The one where I give up storm chasing


Back in his college days my husband helped his best friend Andy storm chase across the state of Oklahoma. Andy was a meteorology student and so clouds, their colors, their movement, were his obsession, his favorite art form.  Like any good Oklahoma chaser, he pursued mostly Tornadic cells, waiting to see the hooks and churning that indicated a funnel cloud may touch down.

Kel was a bit more level headed and stayed home on his computer to help Andy avoid getting sucked up into the sky.  Storm chasing is a serious business here in Oklahoma and if you’ve seen the movie Twister, they tell me it’s not too far fetched.  I wouldn’t know, when the weather gets insane I stay on the couch.

Kel heads out to the back porch to check things out, this is typical Okie behavior by the way, when the weather gets crazy, the crazy go outside.  Native Okies = Crazy

I love to using storms as a metaphor for the difficult seasons in our life, I’m not alone in this. Something about the dark, swirling clouds and the ear splitting thunder soulfully resonates with our human experience.

There are two sorts of storms that roll across our lives, both painful, both hard, yet quite different.   Continue reading

When God sends you a plunger


Broken, every piece, sob…

Mornings with preschoolers always feel like they’re teetering on the brink of chaos and some mornings they fall right into insanity. Today was one of THOSE mornings, fraught with chaos.

It started out fairly normally, warming sippy cups of milk and turning on PBS for the kids while I found my bearings, made my coffee.

Then, while I was in the other room trying to finagle a last minute Christmas gift for Noelle my son pulled all of my parent’s heirloom stone bakeware onto his feet.

The result was a shattered mess of lovely pottery and several cut and bleeding toes.

I was a weepy, awful mess over the whole thing, because I cherished those pieces of cookware and I cherish my sons baby toes.

I couldn’t help but grieve those shattered pieces of stoneware that I’d lovingly gathered from my parent’s house after my Mom’s funeral.  Why couldn’t it have been something cheap, something from Kohls or even a wedding shower gift.

Out of everything in the cookware cabinet, why did he have to break those?

Why couldn’t he have been content with the safe, plastic mixing bowls I’d set out for him to play with instead of going back in for “a different ones!” Continue reading