Five Minute Friday: Beautiful

Her skin is tough from excessive exposure to the tropical sun.

Endless cycles of planting and harvesting yams have permanently hunched her back.

Her sagging breasts have nourished eight children, five of which survived past the age of three.

The teeth she still has are permanently stained from chewing betelnut.

Her second-hand clothes are faded and worn.

Her feet are wide and flat from decades of walking barefoot through the jungle.

Her eyes sparkle with life, humour, and joy despite a lifetime of physical labour and heart-wrenching loss.

She is Papua New Guinean.

And she is beautiful.

Inspired by Lisa Jo Baker's Five Minute Friday prompt, "Beautiful."

Why I Chose Your Father over Orlando Bloom: An open letter to my children

“[Viggo Mortensen, the actor who played Aragorn] used to call me 'elf boy,' and I'd call him 'filthy human.' As an elf, I never got a scratch on me, never got dirty. And Vig would come out with blood and sweat all over him. And he'd say to me, 'Oh, go manicure your nails.'” ~Orlando Bloom

"Legolas doesn't speak a lot - he prefers to let his actions speak for him. Legolas's moves are smooth and elegant, like a cat. You know how cats can jump and land steadily on their paws? That's what I'm trying to do. There's a strength in that, but it's very balletic. It's also [really] hard to do without falling over!" ~Orlando Bloom

Dear Ones,

I’m sorry.  I let myself get carried away.

I don’t even remember how it started exactly.  One thing just led to another.  In a brief moment of weakness I thought, It’s harmless … no one will get hurt.

And then, for better or for worse, I just said it.

“I thought Legolas was pretty hot.”

The looks on your faces were priceless.  Evan, trying to determine how serious I was and simultaneously rethinking his obsession with “Lord of the Rings.”  Andie trying to stifle an embarrassed grin and at the same time downright horrified that her mother would have, or at least would admit, such thoughts or feelings.

Even Daddy widened his eyes.  “Wow.  I don’t think you’ve ever said anything like that about anyone before.”

Because your reactions were so perfect, I couldn’t let it die.  Over the next few days I seized several additional opportunities to speak swooningly of Legolas ... to make your collective eyes bug out, to cause your faces to contort into those coincidentally wonderous and disturbed looks, to make Andie shrink back, aghast and suspicious, willing me to take it back for the love of all things right and noble.

Your father just rolled his eyes.  You see, he wasn’t worried.

Let me explain.

I admit, there was something about the character, Legolas, that was appealing to me.  He was the strong, silent type.  Tender, kind, brave, thoughtful.  Rescuer, hero, kick-some-Ork-butt, save-the-world.  He had a strong jaw and perfect hair, and was pretty good with a bow and arrow.  And don’t get me started on the pointy ears.

But, that’s all he is to me, really … a fantastical character.

He’s not real.

And I already explained to you that I really don’t have any feelings for Orlando Bloom himself.  I mean, I am sure he is a fine young man (I can say "young" because when I got married at 26, he was still in high school, or would have been if he had not dropped out), but I don’t know him at all – at least not as well as you might feel like you know a graceful, blonde elf after nine hours on the big screen.

You father, however, is very real.

I know we’ve had our issues – all marriages have conflict.  But, we would both tell you that those issues, and the way that God had brought us through them, only made us stronger in the end, made us love each other more.

Your father has always been there for me, even when I was at my most unlovable.  Thanks to untreated clinical depression that, fortunately, you don’t really remember, I was frequently quite nasty, angry, hateful … for years.  I almost certainly would have walked out on me, but Daddy never did.  I don’t hold out much hope that Orlando would have done the same.  It’s not really Hollywood’s way.

I’m sure our culture tried to sell Dad the idea that he deserved better.  I would guess that he had plenty of opportunities to buy the lie that if he left me and found someone else everything would be good again, easier, more fulfilling … that the pain of divorce and a broken family, and even the conflicts we had, would not follow him into another relationship (they always do no matter how good or bad the relationships are).

But your father chose the difficult path – he chose to honour me, his commitment, and his God.  He demonstrated faithfulness to me, just as he had pledged at the altar in 1995, but, as it turned out, far far beyond what I actually deserved.  He did not always like me, that he will admit, but he chose to continue loving me, for better or for worse, in sickness and in health.

I didn’t make it easy, and sometimes I still don’t.  I spent far more time suffocating in the Darkness than I have as a medicated, counseled, reasonably healthy adult, and there are still bad habits that need to be expelled from our relationship.  And despite all my flattering talk, Daddy’s not perfect either.  We’d both acknowledge that.  But we’ve come a long way thanks to Mercy.  Thanks to Grace.

Besides, he’s a pretty good cook.

I love your Daddy very much, and I would still choose him over Legolas.

I just wanted you to know.

With love,

 

Mom

Five-minute Friday: In Between

“Don't be dismayed by good-byes. A farewell is necessary before you can meet again. And meeting again, after moments or lifetimes, is certain for those who are friends.” ~Richard Bach

 


So, I just found this blog challenge to write for five minutes, unedited, on a specific prompt each Friday.  Not sure if I will continue, but today's (well, yesterday's for me) prompt seems appropriate.  So, here goes ...

Today begins the in-between. 

Today, after two weeks of suffocating under the weights of goodbyes, our community attempts to pause and catch its collective breath.

For two weeks we have been saying farewell, whether we wanted to or not.  Whether the words actually came out of our mouths or, like my own so often, whether they were only thoughts that got caught up in our throats and died on our tongues.

Whether we drove out to the dirt airstrip and gave up hugs and tears in person, or whether we stood on our front lawns and waved frantically as the single-engine plane carrying our besties, our buddies, our co-workers, classmates, or confidants banked left and soared into the next chapter of their lives while leaving us behind to carry on without them.

She didn’t see me waving from my yard, by the way.  I asked later in an email.

Almost everyone who is leaving has already left.  This week I spoke with one graduate who does not leave until next week - she's still in the in-between.  She said it was hard being the last one, having to say goodbye to all of her friends, but that she was grateful for the extra time with her family.  Because this gal spent her grade 10 and 11 years in her passport country, her family has decided that she will be fine going home and getting started in university with only the help of her stateside brother and grandmother.  But, as the mass exodus of entire families so far testifies, this is not the norm.

So, here we stand in the in-between.  While the community breathes a bit more easily this weekend, we begin to feel the giddiness of anticipation because in the next few weeks goodbyes will be replaced by “welcome backs” as people who have been gone for six months, one year, two years or more return from their furloughs en masse. 

Exodus is replaced with influx.

Tears are replaced by joy; mourning is turned into dancing.

It’s a time of celebration.

It’s a time of breathing deeply once again.

Happy Half-Christmas

“Christmas, children, is not a date.  It is a state of mind.” ~Mary Ellen Chase

“Christmas makes me happy no matter what time of year it comes around.”  ~Bryan White

Half-Christmas has arrived.

Two days ago, the kids and I finished the puzzle below, complete with eighteen hidden wolves.  As we did so we talked about how my parents had sent the puzzle to us for Christmas of 2011 (doing a puzzle over the Christmas break is a tradition we have started, and that year they were kind enough to support the habit).  Because the package actually arrived after Christmas, and we were already trying to pack up and get ready for furlough, we never even opened the puzzle.  Until now.

Maybe it was the snow depicted on the puzzle, or the talk of the holidays, but the kids wanted to know how much longer until Christmas.  Andie pulled out the calendar and tried to figure out how many days had transpired since the last one. 

“What’s 31 plus 28 plus 31?”

Seriously?  You just finished Algebra, right?

“And then add 30 …”

Don’t forget the, uh, 26, 27, 28, 29, 30, 31 … six days after Christmas in December.

Short story, she figured out that the very next day, Tuesday, was exactly half a year out from Christmas Eve, which means today, Wednesday, is half a year out from Christmas.

Happy Half-Christmas!

We joked for a few minutes about how a half-Christmas celebration should look and sound.

… On the fourth day of half-Christmas my true love gave to me, two calling birds, one-and-a-half French hens, one turtle dove, and a partridge--.

At that point the kids had been out of school for a full six days, which apparently is long enough for full boredom to set in.

“We should decorate!  Mom, can we decorate?”

What?

“We should put up half a Christmas tree … and bake Christmas cookies …”

Then they asked if we could invite our close family friends – who happened to be leaving for a year furlough the very next day, today - on half-Christmas, thank you very much - to come over and celebrate with us … since we were unable to spend last Christmas with them because of our furlough, and we wouldn’t get to spend this next Christmas with them because of their furlough.

Plus we needed their signatures on our holiday table cloth.

And thus the planning began.  Tuesday we spent the better part of the day decorating (lights around half of the front door, half a wreath, half a tree with half a paper star on top, half-boxes (open on one side) wrapped in holiday paper, half a nativity scene.  Then we baked cut-out sugar cookies … stars, trees, angels, gingerbread men, stockings … all cut in half prior to baking, of course.

We even made faux snow in a bowl.  Decorations courtesy of Andie.  

"So no one thinks it's coconut."  :)

Our friends came over after dinner and we served homemade eggnog – half a glass per person.  As the Christmas music played in the background, we signed the tablecloth, frosted and sprinkled half-sugar-cookies and chatted, trying to ignore the fact that we wouldn’t see each other again for nearly 400 days. 

These are the same friends who have become “aunt” and “uncle” to our kids, and to whose kids we have become the same.  They cared for Evan when Paul and I were in Thailand in 2011.  And as if that wasn’t enough to prove their loyalty and friendship, they looked after our goofball dog for much longer than they bargained for while we were on furlough.

And they didn’t even remind us of our extreme indebtedness … at least not very often.

After an hour or so of cookies and ‘nog, their just-graduated 18-year-old son who affectionately treats my children like a younger brother and sister and even cuddles on the dog (when he’s not painting her, that is) stood to leave.  His mother had been told to expect that each evening during Cry Week the graduates would have a party of some kind or other, “with whoever is left,” hence the 8pm departure from our chronologically displaced holiday festivities. 

I don’t blame him.  I've been to more exciting parties, and I'm old.

But as I watched him walk out the door, knowing that it would likely be much longer than 400 days before we would see him again, I felt a wave of sadness.

Seeing as I don’t do goodbyes well, I sent him off with a “take care” and “keep us posted on how you’re doing - Facebook, Facebook, Facebook.”  He smiled at the reference to one of his recent status updates.

This may have been our last “holiday” with him, but I’d sure be appreciative if he would, someday, plan his wedding around our furlough schedule.

And if you do, ‘Siah, I’ll promise to make you a batch of homemade eggnog, and to let it chill longer than seven hours.

And you can even have a full glass.  :)