Sunday Dinner

Sunday dinner with my family is complete chaos. People are scattered everywhere-from the living room, to the dining room, to the kitchen, to the porch. There are literally people everywhere.
And it is loud. Really, really loud.
But it's happy. And totally entertaining.
It's confusing and strange to outsiders, this Sunday tradition. Not because we all have dinner together, but because of who attends.
My nephews and their wives and children are there. My nephew's aunt on their mom's side(who is no longer married to my brother) and her husband and kids show up. People who aren't really family but "are", such as a friend of the family who all the kids call Pops but is of no actual relation is always present. The best friend of my sister and her family randomly visit and her kids don't know that Granny J and Pa Carney aren't really related to them. My sister and her husband come down. And of course mom and dad and myself are always present.
Sunday Dinner is one of my favorite times of my week.
It's usually pretty relaxed, except for the occasional "Stop jumping on your brother!" or "Where's Zoie" panic attack. But none-the-less, even at those times, it's basically relaxed. Everyone pretty much takes care of themselves. Well, mom DOES cook for all of us EVERY SINGLE WEEK(and we are eternally grateful for this!).
There are kids and dogs and cats always under foot. The adults are discussing this Sunday's sermon or talking about hunting/fishing. We talk politics and then move on to who's gonna be in charge of cleaning out the lily pond.
My mom always, ALWAYS, has a job for the boys to do. And it usually involves them cleaning up something gross or lifting something really heavy. Which, in turn, involves the other girls and myself standing around watching them and laughing at their strained faces. For example, the previously mentioned cleaning of the lily pond. It had been all winter and the pond hadn't been drained, so the water was a bit, stagnant, to say the least. And Mom said(like always), "I have just one thing I need done." And it was cleaning the "schmootz" out of the lily pond. So, out go Dusty, Lance and Jeremy to clean and the kids, Kesha and myself to watch. Now, this water was really disgusting and it had this smell, ya know? Like this putrid dirty, old water smell. There was lot's of gagging involved. And laughing. Oh there was indeed laughing.
And there was also a lot of deep thinking involved when trying to remove all the mud and the liner. Such as, "What if we tie this really big rope around it and pull it out?" or "Maybe if we hook it through it and then connect it to the back of the pickup and drag it out?" And when it finally worked, after Dusty was nearly killed by the first attempt the huge rope/army thingy(that's a technical term right there) coming lose and flying at rapid speeds towards his head, Lance looks out the window of the pickup and says with utter amazement, "Holy crap it worked!"
It's those events that make Sunday dinner so much fun and absolutely enjoyable.
It's the times that everyone is gathered on the porch and you look towards the edge of the yard and there sit Micah and Alexia(2 of the babies)just talking. Not playing or fighting, just talking to one another. And when you ask them what they were talking about, Alexia says, "I was just telling Micah about roots and how they work."
It's those times that make your heart hurt with love and joy.
My baby nephew Lance, who will soon have a baby of his own, said once, "Sunday dinner with our family could be a sitcom. And people would watch!"
We might seem a little out of the ordinary, but that's probably because we are.
And we may seem like we a have a lot of problems and issues, but that's probably because we do.
But we love each other. And we learn each day to be more compassionate and forgiving of other's faults because we probably have the same ones.
There are times that I think that the world's problems could be solved at those dinners. I mean, we have some great ideas! Granted we don't always completely agree with one another, but come one, neither does our government.
But seriously, I think that if more people had Sunday dinner like my family does, this world would be a better place.
I never laugh as hard as I do when one of my nephews and I are going back and forth picking on each other or others.
I never feel as loved as when one of the "babies" runs up and hugs me for no reason other than they just felt like it.
I never feel as safe and as secure in myself as I do when my mom and my dad and the rest of my family are there to support me and encourage me.
And I never feel as blessed as when we can all talk about, together, what an amazing God we serve.
If the rest of this crazy world had a support group like mine and a meeting every Sunday to hash out their problems, I think it just might make a difference.
At the least everyone would laugh more.

Moving On

My heart hurts. I feel like someone has died. I feel like I'm mourning. And, in truth, I am mourning. I'm mourning such a great loss. The loss of family and friends.

I never thought it would end like that. I always knew that someday I would leave; that I would move on. But I never thought it would be so ugly and abrupt.

I also never thought that I would be one of those people that left a church over a dispute. I've stayed at that congregation through many hard times. I've tried to get along with others that were mean and contradicting, because, honestly, I can be just the same way.

But, it did end. It is over. I couldn't stay, not any longer. I couldn't sit there anymore while ugly things were going on.

I look back now and I realize that it was just so silly how it all started. Something like that should have never even been an issue.

Aren't we supposed to be loving? Aren't we supposed to welcoming? Isn't that what the church is about?

It's not about what the people want. It's not about the traditions. It's not about being "old-fashioned" or "contemporary". I believe that when you love, it covers all things. That when you love, it doesn't matter if someone moved a pulpit or if the flowers are different. It doesn't matter if the kids are a little too rowdy.

What matters is if we are welcoming to those that come in the door. What matters is if we are serving Christ. Because if you serve Him, you see the true meaning of His love and realize what a precious gift He gave and you want everyone to have it too.

You don't try to make people just like YOU. You want them to be just like HIM.

That congregation was my "home" for years. They were my "family". And it breaks my heart to know that I won't walk in those doors again. But, a home is where there is love and peace. A family is loving and kind. And I don't find that there anymore.

I'm not a quitter. I used to be. I used to give up when it got too hard. But I don't, as a rule, do that anymore. I don't just give up.

Some say that that is what my family and I are doing. But I don't see it that way. We are not giving up. We are moving on. We are trying our best to grow and to become better. And if we have to leave some dearly loved things behind to do so, then that is what we must do. We know that we are not perfect, but we want to serve the Father in a way that it pleasing to Him, not man.

But, knowing that doesn't make it hurt any less.

I know someday it won't hurt as much; that someday I won't feel anger or sadness.

But, it will take time. And I pray that good things come out of this. And I know that there will. He tells me so.

"All things work for the good of those who love Him and have been called according to His purpose." Romans 8:28

I just have to trust and beleive and walk in His love. I have to move on.

Dear Doctor Buller

I didn't write this. My mom did. But it was just too beautiful not to share.

Through so many important
events in my life, his
gentle, calm voice was there.
"It's a little boy and he is
just fine."
"If there is pie, Mary Belle,
I'll make a house call."
"Okay, Stephen, now say,
'Proceed to precipitate on a
perpendicular point of projection."
(That means, "Go
sit on a tack," and that kid
said it to everybody he met
until I made him stop.)
"Someday you'll be glad
that Amanda is so strong
willed."
"Now Amanda has that
little sister she wanted."
"I'm sorry, Joyce, your
Mommy's gone."
"Carrie is out of surgery,
and she did great. She is such
a good girl."
"Dear Doctor Buller," as
daughter Amanda has always
called him, was a part
of so many lives and such a
part of mine. As a teenager,
I was a babysitter for the
Bullers1 daughter, Brenda.
Dr. Buller was there when
my son, Steve, was born.. .the
first child he had ever delivered
outside a hospital. (I
was young and thought having
a baby was supposed to
REALLY hurt, but it didn't
and it only took me 30 minutes.
Thank goodness he
lived right up the street.)
After that, the two of them
had a special relationship,
with Dr. Buller often taking
Steve to play with his son,
Nathan. Years later, Dr.
Buller was the one who had
to tell Steve and our family
that Steve's newborn daughter
Nicole, had a severe birth
defect. Dr. Buller's tears
flowed right along with ours.
My Mom, Mary Belle,
worked for Dr. Buller for a
number of years, and they
were great friends, along
with office staff, Claudina
Baker, RN, and Sis Eakins.
There was a full-size plastic
skeleton in one of the back
rooms at the office, and one
evening, my Mom put a lab
coat on it. The next time she
went back there, she found
that Dr. Buller had put a
cigarette in its mouth. After
that, there was no telling
what that skeleton was going
to be wearing or doing.
My Dad was hardly able
to get around, so when he
was sick, Dr. Buller would
come after office hours, then
would stay to visit and have
a piece or two of Mom's pie.
Doc was right when he
declared that Amanda's being
"strong willed" wasn't a
bad thing. She might have a
tantrum all the way to his
office, but the moment he
appeared, that little girl
would turn into an angel.
"Dear Doctor Buller," she
would say, and he couldn't
understand why I was so
completely frazzled. But that
strong will saw her through
breast cancer, surgery, and
treatment, all the while keeping
her sense of humor and
spunk.
The man who had delivered
Amanda's little sister,
Carrie, was the man who
later held Carrie and rocked
her as she came out of anesthetic
after he set her broken
arm. He was the man who,
while giving physicals at
school, saw Amanda get hurt
on the playground, literally
picked her up, took her to his
office and sewed up her cut
leg, and she didn't even ask
for Dad and Mom.
He was the man who babysat
Am anda while Rusty and
I took classes before Carrie
was born. His wife, Lorraine,
must have been dismayed
when she arrived home from
teaching the classes to find
he had let Amanda play with
anything she wanted to and
the house was cluttered with
toys.
He was the man who gave
five year old Steve a shot to
lower his fever in the middle
of the night, saying, "This is
going to hurt, Stephen, and I
am so sorry." To which Steve
replied, post-shot, with tears
running down his face,
"Thank you, Doctor Buller."
Many years later, I took
Steve's four year old son,
Dusty, in with a bad cough.
Dr. Buller concentrated on
reading the chart, while trying
to also entertain Dusty.
"How old are you," he asked.
"I'm four," said the kid.
Minutes later, as he
looked into Dusty's ears and
then gave him the little flashlight
to take home, Dr. Buller
asked again, "Now, how old
are you?" Dusty gave me a
puzzled look, then said, "I'm
still four."
The man whom my Mom
thought of so highly was
there when she breathed her
last breath. My Dad had died
six months before, and she
had just given up. I confessed
to him that I couldn't forget
that her last words were
"Help me.I'll always rememberwhat
he said then. "Joyce, I have
seen a lot of people die. She
wasn't asking you for help.
She wasn't even looking at
us. She was looking across to
the Other Side, and she was
talking to someone there. I
truly believe she saw Jesus,
your Daddy, and your two
little babies, and the rest of
her loved ones, and she is
there with them now."
1 have known many a
preacher who hasn't had as
much effect on people's souls
as he did.
So,I truly believe he is
now "on the Other Side," and
maybe he and my Mom are
having a piece of Heavenly
pie, while he says to my Dad,
with that twinkle in his eyes,
"Ernest, I toldyou those cigarettes
would kill you."
He was an extraordinary
man, was Dear Doctor Buller.
We will all miss him.

Daddy

His hair is silver. When did that happen? As he walked along the canyon helping me search for a Christmas tree, I watched my daddy, and I wondered, when did he age? I’ve watched him all these years and never noticed the process of him getting older. He’s not old, but he is older. You can see the difference when you look at pictures or watch home videos. This once dark headed man now is gray and thinning. The lines on his skin show the years. Yet, he can still out walk any of us in that old canyon.
Not only has he changed physically, he has changed mentally, emotionally and spiritually. I have watched my daddy all these years but never noticed how much he has changed. He has evolved into one of the most amazing men I will ever know.
When you are growing up you think your dad can do everything, cuz he’s your dad. Through your teen years you begin to doubt that he can anything, cuz he’s your dad.
And then when you get older you know that he can’t do everything, but that that’s okay…cuz well, he’s your dad.
When we were little we rode with daddy on the tractor and we watched as he turned the ground and made things grow and thrive. We thought he was the most amazing man ever! One winter, it came a beautiful snow. My nephew went downstairs and looked out the window at the snow-covered ground and said, “Look what Pa do now!” He really believed that my daddy could make it snow. And I thought, “That’s my dad!”
My daddy has always worked hard. He took over the family farm at the age of 15. He didn’t complain. He just did what he could do. One of the things my dad is famous for saying is, “Well, it’s not the best in the world, but it’ll do”. He usually says this after he has pounded on it with his pliers or wrapped it up in duct tape.
I have always been a daddy’s girl. I would rather ride the tractor or check cattle with my dad than go shopping. He used to let me play in the shop while he worked. I had my very own hammer and as many nails as a block of wood would hold.
My dad has many sides. He’s your average farmer; taking care of cattle and working ground. But he also has a softer side.
He was and I think, given the chance would still be, the best braider in the world. He could braid my hair when I was younger in seconds.
When I was sick or sad I used to lay my head in my dad’s lap and he would comb my hair. It was such a comfort to have a daddy who was compassionate.
When I was much older and was having a hard time deciding what I should do with my future and felt like a complete failure, I sat down in the living room and put my head in my daddy’s lap and cried once again. And just like he had done all those years ago, he combed my hair and comforted me.
This might sound strange to some, but to us kids, it’s just what daddies do. Daddies are tough when they need to be but are kind and gentle too.
Don’t get me wrong-he was a disciplinarian. We got spankin’s and we deserved them! But he never spanked us with anything other than his hand and I think, honestly, that it hurt our little ego’s more than anything.
When I was in junior high school my dad would pick me up so I didn’t have to ride the bus. There were a couple of the foster-home boys that had got to know my dad through the newspaper. They were good athletes so he would come up to take pictures for the paper. They started calling him dad. He would often give them a ride home from school if they needed it. You would hear all kinds of kids say “hey dad” when he would walk down the hall. It was at those times that I would think, “That’s my dad. The guy that everyone loves is MY DAD.” And it made me proud.
My dad has grown so much in the past years. He has gone from this quiet, shy guy who would never even dare get up in public and speak, to this confidant man who goes around to churches speaking the gospel of Christ.
He is a song leader at our church. He works with the youth. He even witnesses to the guys at the coffee shop.
One Sunday, as my dad delivered the Communion Meditation, I just sat there and thought to myself, “That’s my dad. That amazing man up there is my father. How blessed am I?”
I was born into a family with two wonderful parents who love each other and their children. And I realize that most kids aren’t as blessed as me. And frankly, that breaks my heart.
But my daddy has become a father and grandfather to many of those kinds of kids. He doesn’t care who you are or where you come from, he will be your friend if you need one.
My daddy is quiet at most times. It takes a long time to get him angry but when he gets to that point, you should watch out. He is not a violent man, but with one look he can straighten your attitude immediately.
My daddy gives respect and deserves respect.
He will probably never be famous outside of our family.
But he is the kind of man that can change the world around him.
This world is a better place for having had him it in.
He is still quite young and as he continues to get older, he continues to do more. He doesn’t slow down and I don’t see him starting too anytime soon. In fact he is accomplishing more and more each new day. And we are learning each new day from him. He has shown us how to be a parent, friend, leader and well, just a good person.
And that day as I watched my dad walk along the canyon, dressed in his “stripy overalls”, tears filled my eyes. Not because I was sad, but because my heart overflowed with joy and love. And once again I thought to myself, “That’s my dad.”

Let there be love

There are days that I wish I could see this world through the eyes of others so that I could possibly understand why they are the way that they are. I wish that just for an instant I could know what is going on in their heads.
Today was one of those days.
I grew up in a small town. You know, the kind where everyone knows everyone. You know each person's first, middle and last name. You don't give directions by street names but by land marks, such as "Go to the CO-OP and turn left" or "Turn right at the stop sign on Main Street." It's a town where when one person passes away, it's like losing a family member. It's that little town that completely shuts down when the basketball team makes it to the state playoffs. That's my town.
And in my town, there is a church. It's the church that raised me. The members helped me to grow in my faith and to know why I believe what I believe. They have supported me for 26 years. I love each person like a mother/father/sister/brother.
But today caused me to feel like I don't know those people at all.
There is a youth program at that little church on Wednesday nights. In the past months the numbers have tripled. It started out with 20 kids and there are now around 60 active children who show up. It's a beautiful thing. During the time that the kids are there they sing and play and learn about Christ and love. Several adults who haven't gone to church in a while have even started volunteering because they see what an amazing program it is.
Many of the children who attend have never stepped into a church building. They haven't been raised to respect that buildings walls or contents. They don't know what "praise", "worship", or "prayer" is. But they are learning. They are being taught. It's a good thing. They feel safe and loved.
But, some people in our congregation have voiced that they have a problem with this program. They think the kids are too rowdy. They think that some kids are too "angry" or "hyper" or "wild" to be there. They want to shut the program down.
This was one of the most dissapointing times I have experienced. These people, who I thought I knew; who I thought knew what love was and what it meant to be love are now saying that love is only for those who sit still and are happy? What?!
They have lost all grips with the concept of Christianity. The church is not the building. The church is the people. WE are the church. WE are what the world looks at. WE are what the world judges. OUR attitudes will make us or break us.
The kids will look at us and will learn from us.
We are all that some of these kids have. They go home to families who don't care if they come home.
They come to that building and for an hour and half of their week, they are safe and happy. How dare someone try to take that away from them because they feel uncomfortable.
I am absolutely appalled at those that are causing such a fuss.
But then I take a look at my life and my own attitude and have to admit, I am just as appalled with it.
I am not always explemplifying the love of Christ. Most of the time my attitude is terrible. I whine and complain and am hateful.
We Christians, at many times, are our own worst enemies. We are the ones who turn others away from us.
We forget that our job is not to judge but to love. We can change so much more if we are kind and patient and gentle.
hmmm...I do believe a wise man spoke of that once upon a time a long time ago.
Thousands of years ago, love was brought into this world in the form of a child. That love grew and that love was sacrificed. And that love is still here. And, it is offered to not a few, but all. Love isn't particular of who it chooses. Why should we be?
Why should we stop it?
Let there be LOVE.

The Letters

My nephews got their "letters" last week.
In my family, we know what that means. No explanation is needed.
"Letters" is a word that can tear your heart in two and can cause fear to rush through your veins.
It makes my palms sweat and my knees weak and my mind race.
But, it also makes me proud.
It makes me realize that when I am sitting in the living room with those two boys that I have known my whole life, I am really sitting in the midst of two heroic men.
The notice letters, to let them know that they are being called up, don't scare them. They don't cause them to want to run or abandon their country.
They are proud of their "letters".
I listened to the President's address not too long ago and he spoke about men and women of valor. Mr. President spoke of his plans to remove troops but he also spoke of how the troops who would remain and who are going will protect the people "over there".
He reported how our men and women are rebuilding a country, an economy and a government. Mr. President read a letter from a young soldiers family. They wanted to express their pride for their son for serving his country. Their son did not come home. The letter stated though, "Freedom is not Free."
No, it's not. Every right that we now have as American's came at a price.
You can believe that.
Following the President's address, was the Democratic Response. The chosen speaker responded saying he was a veteran. He stated that the president didn't have a plan and how we needed to bring our troops home.
I have to admit, I was immediately angered. But then again, I was more frightened by his response than angered. Frightened because there are so many people who share his opinion and feelings.
Am I excited that my "boys" have to go to another country? No.
Am I proud? You can be sure of that.
Do I see the need? Yes, I do.
We as Americans should be proud and honored that we can help the Iraqi nation. We have the chance, the ability and the means to make life better for millions of people, and what are we doing? We are complaining. We want our desires and needs to be met.
Come on people, let's get over ourselves. We sit in our nice houses with a.c. and running water, with little or no threat of being harmed or injured except we might possibly wreck our nice shiny car.
Those people, "over there", suffer daily. They have no idea what it means to have "freedom" of religion, speech, etc. Their children have no idea what it's like to play a game of touch football freely in the front yard. They can't just ride their bikes around the neighborhood or go over to a friend's house to play.
They live in fear daily for their lives.
Our troops are doing something about that.
And we are going to take that away from them, because it's too tough for us, here at home, to watch the nightly news; to hear the statistics(which might I mention are often times skewed).
There is a motto, I heard it was the Coast Guard's but I'm not sure, that goes "So other's might live." Now, my nephews are in the National Guard, but I think that that particular motto is one that lives in the hearts of all military. They do what they do, so that others might have a chance at life. So that you and I might have a chance at life.
We Americans, well, we do alot of complaining. We complain that certain people and parties are too stingy with their money. That it should given to those in need. But, then, we complain about the budget and how much money we are spending on the war. Okay folks, let's make up our minds--do we want to be generous or not? Do we want to help those in need or not? Do we really want to pick and choose who we help? Don't others deserve our help just as much, if we can offer it?
If and when my boys go, they will do what they have chosen and were chosen to do. And they won't complain.
I find it funny how the ones doing all of the complaining are the ones who have never seen the fields of battle.
They are the ones who sit in their nice corner office or in their homes and go on with their day, taking a few minutes of their precious time to complain about the job that others are doing which they themselves, in all actuality, couldn't possibly handle .
So the next time you watch the news or a presidential debate, really think about why you are reacting the way that you are.
Is it because of a political or personal bias that you were raised with?
Is it because you are misinformed or uniformed?
Is it because of your own selfish desires?
We could all learn a lot about selflessnesss from our men and women who boldly serve this country.
I'm scared everyday for my boys and what they might have to see or do. But more so I am frightened and scared by the thought of what this country would be like without those men and women like my nephews.
Compared to that, the "letters" don't scare me at all.