When I was in middle school, I wore a jeans jacket stocked with pens, mechanical pencils, and a multitude of highlighters—highlighters of every color—most of them fat like magic markers. I carried the pens and pencils in my right inside pocket. I carried the highlighters in my left inside pocket. Hidden away. Like a secret stash. Yes. I am a nerd.
For some reason, I have a vague yet somewhat specific memory of going to youth Bible study in the sanctuary one night. We usually had Bible study in the church library. What I remember about that night is lying on the floor in the aisle of the sanctuary and laying out all of my pens, pencils, and highlighters in preparation for the night’s study. Do I remember anything else? No. I remember nothing else from that study. Just the pens, pencils, and highlighters. Yes. I am a nerd.
During that period of my life, I used a small, hardback The Student Bible. I’m pretty sure that I chose this bible because it includes a clearly laid out bible-reading guide. It’s sort of neat to see little middle school x’s in the boxes beside the scriptures that I read over twenty-five years ago. It’s also neat to see some of my middle school thoughts jotted in the margins. I don’t use my The Student Bible that often anymore, but I still keep it beside my bed for quick reference.
…
On Sunday morning, Mister Pastor Patrick preached from Acts 17:16-34. Here is abstract of his sermon: In this interesting story about Paul speaking to the intellectual elite in Athens, we see Paul’s willingness to engage a particular culture where it is. He speaks their philosophical language, he talks about their gods. And yet, Paul holds up the Gospel as the one, true truth and God as the one, true God. Ours is a mission of One, of the One truth and the One true God. We must move beyond even our own idols to preach this truth.
As I discussed Sunday’s sermon with my dad, I made the comment that I didn’t remember ever reading the passage that Patrick had preached from but that I really liked it. I was drawn to the fact that the people of Athens had prepared an altar to THE UNKNOWN GOD. Maybe it was the fear of missing a god and having that god punish them that led them to do it. But maybe it was because they knew on some level that there was a god bigger than any of their gods—but that they just didn’t know that god’s name…until Paul told them.
I was also really drawn to verses 27 and 28: God did this so that men would seek him and perhaps reach out for him and find him, though he is not far from each one of us. For in him we live and move and have our being.
For in him
We live
And move
And have our being.
Wow.
…
On Sunday afternoon, as I was laying down for my Sunday afternoon nap, I reached for a Bible so that I could read next Sunday’s scripture passage. I wanted to ruminate while resting . The first Bible I found was my The Student Bible. As I was turning to Acts 21, I decided to take a detour through Acts 17. Remember, I couldn’t recollect reading the passage before that morning (even though I knew I’d probably read it for one of my divinity school classes.)
When I got to Acts 17, I laughed. Evidently, during my middle school years, I’d read Acts 17 and been drawn to verses 27 and 28. They were underlined. Probably with one of the pens or pencils that I carried on the inside of my jeans jacket.
…
The Word of God is timeless, friends.
And it speaks to us exactly when we need it.
Middle school. Middle life.
For in Christ,
The living Word,
We live
And move
And have our being.
Amen.
Thursday, October 29, 2015
Monday, October 26, 2015
I Wasn't Expecting That...
I recently told someone that my weeks had fallen into such a steady routine and that if anything gets off schedule then it could completely throw me off.
Mondays are work (first go at the week’s lessons and updates as needed, continued work on the week’s announcements), meetings, home for TV with my parents, and note writing. Also, beginning on Monday, each work-week afternoon includes setting up coffee for the next day on my way to afternoon duty.
Tuesdays are work and counseling or dinner with friends.
Wednesdays are school work, brief rest, and church work (worship service planning, choir practice, worship team e-mail).
Thursdays are work (compiling school-wide incentive data, e-mailing PTO, updating the incentive bulletin board, judging a school-wide writing challenge), home for TV with my parents, and note writing. The last Thursday of each month is dinner with a friend.
Fridays are work (handing out school-wide writing challenge prizes, changing the writing bulletin board, making a writing book, working on lesson plans) and either home or time with family and friends.
Saturday is my Sabbath--with as much rest and as little work as possible.
Sunday is church (two worship services), cleaning/nap, church (praise team practice), and weekly morning announcement preparation.
If I get off schedule, then, well, sometimes I get behind. Or if I don’t get behind, then I sometimes find myself ill that something has intruded upon my schedule.
Today, I found myself both behind in my work (from getting off schedule last week) and feeling ill that something had intruded upon my schedule.
Tonight was the Little River Baptist Association Annual Meeting. It was also the night that my dad was planning to announce his retirement (effective March 2016).
As my dad’s daughter, I knew that I needed to be at the meeting. As a teacher fighting a cold and feeling like poo, I knew that I had little desire to be at the meeting. But I went. And I’m glad that I did.
Not only was I there to support my dad (and mom), but I was also there to see a couple near the top of my “nicest people in the world” list.
We met many years ago when B and I started teaching and the wife of the couple, Betty, became our favorite volunteer.
As we talked tonight, and caught up, and I shared my heart for JES, I confessed my desire to be a chaplain in the schools—to support and encourage the many teachers who do and give so much to their work and students. I also confessed my wish for Betty to come volunteer at JES. She really was/is an amazing volunteer!
As I started to leave tonight, I mentioned that I was going to go to Starbucks to get some coffee. Betty agreed that that was a great idea and then reached into her purse to get something. I thought that she was reaching for a card but instead she was reaching for $10 to pay for my coffee.
As I was saying thank you, she continued reaching in her purse. Still thinking that she was reaching for a card, I was shocked when she handed me $100 and told me to use it however I felt led for my ministry—at school.
Speechless, I hugged her and said, “Wow. I wasn’t expecting that.”
She said, “I wasn’t either. This was a God-thing. I just felt led to do it.”
Then we both cried.
Folks, Betty comes from humble means. She does not have $100 to spare. And yet, hearing my heart tonight and having a heart for the public schools herself, she sacrificed out of the goodness of her heart.
Because she believed in me.
And my ministry.
And to think that I almost missed it because it wasn’t part of the schedule…
God: Thank you for structure. Thank you for schedules. Thank you for giving us the opportunity and ability to organize our lives so that we can make the most of our days. But God, when that structure and those schedules become so confining that they cause us to begin missing life, forgive us. Help us always to remain open to you and your leading—even when it interrupts our plans—and even when it doesn’t seem to make sense. And, God, help my dad as he begins to transition into retirement. I love you, God. Amen.
Mondays are work (first go at the week’s lessons and updates as needed, continued work on the week’s announcements), meetings, home for TV with my parents, and note writing. Also, beginning on Monday, each work-week afternoon includes setting up coffee for the next day on my way to afternoon duty.
Tuesdays are work and counseling or dinner with friends.
Wednesdays are school work, brief rest, and church work (worship service planning, choir practice, worship team e-mail).
Thursdays are work (compiling school-wide incentive data, e-mailing PTO, updating the incentive bulletin board, judging a school-wide writing challenge), home for TV with my parents, and note writing. The last Thursday of each month is dinner with a friend.
Fridays are work (handing out school-wide writing challenge prizes, changing the writing bulletin board, making a writing book, working on lesson plans) and either home or time with family and friends.
Saturday is my Sabbath--with as much rest and as little work as possible.
Sunday is church (two worship services), cleaning/nap, church (praise team practice), and weekly morning announcement preparation.
If I get off schedule, then, well, sometimes I get behind. Or if I don’t get behind, then I sometimes find myself ill that something has intruded upon my schedule.
Today, I found myself both behind in my work (from getting off schedule last week) and feeling ill that something had intruded upon my schedule.
Tonight was the Little River Baptist Association Annual Meeting. It was also the night that my dad was planning to announce his retirement (effective March 2016).
As my dad’s daughter, I knew that I needed to be at the meeting. As a teacher fighting a cold and feeling like poo, I knew that I had little desire to be at the meeting. But I went. And I’m glad that I did.
Not only was I there to support my dad (and mom), but I was also there to see a couple near the top of my “nicest people in the world” list.
We met many years ago when B and I started teaching and the wife of the couple, Betty, became our favorite volunteer.
As we talked tonight, and caught up, and I shared my heart for JES, I confessed my desire to be a chaplain in the schools—to support and encourage the many teachers who do and give so much to their work and students. I also confessed my wish for Betty to come volunteer at JES. She really was/is an amazing volunteer!
As I started to leave tonight, I mentioned that I was going to go to Starbucks to get some coffee. Betty agreed that that was a great idea and then reached into her purse to get something. I thought that she was reaching for a card but instead she was reaching for $10 to pay for my coffee.
As I was saying thank you, she continued reaching in her purse. Still thinking that she was reaching for a card, I was shocked when she handed me $100 and told me to use it however I felt led for my ministry—at school.
Speechless, I hugged her and said, “Wow. I wasn’t expecting that.”
She said, “I wasn’t either. This was a God-thing. I just felt led to do it.”
Then we both cried.
Folks, Betty comes from humble means. She does not have $100 to spare. And yet, hearing my heart tonight and having a heart for the public schools herself, she sacrificed out of the goodness of her heart.
Because she believed in me.
And my ministry.
And to think that I almost missed it because it wasn’t part of the schedule…
God: Thank you for structure. Thank you for schedules. Thank you for giving us the opportunity and ability to organize our lives so that we can make the most of our days. But God, when that structure and those schedules become so confining that they cause us to begin missing life, forgive us. Help us always to remain open to you and your leading—even when it interrupts our plans—and even when it doesn’t seem to make sense. And, God, help my dad as he begins to transition into retirement. I love you, God. Amen.
Monday, October 19, 2015
That's All
When one works two very public jobs that each have weekly—sometimes daily—deadlines to meet, the private things in her life—like cleaning her car and room—sometimes fall by the waste-side.
Such is the reason that I spent around 15 hours cleaning my room this weekend. It was full of un-put-away clothes from last week and stuff that had been gathering from my car for the past couple of months. I’m pretty sure I had at least ten paper purple Hallmark bags full of gifts to sort through and a couple of other bags of random stuff. When I brought home a new Vera Bradley travel duffel bag the other night, my mom said, “Dee. You didn’t need another bag.” I just smiled and thought, “Yes. Yes, mom, I did. Because all of my other bags were occupied and I really didn’t want another purple paper Hallmark bag.”
“And just what was in all of those purple paper Hallmark bags?” you ask.
Gifts.
Some gifts purchased for specific people.
Some gifts purchased because I knew that one day I’d find someone to give them, too.
Some gifts purchased simply because I liked them.
So my job this weekend, after putting away my clothes, was to unpack those gifts and either prepare them for immediate give-away or find somewhere to store them until Christmas. In order to do the latter, I had to make storage space…which added a few hours to the cleaning process…because things got much-much worse in my room before they got better…which…they finally did get better. Thankfully.
I discovered something sad during the unpacking process, though: one of the gifts I was most excited about giving was broken. Evidently, I left the bag in the car for too long and stacked too much stuff on top of it too many times for the mug not to break. A glass picture frame broke as well.
The mug that broke was part of a series called “That’s All.” I bought this particular mug for one of my friends who has been fighting cancer for the past couple of years. The mug said: “You’re the strongest person I know. That’s all.”
Initially, when I realized that the mug was cracked, I was pretty upset. But I almost immediately had this thought: Even those of us who appear to have it all together have cracks. Even the strongest of us have weaknesses. This will not be a drinking mug. But it will be a pretty awesome object lesson.
And that it is, friends.
In so many ways.
Such is the reason that I spent around 15 hours cleaning my room this weekend. It was full of un-put-away clothes from last week and stuff that had been gathering from my car for the past couple of months. I’m pretty sure I had at least ten paper purple Hallmark bags full of gifts to sort through and a couple of other bags of random stuff. When I brought home a new Vera Bradley travel duffel bag the other night, my mom said, “Dee. You didn’t need another bag.” I just smiled and thought, “Yes. Yes, mom, I did. Because all of my other bags were occupied and I really didn’t want another purple paper Hallmark bag.”
“And just what was in all of those purple paper Hallmark bags?” you ask.
Gifts.
Some gifts purchased for specific people.
Some gifts purchased because I knew that one day I’d find someone to give them, too.
Some gifts purchased simply because I liked them.
So my job this weekend, after putting away my clothes, was to unpack those gifts and either prepare them for immediate give-away or find somewhere to store them until Christmas. In order to do the latter, I had to make storage space…which added a few hours to the cleaning process…because things got much-much worse in my room before they got better…which…they finally did get better. Thankfully.
I discovered something sad during the unpacking process, though: one of the gifts I was most excited about giving was broken. Evidently, I left the bag in the car for too long and stacked too much stuff on top of it too many times for the mug not to break. A glass picture frame broke as well.
The mug that broke was part of a series called “That’s All.” I bought this particular mug for one of my friends who has been fighting cancer for the past couple of years. The mug said: “You’re the strongest person I know. That’s all.”
Initially, when I realized that the mug was cracked, I was pretty upset. But I almost immediately had this thought: Even those of us who appear to have it all together have cracks. Even the strongest of us have weaknesses. This will not be a drinking mug. But it will be a pretty awesome object lesson.
And that it is, friends.
In so many ways.
Monday, October 12, 2015
Spiraling Gutter
I did something new on my way home today.
I paid attention to how many houses have gutters vs. how many houses do not.
“Why did I do this?” you might ask.
Because a friend told me that she needed to clean the gutters at her house.
So I was thinking about gutters.
Which is something I don’t usually do.
Except when the gutters near my classroom leak, or completely fall off,
Or when I see a gutter growing a tree.
Here is what I noticed.
More houses than not did not have gutters,
Except for when I got into my neighborhood.
Then it was reversed.
After a brief moment of research, I learned this about gutters:
“Depending on the roof style of a house, gutters may not need to be all around the house. All roof planes which pitch downward are typically guttered. Gutters are usually installed on the bottom edge of downward-pitched roofs to channel water away from the foundation where it could seep into the basement, splash up dirt onto the foundation, or fill up basement window wells, which also could seep into the basement. Flat roofs should also be guttered because leaving water on a flat roof can cause leaks and rotting. They may be installed with a slight pitch to all-around guttering or to one or more downspouts.”
So why do most of the houses on my way home not have gutters while most of the houses in my neighborhood do?
I don’t know.
But I’m thinking about it.
Because a friend brought gutters to my attention.
And because gutter-knowledge is something that I can expand upon.
When I was in divinity school, one of my professors introduced the idea that instead of faith being something that grows in a linear line with periods of flat plateau, faith is something that grows in loops, constantly moving forward, constantly having moments of “ups” and “downs.”
I like this image because I think it allows us to see how faith so often grows by issue, event, question, struggle, etc.
I think that we live our lives, doing our best to make it through each day, dealing with whatever is in front of us—whatever has been brought to our attention—whatever is presented to our minds for such a time as this.
When someone that we know is diagnosed with cancer, we struggle with how, when, and why God answers prayers for healing.
When someone that we know tells us that someone once told her that if she couldn’t believe in the story of creation exactly as it was written in the Bible then she might as well not believe anything at all, we consider if that statement is true.
When someone that we know comes out, we struggle with issues of sexuality.
When someone that we know loses a job, we struggle with issues of God’s faithfulness and discernment.
When someone that we know is killed or commits suicide, we struggle with issues of life and death.
When we are finished with our struggle—when we have landed in a place where we feel comfortable in our beliefs—when we learn everything that we want to know—then we move forward—and onto something else.
So…when someone that we know has to clean the gutters on her house, we begin to notice gutters and wonder about their function.
Or at least I do.
Today.
I paid attention to how many houses have gutters vs. how many houses do not.
“Why did I do this?” you might ask.
Because a friend told me that she needed to clean the gutters at her house.
So I was thinking about gutters.
Which is something I don’t usually do.
Except when the gutters near my classroom leak, or completely fall off,
Or when I see a gutter growing a tree.
Here is what I noticed.
More houses than not did not have gutters,
Except for when I got into my neighborhood.
Then it was reversed.
After a brief moment of research, I learned this about gutters:
“Depending on the roof style of a house, gutters may not need to be all around the house. All roof planes which pitch downward are typically guttered. Gutters are usually installed on the bottom edge of downward-pitched roofs to channel water away from the foundation where it could seep into the basement, splash up dirt onto the foundation, or fill up basement window wells, which also could seep into the basement. Flat roofs should also be guttered because leaving water on a flat roof can cause leaks and rotting. They may be installed with a slight pitch to all-around guttering or to one or more downspouts.”
So why do most of the houses on my way home not have gutters while most of the houses in my neighborhood do?
I don’t know.
But I’m thinking about it.
Because a friend brought gutters to my attention.
And because gutter-knowledge is something that I can expand upon.
When I was in divinity school, one of my professors introduced the idea that instead of faith being something that grows in a linear line with periods of flat plateau, faith is something that grows in loops, constantly moving forward, constantly having moments of “ups” and “downs.”
I like this image because I think it allows us to see how faith so often grows by issue, event, question, struggle, etc.
I think that we live our lives, doing our best to make it through each day, dealing with whatever is in front of us—whatever has been brought to our attention—whatever is presented to our minds for such a time as this.
When someone that we know is diagnosed with cancer, we struggle with how, when, and why God answers prayers for healing.
When someone that we know tells us that someone once told her that if she couldn’t believe in the story of creation exactly as it was written in the Bible then she might as well not believe anything at all, we consider if that statement is true.
When someone that we know comes out, we struggle with issues of sexuality.
When someone that we know loses a job, we struggle with issues of God’s faithfulness and discernment.
When someone that we know is killed or commits suicide, we struggle with issues of life and death.
When we are finished with our struggle—when we have landed in a place where we feel comfortable in our beliefs—when we learn everything that we want to know—then we move forward—and onto something else.
So…when someone that we know has to clean the gutters on her house, we begin to notice gutters and wonder about their function.
Or at least I do.
Today.
Making The Most Of Me--Version One
Each year, The Harnett County Reading Council hosts a Young Author’s Writing Competition. This year’s theme is “Making The Most of Me.” Writers are supposed to write about life-events and decisions that have helped them make the most of themselves. What a difficult theme for the elementary writer! As an adult, I get it. Even so, I have struggled with this year’s theme.
After a lot of editing this entry to 500 words, here is version number one for my “Making The Most of Me” entry. This is the first time I have ever entered prose. I will post version number two on Thursday. It is a poem.
---------
I am a people pleaser. I like to do what’s right and have the approval of those around me. Even so, I can think of two specific times when I went against others’ approval and did what I felt best.
The first time I followed my heart and did what was best was when I went to a friend's dad's funeral during a major winter storm. The weather was horrible. The roads were in terrible condition. Making a long drive defied everything that made sense, yet I knew I needed to do it. So I did. When I arrived at the funeral, I was the only person there for my friend. I sat with her on the family pew, rode with her to the graveside, and stood beside her in the freezing rain as she watched her father’s casket being lowered into the ground. I then followed her home so she wouldn't have to make the journey alone.
Of all the things I've done in life, making that trip to that funeral that day is one of the things that I know I did right—despite signs of disapproval.
The second time I followed my heart and did what was best was when I decided to go to counseling. For many years, anxiety, depression, and intense feelings of self-loathing weighed me down. I stuffed those feelings inside and tried to cover them with people-pleasing work and relationships, yet I was deeply broken. Despite the common sentiment that going to counseling shows a major weakness of faith and a shallow relationship with God, and despite the fact that my going to counseling would be looked down upon by many church-goers, I found the strength to ask for professional help.
Week in and week out, my counselor listened to my jumbled thoughts and helped me see myself and the God that I adore in life-altering ways. She showed me the unconditional love and grace of God and provided for me a steady, safe place. Through my time in counseling, I learned the importance of finding my voice—of giving words to my thoughts and feelings and allowing people to help carry the griefs, hurts, heartaches, and joys that I too often try to carry alone. Knowing that there was someone who unconditionally supported, cared for, and cheered for me allowed me to see all of the other people in my life who were and always had been doing the same. Counseling changed my perspective and allowed me to see the world through different eyes.
Of all the things I've done in life, taking that step toward help is one of the things that I know I did right—despite signs of disapproval.
As a people-pleaser, I don’t like receiving signs of disapproval, yet I’ve learned that I must follow my heart and do what I feel is best…
…I’ve learned that being myself is the best way of making the most of me.
After a lot of editing this entry to 500 words, here is version number one for my “Making The Most of Me” entry. This is the first time I have ever entered prose. I will post version number two on Thursday. It is a poem.
---------
I am a people pleaser. I like to do what’s right and have the approval of those around me. Even so, I can think of two specific times when I went against others’ approval and did what I felt best.
The first time I followed my heart and did what was best was when I went to a friend's dad's funeral during a major winter storm. The weather was horrible. The roads were in terrible condition. Making a long drive defied everything that made sense, yet I knew I needed to do it. So I did. When I arrived at the funeral, I was the only person there for my friend. I sat with her on the family pew, rode with her to the graveside, and stood beside her in the freezing rain as she watched her father’s casket being lowered into the ground. I then followed her home so she wouldn't have to make the journey alone.
Of all the things I've done in life, making that trip to that funeral that day is one of the things that I know I did right—despite signs of disapproval.
The second time I followed my heart and did what was best was when I decided to go to counseling. For many years, anxiety, depression, and intense feelings of self-loathing weighed me down. I stuffed those feelings inside and tried to cover them with people-pleasing work and relationships, yet I was deeply broken. Despite the common sentiment that going to counseling shows a major weakness of faith and a shallow relationship with God, and despite the fact that my going to counseling would be looked down upon by many church-goers, I found the strength to ask for professional help.
Week in and week out, my counselor listened to my jumbled thoughts and helped me see myself and the God that I adore in life-altering ways. She showed me the unconditional love and grace of God and provided for me a steady, safe place. Through my time in counseling, I learned the importance of finding my voice—of giving words to my thoughts and feelings and allowing people to help carry the griefs, hurts, heartaches, and joys that I too often try to carry alone. Knowing that there was someone who unconditionally supported, cared for, and cheered for me allowed me to see all of the other people in my life who were and always had been doing the same. Counseling changed my perspective and allowed me to see the world through different eyes.
Of all the things I've done in life, taking that step toward help is one of the things that I know I did right—despite signs of disapproval.
As a people-pleaser, I don’t like receiving signs of disapproval, yet I’ve learned that I must follow my heart and do what I feel is best…
…I’ve learned that being myself is the best way of making the most of me.
Monday, October 5, 2015
Marigold's Rescue
Edited out: A couple of weeks ago, I went to Barnes and Noble for the sole purpose of finding journals that might appeal to boys. I realize that what I’m getting ready to say is going to sound stereotypical, but most of the journals that we have to give as writing prizes are geared toward girls—adorned with purples, pinks, and bright greens; with flowers, dots, and hearts. While I know that there are boys who would be happy with these journals, I also know that most of the boys who write for the weekly writing challenges are more into gaming, hunting, and traditional sports playing. Now, before you scream offense, please note the qualifications with both of those sentences. I know that we have girls who are into gaming, hunting, and traditional sports playing, too. This is precisely why we let students choose their prize journal…and if at student chooses something that he/she might get picked on for, then we give it to him/her in a discreet way at the end of the day.
A couple of weeks ago, I went to Barnes and Noble for the sole purpose of finding more prize-journals for school. I did not accomplish my purpose. Instead, I walked away with zero prize-journals and seven bags of presents for friends and family members—including baby gifts for the two pregnant baristas in the store Starbucks. Yes, folks: this is typical of Deanna at the Barnes and Noble clearance sale.
One of that day’s gifts that I’m most excited about giving is an American Girl sewing/activity kit that I bought for Amelia. This past summer, she took an American Girl sewing class at a day-camp and had a really nice time. I wasn’t sure if Amelia was still interested in American Girl dolls—I think we all know how interests can come and go in the worlds of the children that we love—so I wrote my sister to check on the current American Girl doll interest level. We are still high on the interest-level scale and it doesn’t seem to be fading, so I took a risk and bought the American Girl stuff—hoping and trusting that Amelia would be happy with her gifts either way. She really is a positive, grateful child.
Something you should know about Amelia’s American Girl doll collection: Most of Amelia’s dolls were purchased second-hand. I find this neat because 1) the dolls are evidently very expensive and I’m a fan of not spending more money than is absolutely needed, and 2) Amelia has no idea nor does she care that someone before her once took care of the dolls. She loves her dolls as if she is the only person ever to love them—yet—she’d still love them if she were knowingly the fifteenth person to care for them. Here’s how I know this to be true:
Amelia and Griffin are on fall break this week. [Yes. They’re in elementary school.] For their first night of fall break, they came to spend the night at the house. Even though I was in and out at church all day yesterday, I still got to spend a few hours with these two amazing kids who had grown about ten inches since the last time I’d seen them (okay—that may be an exaggeration). During lunch, Amelia was excited to share that she had gotten a new doll. Knowing her propensity toward American Girl dolls, I asked if it was an American Girl doll. She informed me that it wasn’t. It was another kind of doll that she had rescued from a consignment sale. Did you hear that? My niece rescued a doll from a consignment sale!
Evidently, this doll was in bad shape. My sister said that it looked like she had been at the bottom of the toy bin for a very long time. Amelia said that she was really dirty, that her hair was a mess, and that her face was dented in. But for some reason, Amelia really wanted her. She saw potential in the doll. She wanted to save her. Amelia couldn’t rest until she’d rescued the doll.
Marigold, as she has now been named—although I heard Amelia say “Miracle” which would have been appropriate—is currently clean, with a new hairstyle, and with less sunken-in cheeks. She has been washed with a Clorox-wipe, brushed with a tiny brush, plumped up, and properly dressed. Marigold is now part of Amelia’s doll family, non-American Girl doll though she may be.
I don’t think I need to tell you how proud this story makes me. Amelia, age seven, believes in redemption without even knowing what redemption is. She sees potential in the people and things around her and then works to save what needs to be rescued—name-brand or not. And, really, what can be more beautiful than that?
A couple of weeks ago, I went to Barnes and Noble for the sole purpose of finding more prize-journals for school. I did not accomplish my purpose. Instead, I walked away with zero prize-journals and seven bags of presents for friends and family members—including baby gifts for the two pregnant baristas in the store Starbucks. Yes, folks: this is typical of Deanna at the Barnes and Noble clearance sale.
One of that day’s gifts that I’m most excited about giving is an American Girl sewing/activity kit that I bought for Amelia. This past summer, she took an American Girl sewing class at a day-camp and had a really nice time. I wasn’t sure if Amelia was still interested in American Girl dolls—I think we all know how interests can come and go in the worlds of the children that we love—so I wrote my sister to check on the current American Girl doll interest level. We are still high on the interest-level scale and it doesn’t seem to be fading, so I took a risk and bought the American Girl stuff—hoping and trusting that Amelia would be happy with her gifts either way. She really is a positive, grateful child.
Something you should know about Amelia’s American Girl doll collection: Most of Amelia’s dolls were purchased second-hand. I find this neat because 1) the dolls are evidently very expensive and I’m a fan of not spending more money than is absolutely needed, and 2) Amelia has no idea nor does she care that someone before her once took care of the dolls. She loves her dolls as if she is the only person ever to love them—yet—she’d still love them if she were knowingly the fifteenth person to care for them. Here’s how I know this to be true:
Amelia and Griffin are on fall break this week. [Yes. They’re in elementary school.] For their first night of fall break, they came to spend the night at the house. Even though I was in and out at church all day yesterday, I still got to spend a few hours with these two amazing kids who had grown about ten inches since the last time I’d seen them (okay—that may be an exaggeration). During lunch, Amelia was excited to share that she had gotten a new doll. Knowing her propensity toward American Girl dolls, I asked if it was an American Girl doll. She informed me that it wasn’t. It was another kind of doll that she had rescued from a consignment sale. Did you hear that? My niece rescued a doll from a consignment sale!
Evidently, this doll was in bad shape. My sister said that it looked like she had been at the bottom of the toy bin for a very long time. Amelia said that she was really dirty, that her hair was a mess, and that her face was dented in. But for some reason, Amelia really wanted her. She saw potential in the doll. She wanted to save her. Amelia couldn’t rest until she’d rescued the doll.
Marigold, as she has now been named—although I heard Amelia say “Miracle” which would have been appropriate—is currently clean, with a new hairstyle, and with less sunken-in cheeks. She has been washed with a Clorox-wipe, brushed with a tiny brush, plumped up, and properly dressed. Marigold is now part of Amelia’s doll family, non-American Girl doll though she may be.
I don’t think I need to tell you how proud this story makes me. Amelia, age seven, believes in redemption without even knowing what redemption is. She sees potential in the people and things around her and then works to save what needs to be rescued—name-brand or not. And, really, what can be more beautiful than that?
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