Say It Enough, You'll Start to Believe It
|
I am sitting in the Tampa airport, sustanence in hand, on my way to Tinsletown for the premiere of The Lion King in 3D. If you need me, have your people call my people and they can track me down by the pool at the Four Seasons…
Okay, I’m just kidding – I’m not that cool. Just send me an email or a text, m’kay? Or you can follow me on Twitter. I’ll be posting updates there over the weekend. If I remember. I’m not a very good Twitter-er…Tweeter…Twitter person. Whatever.
Buh-bye now!
I love my job. Have I ever mentioned that? I get to work from home in my pajamas. I get to work as often or as little as I want. And I get to talk to hunky movie stars on the phone.
How fun is my job?
The best thing that ever happened to me career-wise was joining the team over at 5 Minutes for Mom a few years ago. I love those ladies. They have great hearts, they are the hardest workers I’ve ever known and they share amazing opportunities with the team of writers they’ve put together. It’s an honor to be a part of that and I’m constantly grateful for the chance to further hone my craft, use my journalism a little bit and have experiences I would never have otherwise.
Like next week, when I am flying out to Los Angeles for the premiere of The Lion King: 3D. That is an experience that never would have been possible were it not for the lovely ladies at 5 Minutes for Mom being willing to share the fun with everyone else. (I won’t tell you that I was supposed to go to Bolivia for them earlier this month but had to back out due to the move. I won’t mention that because it still stings a little.)
Anyway, last week I had the opportunity to speak with Harry Connick Jr. and his daughter Kate about their partnership with American Girl benefitting the Ellis Marsalis Center for Music in New Orleans. Here is our conversation.
As parents, we all want to instill a sense of heritage into our children. Whether we’re starting from scratch, hoping to create a new story for our kids or we’re drawing from the past and passing history on to them, we all want to send our offspring into adulthood with a sense of identity.
For Harry Connick Jr., the desire to share his love for the city of his youth and the culture that nurtured him into the man he is today only heightened six years ago when Hurricane Katrina wiped out New Orleans in one fell swoop.
“I think [passing on heritage] is paramount,” Connick says, “and that’s why I take my family to New Orleans regularly. Growing up in New Orleans, the culture was so much a part of the fabric [of life] down there. It was so interwoven into everyday life that you didn’t even think of it as heritage and culture. It was just part of the norm.”
Hop on over to 5 Minutes for Mom to read the rest and find out how you can be a part of the continued work in New Orleans.
One of my favorite Sassy Bloggers (we should form a club…), Jessica, posted her Plank Pullin’ series today. I like this series. I admire Jessica’s courage to put her planks out there. You’ll notice I haven’t put any out there myself. There are two reasons for this:
– I’m lazy
– I’m a scaredy cat
BOOM!
But Jessica’s post today hit a particularly raw nerve with me. Forgiveness. It’s such a loaded word, isn’t it? It requires action and intention no matter what end of it you’re on. If you’re the one needing forgiveness, you must intentionally act. If you are the one to extend forgiveness you must intentionally act.
Sometimes you must do both…at the same time.
Oh forgiveness…why dost thou tease me so?
One thing I have always valued highly, a trait that was instilled by my parents, has been loyalty. I value loyalty over just about everything else. I believe in it and I try hard to live by it.
Because loyalty is so important to me, restoring relationships that have been damaged is also important. It pains me to my core to think that I have ever offended someone and generally I will go to great lengths to try and restore that relationship. Sometimes this is hard. It requires the swallowing of the pride. And my pride?
It can be a big pill to swallow.
Huge.
Ginormous.
Megatronic.
You get the picture…
Even if I don’t understand my offense against someone, I try to make it right. When Lee and I were newly married we made our first married couple friends at our church in Texas. We had barbeque’s and took walks with this couple feeling ever so grown up and…married. They were our closest, and only, married friends in town. Or so I thought.
Lee came home from work one day and gave me a look. “I talked with Bowzer* today,” he said. “We have a problem.”
“What?” I asked.
“Princess Pea* thinks you don’t like her. She feels offended because you have never called her to get together one on one.”
*Names changed to protect the innocent. But wouldn’t it be funny to have friends named Bowzer and Princess Pea? I bet they’d be a really fun couple…Can you tell my kids have been playing a lot of Super Mario Bros?
Now, let the record show that I think this is a silly little thing to get upset about. I did then and I still do. But that wasn’t the point – the point was that I had somehow inadvertently offended someone and in doing so a friendship was damaged. Never mind the fact that I am suckalicious at talking on the phone – always have been. That’s why I don’t call people very often.
Suck.a.li.cious.
I sat on this for a few days mulling over what to do. I mean, it really was kind of petty. Because the fact of the matter was this girl had never called me either. But I couldn’t feel right if I didn’t at least call and make things right. So I did. It was terribly awkward and uncomfortable, but I asked her forgiveness for hurting her feelings and asked if she’d like to get together for coffee.
We never did do that. And I haven’t heard from that couple in almost ten years now. So the issue obviously wasn’t mine, but I felt better knowing I had tried to make things right. I wanted forgiveness, truly and deeply.
Recently another issue has cropped up that has affected me a bit. A friendship ruined over something silly, trivial and petty. I tried to make it right and instead met resistance.
Hurtful.
Painful.
And unity was not restored but was, instead, further denied. And I had a part in it. That makes me sad.
I don’t like that. I hate disunity with others. I want it to be right. I feel all Monica Gellar…I want her to like me, dang it. (Five points to anyone who remembers that FRIENDS episode) And I keep questioning myself, looking inside, trying to decide what action I need to take to restore unity. But I’m a little scared, because last time I tried that it only got worse.
Forgiveness.
It’s a tough one, isn’t it? Forgiving, moving forward and loving unconditionally. Whew. As Jessica put it:
“It’s one thing to forgive someone and a whole ‘nother thing to be reconciled with them, and Christians can be so dad blame unrepentant of their arrogance, or unhospitality, or fill-in-the-blank that I occasionally find a very hard time building bridges with them.
And yeah, I’m on the guilty/unrepentant end sometimes, too.”
So on I press, ever aware of the fact that I am only responsible for my own actions. How can I live today in a way that restores unity and peace with others? Because I value loyalty. I don’t like to end or walk away from friendships.
So what is my plank?
I think it is my indignation when others don’t value loyalty as I do. I tend to get judgemental. I don’t like it. I’m constantly working on dying to myself and I am an admitted work in progress.
My deepest desire is to continue to search my own heart and seek to live whole with others, making things right when I offend and offering grace if ever needed. And drop the judgement. It’s very unbecoming.
It doesn’t match any of my outfits.
So Jessica, consider that my first plank pulled.
BOOM!
On our drive from St. Louis to Arkansas yesterday (where we are staying with family for a week), we had the privilege of stopping in Branson for swimming and hot dogs with a sweet college friend. It was the perfect midday break in our drive and gave all of us a chance to stretch our legs a bit.
While the kids swam, Rachel and I discussed all things mommy and blogging. She said something that I hadn’t necessarily thought through before. “I think blogging can sometimes give Moms a false picture of motherhood,” she said, her voice all sugary. Seriously, you’ll be hard pressed to meet anyone sweeter. “We only get to see a small glimpse of someone’s life online and from that we make assumptions.”
How right she is. Blogging can easily set us Moms up for frustration. This Mom plans a rocking birthday party, that Mom does amazing crafts with her kids, the Mom over there manages to work full time from home and the Mom in that corner is teaching her kids Latin.
I’m exhausted.
As I’ve thought about it, I’ve wondered what kind of glimpse I am giving people into my life. Because I share a lot here – but I don’t share everything. Some of life isn’t meant to be shared. As the kids get older, I will share less about them because really, how many of us would have died a horrible death if we knew our mothers were broadcasting our every awkward tween move for all the world to read?!
*shudder*
I’m not a perfect mother. I don’t cook organic – heck, I don’t really cook much at all. I’m what you could call a “thrower together.” I throw together meals, often beginning them around 5:00. It’s kind of pathetic. I am, however, a good baker and I’m passing that love on to my children. I consider that a score because how awesome that my daughter will know how to make a killer scone when she’s fully grown?
I hereby apologize to my future grandchildren for the innumerable scones and petit fors they will likely consume instead of meat and potatoes.
I don’t throw killer birthday parties, but I throw decent ones. I’m all about simple. Make it look elaborate, but keep it simple. That’s how I roll.
I don’t read to my kids every day. And my kids don’t love to read. I’m hoping to change that this year. It has been a failure on my part. My kids just don’t love the written word and I hope to show them the magic of a good book. But it will take work and, dare I say, training. Something I don’t excel at.
I don’t shower every day, nor to I wear make up most days. I look better with make up and I smell better when I shower, but those things take time and effort that I simply don’t have many days. I do, however, wash my face two or three times a day and apply my magic lotions. Because, as I’ve said, I’m a face product addict.
I don’t always enjoy having my kids friends over and I get increasingly annoyed when I feel my kids are encroaching upon my personal space. I am selfish and easily frustrated and have been known to raise my voice, none of which make me in the least bit proud.
I am terrified of homeschooling my kids, but I feel like it’s something I need to do. I don’t do it because I think I can teach them better than someone else. I don’t do it because I have some kind of beef with the public schools. The opposite, in fact. I think that our schools and teachers deserve much more respect and support than they’re given, especially from the Christian community. Is the public school system flawed? Yes. Without a doubt. Is it an evil place to send our children? No. Without question.
I am homeschooling my children this year because the Lord has made it obvious that’s what I’m supposed to do. I do so with plenty of nerves, but also a bit of excitement. I won’t be perfect at it. I might even be really bad at it. But I won’t know unless I try. So I’m trying. And part of the reason I feel I need to try is linked to what I mentioned above. My kids don’t love to learn. And I want to teach them how exciting learning can be. Only I can do that.
I’m not a perfect mother and this isn’t a perfect blog. I don’t promote it as much as I could and I don’t work as hard on it as maybe I should. But I love this little space that I’ve created. I want it to be a fun place, both for me and for you. I want you to be encouraged as you read here, not the opposite.
And now I will take my greasy, non-showered, non make-upped face back to my in-laws house where I left my children in their care so I could escape for a little while get a little work done.
Sometimes being not perfect has benefits, she says as she sips her Iced Chai while listening to Frank Sinatra croon in the background.
I love the (in)courage website. Love it, love it, love it. I think the women there are amazing and gifted and talented and none of them know that they are my secret BFF’s.
I had a conversation with Tia on our last trip to Florida that really struck me and I wanted to share it with others so I decided to submit it to the lovely ladies of (in)courage. I am humbled and honored and baffled and thrilled to have been given the honor to share my words with their readers. And with you! You can find me over there today and I truly, deeply hope you are as blessed by this post as I was when writing it!
“Look at this, Mom!”
She rises out of the water, her mask pressed tight around her tiny face. Holding up her treasure, I examine it closely.
“That’s a beautiful shell,” I tell her, taking it delicately in my hand. It is perfect and smooth – completely unblemished. “Would you like me to hold it for you while you dive for more?”
She thinks for a moment, her five year old brain contemplating this offer. “Nah,” she says after a brief pause. She grabs it out of my hand and tosses it back into the waiting ocean where it’s immediately swallowed by the salty water. Taking a deep breath, she plunges yet again.
Click here to read the rest of the post.
As I descended into Montreal, I craned my neck to get a view of the land through the low hanging clouds. Streams of water danced across the window and visibility was low. When we were finally in sight of the city my first thought was, “Oh, it looks like every other city in the world.”
But it wasn’t.
Montreal was wonderful. From the air, it does look like every other city in the world. It’s industrial and the drive from the airport to downtown could hardly be described as beautiful. But I’m getting ahead of myself.
I’m met at the exit by a man holding a sign with my name on it. My limo service driver. At once I break out in a small grin. I don’t often get met by cheuffer’s at the airport and secretly I hope I get to have this experience again someday. I also secretly hope that I don’t ever get so used to this occurance that it loses it’s magic.
After meeting up with the other woman who has been flown in for this event, the lovely Stacy from Mom Central, we make our way to our downtown hotel. When we arrive downtown, I notice that it looks quite similar to St. Louis in many ways. The buildings are close, every other street is a one way (created to torture directionless yahoo’s like me, of course) and it feels a bit grey.
But there is more to the city. I want to understand what it is. It suddenly dawns on me that I don’t know a single thing about Canada’s history. Why do they speak French in Quebec? How did Montreal get established? What mysteries lie behind the Notre Dame church that stands valiantly around the corner? I wasn’t prepared for how foreign it would feel in Montreal. For someone who adores international travel, this was icing on the cake.
My two days in Montreal were a whirlwind. I quickly realized that I should have spent less time mastering my “Eh” and more time learning some French. Thankfully, mercifully, most people spoke English as well and I was able to meander my way through the crowd with the ignorance of an American who can’t be expected to know another man’s tongue.
Note to self: learn a few functional phrases in the native language of any place you ever visit.
We kicked the weekend off with a beautiful dinner at Le Latini, which was every bit as wonderful as the name makes it out to be. Our waiters were both bald, with prominent eyebrows, laugh lines around their eyes and broad smiles. Their accents were thick and sometimes difficult to understand, but they treated our group of five well.
It ended up feeling like a girls weekend away. I so enjoyed the women I was with that I wished our time in Montreal could be a little longer. They were funny, sweet, thoughtful and…did I mention funny?
The next morning, after a glorious breakfast where we met up with the final two bloggers of our crew, we headed to the set of Walmart/P&G’s newest installment of the Family friendly Family Movie Night movies. Right now the working title of this film is “Passport,” but that is likely to change.
We are not allowed to bring cameras to the set, but are instead trailed by one of the cameramen, Francois, and the set photographer, Phillip. Have I mentioned yet that Canadian men are handsome? No? Not sure how I overlooked that important point… Not only are their names romantic, but so is their language. And yes, the men of Montreal are handsome. And now we all know – the hot men of the world are hiding in Quebec. That piece of information is brought to you free of charge.
We spoke first with Loren Dean, one of the principle characters. I think he was a little nervous to speak with us blogger types. He probably heard that we have fangs.
Actually, he was quite pleasant and spent about ten minutes chatting with us. I remember him from his role in Apollo 13 as one of the flight controllers but from a bit of research it appears he has been in quite a few productions of greater notoriety.
We watch them film a chase scene and meet the child actors on the set, both of whom were terminally cute and extremely personable. Then we are ushered inside the house they are using to film much of the movie. Or maybe I should say mansion. The house is spectacular.
We watch a couple more scenes being filmed, then set up to interview the Executive Producer. After that we each had the opportunity to interview Robin Lively who was lovely. And who knows Zac Efron as her husband played the dad in the High School Musical franchise. I tried to act cool upon hearing this information. I may or may not have pulled that off. I really enjoyed speaking with Robin. She has three children, almost the same age as mine, a girl sandwiched between two boys. But she doesn’t drive a minivan, something that I urged her to remedy quickly. She agreed to consider it. If I may have somehow managed to pull another mother out of the confines of “coolness” and into the freedom of the minivan, I will consider my time there well spent.
Amen.
We also had the opportunity to interview the amazing Christine Baransky who was absolutely delightful to talk to. She was so nice and so personable and friendly.
And she told me I should get massages. BOOM! Instant friendship.
This post is getting far too long so I’ll spare you too many more details. In a couple of weeks I should receive the photos and video for my post regarding the movie. I’ll share more then. For now, though, I can honestly say that I had the best time on this trip. Turns out I’m kind of a camera whore. I loved when they said “Action.”
Who knew?
I will also say that Canadians are extremely friendly. Even the people working in the airport! Shocker, right?! They smiled, they asked questions, they laughed. They were all so pleasant. And cute. I’ve mentioned that the men were good looking, right? Oh I have? Oh, sorry. My bad…
Au Revoir my bloggy friends. I wonder how you say that in French?
I’m working on my northern accent today. I’m saying “Eh?” alot and I throw in “That’s what I’m talking aboot,” every now and then.
Why?
Because I’m going to Montreal tomorrow!
The lovely Janice of 5 Minutes for Mom sent me an email last week that said something to the effect of, “Hey, do you have a passport? Would you like to go to Montreal next week to visit the set of a new family friendly movie that’s being filmed there?”
To which I promptly responded something to the effect of, H#*% yeah!
No I didn’t. I don’t swear…hardly ever. I promise I don’t! I might’ve thought it, though…
So yes, I’m hopping on a plane tomorrow morning and flying to Montreal. I won’t be there any time at all, honestly. I probably won’t even get to see the city, but whatever. It is an adventure and I love a good adventure, dontcha know.
I also adore my husband who takes these things in stride and gives me his full support. I could not do this sort of thing without his awesome attitude. I seriously have the greatest man on planet Earth. Plus, well…he’s pretty dang good looking, too. (He’s been working out – yowza) And he makes me laugh. And he’s all mine! You can be jealous. S’okay.
So I’m cleaning today and packing and doing laundry and making out lists and writing thank you notes to the lovely people who are helping out with the kiddos while I’m gone. It’s amazing how much work has to be done when you are leaving for three days.
The next time I talk to you I’ll be in blustery Montreal! Now that’s what I’m talking aboot, eh?
I should fit right in…
*After having some time to read and reflect, I’ve changed the wording of one sentence. I don’t think Osama Bin Laden’s death is cause for celebration. I thought the dancing and singing in the streets last night was a little weird. We didn’t win the war. Killing Bin Laden is a symbol, a final act of justice for what began so many years ago. But celebration? No. I don’t think we have cause to celebrate. I don’t want my faith to be one of revenge. I’m a little more subdued today in my feelings about this turn of events. No less glad that he is dead, mind you. But a little more measured…
I’m not sure if you heard. Osama Bin Laden is dead. I KNOW?! Crazy, right. Too bad news spreads so slowly these days. The whole world knew this almost a full hour before the President of the United States took the podium.
Thank God for Twitter, eh?
Like every other American, I pumped my fist in the air upon hearing the news. I did it while laughing at Geraldo Rivera who was annoucning it whilst grinning like the Cheshire Cat and laughing like Pee Wee Herman. “We got the SOB,” he said…twice. And I smiled, shook my head, and breathed a sigh of relief.
I don’t think this necessarily means anything for the war on terror. Osama Bin Laden has been reported ill for many years now. He was but a figurative face of Al Qaida, but he has many, many minions. And they aren’t the cute little yellow guys from Pixar.
No. Bin Laden’s minions are much more sinister and their mission is not to steal the moon, but to kill and destroy. So I don’t think his death means anything for the war we are fighting, and likely will be fighting for a long, long time.
But his death is cause for celebration a sigh of relief. It’s closure. For those of us who huddled around our TV sets ten years ago and watched the towers holding our countrymen fall to the ground, the idea that justice has prevailed against the man responsible is like a balm to an open wound. And for the men and women whose loved ones never came home…this is the final piece of the puzzle.
I’m not sorry for Osama Bin Laden. In fact, I kind of hope he experienced pain. I hope he was alone and sad. I hope he wasn’t sleeping peacefully, unaware of what was about to hit. No. I hope he suffered great fear, just as the men and women who were stuck at the top of the towers sat in fear, knowing they wouldn’t survive. I think about the men and women who made the choice to leap to their deaths rather than burn inside the buildings and I hope that Osama Bin Laden’s final moments were filled with equal amounts of terror and fear.
Is this wrong? Maybe. I’ll pray through it. But right now, at this very moment. I don’t feel bad about it.
The evening of 911, I was living in Frisco, Texas. My husband of one year was supposed to fly home from a business trip in Atlanta that day. Instead, he was waiting on a rental car to open up. I went to our church, Chuck Swindoll’s Stonbriar Community Church, and cried with everyone else. I was angry. I was scared. I was sad. And I felt hatred for the first time in my life. I’ve never felt hatred before or since.
As Chuck Swindoll stood up to address his congregation, he shared in our tears. It was comforting to know that he, too, needed to cry. He needed us like we needed him. And then he spoke. I don’t remember much about what he said, except for this one line:
“There is not a hell hot enough for the monsters that committed these acts today.”
I was surprised, of course. Those are bold words. But I was also relieved, because it was what I was thinking. I spent much time in the months after that night thinking and praying about those emotions. Swindoll preached on the idea of righteous anger and I spoke with many wise leaders within our church and I came to a place of peace in feeling a truly righteous anger.
We should feel righteous anger toward evil. Does this mean I wish hell on men? No. But, it does mean that I wish for justice. I’m glad that God is the Judge and not me, because if it were left to me, justice would most assuredly not be done.
I believe and trust in God’s just power to judge a man’s heart and I believe that God has the power to change an evil man’s heart toward Himself.
But I don’t always believe that He will. There is example after example of God hardening the hearts of men in the Bible. Pharoah is the first and foremost that comes to mind. And with righteous anger, God deals with the men who have hardened their hearts. I feel no pity or sympathy for evil men like Osama Bin Laden, Sadam Hussein or any other terrorist leader who meets his fate. It doesn’t mean that I don’t want to see that area of the world come to know and understand the power of the Living God.
But I want justice to be served and Osama Bin Laden met justice on Earth. His eternal judgment is not for me to decide. I know what I want to happen to him, but again, I’m thankful I’m not the one who makes that charge.
God Bless our country, and protect our troops. This war is not over, but tonight we can rejoice in victory. And with that, I now officially tuck away my soap box.
You’re welcome…
Well I don’t have much to say today. Landon and I both have colds and we are snuggled up together on the couch, coughing and snorting and rubbing each other’s backs. I’ve got plenty of thoughts and ideas rolling through my head, but none of them feel blog worthy.
It’s a constant balance, this blogging thing. While I enjoy the journaling aspect of blogging, I have to remind myself that this isn’t a true journal. I can’t pour out my every thought because with several hundred people stopping by each day my thoughts aren’t so private in this tiny little square of interweb. I see other bloggers who share intimate details of their lives under the label of bold blogging, but I just can’t do that. I only share about 4% of our lives on this site.
The rest is just for me.
I’m happy to share what I’m learning, what makes me laugh, how I feel and our every day lives, because I think it’s fun. But sometimes, I just have to be quiet. Sometimes I don’t feel funny. Like today, when my nose is running like a faucet, I’m three days without a shower and my throat has been licked by the flames of hell.
Not. Funny.
But other things just aren’t for sharing in public. Sometimes I just need to process with a few friends, or my husband, or God. My blog is only a journal of the things that I feel are appropriate for the world to know. Ya know? 🙂
So today, instead of wasting time writing about nonsense (something I’m really good at), I’m going to direct you to some new sites I’ve recently stumbled upon that I love. I’ve also finally updated my blogroll to include all these lovely bloggers. So without further ado, I present you a few of my new favorite blogs:
– Bohemian Bowmans: Jessica is funny, sarcastic and incredibly sharp. She loves Jesus, she loves Compassion and she loves her kids who, incidentally, are terminally cute.
– A Holy Experience: You don’t find writing like this very often. Ann has a way with words that makes your skin tingle and your eyes water. She is a poet, a master at prose and a vivid storyteller.
– (in)courage: Many of you have probably already heard of this site, as I had many times before, but I only recently began visiting and reading over there. If you’re looking for encouragement, this is the place to go.
– The Nester: *sigh* I love Nester’s style. I sat and talked with her a bit at Blissdom and she is equally lovely in person. I had never been to her site before then and now I stop by frequently. I can’t wait to get into a new house and begin decorating it using some of Nester’s tips and advice. Seriously, she’s talented.
– Faith Like Mustard: Megan and I “met” through this site and I love her sweet heart. It’s always encouraging to stop by her blog.
So those are a few new sites for you to visit and fall in love with. Happy browsing, happy reading and happy laughing. I’m off to take some drugs (easy…it’s Dayquil) and drink some green tea with lemon to soothe my burning throat. Then I think I’ll sit outside and soak up a little vitamin D because Glory Hallelujah the sun is shinin’!
I am having a hard time focusing on blogging lately. There are a few reasons for this: First, I am just really busy. Between the kids activities, Lee being out of town, preparations for Easter at our church, the house on the market and general everyday things that pop up, I have little time to sit and think.
Second, my heart feels anxious right now. It’s probably mostly magnified by Lee’s absence and all of the aforementioned craziness, but I am truly feeling restless inside. I feel like I’m not doing enough and equally I’m doing too much. This morning I got up early, while the house was still. I opened my Bible and just began to read. It was so refreshing. You know when you walk outside on a warm summer morning and step into the cool grass and your whole body buzzes from the cool? That’s what this morning felt like – stepping onto the cool grass.
Third, when I do have a few minutes to sit down and write, I want to work on The Novel. I don’t want to edit pictures or video. I just want to release the characters in my head. In June, I have a trip planned with a dear friend and a couple of other writer’s. For four days we will sit on a lake in Northern California and get lost in words.
I’m only mildly excited because it sounds like heaven.
Today I give you one more small sneak peek. I won’t give too many of these, because I don’t want to give it all away, but a few here and there are fun for me to share…and I hope it’s fun for you to read! This is, of course, the first draft and contains few edits. It will change with time and re-reads, but it’s slowly beginning to take form.
This part of the story is told by Ivan Kyrilovich Petrochenko, a father of three teenage children and husband of Tanya. They are living in Kiev. This is June 22, 1941, the morning of the bombings, after the smoke has cleared. Ivan and his son Sergei are headed out to survey the damage.
The memory of that night will haunt me. The whistle of the bombs and the thunder as they found their targets still move through my head, my heart, my soul. Intertwined with the noise is the sound of screaming. Masha, turning and crying, confused and afraid. Tanya and Anna gripped in the corner, their cries mingling together to form a low wail. In the midst of all the noise, I see Sergei, my son. He is silent. I watched him through the flashes and tremors. Between dark and light, he became a man.
As the terror of the night slipped into a balmy, dusty morning, I watched them all closely. Tanya and Anna, both delicate and small, wrapped in one another’s arms, their faces worn and strained. Masha sat tucked beneath Sergei’s arm, her head nodding and falling, stubbornness alone keeping her from succumbing to the sleep that so clearly longed to take her away.
And the man Sergei, who sat with his back straight against the wall, protecting the sister he so deeply loved. I knew the decision he made in those long, quiet hours. I saw him wrestling, an inward battle flashing through his grey eyes. And when the war was over, he looked at me resigned, brave, grown. I nodded, a silent confirmation of what he needed most – my blessing.
Shuffling into the still street, I turned to my son and grabbed his shoulders with both hands. I felt the muscles that rounded over the tops of his arms and for the first time noticed the sinewy nature of his frame. My son had developed the taught muscles of a man without me even noticing. Surely this did not happen overnight.
Looking straight in his eyes, I spoke to him not as a father to his son, but as a comrade. “You will wait until your birthday. When you are eighteen, you may enlist.”
My voice came out gruff, almost harsh and tears stung the corners of my eyes. Sergei’s chin lifted slightly and he nodded calmly. “Yes, Papa.”
Not caring who might look out and see, I pulled him into my arms and gripped him with the passion that only a father can feel for his son. Sergei’s arms engulfed me in return and for a long while we held one another. And in that embrace I bid farewell to the boy I had rocked, fed, played with and taught for nearly eighteen years. And somehow I knew that when my son left, I wouldn’t see him again.
©Kelli Stuart April, 2011
Have a lovely spring Tuesday!
|
Recent Comments