Many blessings,
Karon
Friday, May 16, 2008
What an honor!
Hello, all . . . how exciting! I'm greatly honored that my essay, Graceful Landings, is appearing this week on The Sampler -- what a treat! Hope you'll enjoy it :-)
Many blessings,
Karon
Many blessings,
Karon
Monday, April 14, 2008
Aging Gracefully . . . uh, not so much
I was doing pretty well, given the recurring signs and disappointing reminders of late. I slid right past my doctor’s veiled question about taking my daily calcium. I’d long grown accustomed to the polite “ma’am” from everyone under 30. I was even close to coming to terms with that pushy few pounds that wrapped itself around my middle and refused to leave. But this latest affront is just too much to take.
I got an AARP card in the mail.
What’s wrong with these people? I thought you had to be at least the great young age of 50 to become a member, so what, they have old folks who can’t add running the place now? “I’m not 50 yet – three years, one month and six days to go!” I wanted to scream loud enough that my protests would reach wherever their senile headquarters are.
Apparently they believe they can lure me with their “member benefits” and I’ll forget their insult. Not so fast, Grandpa. Along with the free coffee from my local diner, they tell me I can look forward to these worth-getting-old-for perks. Let’s see . . .
“Information and resources.” Well, maybe you’d like to start there for yourself with my BIRTH CERTIFICATE, Bozo. Yes, it’s true, I could use a good primer on menopause and I need a new eye doctor . . .oh, forget it, I can look it up myself, thank you very much.
“Discounts on travel and other services.” Ha, like I can afford “tours and cruises worldwide.” But I confess, given the condition of me and my wheels, the “emergency towing plan” doesn’t look half bad. Wait, I don’t want to like these mean people, let’s move on.
“Access to health-related benefits.” Yeah, I’m wearing bi-focals, understand the real meaning of “high fiber” and can tell you three days before it rains, what’s it to ya?
“Access to financial programs.” Now we’re talking. Can you explain this gap between my in-coming and out-going balance, show me some math that makes this impending development look more like “National Treasure” and less like “Grapes of Wrath”? I didn’t think so.
“A spokesperson for your rights.” Ah, they’re going to help me fight “age discrimination” – well, excuse me, but shouldn’t they have thought of that before they discriminated against my-still-less-than-50 self? And what about my right to get to that lovely age kicking and screaming all the way? I’ll take it, buster. And I can speak quite well for myself about my right to deny the truth as long as possible, so help me Miss Clairol.
“Community programs and services.” Blah, blah, blah, don’t really care. Do I look like I want to play bingo? You may want to look into one of those neighborhood watch programs for yourself, though, when I find out where you are.
And on and on it goes, but I’m not moved by the shiny red and silver card they sent me to use until my “official membership kit” arrives. The 20-digit authorization code does little to sway my allegiance, and the last thing I want to think about “at my age” is my age. Boy, they’re not very bright, are they?
Heavy sigh. This aging thing is hard to take, and the older I get the more I wish God had made it so that we lived to be 700 or 900 like people in the times of Noah and Moses. I wish I was looking at the very beginning of a life instead of the second half.
It’s not that this age is bad -- it’s just too close to the end, ya know? My mind feels like this can’t be, regardless of what the calendar says. I want to do and see and be so very much more!
And this is where it comes down to trust (and orthopedic shoes, I guess): God knows how much time we need, despite AARP’s obsession, and He’ll make sure that we have it to do and see and be what He’s already chosen.
We’ll build our temples as long as we keep swinging that hammer, even if it takes two hands now and a little longer to get it done. The job remains and we’re still here. That’s what matters and I don’t need a membership to know it.
I got an AARP card in the mail.
What’s wrong with these people? I thought you had to be at least the great young age of 50 to become a member, so what, they have old folks who can’t add running the place now? “I’m not 50 yet – three years, one month and six days to go!” I wanted to scream loud enough that my protests would reach wherever their senile headquarters are.
Apparently they believe they can lure me with their “member benefits” and I’ll forget their insult. Not so fast, Grandpa. Along with the free coffee from my local diner, they tell me I can look forward to these worth-getting-old-for perks. Let’s see . . .
“Information and resources.” Well, maybe you’d like to start there for yourself with my BIRTH CERTIFICATE, Bozo. Yes, it’s true, I could use a good primer on menopause and I need a new eye doctor . . .oh, forget it, I can look it up myself, thank you very much.
“Discounts on travel and other services.” Ha, like I can afford “tours and cruises worldwide.” But I confess, given the condition of me and my wheels, the “emergency towing plan” doesn’t look half bad. Wait, I don’t want to like these mean people, let’s move on.
“Access to health-related benefits.” Yeah, I’m wearing bi-focals, understand the real meaning of “high fiber” and can tell you three days before it rains, what’s it to ya?
“Access to financial programs.” Now we’re talking. Can you explain this gap between my in-coming and out-going balance, show me some math that makes this impending development look more like “National Treasure” and less like “Grapes of Wrath”? I didn’t think so.
“A spokesperson for your rights.” Ah, they’re going to help me fight “age discrimination” – well, excuse me, but shouldn’t they have thought of that before they discriminated against my-still-less-than-50 self? And what about my right to get to that lovely age kicking and screaming all the way? I’ll take it, buster. And I can speak quite well for myself about my right to deny the truth as long as possible, so help me Miss Clairol.
“Community programs and services.” Blah, blah, blah, don’t really care. Do I look like I want to play bingo? You may want to look into one of those neighborhood watch programs for yourself, though, when I find out where you are.
And on and on it goes, but I’m not moved by the shiny red and silver card they sent me to use until my “official membership kit” arrives. The 20-digit authorization code does little to sway my allegiance, and the last thing I want to think about “at my age” is my age. Boy, they’re not very bright, are they?
Heavy sigh. This aging thing is hard to take, and the older I get the more I wish God had made it so that we lived to be 700 or 900 like people in the times of Noah and Moses. I wish I was looking at the very beginning of a life instead of the second half.
It’s not that this age is bad -- it’s just too close to the end, ya know? My mind feels like this can’t be, regardless of what the calendar says. I want to do and see and be so very much more!
And this is where it comes down to trust (and orthopedic shoes, I guess): God knows how much time we need, despite AARP’s obsession, and He’ll make sure that we have it to do and see and be what He’s already chosen.
We’ll build our temples as long as we keep swinging that hammer, even if it takes two hands now and a little longer to get it done. The job remains and we’re still here. That’s what matters and I don’t need a membership to know it.
Monday, April 7, 2008
A Grace Book Give-away! --- UPDATE!
Ok, ladies . . . we have a winner!
Thank you all for participating, and by completely random choosing (pick a number out of a bean pot), participant #22 below, "mom" is our winner, hip, hip, hooray!!!
We'll do this again, so stay tuned :-)
And please join in on our greater vision here, and let us know how you're "receiving grace and reflecting God" in your life, even in the little ways -- hey, *especially* in the little ways -- that's where it all begins.
The more we recognize His hand on us in the tiny moments, the more we can pass it along in things big and small, the more we get to build our temples. And I don't know about you, but I'm always in need of that, especially after the weekend I've had . . . but we won't go there, lol.
Thank you again for being here, looking forward to seeing you again. Enjoy your abundantly grace-filled day God's planned for you! Many blessings, Karon
Grab a Broom, Lord -- There's Dust Everywhere! The Imperfect Woman’s Guide to God’s Grace
Probably everything I write revolves around God's amazing grace, but this little book focuses specifically on its power and the depth of God's forgiveness and guidance for those of us a little this side of perfect :-) I'm reminded daily of the impact of God's grace on my life, and the daily goal is to gratefully receive it and do with it what He wills -- because He knows best.
So as we get this blog project kicked off the ground here, I want to give away a copy of Grab a Broom, Lord!, second in the "woman's guide" series.
This give-away is open to any reader in the continental United States. Just post and you're entered! Give-away ends Sunday, April 13, 2008, 11:59 p.m. CST. Good luck and thanks for being here!
Many blessings,
Karon
Thank you all for participating, and by completely random choosing (pick a number out of a bean pot), participant #22 below, "mom" is our winner, hip, hip, hooray!!!
We'll do this again, so stay tuned :-)
And please join in on our greater vision here, and let us know how you're "receiving grace and reflecting God" in your life, even in the little ways -- hey, *especially* in the little ways -- that's where it all begins.
The more we recognize His hand on us in the tiny moments, the more we can pass it along in things big and small, the more we get to build our temples. And I don't know about you, but I'm always in need of that, especially after the weekend I've had . . . but we won't go there, lol.
Thank you again for being here, looking forward to seeing you again. Enjoy your abundantly grace-filled day God's planned for you! Many blessings, Karon
Grab a Broom, Lord -- There's Dust Everywhere! The Imperfect Woman’s Guide to God’s Grace
Probably everything I write revolves around God's amazing grace, but this little book focuses specifically on its power and the depth of God's forgiveness and guidance for those of us a little this side of perfect :-) I'm reminded daily of the impact of God's grace on my life, and the daily goal is to gratefully receive it and do with it what He wills -- because He knows best.
So as we get this blog project kicked off the ground here, I want to give away a copy of Grab a Broom, Lord!, second in the "woman's guide" series.
This give-away is open to any reader in the continental United States. Just post and you're entered! Give-away ends Sunday, April 13, 2008, 11:59 p.m. CST. Good luck and thanks for being here!
Many blessings,
Karon
Monday, March 31, 2008
Grace to laugh
God must just delight in our efforts to navigate this silly ol' world sometimes. We can get so caught up in our little dramas and give in to frustration if we're not careful. It's always better to just laugh a little :-)
Here's a little piece I wrote about an episode with my darling husband, when a little more laughter up front would have been a good thing. Hope you enjoy!
Brain One, Brain Two
Every now and then, rare as Southern snow, I’ll sneak to my desk to work when my husband’s home. Like bungee jumpers and other crazy people, I take the risk with as much chance of success as a two-day old snowman. So between sentences and lost in happy clicking on the keyboard, I pretended not to notice when he started. I was familiar with the drama.
My husband, whom I love, really, has . . . location issues. He can’t find anything. Oh, let me be more specific. He can’t find anything other than a deer when it’s twelve degrees outside and he’s wearing a more expensive wardrobe than L.L. Bean himself. But I digress.
“Where’s the camera?” he yelled from downstairs again. “I didn’t use it last,” I told him, like I always do when he asks me for something he’s lost.
I hear him bang cabinet doors and unstack papers as if the camera were an errant credit card offer. “What did you do with it?” He always blames me.
Premature babies are more easily dissuaded than he is when the frantic hunt begins.
By the third round of questions and the disappointing lack of letters appearing on my screen, I finally gave up and gave in to his plea for help. I looked in the places he already had because I know a camera would score nowhere near180 on the Boone and Crockett scale and therefore fall well below his radar.
We stomped through the house like a game of follow-the-leader. Somewhere between the bathroom and the kitchen, aggravated synapses fired and I knew where the camera was, where he had left it last. He took off to check out my revelation and returned with the little devil in his hands. I shoved the drawer I was digging in shut. Should have done the same with my mouth. Like a spooked buck, it outran my sense of tact.
“Boy, it’d be nice to only need one brain around here instead of two!”
My words pushed him back a step.
“How long you been saving that one up?”
I think I was more surprised than he was. I honestly don’t know what previously unexplored nether regions of my brain the words had been homesteading, but at that moment they came forth with the restraint of young love.
I wonder if the sting of my escapee comment would keep my memory-challenged husband from interrupting me (and blaming me) the next time he lost something. Not to worry, it won’t be long until I find out. And I love him, really.
A cheerful heart is good medicine.
Proverbs 17:22
Here's a little piece I wrote about an episode with my darling husband, when a little more laughter up front would have been a good thing. Hope you enjoy!
Brain One, Brain Two
Every now and then, rare as Southern snow, I’ll sneak to my desk to work when my husband’s home. Like bungee jumpers and other crazy people, I take the risk with as much chance of success as a two-day old snowman. So between sentences and lost in happy clicking on the keyboard, I pretended not to notice when he started. I was familiar with the drama.
My husband, whom I love, really, has . . . location issues. He can’t find anything. Oh, let me be more specific. He can’t find anything other than a deer when it’s twelve degrees outside and he’s wearing a more expensive wardrobe than L.L. Bean himself. But I digress.
“Where’s the camera?” he yelled from downstairs again. “I didn’t use it last,” I told him, like I always do when he asks me for something he’s lost.
I hear him bang cabinet doors and unstack papers as if the camera were an errant credit card offer. “What did you do with it?” He always blames me.
Premature babies are more easily dissuaded than he is when the frantic hunt begins.
By the third round of questions and the disappointing lack of letters appearing on my screen, I finally gave up and gave in to his plea for help. I looked in the places he already had because I know a camera would score nowhere near180 on the Boone and Crockett scale and therefore fall well below his radar.
We stomped through the house like a game of follow-the-leader. Somewhere between the bathroom and the kitchen, aggravated synapses fired and I knew where the camera was, where he had left it last. He took off to check out my revelation and returned with the little devil in his hands. I shoved the drawer I was digging in shut. Should have done the same with my mouth. Like a spooked buck, it outran my sense of tact.
“Boy, it’d be nice to only need one brain around here instead of two!”
My words pushed him back a step.
“How long you been saving that one up?”
I think I was more surprised than he was. I honestly don’t know what previously unexplored nether regions of my brain the words had been homesteading, but at that moment they came forth with the restraint of young love.
I wonder if the sting of my escapee comment would keep my memory-challenged husband from interrupting me (and blaming me) the next time he lost something. Not to worry, it won’t be long until I find out. And I love him, really.
A cheerful heart is good medicine.
Proverbs 17:22
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