nablopomo – Page 52 – Lemon Drop Pie

The other night, as I was heading to an Illinois Farm Family function, I told my girls that I wanted to put on more make-up before we left the house but I just hadn’t had time. I thought maybe a little eyeliner would have been nice; or some lipstick. But as usual, I was rushing to leave. I had taught preschool that morning, taken care of things around the house that afternoon, picked up the girls from school and helped with homework, and then it was time to go!

Just as they always do, my daughters told me I didn’t even need make-up. They say that they can’t even tell the difference when I wear it, and that I’m pretty without it. Well, those deep dark circles under my eyes tell me something else, and I tend to listen to my blond eyelashes more than my own daughters. We need midnight black mascara! I’ve heard that past a certain age, you shouldn’t wear shiny eyeshadow because it highlights your wrinkles. I probably hit that age 5 years ago.

Last Sunday at church, an older couple was sitting in front of us. During the sermon, their shoulders touched. Their heads leaned toward one another. I could imagine that when Ed and I aren’t separating two wiggly, giggly girls during the sermon, we will sit in the pew, heads tilted toward one another. I thought about the longevity of a good marriage. Ed won’t stay married to me because I’m beautiful (although like a good husband he tells me I’m pretty, especially when I’m mad at him!) I’m not going to stay married to him because he’s handsome. (He is very handsome, you know!) But there’s much more that will keep us together.

When you are out with your girlfriends, don’t you think they are so beautiful? I do, and it’s not just the wine talking!

My aunt said what all of us think. She is in her 70’s, and a very healthy, no-nonsense type of woman. She told me once that in her head she still pictures herself as young and thin, and then when she looks in the mirror she’s shocked at the old woman she’s become. We adore her, and when I think of her I think of the way she laughs. I love spending time with her. Is she the image of beauty? She would say no, but the rest of us would disagree.

You already know what I’m getting at; beauty comes from within.

Just like my girls love to put on sparkly clothes, however, I’ll always love my sparkly eyeshadow. I think I’ll go put some on right now.

Join Gretchen from Second Blooming and me this week as we write about beauty! Link up your post below!

We’re looking forward to reading what you have to say!

When we first moved there, the yard wasn’t much to look at. It was a square space between the church and the parsonage, with a few bushes on the side. It was not a very useful space. Commuters would cut through the space on the way to the train, sometimes stealing our morning paper on their way. Flower delivery boys would go to the sacristy door every Saturday afternoon to deliver the Sunday morning altar flowers. It was not much of a sanctuary or a play space for our family of six.

Slowly, the yard started to change. Dad planted some maple trees. Mom, who had a reputation of having a green thumb when we lived in Central Illinois, planted new rose bushes. They convinced the trustees of the church to have a fence built, which gave us a little more privacy and provided a safe place for my little brother and sister to play. In the spring, the forsythia bushes bloomed a bright yellow. The grass grew green and the trees grew tall. Pink tea roses bloomed all summer long. My sister and I practiced hitting a ball with our wooden Louisville Slugger. Dad would grill hamburgers and pile the coals in the middle of the grill so that after dinner, we could roast marshmallows. We slowly claimed the yard and it became ours.

There were always little reminders that the yard was not really ours. We just lived there as the pastor’s family; it belonged to the church. One sunny day, I was recovering from mono which I had contracted during grad school. I was napping on a lawn chair in the yard; suddenly, a man carrying flowers came through the gate. It was Saturday afternoon–time for the weekly delivery.

Eventually, my parents bought their own house and moved out of the parsonage. The yard changed. The rose bushes slowly died and disappeared. The fence became dilapidated. A large air conditioning unit for the church took over the yard. My dad’s prized maples died and had to be cut down. The yard suffered from neglect and was an ugly place to walk through.

The house changed into an office. The church secretary (whom we love dearly) sits and types the church newsletter where we sat down to eat dinner. Her desk occupies the place where we played Trivial Pursuit and where I almost failed trigonometry. The church mailboxes for various committees and boards is in the place of the piano where my sisters practiced Chopin for hours. It is the strangest feeling to go into my old kitchen to make copies for my Vacation Bible School students in the summer.

Things change; life won’t stand still. It is neither good nor bad; change just is.

Someone has decided to pay attention to the yard again. It is being turned into a prayer garden. The blueprint sits in the narthex of our church, and I wonder if I should help return the yard to a beautiful sanctuary once again.

I want to be happy. I want the yard to be a place of beauty; a place that isn’t neglected and run down.

But. I miss the pink roses.