begged for (this year Jovan and us Rhoadeses all chipped in to get him a Spring UTG Sniper Rifle Accushot Competition Master Model 700 Pro with a 3-bolt FPS 450 and Bi-pod, which he will receive tonight as we celebrate http://www.hobbytron.com/AirsoftSniperRifleGunSpringLPSOFTM324S.html. It is much needed for life at the church office), and Rocky with Jovan
I started this blog on November 29th of 2006 and I am hitting the "100 blogs" mark with this very post! My first entry listed my top ten reasons for blogging (see here) and as I re-read them today, I think, yes, they are still basically my reasons.
The number one reason I wrote almost a year ago was that my mother would like it. Just yesterday she read 3 of my recent posts, which were not necessarily very inspired or original and she e-mailed me about how wonderful they were…what a great writer I am…and wouldn't it be something if it was announced that I was the next great writing sensation?! I'm not sure where they announce that kind of thing, but I'll be watching ABC World News Tonight a little more closely. And yet, for all her deep love of my blog, my mom still hasn't learned to post a comment on it. But I get nice emails.
Perhaps, however, the apple doesn't fall far from the tree, as blogging is still a mystery to me, I only learned about blogs in early 2004 and only visited the one I knew about when I got an email reminder. Then my friend, Amanda of Imago Dei fame (http://www.mandikaye.com) who by sheer determination in her search will certainly soon look in the mirror and see His very reflection and image, re-introduced me about a year and half ago to her 2 sites. She is an award winning blogger and utilizes all the bells and whistles. I'm a middle-aged woman who hates spellcheck and is afraid of any of the other options they give me here on WordPress, so I don't touch them. I haven't figured out how to post a youtube video correctly and God forbid I should try to enlarge my font because when I hate it, as I usually do, it will NEVER go back. What is WordPress trying to do to me???
I am still trying to be smart, hip and cool like all my blogging friends, though…Jeanie
NOTE TO SELF: Make a list of appropriate 100-blog-celebration gifts in case anyone asks…Hmmmm…100 songs off Itunes, $100, 100 gallons of gas, 100 movie passes, 100 rolled tacos from Tacos Rapidos, 100 magazine subscriptions, 100…
Happy Anniversary to 2 of the world's great lovers and friends. I love your love. Everybody loves your love.
Your wedding remains in my mind one of the great romantic events of all times. I will always remember the joyful dancing and the delight we all felt when Dave became our son and our daughter had chosen so wisely, so beautifully. You are each incredible human beings. Together, you are some of the most amazing people on earth. Add Hunter and the beauty is nearly indescribable.
Blessings on the anniversary of the day the covenant was shared and celebrated by the people who love you most. We are still celebrating with you….Mom
NOTE: First 2 photos above were taken in August in Missouri (Moslander Family Reunion).
So when you're out in the woods beyond corn fields in the middle of rural Missouri – there is really no sense in putting on your cute platform shoes for the whole 34-person family reunion picture – especially when ultimately, they won't even show. But it was my summer vacation. I threw caution to the wind and did it anyway.
Running back to the cabin to make sure nothing on the stove was burning, it happened. It's almost like slow-motion. I felt a twig begin to roll under my extremely cute shoe. Once the motion begins – there is no turning back.
The twig under my left foot rolled the full length from front to back and I knew I was going to flip backwards. But something in the human body screams, "NO! You must not go backwards and crack your head open." So I landed forwards on my hands and knees. I have no idea how. I only know that perhaps cracking my head open and going permently goofy may have been less painful.
By the time I came to a very abrupt stop, I had sprained my right ankle, fractured my left knee and gotten whiplash (my head heavier than I ever imagined). For one month now, I have had to elevate, compress, ice, heat, wrap, rest, and repeat as needed. I even had to spend 4 hours in the emergency room back home 2 1/2 weeks after the fall because of the blasted swelling (have you ever seen a foot as big as a watermelon?) and my appendages turning black (nothing serious, folks – just internal bleeding settling).
Dave quipped, "Well, this will be the first of many falls to come, I'm sure," referring, I believe, to 'old-age' falls. If I could catch him, I'd smack him.
So, for the past month you could usually find me with my head in an over-the-door traction contraption, popping ibuprofen like its going out of style and loving Vicadin like a good friend. But, I bet no one else got to come home from their vacation this year and spend day after day with their feet up, taking it easy!?
Watch your path for twigs, beware of platforms…Blessings, Jeanie
We decided that on route to my parent's 50th Wedding Anniversary Celebration, the whole bunch of us (Dave and I and all 5 grown kids and spouses and grandchildren) would zip up to Norfolk, NE where we once pastored (lived there for 7+ years) to look at old schools and houses and reminesce a little. Our plans included hoping to get together with old friends and eat at our dearly-loved Valentinos Italian Buffet on Johnny Carson Avenue.
Peter and Lauren Bierer from Mankato, MN met us there (the Bierers lived there when we did), though the rest of the family wasn't able to make it. Peter and Lauren brought along their 3D ultrasound pictures (baby due in November!) and that baby, whether and girl or boy is yet unknown, is a Bierer through and through!
Plans and any "extra time" we thought we may have had were abruptly put on hold when, as 2 year-old Guini was laying on the motel room floor singing "Oh, no, You never let go" and reading her Gideon-placed Bible with extreme intensity, an accidental fall off the bed by big brother resulted in a broken left arm (both bones broke, see x-ray if you're not too squeamish). The whole bunch of us went in to wait mode while the experts at Faith Medical tended to our little injured princess.
Some of us were able to venture to the mall to eat lunch before heading back to the hospital (I don't think they'd ever seen such a large group of people in their waiting room for one little girl) and ended up running in to old friends, The Meikle Family: Ken and Linda, their daughters Lori and Aleisha, along with Lori's boyfriend, Aleisha's husband and 2 kids and the baby on the way. It was nice to catch up with them and see that the girls we knew have grown into such beautiful young women. Linda's ministry made a great impact on my children's lives. Stormie was Lori's flower girl about 17 years ago or so (see photos, now and then).
I hate that I didn't get a picture of Carla Schaffer who also happened by the food court in the mall. Carla is an amazing woman whose prayer support and friendship is a great memory of our time in Norfolk. She raised a great looking bunch of 4 boys and is a grandma now, too. How is that possible?
Unfortunately, though we bumped in to several old friends and acquaintances, we didn't get to see everyone we wanted to in Norfolk. The kids got to see their old school: Northern Hills Elementary (see photo; left to right:Stormie, Tara, Rocky, Stephanie, Peter Bierer, Tredessa), and we drove by our 1880's Victorian home (we once won the city Christmas lighting contest) and got a glimpse of the tree under which our dog Lady was buried so many years ago.
But it was a fun little jaunt there anyway, in spite of poor Guini's injury.
She, at least, got a lovely purple cast, which has been nicely autographed in silver metallic pen and Auntie Jovan picked out a matching stroller and doll, which Guini is now obsessed with and pushes everywhere she goes at all times.
We remember Norfolk from the chosen treasure of our hearts…Jeanie
NOTE TO SELF: Thank-You, Lord, for Your faithfulness, for the quick healing Guini is doing and for your mercies to our family throughout all the years. (The doctor's report is that she will get the cast off after only 4 weeks instead of 6 and it is doing well!)
One twisted and scraped and swollen knee, one sprained ankle, one broken arm, one neck-lash and a lot of very expensive gas later, we're back!
Just walking in the door from the Moslander family reunion where we celebrated my parent's 50th wedding anniversary at Big Lake State Park in Mound City, MO.
More to come…!
Blessings, Jeanie (by the way – not everything above happened to me…but most of it did…)
NOTE TO TONIA: Everything looks lush and wondrous. All the squash are monstrous and plump, the tomatoes are glowing the pumpkins got gigantic, the flowers welcomed us with bursts of color and Sophie's grass is like a foot high. You are fruitful and nurture everything you touch, including us. THANK – YOU!
NOTE TO PEARL AND BRYAN: I bet Sandy won't even want to come home, but fear not – we will pick up our mutt! For tonight, I am meandering aimlessly through my backyard with no caution or fear of doggy-doo. Heavenly! You guys are THE BEST!!! And – CONGRATULATIONS on your news – our beautiful Audrey, to be a bride! Awesome!
