mud pies, a front porch and an invisible tiara

Our Front Porch

I'm the cute chubby one on the far left.

Meet my sisters and little brother

( he's the one with the mud) 

with a few neighbor girls sprinkled in as well.

It was a warm summer afternoon and my mother was home

so she snapped a picture.

She wasn't always home.

Sometimes she left.

The reasons why she left...

I am not fully qualified to speculate on that.

I'd like to.

To be honest.

To be real.

Sometimes she wanted to leave and other times she had to.

Some say one thing and others say another.

All I know is my perception and tainted memories which I am certain that neither are fully accurate...

kind of like the mud on our feet.

We all have a different perspective.

Those that were there and even those that loyally defend 

though they were not there.

Muddy beginnings 

don't always have to make for a muddy life.

Sometimes to see beyond 

 surroundings and believe, 

if only for a moment

that there is something bigger, something better

 beyond their limited and darkened reality.

Sometimes life gets muddy.

We can choose.

Yes, choose.

Some don't choose.

They just keep playing in the mud, 

occasionally wondering if there is a better way

but not having a clue which direction to go 

or even how to start moving out of a camp beyond their reality.

But for me it was a choice:

wear it or wipe it off.

I wish that this front porch could talk though.

'Front porch speaks'

Wouldn't that be interesting?

I'd read it.

This front porch was at one time the home of 

Philip and Margaret, parents of my grandfather.

The stories that it could tell.  

I may learn something if I could only hear it.

Family gatherings on Sunday afternoons,

enjoying great grandmother's lilac shrubs, olive tree, 

apricot and cherry trees,

courageously sending a son off to war

lives during terrible uncertainty and the depression era...

After my great grandparents passed away 

the property contents were sold at an auction.

I remember looking through a kitchen junk drawer 

that was open for display of items during the auction.

Old thimbles, wooden spools of thread, tools...

I remember seeing that drawer as absolutely intriguing.

I looked at those little discarded bobs and bits with awe

realizing that they were remaining little pieces representing

the daily, normal and routine lives of people, my heritage.

I was too young to appreciate history or people or things that way.

But I remember wishing that Great-Grandma could have shown me how to sew, how to use those thimbles and old mismatched thread.

I guess some would say am an old soul.

I am sure of a few things, though.

I remember her purple iris flowers out under a tree by the back ally.

And my little brother and I used to play in the old 57 Chevy

pretending that we could drive and toured for hours.

I am sure that the tree halfway to the barn was apricot.

I was traumatized by it's fruit one summer 

after I took a bite of a juicy ripe apricot

chewing and swallowing.

Then looked down to take another bite 

and saw 1/2 of a worm squiggling around where I had just bit.

Yes, unfortunately,  I am sure of a few things.

{junque shed}

I remember where I came from

 and I do not want to forget.

There is value in the muddy day memories and stories.

They help keep me grounded so that I can help others 

who need a rescue, too. 

He really does give beauty for ashes.

But ashes are the result of a fire.

I had to let go of it.

Beyond praying or giving it to Him.

I had to let go.

This front porch home literally went up in flames 

years after we moved out of it.

But there are memories of things that happened in that house, around that house that I believe once offered to God for His 

re-purposing, are bringing the hope of beauty to others lives, 

encouragement to people who feel trapped by labels, words,

 fears, like they have no choice but to wear it.

{rescue  rethink  repurpose}

It's a passion to share my journey where Love and Truth

led me out of the mud puddle,

told me who I really was,

 gave me a hope and a future

and the tenacious stubbornness, in a good way, to believe it

for myself and for every single person on the planet.

In the end what else really matters?

If it's not living fully alive,

 knowing Love 

and living Love

then what?

Just last week I was sitting around a table and a relative said

"All these people going around talking about love...

Love. Love. Love.  They say love out of one side of their mouth

and then they don't show love...hypocrites. 

 They are all a bunch of hypocrites"

I said "You know, I think you are right.

To some measure or another we are all hypocrites

if the standard is to love all the time, to be perfect in it.

Because we are human, it is impossible for us, alone.

I think authentic love needs the Source of love."

I am thankful for mud, front porch stories and a repurposed life.

deborah

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