Ok. Here goes. I've moved.
It is time for a change.
Room for creativity, perhaps?
I'm sorry for the inconvenience.
But it is time...
Introducing:
http://anniegroves.wordpress.com/
After 3+ years of blogging, I'm changing it up... Have no fear, however, because in case you wanted to read through archive posts, I've already imported every single posting I've ever made... So really, it's just a change in web address. That's all.
Hope you like it.
I need it...
Friday, September 21, 2007
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
Husband's New Love
Four mornings out the week, JD wakes up to our alarm at 6:30 am. He gets up, feeds the dog, makes coffee & breakfast, and heads out to do this:
Saturday, September 15, 2007
Grandma's Playroom
There was magic in grandma’s playroom. The dust sat heavily in the air like specks of pixie powder; welcoming us children into a land of imagination and dreams only the youngest entertain. Within these four walls my cousins and I found contentment, beauty, and life.
The little wooden table with its four chairs sat us politely down to tea. We pretended to sip our teacups like little old ladies, holding our pinkies in the air with pursed lips while we chatted. There was nothing more important in the world than that very moment. The cookies were real, of course, lemon sugar cookies fresh from grandma’s oven. The eight remaining from the dozen sat in the tilted glass cookie jar with the corked lid on top of the refrigerator, anxiously awaiting the next tea party.
In grandma’s playroom was a play closet, with two beautiful gowns for us to wear while we sat to tea. I favored a blue, fitted gown covered in shiny lace. The other gown was pink, long, and flowy. We looked miraculous in grandma’s gowns.
Near the little wooden table was a small, carefully painted rocking horse. We didn’t know it was painted, nor made by a toy maker either, for that matter. The small rocking horse took us through surrounded deserts, along winding rivers, through the gold rush country, and atop steep mountains. After long rides, we’d climb off and ask grandma for more cookies, and perhaps some fresh-squeezed lemonade.
Always, in grandma’s playroom with the blue curtains and white bed, was the thimble. The thimble was the brightest treasure of all in grandma’s playroom. The tiny, shiny, silver thimble sat carefully on the shelf, waiting to be picked up for our favorite game. We spent hours taking the thimble off the shelf and hiding it somewhere in grandma’s house. Sometimes grandpa would play too. We counted to fifty while grandpa mischievously hid the thimble atop the third shelf of the long bookcase in the hallway, next to the book about Santa Claus. After what seemed an eternity, we found the thimble and begged grandpa to hide it again.
And so it went for hours… running around the house, hiding and looking, hiding and looking… always returning to the magical playroom to put the silver thimble back on its shelf.
We would close the door to the playroom after hours of playing, and in my child’s eye, if I waited long enough before shutting the door to a close, I could see the rocking horse give one last rock, bidding me farewell until our next adventure in grandma’s playroom.
The little wooden table with its four chairs sat us politely down to tea. We pretended to sip our teacups like little old ladies, holding our pinkies in the air with pursed lips while we chatted. There was nothing more important in the world than that very moment. The cookies were real, of course, lemon sugar cookies fresh from grandma’s oven. The eight remaining from the dozen sat in the tilted glass cookie jar with the corked lid on top of the refrigerator, anxiously awaiting the next tea party.
In grandma’s playroom was a play closet, with two beautiful gowns for us to wear while we sat to tea. I favored a blue, fitted gown covered in shiny lace. The other gown was pink, long, and flowy. We looked miraculous in grandma’s gowns.
Near the little wooden table was a small, carefully painted rocking horse. We didn’t know it was painted, nor made by a toy maker either, for that matter. The small rocking horse took us through surrounded deserts, along winding rivers, through the gold rush country, and atop steep mountains. After long rides, we’d climb off and ask grandma for more cookies, and perhaps some fresh-squeezed lemonade.
Always, in grandma’s playroom with the blue curtains and white bed, was the thimble. The thimble was the brightest treasure of all in grandma’s playroom. The tiny, shiny, silver thimble sat carefully on the shelf, waiting to be picked up for our favorite game. We spent hours taking the thimble off the shelf and hiding it somewhere in grandma’s house. Sometimes grandpa would play too. We counted to fifty while grandpa mischievously hid the thimble atop the third shelf of the long bookcase in the hallway, next to the book about Santa Claus. After what seemed an eternity, we found the thimble and begged grandpa to hide it again.
And so it went for hours… running around the house, hiding and looking, hiding and looking… always returning to the magical playroom to put the silver thimble back on its shelf.
We would close the door to the playroom after hours of playing, and in my child’s eye, if I waited long enough before shutting the door to a close, I could see the rocking horse give one last rock, bidding me farewell until our next adventure in grandma’s playroom.
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
The Greatest
I think the Greatest in the Kingdom of Heaven live quiet, simple lives. The Greatest rest in the validation of God’s love; they don’t need their profession, wealth, or fame to claim their significance. The Greatest spend time drying dishes and making the bed. The Greatest don’t worry about their impact for the Kingdom or whether their life’s work is all it is cracked up to be. The Greatest rise early, bow on their knees in silent reverence, and then take the dog out for a walk. The Greatest serve their spouse, family, and friends in a matter of quiet humility. The Greatest delight in trusting God. The Greatest pray for the Least, those in the Kingdom straining their necks to be noticed and validated by what the World – or Religion - might offer. The Greatest take time for simple pleasures, like a cup of tea on a Saturday morning, or an early run in the park, or perhaps a tiny moment to listen to the whistling wind. They know these are worship moments. The Greatest look out for the poor and pray for opportunities to clothe, feed, and visit. They do this in secret. The Greatest aren’t Known in the World. They are like Children.
Monday, September 03, 2007
Drops of Water, an Oasis, and Writing
These have been days of reflection. Change does that to me. So does the desert. When it's barren, the sun's imprint on sand forces concentration. As if my own, tiny, centered microcosm of the world can be found in the captivating white glare. Days like these are both frightening and liberating. The process leads to redemption, an oasis for the soul, that sometimes lasts only for ten minutes, other times days, weeks, and when God really gets at us, or at least, when we let God carve into the deepest of our hearts, this particular oasis might be a source of nourishment for a lifetime.
These are the rarest of times. Mostly because they are the culmination of liquid moments, life-giving truth squeezed into our hearts by something seemingly as tiny as a baby's medicine dropper. Eventually Jesus brings you to an oasis, a well of water filled with the drops of water you never knew existed... or at least forgot about. I think that's why God tells us to write things on the tablets of our hearts. Because when your tablet gets dusty and it's time to re-examine, small inscriptions of truth from previous sips of faith remind you of what is real. I suppose the goal is to never let our tablet get dusty, but, well, we keep striving.
Last night was a culmination point. A rather disturbing one - as I was confronted with myself - the dusty, dark, human flaws that I have the hardest time overcoming. I think Jesus loves our flaws - (and I'm not just talking about my forgetfulness, clumsiness, kitchen disasters, and sometimes scary driving) - because He knows the work of redemption through Himself that the Father brings. But death has to come first, and death is never fun.
I'll spare you the details, because this is a blog, but it has to do with something our sometimes stupid puppy brought out in me (I tried to convince JD that we needed to take him back last night after he bit me several times, peed in our house twice, and vomited on the carpet, but he said no), my innate challenge to finish things, and the piece of my heart I am wrestling with God over. Perhaps if I write a book some day, I will tell you the whole story. Not now.
On a completely different note, I have decided that if I were ever to write a book, I would liken my writing style to Anne Lamott's. Except I probably wouldn't use the F-word so much. I do like her awareness of her and others' humanity, however. Her writing is raw, brilliant, offensive, and liberating. More than that, her life is devoted to figuring things out and following Jesus the best she knows how. Right-wingers beware, she hates the Bush administration, but is trying to love the president. :) I underlined this piece of advice concerning writing last night: "Pay attention, take notes, give yourself short assignments, let yourself write shitty first drafts, ask people for help, and you own what happens to you." I now keep my journal with me at all times. A wise person told me that God wants our post-it notes just as much as the long, holiest of prayers. Ever since then, I try to use my journal as an avenue of giving God, well, everything.
Today we are going to the beach with some friends. We will bbq tri-tip, chicken, spicy sausage, corn, eat my uncle Allan's macaroni salad, potato chips, and fruit (my favorites), and play in the waves. Brother spent the night last night so he could come too - I do like having my brother on the island. Today is going to be a good day.
These are the rarest of times. Mostly because they are the culmination of liquid moments, life-giving truth squeezed into our hearts by something seemingly as tiny as a baby's medicine dropper. Eventually Jesus brings you to an oasis, a well of water filled with the drops of water you never knew existed... or at least forgot about. I think that's why God tells us to write things on the tablets of our hearts. Because when your tablet gets dusty and it's time to re-examine, small inscriptions of truth from previous sips of faith remind you of what is real. I suppose the goal is to never let our tablet get dusty, but, well, we keep striving.
Last night was a culmination point. A rather disturbing one - as I was confronted with myself - the dusty, dark, human flaws that I have the hardest time overcoming. I think Jesus loves our flaws - (and I'm not just talking about my forgetfulness, clumsiness, kitchen disasters, and sometimes scary driving) - because He knows the work of redemption through Himself that the Father brings. But death has to come first, and death is never fun.
I'll spare you the details, because this is a blog, but it has to do with something our sometimes stupid puppy brought out in me (I tried to convince JD that we needed to take him back last night after he bit me several times, peed in our house twice, and vomited on the carpet, but he said no), my innate challenge to finish things, and the piece of my heart I am wrestling with God over. Perhaps if I write a book some day, I will tell you the whole story. Not now.
On a completely different note, I have decided that if I were ever to write a book, I would liken my writing style to Anne Lamott's. Except I probably wouldn't use the F-word so much. I do like her awareness of her and others' humanity, however. Her writing is raw, brilliant, offensive, and liberating. More than that, her life is devoted to figuring things out and following Jesus the best she knows how. Right-wingers beware, she hates the Bush administration, but is trying to love the president. :) I underlined this piece of advice concerning writing last night: "Pay attention, take notes, give yourself short assignments, let yourself write shitty first drafts, ask people for help, and you own what happens to you." I now keep my journal with me at all times. A wise person told me that God wants our post-it notes just as much as the long, holiest of prayers. Ever since then, I try to use my journal as an avenue of giving God, well, everything.
Today we are going to the beach with some friends. We will bbq tri-tip, chicken, spicy sausage, corn, eat my uncle Allan's macaroni salad, potato chips, and fruit (my favorites), and play in the waves. Brother spent the night last night so he could come too - I do like having my brother on the island. Today is going to be a good day.
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