Memoir: Disneyland

Memoir: Disneyland

Uncle Philip knew the on-ramp to the freeway was my favorite. He gave me a wink as he revved the Bug as we waited at the signal to enter, then gunned it as the light turned green. He took the big C curved loop fast. I held on to the door handle tight, then imagined what might happen if the door opened, so I quickly locked it and took hold of the dash grab too. As we entered the freeway and straightened out he laughed and said “Well, Missy, that was our first ride of the day, cause I’m taking you to Disneyland!”

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Memoir: Presence

Memoir: Presence

On my grandparent’s shaggy avocado green carpet, I set up the Winnie the Pooh Weeble house they gave me for Christmas. Chubby Christopher Robin and Tigger go for a ride on the teeter totter.  Pooh slides down the mini slide, rolling around when he gets to the bottom.  “Weebles wobble but they don’t fall down!” I sing as I push them on the tiny swings, after I have given them a nice picnic lunch of honey, of course.  I tuck Pooh into his little bed and sing him a good night song, “Jesus is coming, coming for me, in a moment, in a twinkling of an eye.” The song is about the rapture, when Jesus will come for all those who believe in Him. It will happen quickly and without notice, I am to always be ready.

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Lost in Books

Lost in Books

My 5-year-old son and I are sitting side by side on the couch reading.  I with Annie Dillard’s An American Childhood, a book I should have read long ago and he another A-Z Mystery.  I have a bag of chips on my left and every few pages he raises his hand out, without speaking for another chip.  My 7-year-old is elsewhere in the house, probably in the smallest space between two pieces of furniture, curled up with his own book. 

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Fruit Tastes Like Love

Fruit Tastes Like Love

No music.  No singing.  These were not women who would pat my red head as I passed them by or give me a little squeeze.  They didn’t pop a piece of ripe cantaloupe in their mouth as they chopped.  They simply cut, chopped, diced, sorted into dixie bowls.  This was the morning snack for the Vacation Bible School kids, including me.  Fruit I normally would not have a home.  Fresh fruit that was not from a tree in our yard was a treat, a luxury.  I looked forward to 10am when I’d be passed one of these bowls along with a little plastic fork. Was it duty?  Was it a job that needed to be done so they signed up to do it?  Was it an act of service to God?   Not sure which but with each bite, I felt loved.  

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