October 19, 2014

Learning to Fly

"Move, little birdie," I uttered in vain as I drove the minivan carefully beside the baby bird who was perched in the middle of the road.

"Momma!" Daughter 1 cried out looking back at the birdie still in the middle of the road. "He's hurt!"

"I don't think so," I assured her. "He's just young as learning to fly."

"How do you know it's a he?" she argued.

"You just called it a he," I reminded her.

"Yeah, but, he might be hurt," she said still looking through the back window, rolling her eyes at my gender pronoun choice.

Despite my confidence that it was just a smallish bird who was on his first solo flight, I turned the van around.

"Are we going to get him?" she squealed as I pulled over beside the tiny winged thing who still had visible down on his body.

"No," I said. "We'll just help him get to the side."

We carefully approached the tiny thing and I snapped a picture. Daughter 1 giggled at the sight and then the birdie awkwardly took off flying into the wind. This is to say that he flapped his wings as if he were trying to power a small village and floated backward, finally landing with the tiniest of thuds in the still-green grass.

"Oh my gosh, Momma!" Daughter 1 continued her giggling. "You were right!" She sounded incredulous.

We darted to the spot in the grass to check on the little guy.

We determined after closer examination against the green lawn that he was probably a she. She was probably a cardinal. She was beautiful nonetheless. I named her Rosie the redbird. My camera clicked, Daughter 1 giggled, and Rosie took off again.

She flew longer and father and higher than before. Daughter 1 and I chased after her just in time for her to come chasing back at us, tweeting, as if she were saying, "Where are the brakes on this thing?" She battled the wind and twisted and turned before she landed in neighbor's decorative grass. Or weeds. Or garlic bed. Wherever.

We giggled some more, and she took off yet again, tweeting.

"I think she's telling us thanks for helping her learn to fly," Daughter 1 said as we walked back to the van, confident that the little bird wouldn't be sitting in the middle of the road any time soon.

"I think so too," I smiled.

"I still wish we could have taken her home," Daughter 1 sighed.

My mom, who was sitting in the van watching the shenanigans of her older daughter and oldest granddaughter said, "If you love something set it free..."

Because Daughter 1 is sorta a smart a$$ (no comments about genetics, y'all) interrupted her Nana and said, "Then I set my momma free."

"That's okay," I smiled, "I'll always come back to you."

October 17, 2014

In The Next Life

My dad, prior to accidentally blowing up a basement science lab at OCU in Oklahoma City, was a theology/religions major. Apparently, he had an explosive minor. He was raised Catho-bapti-methodentul. He settled as a Methodist when I was about three years old because it was the closest church with the most open mind. 

He loved a good religious conversation. He liked to cuss and discuss scripture. He was confident in his faith and nonjudgmental about yours. 

At some point during my teen years, he opened the door to find the Jehovah Witness parishioners on our stoop. Actually, he was probably tinkering in the garage when they approached him. 

He discussed faith with them and soon they actually became friends. My dad's thought was that if they needed to put in time witnessing in order to get into heaven or whatever, who was he to stop them?

And, while there were a few Saturday mornings that my dad was out when his friends showed up which resulted in my mom, sister and I crawling around on the floor whispering, they were very nice people. When my dad had his stroke, they brought groceries to the hospital. When he was released, they brought groceries to our home. Nice people indeed. 

Because of my dad's desire to not stand in they way of anyone's journey to an eternal paradise, I find myself being sympathetic to the plight of the ill-times door knockers. 

Yesterday morning found me answering such a knock. I had been wide awake since an ungodly hour but had just put on some yoga pants with my frumpy pajama top. When the doorbell dinged, it was only after I'd answered that I considered my attire.

"Good morning," the older lady belted at me. "We'd like to talk to you about your spiritual- ness."

I nodded my head and kicked toward the cat who thought he was going to escape. 

"Are you firm in your beliefs?" She quested. 

"Yes," I answered, noticing that my pajama top was misbuttoned."

"Are you firm in the afterlife?" She asked, and I imagined she was actually smirking.

I stopped myself from rebuttoning my shirt and said, "Oh yeah! I believe that well all be completely healed when we get to heaven. No more flab on this body."

Wordlessly, she handed me her literature and left. 

I realize now that she probably wasn't making a comment about my appearance. 

My dad was so much better at religious conversations. 

October 14, 2014

The Curse of Technology

Since I confessed my love for all things technological, I need to now confess my disdain for the same.

That's right ... As much as I love it, I hate it just as much. I've thought long and hard about why I am apparently a walking oxymoron or paradox or maybe both. And I think it boils down to this: Online, we are too gripe-y.

Today, a hot, trending article popped onto my newsfeed that was titled, "Dear SAHM: Shut Up" or something just as stupid. I didn't even read the article because it had the word Shut Up in it. That's just rude.

If anyone should have to shut up, it's someone telling someone else to shut up. (Did you follow that? I know what I'm trying to say.)

Then, I clicked through to an article about why Megan Trainor's song "All About That Bass" is body shaming. Um ... what? In essence, the author said she was offended because she tried gaining weight and it just didn't work out for her. The line "I ain't no size 2" hurt her heart. I'm not denying her feelings; if she feels that way, she feels that way. The easy thing to do would be to not listen to the song.

I'm typically offended by gangster rap; therefore, I don't listen to it. Ever. But, I'm not going to write an entire blog post about it.

Oh, wait...

See? This is what happens when the internet gets too loud and obnoxious: I become gripe-y as well.

Just think about how wonderful this entire world would be if we got offended at such things as hunger and abuse and homlessness. And, instead of griping about it, we donated food and money and raised awareness and helped a neighbor out.

Is this enough to make me give up my online life. Pffft ... no. I'll just look for the lovely.


The lovely like my friend Jeanabec who just posted tonight a prayer request for a panhandler that was heavy on her heart. She didn't know him, but she wanted us to join her in prayer. Beautiful.

The lovely like my friend Alan who's turned to social media to send healing, comforting thoughts and prayers for his sick brother.

The lovely like my friend Katie who just gave birth to a darling baby girl today.

The lovely like my own kiddo who searches for the perfect quote to accompany her fun pictures on Instagram.

I'm going to sign off now and think about way I can make my little corner of the world lovely.


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