There Are Many Rooms

I've experienced responsibility much as Jonathan Button experienced age: rather opposite of most people, with an awfully lot at a young age and quite a bit less of it the older I've gotten. I'm turning into quite the gypsy, keeping my conservative appearances mostly because I like it. Some, mostly staunch conservative Christians have an issue with this. Why, I wonder, when it is they who sing old hymns such as Wayfaring Stranger and keep a copy of The Pilgrim's Progress next to their Bible. 

They chide me on my wild ways, "You must have a home church." 

But this world is not my home. I am not meant to sit still, or to wait at home for the coming of some man or of the Messiah. We are all meant to be as children: wild and loud and happy. I should be able to pick my own flowers, thank you very much, without being accused of feminism. 

I sometimes find churches to attend while traveling. Looking back on them I feel as if I experienced the same sort of Deja vu of having been there before, or the place being a room of an old home. 

"There are many rooms in my Father's house." 

I've visited three rooms these last couple months. A sort of Mennonite church in Virgina, a Polish Catholic service in New York, and an old order Russian ex-Mennonite church in Canada. I'd never been to a service like any of them, and yet they were familiar. 

The first was right, just like the porcelain dolls on my bookshelf are right. To some it might be weird. I am reminded of my favorite childhood Pentecostal church. The stained-glass in the second church depicted early church history: ships, fish, swords. Afterwards the priest talked with us, making us laugh for a moment before he had to "go watch my team lose to France!" 

I pretty much disagreed with everything that was said at the third church, but the novel I've been dreaming of writing since I was fourteen poured onto me and the entire plot and all the bits of "why" and "how" came to me through a sudden burst of inspiration I hadn't felt in years. All the fear I'd felt before when I thought of writing the novel, I've always known I ought to write left me. I began writing a mystical Christian novel today, the story born of a nine-year old's controversial prayer, a fourteen-year old's imaginations, and a twenty-six-year old's ruffled feathers in a Russian anabaptist service. 

After the service this petite old woman went around with a pint sized Ziplock bag full of chocolate squares for all the girls. Those who accidently had their backs turned to her were told, "Honey, come here, I have something sweet for you." 

Everyone asked everyone before they left, "Do you have someplace to go for lunch?" 

I saw a woman a little younger than me all in black and wearing metal-rimmed glasses, her frizzy hair let down and flying out from under her head covering. A long skirt flared out from her classy knee-length coat, and she wore finger-less mittens. She looked wild and nerdy and comfortably pretty, and I wondered how her spirit wasn't quenched yet. We talked and her voice matched her persona. 

A fog has lifted. I wonder if maybe all the good things come to us when we are young and being an adult is about working out those dreams. Sometimes that's scary: what if I don't have more things to think and write and do? But then I remember I have quite enough as it is. 

How wonderful it is to be writing as much as I have been writing these last few months, and to feel this wonderful burst of inspiration. How amazing it is to continually find myself discovering home and all its nooks and crannies... how large and warm and beautiful everything can be. What a blessing it is to be free. And what a gift it is to dream. 

* * * 

And because my grandma just sent me the sweetest message that somehow made all these previous words possible, I have to share it. Mostly I never realized that my grandmother is also a writer, and that thought made me quite excited. 

Good evening sweet lady. 

I am always up to something 😂 

I think I look to find something to do with my imagination. 

My best friend thinks I make up things to keep him occupied. 😂 But, really, it’s just the normal things that grandmas do! It's much like a business at my house. I am the maid-before-morning-latte, then I am the breakfast cook. I change my apron and become the dish washer, then off to be the laundry lady. A few hours later I become the housekeeper, and then I'm doing errands before returning to work as lunch lady. 

After that I play in the bubbles while acting like I am doing hard work (dishes).

This time while doing dishes it gives me more time to talk on the phone with one or more members of the family that are going through hard times. Then I run around the house with the mean machine that eats the dirt on the floors. 

Later I visit with cookbooks arguing that most of her advice is ancient and I’ve never seen most of her recipes turn into what the picture looks like. So, I stick my head far down into the freezer box that has potential to any wise woman (besides me) to bring forth a meal fit for a king. After rumbling through my choices, I find an old friend that has been there for me in the worst of my trial and errors of my cooking experiences: the yard bird. I throw her in the belly of a roasting pan and shut down the lid before I change my mind. While the hen takes her time to roast or burn, whichever, I again take time to visit with my family on speakerphone, even saying a prayer or two, all the while chopping the head and tails off the veggies.  Those beautiful veggies are getting to know Mrs. Petunia while I season with tender love and care and hope for the best. 

This is the time of day I like the best. 

While the oven is doing her job and the house smells nice and its quiet, and clean. I have a few minutes to smear paint on a canvas and dream. I see the yesteryears on that colorful canvas of my life. When children were in every room. I think of the time I was young and full of anxiety about so many things. I tell myself what a wonderful life I have had. Time has taken wings and flew, much like that hen I chased last fall. As time is going by as a dream, I hear that stove ringing bringing me back to reality. I run back to my day job with happiness, for I am blessed with health and a wonderful family. Even if I burned that old bird.  

My best friend comes in from whatever he has been doing and asks, "What have you been doing today?" 

"Oh! I say, someone came to visit today, and she was so interesting we just talked about days gone by, and time has gotten away with me." 

So, my best friend says, "Well, let me help you" and he gets that the hen out of the furnace and says, "It’s not so bad." Then I am in love with him all over again. 

It’s been a wonderful journey with him. Our time is short, and the front door is opening. In comes eighteen children, two or more adults, and possibly a cat or two. I’ve been waiting for someone to ask me “How have you been?” 

I say, "I’ve been just fine "

❤️ Blessings to you my dear. I love you