GRATEFUL IN THE LITTLE THINGS By Lori A Alicea

The November Door of Thankfulness has been unlocked and opened for just a few days, yet Mother Winter surprised us with our first snow before those fall leaves could take our breath one final time during their encore burst and presentation of color, foregoing some leaves their chance to perform before we raked them into fall’s good-bye.

Things happen which catch us off guard and unaware and make it easy to miss an opportunity to be grateful.  I must confess though, my husband and I had hoped for a few more sweater wearing afternoons seated together for a stolen moment on our couple’s bench listening quietly to music the wind was playing while running its fingertips through the chimes.

Sadly, the theater of fall has had its final curtain call a few days ahead of schedule, closing its doors until opening day next year, with a reminder to be grateful no matter the season.

November weather may be crisp from the kitchen window I allow to be open throughout the winter season to usher in the sounds of life outside to keep me company.  No need to worry though; a space heater warms me during my tasks at the kitchen counter, much to the raised eyebrows from my husband paying the bills.

Nothing stokes the embers of gratefulness in me more than the songs of Christmas and holiday baking.

I’ve never been one who celebrates the holidays according to their order placement on the calendar.

Whenever I am missing my mother terribly and that little girl inside longs for the Norman Rockwell greeting card ambience mother presented for her five daughters and one son every year during the month of December, I recreate mother’s Christmas kitchen to bring me a bit closer to her.
Oh, if I could go back into Mother’s boxes and set aside an apron or two for holiday baking before we sadly packed up her house.  While I’ve never worn the old-fashioned aprons while baking, I wish mother would have dressed us in aprons during those memory making moments while teaching her children to cook.

  Mother needed her aprons as in her excitement, she stirred up a windstorm of flour while rolling out sugar cookies and pie crusts and leaving her indelible handprint of grease onto the recipes she followed.  I was always grateful for this hilarious visual of mother; even more grateful when it wasn’t my week to do dishes during holiday baking.

My sister Denise inherited mother’s cookbook of traditions she gave us during the holidays.  The Thanksgiving meal and memories of stuffing, sweet potatoes, turkey and gravy and all those pies remain in mother’s recipe box, albeit some were handwritten on lunch bags or the back of envelopes.  Yet no matter how we followed each menu item to the final tablespoon, there was always one special ingredient missing: our mother.

 The invitations of holiday’s past remind us that mother’s name has been absent from the guest list going back three long years, with our Thanksgiving table being the first to sadden our hearts with mother’s empty chair.
As the years have passed us by, so has a few of the traditions mother instilled into our family scrapbooks.

Mother would be mortified to witness her son ‘n law Brad baptize Brother Tom into a deep fryer instead of her method of roasting the turkey throughout the day beginning at the start of Macy’s parade.  Thankfully, mother’s daughter Denise kept the tradition in place and another turkey was prepared for those family members who liked their memories just as they were.

Though we loved mother’s stuffing recipe when she prepared it, a new stuffing has made the holiday table; a recipe I learned from my children’s southern grandmother in Kentucky.  This will be our family secret.

The card table has a new shark to take mother’s place, albeit by force and coercion.  Turns out I proved to be a great competitor in mother’s chair; oh, she would be proud.

We laugh, and still cry at times for our mother during the holidays when we remember the angel on the Christmas tree she was to our family.  She lit up our lives and our memories, and neither has been the same since her untimely good-by.
So, whenever I am missing my mother terribly as I was just the other day, and that little girl inside longs to reminisce her Norman Rockwell greeting card presented every year during the month of December, I recreate my mother’s Christmas kitchen to bring me a bit closer to her.

My efforts might fall short to mother’s homemade pies I recall as a child, which is probably the reason I am never assigned the pies for holiday dinners.

But I’m forever grateful for the kitchen memories she gave us during the holidays.

They are always worth remembering.

THE LIFE OF GILBERT WALKER JR By Lori A Alicea

Dedicated to a family’s collection of memories which become their square in a patchwork quilt of the life of their daddy, their papa, their brother, friend or husband, an heirloom to wrap themselves up in and glance at their square of remembrance, to warm their heart on those cold winter days when they just miss him so terribly.

So I begin.

It is written in Jeremiah 1:6 NIV

Before I formed you in the womb I knew you,
Before you were ever born, I set you apart….

It is also written in Psalm 139:15-16 NIV

My frame was not hidden from you when I was made in the secret place. When I was woven together in the depths of the earth, your eyes saw my unformed body.
All the days ordained for me were written in your book before one of them came to be.

None of us is here by accident.
Every one of us is part of God’s plan.
He knew us in the beginning and wrote about us in His book before we were every born.

God thought about you.
He planned for you.
He had a purpose for you in mind.
God also had a purpose and a plan for our beloved Buzzy.

With pen in his hand, God has been writing and lining the shelfs of heaven’s private library with our stories.

Today, we are going to pull from our Father’s finest collection, a personal favorite of His titled
“The Life of Gilbert Walker Jr.”

On January 11, 1950, Gilbert and Mary Alice Wiles Walker gave birth to a beautiful boy and named him Gilbert Love, a junior to his father.
This child of bright promise, whose name and meaning revealed what would be truth about their son during the 73 years he’d live.

A Cherokee Indian whose ancestors could be traced through the trails of the Appalachian Mountains, yet born and raised in Paris, TN his entire life, Gilbert would share the love of his parents with two older sisters, Evelyn Smith and Dorothy (Larry) Connell.

Through the years after realizing both Gilbert Sr. and Jr. would answer to the hollers from the cook in the kitchen, Gilbert Jr’s mother solved this confusion by nicknaming her son Buzzy after the Buzzy Bee toys he loved to play with, dressed in his homemade cowboy clothes as boys do on the floor.

Gilbert’s nickname followed him all the days of his life. I have to imagine this mother smiled and continued to see her adult child still playing with Buzzy Bee toys every time his nickname was called. Children have a way of never growing up in their mother’s eyes.

Earlier in his working life, Buzzy earned a living employed at the local sawmill and raising tobacco. He even wore the badge of a police officer as did his father for a brief few years together.

An older Buzzy drove big rigs and also fixed them as a mechanic for Denton Trucking, usually working 2 or 3 jobs to support his family.
Buzzy’s passion included riding motorcycles, his endless projects in his woodworking shed, playing guitar for his daughter Charity while she sang for the church, spending quality time with his loved ones and best buddies, Frank Beecham and Wesley Hill.

But his proudest achievements came from those who called him daddy or called him papa…

Buzzy’s daughter and two sons are…
Charity (Jayson) Pierce, Timothy James (Dana Rae) Walker and David Timothy Walker.

His five grandchildren are Walker, Olivia, Keith, Courtney and Katie.

Buzzy’s legacy continues in those great-grandchildren of his named Presley, Brent, Rylee, and Alayna.

All who held and pulled on their daddy or papa’s heart strings with a smile and a kiss.

On March 22, 2013, a secret was kept from us Northerners when Buzzy and our sweet niece Amy Lynn decided to get married, or hitched as they say in the south.

As a wedding event decorator and had I known in advance, a large package would have been sent overnight to Amy’s front door containing all the trimmings for such an event called, Wedding in a Box.

Oh, there’d be a wedding dress full of lace, centerpieces, and linens, reservations to a fine hotel for dinner and compliments for the night at their honeymoon suite. I’d locate a few volunteers to throw rice on the newly married couple. I’d even pack a few doves if I thought they’d survive.

But Amy knew all of this about me and kept her nuptials a secret. A box like this would have quickly been returned to sender. As Amy and Buzzy were boots and cowboy hats kind of people, mere simple folk whose greatest joy was only to become Mr. and Mrs. Gilbert Walker Jr.,  to live happily ever and they did, who exchanged their wedding vows before a judge at the local courthouse, wearing uniforms they had on that day from work.

The story of Mr. and Mrs. Gilbert Walker Jr. became a ten-chapter book as man and wife, a chapter for every year they lived, loved and laughed together; with a few pages stained from their tears.

She was his sweetheart; he was her babe.

They colored each other’s black and white world into a dream come true; adding their son David, the abundant joy between them.
Date nights always included the three of them, dining at their favorite Pattie’s 1880 Settlement restaurant, a magical evening known for its decorations during the Christmas season, a tradition for the Walker family who enjoyed the holiday lights throughout the month of December.

The Walker scrapbooks at Christmas documents Amy Lynn trimming and decorating the tree, leaving the star for Buzzy and David, as well as setting up the Polar Express and village as father and son.
Each year during the holiday season, the Walkers would take the day to find a new and unique ornament for the tree, closing out another chapter in their book.

As extended families often do when gathering together during the holidays, they rummage through their grandmothers’ drawers and pull out those old family photo albums and reminisce the night away.

Seated around the dinner table and laughter captured from every family member in their seat, one would speculate if that famous story revolving around a cow named Ol Jersey, a rodeo with Ol Jersey and a cowboy shirt Buzzy’s mother made him that went missing for thirty years was resurrected, adding a few details in the telling.

The evening gets quiet for a moment to relive that black and white photo of Buzzy and his sisters Evelyn and Dorothy all grown up, making those intentional Monday night telephone calls to each other, bridging the miles between themselves over coffee and conversation.
With Buzzy being the baby, one would speculate which sister was boss over the other two. As a sister among five sisters myself, there’s always a ringleader in the bunch.

I sure would have loved to join the party line back in those days and eavesdrop their Monday nights together over the telephone. It is in our intentions of showing up where memories never fade through the years.

A handful of moments frozen in time were found of Buzzy and his son Timmy seen at the races, those proud father and son moments entering the derby cars they created together in the woodshed Buzzy was known for.

Timmy was photographed behind the wheel with Buzzy as part of the pit crew between heats. Those were the days between father and son.

Found between the old pages of the family albums, were not pictures but words from Buzzy’s daughter Charity, who shared her father’s middle name Love albeit a different version of the word, making Charity the fourth generation to sign a portion of her name as did her father, her grandfather Gilbert Sr., and as her great-grandfather Eunice Love Walker did.

Here is Charity in her own words…
When I was asked to write down my favorite story and memory about Daddy, I thought no problem. That will be easy, but it turned out to be anything but.

I have a lifetime of incredibly touching, loving and the most hilarious stories involving Daddy.

To pick just one has been impossible. However, that is the point after all. He lived a life that left so many memories behind that can’t be numbered or valued one over the other because there are so many and, so precious.

The memories we leave behind are the only legacy that really matters after we’re gone and Daddy’s life left a truly amazing legacy in the hearts of everyone who knew him.

Thank you Daddy for all the precious memories you have given me and everyone who knew you.
I love you Daddy.

Then there was Buzzy and his youngest son David, two peas in a pod with a son walking behind in his father’s shadow, following in those famous footsteps he one day longed to fill.
Back in the woodshed were those teachable moments being passed from a father to his son, a woodshed appearing to be in total chaos, a disaster Amy Lynn chides who attempted to organize but was sent back to organize the kitchen cupboards instead.

A woodshed where I feared for David’s ten fingers staying attached to his hands, yet a woodshed where the love of a father and son was baked into the walls from the laughter of these two, the teaching, and time spent together that David and his father will hold onto when he’s missing his daddy so terribly.

This woodshed was also a place of generosity where gifts from their labors were presented to their family up North; a biscuit cutter, a bowl, and a rolling pin from their kitchen to mine, and Christmas ornaments for the others to name a few.

A memory I’ll treasure a lifetime was a gift Buzzy made for my husband and I celebrating our 25th Wedding Anniversary, with two wedding rings encircling and intertwined around a cross on a stand, and beautifully carved above, Two Become One.

As lovely as this gift was to us, the signature of the craftsman scribbled underneath the stand was priceless, Gilbert Walker, 2019.

Buzzy isn’t signing his name anymore, and I’ll never forget the love from his hands presented to us in person only four years ago.

Memories we pull from our grandmother’s drawer from up North are all the visits Amy, Buzzy and David sacrificed to see us.

They truly demonstrated keeping the family-ties knotted tight, by showing up and making the eight-hour journey for all our gatherings, albeit joyful or sad.

I do have to admit, they do things differently in Tennessee though.

Arriving at our doorstop many times unannounced or at least a surprise to some of us, wearing cowboy boots and a hat with jeans and a buckled belt to match their southern drawl, sometimes took our Northern breath away with us in flips and a pair of shorts, causing us to wonder if their arrival was a throwback from the old TV show Bonanza, minus the horse.

I often wondered what the minimum age of first-time drivers is in Tennessee. David is seen behind the wheel on social media and appearing to be flirting with someone in the other seat not shown. I asked Amy Lynn if David is driving now; she doesn’t answer, just laughs.

David’s uncle Michael tried to take the wheel when I picked him and Amy Lynn up for a camping trip decades ago along with their four other cousins up North, all under the age of twelve. What was I thinking?  For five straight days my nephew, who hadn’t even shaved yet, would laugh and beg to drive. Trying not to crack a smile during these hilarious moments with four determined hands on the wheel, this aunt had to tell him to stand down a few times.
It was always a hoot celebrating with the Walkers, and I’m so glad Buzzy never denied or said “no” to Amy and David in their traveling the miles up North.

It was only three months ago that we here up North saw Buzzy for the very last time.

The sacrifice for a man visibly sick yet determined to once again make the journey up North with his family and honor an uncle who passed away did not go unnoticed.
His final year didn’t go unnoticed either.

For Buzzy’s birthday earlier in the year 2023, the Walkers shared a hearty laugh as a family.

With Buzzy lamenting his age through the years and claiming he was old, to which Amy and David always replied, “Nah, you aren’t old.”

A topic that led them to search Google, wondering at what age is one considered old? Google replied to the answer as 73.

So, for Buzzy’s 73rd birthday this year, printed on his birthday cake was the saying,
“Google says you are old.”

They laughed for days.

Their last vacation together as a family was centered and celebrated around Buzzy’s Indian heritage, traveling the history of his life thru those trails of the Appalachian Mountains.
During Buzzy’s final year, he and his son Timmy were working on their last derby car together as father and son, with Buzzy longing to share this moment watching him race one final time from the pit crew, but never got the chance as this father’s heath held him back.

Buzzy honored his wedding vows in sickness and in health to the very end, by making and bringing Amy’s lunch to her every day at work.

On October 11, 2023, Amy would hold her husband’s hand as she did many times throughout the ten years of their marriage.
That same evening Amy would lean over and kiss her Buzzy goodnight as she did every night always knowing she’d wake up the following morning beside him.

But that evening on October 11, 2023, Amy and their son David left Gilbert Love Walker Jr., aka daddy, papa, brother, husband and friend, the man who held all their memories in his hand behind at TriStar Skyline Hospital in Nashville, TN, pulling into the driveway of their home that first night on E L Walker Rd without him.

Unable to sleep with such heaviness of heart, Amy Lynn covered up under the blanket of loneliness onto the couch, while David fell into the comforting arms of his father’s chair.

I can’t imagine their first morning realizing the things Buzzy used to do didn’t get done on October 12th, one day after their unimaginable good-by on October 11.

Did Buzzy make the coffee? Did he make the bed? We know he made the lunches. We know he made their day special.

How quiet the world of the Gilbert Walker’s family has become without him.

But then the questions start coming.

Why God Why?

We each drink from the cup of unanswered questions, and long for clarity and comfort from God to quench our thirst.

Nancy Lee DeMoss Wolgemuth writes from her book titled Heaven Rules…

God is sovereign over the events and happenings and the details in our individual lives. It’s true even when the script turns out far different than what we would have written if the pen had been in our hands.

The answers to our whys might not be revealed until we meet our Lord face to face.

Until then…

All God asks of us is…

To trust…
To have peace…
To take heart…

To find rest in Who He Is…

The One who overcame the world.

The one who has been writing our story from beginning to end, from the introduction to the very last page.

The family begins arriving at Ridgeway Funeral Home to celebrate the life of Gilbert Walker Jr.

One can’t help but notice all those honoring Buzzy in their wearing red, his favorite color. With Buzzy’s middle name being LOVE, I look out among the crowd today and have the sense of Valentine’s Day in our midst.

It’s almost as if the connection of these two were a Valentine message from Buzzy to us.

To honor such a connection, I’m enclosing a small excerpt from a Valentine blog I wrote years ago that I believe might convey Buzzy’s heart.

LIFE IS SWEET, LIFE IS SHORT
By Lori A Alicea

I sure do love the smell of roses.
Bending over a bouquet of flowers like my sweet granddaughter who also enjoys the simple pleasure of drinking in its fragrance is too beautiful for words, I’m convinced roses came to us as heaven’s perfume.

Placed in a vase of water with a small kiss from the afternoon sun,
Roses wake in a gentle yawn and slowly stretch as a newborn baby, revealing a hidden loveliness for our eyes to see.
As beautiful as a bouquet of roses are,
The lifespan of cut flowers taken from the vine is measured in breaths.
To frame and capture a vase of loveliness where every bloom retains its perfect softness, vibrant color and perfumed fragrance as a lifetime keepsake is a wonderful sentiment, but the passing of a few sunrises will reveal a roses destiny.
As beautiful as these roses were when they left their garden home,
A few days away from the vine that sustained its life, finds these blooms weeping slightly over, letting go and saying that first good-by to leaves that once provided it shade.

Such is the life we live.
Born into a mother’s arms perfect in every way, soft whose petals of life haven’t opened yet, until morning after morning a mother’s kiss stirs a yawn and a child’s stretch, opening and revealing a hidden destiny before our eyes.

Just as the lifespan of cut flowers taken from the vine is measured in breaths,
So are the days accounted to us; a mere breath.
Life is short.

14 Why, you do not even know what will happen tomorrow. What is your life? You are a mist that appears for a little while and then vanishes.
James 4:14 (NIV)

Life is sweet.
In life we’re given a “heart box of chocolates” filled with family to enjoy.
God, our Valentine says “I love you” with those special someone’s given as our Valentine gift, a present of your favorites to satisfy the longings of our heart.

Life is sweet, but the thought remains that life is short,
Both measured in breaths.

May everyday find us bending over like that small child captured by the lure of a flower’s smell; drinking in the moment of every moment she’s blessed with.
Because
Life is too sweet not to smell the roses.
Life is too short to be taking anything for granted.

Because the lifespan of cut flowers taken from the vine is measured in breaths.

To my beloved niece Amy Lynn, I have a personal word of encouragement for her.

Only being 43 years of age, you are a very young woman to shoulder such a loss. At times like these a daughter more than anything else needs her mother.

While I wish I had a private telephone line to heaven so you could find some comfort in hearing her voice.Belinda's grave

I do have a portion of the only page in her book that she began to write, and I believe its encouragement was written all those years ago for her daughter today.

Here is that word of encouragement from your mother…


…When certain life’s tragedies come to us, sometimes it’s out of our control. But what we can change is how we respond to it. You can be bitter or angry or turn your thinking around to the point where you can help other people with what happened to you. It gives them hope and it also gives to them an expectation of seeds of faith that you have left them.

It’s so important that you choose to live.

“Long life will I satisfy Him.”
Psalm 91:16

“I shall live and not die.”
Psalms 118:17

Your trials may be a physical situation or a mental situation. But whatever the case, choose to live and not die from it. Fight the good fight of faith.

“I have set before you life and death.
Therefore, choose life that thy seed may live”
Deuteronomy 30:19

In your mother’s own words she couldn’t say it enough:

Continue to Hope.
Continue to Believe.
Continue to be encouraged.

Continue to remember that no matter what,
You’ll always have God.

Photo by Anna Nekrashevich on Pexels.com

One final square sewn to the family quilt, one remaining sentiment from son David to his father, written in his own words…
You are supposed to be able to sum up one’s life in a few simple words, but this man you just can’t because the words to fill that box have not been invented.

If I had to say, there would be the four things he was…
A hard worker,
A fighter,
A loving husband for my mom,

And a loving father for my brother, sister and I.
He always said he would work to the end, and he did. The very weekend before his passing he was with his two sons doing what he did best, working on trucks.
He fought until the very end.

He did not stop while he was in the hospital.

He did not give up on his family.

Finally, he was the best father or husband one could ask for because he had the biggest heart, willing to do anything for anyone, especially his family.

He always kept his promises, except his final one of seeing me graduate from school.

We loved you Pop through the good, the bad and the ugly.

We will always and will always love you Pop.

I love you Pop.

It’s never good-bye, never good-bye.

It’s see you later Papa.

THANK YOU CARD OF MY HEART  By Lori A Alicea

Today is all about you.

Week after week, your kindness and patience to pull up a chair and open my journal to the page or chapter I have chosen to bookmark for your viewing has honored me in ways mere words are unable to articulate.

Photo by Wallace Chuck on Pexels.com

You’ve kept me company along the mountain climbs of uncertainty and deep-ocean dives into the matters of my heart, for which a basket is overflowing on this grandmother’s kitchen table of gratefulness.

While the etiquette of Thank You cards may have gone out of style with the art of kneading and rising of homemade bread.

This grandmother still treasures the old fashioned ways from back-in-the-day, and is handwriting this Thank You card personally to you, those loyal and faithful visitors ringing the doorbell of my home at Apples of Gold Encouragement.

Photo by Jessica Lewis on Pexels.com

Fresh out of the oven are warm Christmas cookies made especially for you, a gift of homemade holiday love from my freezer ready to bake on a moment’s notice, no matter the calendar month.

Christmas brings out the little girl inside and memories of mom during the most joyous season of my childhood, which is why I keep the spirit of the season alive to serve the best of me from my home all year long.

Photo by Craig Adderley on Pexels.com

I’ve poured a cup of coffee to savor with your plate of sprinkled sugar cookie Christmas trees and stars, and reserved a seat at the table for you right next to mine for a few words of conversation.

Photo by Tom Swinnen on Pexels.com

Here at Apples of Gold Encouragement, our heart is birthed from the scripture…

A word fitly spoken is like apples of gold in settings of silver.
Proverbs 25:11-13 ESV
Where our words spoken in due season and at just the right moment can foster life and nourishment, as apples made of gold served on a silver platter.

In re-telling the stories from my life as a child, a young mother or seasoned grandmother and wife, I keep a silver platter full of encouragement for those like you who might be walking along a similar street in need of a handful of hope.

My written words have traveled thousands of miles around the world and I never know who might be knocking on my door despondent as I have been in seasons before, in need for a bite of encouragement.

Photo by Maria Orlova on Pexels.com

That they themselves might be nourished walking with me during…

My seasons of loss of my mother, my father or siblings…

My broken season abandoned in marriage…

My weeping season of rejection…

My weeping seasons of failure…

Photo by Anna Nekrashevich on Pexels.com

Or celebrate together during theirs and…

My fruitful season as a mother of young children in all stages of growing up…

My fruitful season and second chance in love and in marriage…

My abundant harvest and greatest joy in grand parenting…

My personal walk with God who is the root of everything wonderful in my life…

So, with every journal entry I’ve made each week, every thought and every sentence is written with you on my mind, ensuring a takeaway, a favor left at your place setting at the table, a silver box of courage, inspiration and of faith for visiting my home.
I can’t thank you enough when I’ve realized you’ve stopped by and left your COMMENTS, your LIKES or your SHARES of my words.

Even just one of you tells the story I’ve impacted and touched someone, somewhere in the world.

I’ve been told my handwriting is a disaster and difficult to read for most. But I pray the love inspired in this Thank You card expresses my deepest appreciation for you.

You will never overstay your welcome at Apples of Gold Encouragement.

Photo by Jessica Lewis on Pexels.com

A candle burns bright in the nighttime window as a personal reminder to walk on in as somebody is always home.

Photo by Rene Asmussen on Pexels.com

 

WHAT’S WRONG WITH ME? By Lori A Alicea (Part 3 of 3)


Discovering those beautiful diamonds of God’s goodness and faithfulness while mining my rejection!

PART 3 OF 3

Part 1 of 3

WHAT’S WRONG WITH ME? By Lori A Alicea (Part 1 of 3)

Part 2 of 3

WHAT’S WRONG WITH ME? By Lori A Alicea (Part 2 of 3)

All Aboard!

God has taken his seat on the bus and the VICTORY LAP begins with our new Tour Guide ready to reveal the bigger picture of my life with every site we re-visit.

The old hymn we six siblings sang in harmony together while seated side by side on the wooden pew of the old country church our mother walked us to begged to burst forth from my soul, “OH VICTORY IN JESUS!”  

There is about to be an exchange of…

BEAUTY FOR MY ASHES.

to bestow on them a crown of beauty instead of ashes.
The oil of joy instead of mourning,
And a garment of praise instead of a spirit of despair….
Isaiah 61:3 NIV

With shovels and pick axes in hand, we are entering the mine of my rejection, about to discover those beautiful and precious diamonds of God’s goodness and faithfulness.

As we think on those things which are…

Of a good report…

Of virtue…

And are praiseworthy.

Whatsoever things are true, whatsoever things are just, whatsoever things are pure, whatsoever things are lovely, whatsoever things are of a good report, if there be any virtue, and if there be any praise, think on these things.
Scripture Philippians 4:8 KJV

Mining for answers of all my questions, our Senior Pastor counsels his flock to turn around and look back a generation or more to understand the “whys” in our life, because the…

Iniquities of the fathers are visited upon the children unto the third and fourth generation.
(Exodus 20:5)

Without God, history repeats itself as fathers bequeath to their children and children’s children the tainted wells of their life as an inheritance for the generations beyond them to drink from.  Pastor also encourages us to “stop up and close off” for good those old wells of bitter water and dig anew that we might leave a (spiritual) inheritance to his children’s children to draw from instead.
(Proverbs 13:22)

Sadly, I found the answers to my “whys” while digging three generations back.

Not wanting to face this part of the tour alone, I found it comforting to share my seat of VICTORY with the (memory) of two other innocent girls whose pages of their childhood story were drenched and stained from those tears of sorrow similar to mine; my sisters Belinda and Mary.siblings belinda mary

 Together, we will hold each other’s hands from across the seat and look through the “windows of our past” without being afraid anymore, because God is about to reveal the scenes and details He was fully present in, though we were unaware.

 I take this VICTORY LAP for my daughters and granddaughters and also for my two sisters who suffered this part of their life in silence, that their legacy gain their wings for their daughters and granddaughter who continue the journey beyond their mother’s and grandmother’s life.

Reading our story, one might ask themselves, “Why does a loving God allow such heartache on innocent girls?”  Our good daddy replies to His daughters,

“It rains on the just and the unjust.”  (Matthew 5:45)

While God never promised a life without us “getting wet” from the tragedy’s of the world, He did promise to hold the umbrella and weather the storm with us.

THE SIGHTS OF GROWING UP Revisited…

Re-visiting our childhood home, I soon discover God’s hand of protection on our life when mother asked us girls to find another place to live following the assault from my step-dad, as our family home caught fire some time later and the flames began and ignited from my childhood room.

I was also heartbroken to discover my mother’s parents drank from the well of abandonment when as a baby, my grandmother left my mother in the crib to cry for hours without comfort as my grandmother left her alone during the evenings of dating.

My mother’s unrelenting cries of hunger and desperation for her mother’s arms could be heard and felt from the open windows of the neighbors, who offered no assistance to a child left alone.

Wanting also to hold and protect my mother close when I realize there were relatives in her life who drank from the well of sexual abuse.

The iniquities of the parents visit the third and fourth generations.
(Exodus 20:5)

After forty-plus-years I was finally brave enough to dig for answers regarding the man who assaulted an innocent girl while she slept.

A faithful Father protected and spared His daughter that night from the evils of my step-father when I discovered he left a party a few years later and raped two women at knife point; although the charges were never upheld in court.

My Pastor always reminded us,

Without God, we are all capable of the unthinkable.”

Though divorced by this time from my mother and decades since we last saw our step-father, he now lay in the hospital bed and within days of his death, my mother worried of his salvation.

As it is not God’s will that any should perish, but have everlasting life, my mother made a difficult request of us adult children to visit and say our final good-byes to him at his hospital bedside.

 Believing love never fails, we trusted our kindness might stir man’s heart for eternity.

Not forgetting our roots and heritage to a child’s promise of blessing in honoring their parents, even the office of mother and father when the emotions are too painful; we adult children visited our step-father with a pure heart to honor him in our final farewell.

Honor your father and mother, as the Lord your God has commanded you, so that you may live long and that it may go well with you in the land the Lord your God is giving you.
Deuteronomy 5:16 NIV

Taking in the final days of this man I once knew as step-dad, who now struggled and gasped to breathe for a single sip of coffee, the difficult memories I carried for decades in my heart’s pocket became a mere blur to this unknown person bloated at the abdomen, dying from emphysema.

Noticing the well wishes on the night stand for my step-father caught me off guard and took my breath to realize they were greeting cards the grandchildren gave him years ago when they were little.

We were the only family this broken man had ever known.

Born as an innocent boy with a story being written from the same God and pen in His hand who was also writing mine, yet still a boy on the inside who was never loved to life; as his own father drew from the well of alcoholism and child abuse.

We children honored this man and our mother by attending his funeral.

The blessings were ours for the taking in our honoring.

Regarding my mother, I grew up without ought or an unforgiving heart towards her; how could I?  She was a woman who introduced me to Jesus by taking me to church, sending me to camp, joining us at Vacation Bible School and so much more.

The same Jesus who forgives me of my trespasses when we forgive those who trespass against us. (Matthew 6:12)

Yet sadly, I don’t believe my Mother ever forgave herself or moved beyond the ash heap of ground zero from the spiritual fires her choices cost her family.

 I grieve for mom and my sisters Mary and Belinda who left this earth suffering in the silences of their past when God longed to touch their brokenness with the healing salve of a Fathers’s love.

We each hold keys to the gates which unlock those secret places we dare not allow any to trespass; but we must be willing to relinquish and surrender these entrances of our lives for freedom’s sake.

Mother looked at me for the remainder of my life without her glasses, never noticing how God turned my mourning into dancing, gave me beauty for my ashes, how God made something beautiful out of my life.

I QUESTIONED MY MOTHER’S LOVE FOR ME revisited.

Four years before my mother died, her address changed to a nursing home and I offered to pack up her house. Before the details of my mother’s life was photographed and chronicled on a spreadsheet for future gifting to her heirs, I asked the Lord a question while sitting in my mother’s chair.

ME AND MOTHER’S BOXES (excerpt)
By Lori A Alicea

Lord, is there anything among my mother’s things that you want to give me?

We didn’t grow up with riches, but we were rich in ways money could never afford. Any lose ends from the fray of my memory have been tied in a bow, leaving only good thoughts under the cloak of my childhood.Lori Siblings

I needed God to complete the sentence relationship of mother and me with not a “period”, but possibly a heart emoji, a kiss of the heart, or a gift of affection.

Sixty-five boxes in total. I held in my hands the last remaining treasure among mother’s sixty-five boxes.
Boxes 3
An old jewelry box filled with mother’s mismatched pieces of costume necklaces, earrings, rings and broaches, jewelry I remember mother wearing vividly when I was growing up. A jewelry box displayed on her bedroom dresser, a familiar piece I cleaned for decades as mother’s housekeeper. I knew it well.

The hidden finds inside this jewelry box rewinds the 8mm collections of me as a child playing dress up with mother’s baubles and beads.

I sigh…I take a breath…There it was.

Like an old photograph buried in the dust of time prompting a double-take and closer view, I stopped in the moment to remember.

Held in my hands a gift from God, bewildered I hadn’t noticed it during my years as mother’s housekeeper, even more bewildered this gift was in plain sight during the packing.

A sweet sixteen present from her mother and father, A birthday celebration for my mother, A beautiful watch with the inscription and sentiment I had never read before, “To Our Loving Daughter”.

Beholding this gift up close I knew without question, God didn’t want to give me treasures, God wanted to give me words, God longed to breathe these words of affirmation upon my life, “To Our Loving Daughter.” Most endearing of all was the phrase, “To Our”, received as two people, my mother and father, my heavenly Father.

God redeemed our relationship symbolically with a watch (gift of time, my love language) that was given on my mother’s sweet 16 (about age I was when the incident with my step-father happened. The watch face was broken, but God redeemed my sweet 16 with the inscription on the other side.
Anniversary picture
ME AND MOTHER’S BOXES (excerpt ends)

I QUESTIONED MY FATHER’S LOVE FOR ME… (revisited)

Mining my life of rejection through the relationship with my father, God revealed to me how dad drew from a dry well and couldn’t quench my thirst for love and affirmation.

As an adult, I found enough grace for dad and his “lack to see me”. I soon questioned in secret, “What affirmations failed to be poured into that little boy’s life who one day became my dad?”

COMING TO TERMS OF ENDEARMENT (excerpt)
By Lori A Alicea

Aware through a cancer scare years prior to his actual graduation to heaven, I feared the uncertainty of his days and losing dad without him hearing how I felt.  So, after Thanksgiving one year, I decided to surrender in an advent calendar, titling it “Twenty Five Things My Dad Did Right”.

As a parent myself I strive to give my kids the best of me, though acknowledging I’ve made my share of mistakes.  Having grace for his, I decided for every day leading up to December 25, I’d give dad a gift of my appreciation.

Opening up a daughters treasure chest, I wondered if there were 25 memories tucked away.  But in turning the key to my heart, I marveled at what I had saved.

Like running into the kitchen each Sunday afternoon from church, faithfully finding that one piece of toast dad hadn’t eaten for breakfast.  I always believed he left it for me.

Or realizing after graduating from high school and college just how smart dad really was, though never receiving either diploma.  Dad could fix anything, and I truly admired that.

How could I forget dad adoring me in my wedding dress, setting aside his pain as we had buried grandma earlier that morning.

Christmas, when it came, dad declared he’d received the best gift of his life, presenting the advent calendar to us all.  “Tis the season” as dad seemed to stand a little taller, dad seemed to come to life.

The bells of Christmas rang a new message for me that year.  Maybe dad was never daddies little boy and couldn’t give me a love he hadn’t known.  When dad came to life that holiday season, I believe this little girl did the same.

COMING TO TERMS OF ENDEARMENT (excerpt end)

Weeks leading up to my father’s passing, I kept thinking of Jacob’s story from the Bible who gathered his sons around the death bed where he blessed them individually.

I also longed a father’s blessing.
dads house 4
A FATHER’S BLESSING (excerpt)
By Lori A Alicea

Bless me father.”

Oh, that you would bless me.”

Visiting dad for what would be my last day to see him alive and heartbroken over dad’s visible frailty and sagging T-shirt hanging over his protruding bones, I began to lose hope of a Father’s Blessing. But unbeknownst to me, a blessing awaits its reveal.

There’s one fact I’m certain about God my heavenly father, he loves his little girls. No matter her age, weight, social status, marital status, degrees or lack thereof, etc., God is smitten with his girls.

God smitten with “this little girl” heard my prayer that summer and answered me days before my father’s death in a small but impactful way; not at my father’s bedside, but kitchen table instead.

God’s choice of the kitchen table for a Father’s Blessing tied years of my fondest memories, as at this table dad handed out our Christmas gifts each December.  I loved that my heavenly father chose this memory backdrop and used the same chair dad sat in for years during our Christmas exchanges to bless me.
xmas at dads
Seated around the table were me and my dad, my step-sister and dad’s caregiver. Just having small talk, dad asked his caregiver to help him up and assist dad to his room. Back in his seat, dad handed me a framed letter and asked, “Would you please read this to me?”

Not a crier by nature, I fought to compose myself when dad asked me to read a Father’s Day gift I gave him a year ago. Always drawing a blank when buying dad’s gifts, that Father’s Day I felt led from God to honor my dad’s military service; a conversation we never had; but I never asked either.

Accompanied with a flag that Father’s Day, I never seen dad so emotional.

We are told by God to give Honor to whom honor is due. (Romans 13:7)

Honor was due my father; an accumulation of years due.

These same framed words dad gave back to me and asked me to read at his funeral.
IMG_3715Dear Dad,

For 54 years I have celebrated you as my dad and all that you have sacrificed and contributed to my life. You have been a great provider. You have protected me when I have needed you to. You are always a phone call away. And you have been a friend throughout the years.

But the one attribute of my father that I have not celebrated until today is your service in the military. Until I became a mom with a son serving in the military, did I fully appreciate the sacrifices of a member in the military.

I am sad to say I know nothing about your time in the navy, but that’s because I never asked. But I do know you actively served, and for that, I salute you today and thank you for

SERVING YOUR COUNTRY FOR OUR FREEDOM.

I am giving you this gift as my way of saying thank you for your service.

Happy Father’s Day

Love, Lori and David

You may be wondering, “Is that it! Is that your Father’s Blessing?”

The true Father’s Blessing revealed itself during the packing up of dad’s house.

Sadly dad “said a lot again” when we kids realized there wasn’t a single picture, card or memento saved and left behind of dad’s six kids, or crowd of grand-kids and great-grand-kids. Not one.

Except the letter of mine that dad framed and hung in the entrance of his room.

I won’t add to dad’s heart as his heart was a locked door for most of our relationship. But a Father’s Day present became a Father’s Day Blessing that summer of 2016.

An added bonus discovered deep in my father’s attic was his old fashioned lunch pail, a true treasure I kept to remind myself what a “standard of excellence” looks like.
IMG_3716
Dad was buried with Military Honors. In death our father received the military honor due him in life.

During the years that an earthly father “didn’t see” her, a little girl;

A heavenly father couldn’t take His eyes off of her.

A Father’s Blessing I am truly aware of when I sleep and when I slumber.

If God gives such attention to the wildflowers, most of them never even seen, don’t you think he’ll attend to you, take pride in you, do his best for you? Luke 12:28 Message

A FATHER’S BLESSING (excerpt end)

WHAT’S WRONG WITH ME?

I’ve been asking this question most of my life to myself, but sadly, I never inquired of the Lord.

The Father answers a daughter’s question, though not with rebuke, but with love and gentleness as a good daddy does.

“Daughter, you been asking the wrong question all these years.  Instead, I long you to ask of your Father, WHO AM I IN CHRIST?  And then He answers…

THE GOD WHO SEES (excerpt)
By Lori A Alicea

You knit me in my mother’s womb,
And wonderfully I’m made.
Created me so fearfully,
The days you watched, you stayed.

Not hidden in this secret place,
Your works, I praise for these.
Your eyes they saw my unformed self,
You are the God who sees.

How precious are your thoughts of me,
More than the grains of sand.
My days are written in your book,
One mind can’t understand.

You see me when I sleep at night,
You see when I’m awake.
You are the God who sees it all,
You see each breath I take.

Yes, I am yours and you are mine,
My heart, you have the keys.
You’ve drawn me Oh Beloved One,
You are the God who sees.

Psalms 139; Genesis 16:13; Solomon 6:3

I have grown into a woman fully aware of the love God has for me.

I have loved you with an everlasting love;

I have drawn you with loving kindness. Jeremiah 31:3

So, what about that red hair, green eyes and face full of freckles?
ALICEA David Lori
I asked the question years later in my life, and it’s amazing when you ask the simple questions God longs to hear, the answers He generously gives.

Our good Father whispered and pointed to the mirror of my reflection:

Oh daughter, your red hair is a gift from me; only 2% of little girls are strawberry blonde; red hair with green eyes are even more uncommon.

And those freckles…God leans in close to tell me a secret…

Your mother told you those freckles were kisses from the S U N.

Well actually, your freckles are sweet kisses from my S O N.

All grown up when I could have changed my hair to any color in the rainbow, I kept the gift God gave me…
David and Lori together 3
Yes, God is so good to me.  As a child I sang in Sunday School those exact words:

GOD IS SO GOOD
By Paul Makai
God is so good.
God is so good.
God is so good.
He’s so good to me.

God is a good Father to all His children.  He longs for His sons and daughters to climb on His lap and lean into His love.

He even blessed me with a Cinderella love story in marriage nearly twenty-nine years ago. wedding all kids

At our 25th Anniversary Wedding Vow Renewal we sang the words of a good and faithful God:

The faithfulness and goodness of God has followed me my whole life.  The faithfulness and goodness of God has followed you too.

I want my daughters and granddaughters and girls and women alike to rejoice in the God who made them fearfully and wonderfully…

Missing teeth and all…

THE GOD WHO SEES (excerpt ends)

Rosalee praising Jesus

Thank you to everyone who found a seat on this tour and “lifted me up” with your presence as my honored guest.

It was in the turning and sharing of these tear stained pages of my story that I might give hope to someone else who suffers in silence.

What was intended for my harm, God turned it around and used it for my good.  (Genesis 50:20)

CELEBRATING FORTY…By Lori A Alicea

Only forty seconds old and you changed my life forever.

It’s a boy!”

During those forty seconds after you took your first breath at 5:55 pm on February 24, 1983, a ninth month surprise announces I’ve given birth to a baby boy.

Forty years ago there were no routine ultra sounds or gender reveals to prepare a parent or nursery in advance for a child’s arrival.

Yet, while carrying this miracle inside of me, a mother dreams and wonders through her babies kicks, rolls, sleeps and hiccups, introducing herself as she rocks, reads and sings to the child she has to herself for forty beautiful weeks.

At twenty-two years of age and enduring twelve long hours of natural labor, I held in my arms a baby boy wrapped in a blanket; wrapped in my heart.BABY 1

A few weeks after your birth, your parents vowed to raise you in the wisdom and admonition of the Lord, dedicating back and recognizing you as the gift from God from which He gave.

Joseph and Mary took him to Jerusalem to present him to the Lord.
Luke 2:22 NIVDEDICATION 1

Mother’s never count, but those kisses, hugs, stories, and midnight watches in her math, calculates at a minimum, forty times a million throughout your lifetime.

In a child’s short life, a mother begins to feel the tug and letting go of her heartstrings, when forty rollovers become forty scoots, which become forty crawls into forty steps; a slow progression thru the years when a child finds and gains his wings from the nest he calls home.BABY 6

Sharing the nest with his sister five years younger than he, our son’s personality and plan on his life as well as hers, began to unfold before our eyes.

Approximately forty hours of teaching each week over the school year for the next twelve, it was evident in a mother’s blink through the yearbook; our baby boy was growing up.

SCHOOL 9

Those first few steps you took when learning to walk became miles and miles away from our grip. Yes, letting go is inevitable, but the evidence before my eyes was raw and real for this mother to process.

Letting go, meant letting God!”

Words I’d embrace on my knees as our son drove up the two acre drive way heading for college, not realizing at the time this picture was taken, home for him would never be our address, as a series of graduations would re-locate our son from one corner of the map to the other.7D333E29-7935-43F5-B4D4-8CE8BAC7F3A3

Home for our son now grown into this handsome man a mother hardly recognizes from the child she gave life to, is the United States military, for which he proudly serves.

Looking back in the rear view mirror of my son’s forty years of life, as delighted as I am of his accomplishments, he still remains my son, the accolade I am most proud.

A four generational picture honors the roots of our son, for which he celebrates.

Then, there’s the crazy, free spirited son of ours who continues to enjoy life into adulthood…

On his favorite childhood toy…

By not cutting his hair for twelve months in college…HAIR 3

By climbing a mountain with his best friend, without a guide and in a snowstorm….MT RANIER

By becoming a third generation bee-keeper, though highly allergic to bees…

By surfing among the sharks when stationed in Hawaii…

Yes, our free spirited son has lived a life of accomplishment and adventure; yet our greatest joy is embracing him as our son, and now father bringing adventure to four children of his own.

Today, our son Jacob James C England celebrates his fortieth birthday. A mother can hardly believe it when his first birthday celebration seems like yesterday.BIRTHDAY 2013 jake as little boy and his cake

Forty years of time is now behind you son, and forty years (plus) of road waits in front of you with a blank itinerary to be mapped out.
TIME - Say goodby
If I could wrap and present a gift to you on this milestone birthday of yours, it’d be the same words of wisdom I’ve been speaking since you were born…

Never forget what the Lord has done for you.

Praise the Lord for the favor, the abilities, the knowledge, the opportunities, your salvation, for which He has generously given.

Praise the Lord for the good land he has given you.
Do not forget the Lord,
Obey his commands,
That your heart won’t become proud.
(Deuteronomy 8)

18But remember the Lord your God,
For it is He who gives you the ability to produce wealth…
Deuteronomy 8:18 NIV

A BIRTHDAY BLESSING FROM YOUR MOTHER AND FATHER…

May the Lord bless you with favor and protection.  May the Lord be pleasing, merciful and compassionate towards you, bestowing His approval and peace over your life.

The Lord bless you
And keep you;
The Lord make his face shine upon you
And be gracious to you,
The Lord turn his face toward you
And give you peace.
Numbers 6:24-26 NIV

We love you son.

Celebrating Forty…

BIRTHDAY 2

THINK ON THESE THINGS!  By Lori A Alicea

Here is written a tribute to the simple touch of a mother to her daughter; a memory only they could understand, remember and cherish for a lifetime.

THINK ON THESE THINGS!
By Lori A Alicea

A mother’s moment with her girl,
Each morning does prepare.
Creates a bond between the two,
While brushing through her hair.

The mirror reflects a princess heart,
In both, though one is grown.
Inside you find her noble crown,
Where royalty is known.

With bows and braids and pony tails,
And polish on her nails.
A storybook of mother’s hands,
Is penned in great details.

This simple act of washing hair,
Her nearness valued much.
A child remembers thru the years,
A mother’s tender touch.

A mother’s hand keeps hold of you,
She’s close beside your chair.
Recalls her smile while looking at,
A clipping of your hair.

Oh daughter, you are beautiful,
No one can dare compare.
Oh listen to your mother’s words,
Each time I dry your hair.

My little girl, sweet princess one,
With bows and matching socks.
Record these memories of us,
The days I dried your locks.

Your eyes, the windows of your soul,
Reflects a heart burned bright.
Your hair, a princess crown to wear,
These mother’s words I write.

Your smile of bright and sunny skies,
At night, a light show made.
I love our mother / daughter time,
Your pony tail I’d braid.bristol 1

My daughter’s grown before my eyes,
Our clothes and makeup share.
But like a little girl she sits,
To let me brush her hair.brooke

I pray you’ve heard the Father’s love,
These mornings just us two.
The honest things, the pure and just,
The lovely things of you.

In words of doubt recall these days,
Our time around your chair.
And think on things of good report,
Each time you brush your hair.

Finally, brethren…
Whatsoever things are true…
Whatsoever things are honest…
Whatsoever things are just…
Whatsoever things are pure…
Whatsoever things are lovely…
Whatsoever things are of a good report…
If there be any virtue…
And if there be any praise…

Think on these things..
Philippians 4:8 KJV

DADDY’S BABY IS HAVING A BABY  By Lori A Alicea

Life is full of surprises.

They arrive when you’re caught off guard by the unexpected.

They arrive as a bouquet of flowers you didn’t order.

They arrive after a lap-full of three grandsons and seven granddaughters have been calling you Papa over the last seventeen years. GRANDCHILDRENThey arrive after the baby crib set up at Papa’s house where most of his ten grandchildren have slept in, has been sadly dismantled for the last time.Ethan 2011 ethan in crib USE

They arrive after years of summer riding together on bicycles, most rescued from the side of the road on garbage day and shared among cousins, now bringing smiles to other children in need, as our grandchildren have crushed our hearts outgrowing them.USE BIKESbikes grandkids big on bikes

They arrive after a gentle rain of grandparent tears waving at their two remaining grandchildren recently graduating from Pre-k, on their first day of school.

They arrive after the resistance of a grandfather closing the chapter on diapers, pacifiers, of grandchildren teething, nighttime rocking, toddlers learning to walk, play-dates and weekends at Papa’s house.

They arrive after Papa still struggles with all these new beginnings.

Yes, life is full of unsuspecting surprises.

They arrive as an explosion of joyful confetti…

When daddy’s little girl,
Who always thought she’d only be a cool aunt in her lifetime,

Has called her father to announce she’s having a baby.

A little girl who wrapped her tiny fingers around a daddy’s heart from the moment he laid eyes on her, is about to experience this same miracle in a few short months.use AUDRA baby

A little girl whose smile and curls started the world around her smiling, will witness the same through her son.

audra little

A little girl who loved to go fishing, who risked a handful of blisters for the monkey bars, will one day enjoy these afternoons of fun with her baby boy whose name we have yet to learn.

While time refused to stand still in her growing up,

She remained her daddy’s little girl.

A father affirming his beautiful daughters in song on their thirtieth birthdays while celebrating his sixtieth; a well of emotion a brand new mother is about to draw from for the rest of her child’s life.

You are so Beautiful
Song Made Famous By Joe Cocker

(lyrics excerpt)

You’re everything I hoped for…
You’re everything I need…
You are so beautiful, to me..

Click on the movie ABOVE to hear a father sing to his daughters.

She always thought she’d be the cool aunt to her nieces and nephews, never imagining holding a child of her own.audra johnny dedication

But God knew…

Before I formed you in the womb I knew you…
Jeremiah 1:5 (NIV)

From the beginning of time, God already knew and wrote about the days of this child’s life; a precious gift from the Lord.

Your eyes saw my unformed body;
All the days ordained for me where written in your book,
Before one of them came to be.
Psalm 139:16 (NIV)

Children are a gift from the Lord,
They are a reward from Him.
Psalm 127:3 (NLT)

Daddy’s baby is having a baby.
audra david noah
Papa was overwhelmed with great joy when he revealed the news to me one evening after work.

While she’ll always remain daddy’s little girl;

As some things can never change.
audra flowers
But oh, what an explosion of confetti…

And a life full of surprises…

When daddy’s baby holds the baby of her own.

BACK IN THE DAY  By Lori A Alicea

Call me old fashioned, but I love sitting with those from generations before me and hear their stories of back in the day.

Stories of life as they knew it, recreated from the keepsakes of their memory.

I capture their smiles as they step back in the day; noting the details which rewind an old fashioned movie.

I regret not inquiring more of the family history when both sets of my grandparents still took their seat around the holiday dinner table.

All those questions I regret not asking, whose answers went with them sadly unanswered to the grave.

Tell me about life as a child and teenager back in the day?”

What were your dreams and hopes back in the day?”

“What can we learn from your life back in the day?”

Did you really walk a mile to school in knee deep snow? Mom said you did.”

Tell me about your morning chores before school.”

Who milked the cow, who gathered the eggs, who helped mother in the kitchen?”

Of course, the “event decorator I am” sits on the edge of anticipation to hear about their wedding back in the day; hoping for pictures collecting dust in an old closet box.

These conversations paint a portrait of life changing from generation to generation.

The intimacy of handwritten letters sent back and forth between two hearts in love.

Grandmother’s old fashioned recipes with grease and flour still remaining from hands which once referred to them in the kitchen.

Both now a novelty replaced with technology.

The simpler life of family togetherness now stuck in the traffic jams of busyness.

During these times when you long for quiet, when you wish for a few minutes of the good old days; you reminisce the stories which take you back to life with your grandparents and great-grandparents and even your mother and father.

It’s so important to glean in the fields of their stories, to be a witness to their life and gather the fruit of history and legacy, your inheritance worth more and valued higher than earthly dollars.

Lean in close to the simplest of details from the generations of family as these pages written from their life will become those memories you save into the keepsakes of your memory, the legacy you pass to your children one day.IMG_1915

Walk a mile in their shoes, their steps back in the day. Those history lessons which hold the generations together, if we dare to protect these stories from the sun of time which dares to fade them.

IMG_1919

We have so much to learn from each other.

We need not be stuck in our own ways, unteachable to learn “what’s already been” from the past or “what is possible” in the present; or hope for the future.

Be willing to take your basket and start gathering.IMG_1920IMG_1921

Reach for the abundance of wisdom, their Godly influence, and hidden fruit of their lives which still waits to be picked.

You must be intentional to do your part and gather.

The next generation depends on you entering the fields of back in their day.IMG_1923

IMG_1922

Yes, call me old fashioned, but I love sitting with those from generations before me and hear their stories of back in the day, especially when they’re stories about my mother.

Talking about her, reminiscing and re-living these stories keep her alive in my heart, even though she left her earthly home a year and a half ago.

Now that I am the living grandmother, I get the privilege of repeating my stories you’ve heard once or twice before as my grandparents once did.

Stories which journey back when all my siblings still lived at the same address on Fox River Rd.

Stories which refresh my life while stuck in the traffic jam of busyness.
A story about my mother.

2018 mothers day brunch

SUMMER IN A JAR
By Lori A. Alicea

With family vacations, summer sports and fairs coming to town, you might not have noticed that Christmas has snuck in the back door of some stores, sounding the alarm that winter is around the corner.  By the time most of us are snuggling up in that first sweater, we might be asking ourselves, “Where did the summer go?”  For those who’d like to hold onto summer a little longer, did you know it’s possible to capture the essence of this season in a bottle, labeling it “summer in a jar?”

Growing up, backyard gardens, cornfields and fruit markets were common neighborhood sights. corn field along road

With breezes carrying them in, the smells of summer welcomed itself through open windows, evident in the slight waves of the curtains.open window

Strawberries, peaches, apples and grapes, all waiting for someone to take them home from the fruit market down the street.  As a little girl the aroma of this seasonal shop was so delicious, fruit juices could be tasted just by breathing.IMG_1845

Mother would buy these farmer spoils by the flat, bushel and bucket, bringing them home to create jams, jellies and frozen fruit for future homemade pies. IMG_1846

The pantry off from the kitchen displayed my mother’s mid-year labors, as I fantasized over them in the winter pretending they were “summer in a jar”.strawberry jam

From June through August, we five sisters helped mother prepare fruit for her signature jams, giving into temptation to eat more fruit than we prepared.  Though our mouths revealed the sticky evidence of our crime, mother didn’t scold us, rather kept focused as she boiled fruit on her Magic Chef stove.  Still boiling hot, blue Mason jars were filled then sealed with melted paraffin wax.  Mother’s creations eventually lined the pantry shelves when they cooled, waiting for winter to come.

It’s hard to appreciate kitchen art when the thermostat reads above 90 degrees.  But light the fireplace one frosty December morning, and top a fresh baked biscuit smothered in butter with homemade jam, those early hours might usher in a smell of summer with fruit so fresh you’d think they were recently picked.

As an adult, I am saddened that subdivisions have taken over the neighborhood, leaving farmer fields a figment of my imagination.  Kitchen curtains don’t fly in the wind of open windows as air conditioners keep them closed.  Fruit markets are a novelty now, canning isn’t a way of life, and out of five sisters, I’m the only one that cans, bakes bread and finds pleasure in homemade anything.

But as for me, my homemade effort’s brings back time with mom and memories of yesterday, when I go the extra mile to see my shelves full of “summer in a jar”.

GOING HOME  By Lori A Alicea

Love…peace…and joy.

Three beautiful sentiments written into a greeting card.

Three captivating emotions of a well scripted movie.

While sentiments are ribbons which wrap around our hearts in a Valentine bow, emotions aren’t the final approval of our (love, peace and joy), as emotions change on a moment’s notice with the direction of the wind.

Love…peace…and joy are our choice.

We choose to love when the forecast is nothing but bad attitudes.

We choose peace when waters around us are anything but calm.

We choose joy on a rainy day of tears.

We choose to remember that (love, peace and joy) are attributes of God, so when we choose to love, when we choose peace, when we choose joy, we are looking into the face of God.

I didn’t realize I’d have to choose one fall Saturday afternoon, a greeting card day where the weather was crisp and perfect for sweaters and apple picking.

A backdrop of trees in full bloom of nature’s glory and framed around a lake of tranquility, a silent movie re-playing in my memory of Saturdays here at this same lake with my parents and siblings, and now all grown up as grandparents making new ones with grandchildren around a fishing pole and their love for each other.

Unfortunately for us, the fish weren’t biting as they must have eaten a late lunch.

So, we packed up our tackle boxes and left for an old fishing spot from years ago, a pond nestled in the center of an old neighborhood Papa and Gaga used to live, a pond where Papa first taught his small grandchildren to fish.

Worried we’d be cited for trespassing at a community we didn’t live at anymore, we cast our rods anyway in pursuit of scaly trophies and began recording again our Saturday memories.

The new fishing spot didn’t disappoint three eager children who wanted to catch and take home a string of fish.

 

As Papa and our grandchildren were catching fish, God was catching my attention in this picture I took of my grandson, my mother’s house down the road in full view; one street over from where we used to live.  A place I’ve longed to return to and a mother I’ve been missing terribly with her first anniversary in heaven coming up on the calendar in just two short days.

USE fishing 5

It was surprising that Ayva, our six year old and on her own recalled this neighborhood, even though she was a toddler wearing her first pair of glasses during our three year stay as residents.

Ayva shouted gleefully as we entered the park, “Gaga, remember we used to ride our bicycles to grandma’s house.”

Ayva was right.

Early on many Saturday mornings a parade of pajama wearers rode their bicycles first to grandma’s house for a short while before continuing their parade to the park.

True joy was captured in many of our bicycle riding memories in a neighborhood where we lived one street over from grandma.

Such were the fishing memories too.

Ayva and Aubrey didn’t have the fishing and bicycle memories the older grandchildren had when we lived at Lot 311 as they were much to young to enjoy.

It saddens a Papa and Gaga to see with their own eyes the passage of time in pictures taken so long ago, yet feels like yesterday; a place we long so desperately for too.

Packing up our tackle boxes for the second time that day, we rode our bicycles to grandmas house before leaving, even if seated in car seats instead.

Stopping at Lot 232 a few days before my mother’s one year anniversary in heaven was an unplanned surprise by God.

I had plans to visit the cemetery; God had me going home.

Stopped by the shell of a place we once called home, takes me back to a crowded place of love, peace and joy, where seated around tables set up in every room of a single-wide trailer were family members enjoying each other and a feast at mother’s house.

Inside and outside of Lot 232, the undeniable joy of guests welcoming each other, a parking lot full of grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins gathering together albeit virtual or in person and around the centerpiece of home, our mother.

But now, one year later after mother bid us good-by for heaven, the home which gathered us under one roof is now a family tree which has branched out into new traditions of their own homes.

The senior table is surrounded by empty chairs now and the joyful laughter once heard and piped into the neighborhood through the surround sound of the walls is eerily silent.

And from her car seat our six year old Ayva sadly noted, “Gaga, I don’t see the bicycles.”

“Yes Ayva, I don’t see bicycles either.”

Two days before my mother’s one year anniversary,
I still choose to see the love of my mother’s house and memories she gave us, even though Lot 232 is empty.

I still choose to feel the peace from God whom mother introduced us to, even though the waves of my heart is calmed one ripple at a time.

I still choose joy though I weep for the neighbor I once lived close enough to ride my bike to.

Because when I choose love, peace and joy, I’m choosing God.

Leaving the park that day, the kids spilled the beans of Papa’s secret; a trip to the ice cream place.

Ayva asked me so innocently, “Gaga, what are you having?”

I replied just as innocently, “Sweet girl, whatever you are having.”

Instead of going to the cemetery to remember my mother’s one year anniversary, I went home instead, even if it meant visiting an old neighborhood.

Papa and Gaga and three great grandchildren of moms celebrated her life over a cup of vanilla ice cream and sprinkles.

Choose love.
Choose peace.
Choose joy.

Even choose sprinkles.

Because when you do,

You choose God.

LOT 232  By Lori A Alicea

Hard to believe six months have already passed us by.

During this short season the landscape of our life has been painfully pruned back by the gardener, fertilized and re-seeded for new and beautiful growth; but yet, that most sacred ground and scenery of our heart has remained untouched, unchanged.

Time does not discriminate and show favor to the weary, the broken, and those resisting the shears of the gardener’s pruning.

But life goes on as it should.

There’s wonder and beauty to be unwrapped and unveiled to those willing to continue their passage through the steep hills and rough terrain of change.

Remembering there are no shortcuts or detours, just one-way signs of “going thru” that difficult process of mining the heartache to discover those diamonds of new beginnings.

Lot 232 remains just as I remember.

LOT 232 SIGN

The furniture hasn’t moved nor any picture or book out of place since I cleaned it last.

coffee table

Contagious laughter of small children still echoes from the walls that captured their innocence seated around the table, each eating the spoils from the scavenger hunts of their grandmother’s cupboards.

moms table

The smells of the kitchen still retain their aromatic flavor and the recipes and memories remain that once framed the holiday dinner portraits at moms; the legacy gift I cherish most from her.

salt and pepper shakers

 Evident from the unwrinkled comforter, mother’s bed hasn’t been slept in; although the soft music she used to play continuously from the small radio on her nightstand can be slightly heard if I lean in ever so closely.

moms room

Lot 232 hasn’t changed a bit in my heart, but of all the details I wish I could change, it would be that my key to Lot 232 still opened the front door to my mother’s life.

So much has changed these last six months and yet, that most sacred ground and scenery of our heart has remained untouched, unchanged.

Daughters are little girls who never outgrow the need to share those heart gushes with her mother.

Grandchildren need those rocking chair moments with their grandmother too.

grandma in chair

The merry-go-round of living keeps spinning and changing, and how I desperately want off this ride.

But life must go on as it should;
Walking in the peace,
The calm and
Serenity of God’s love;

A journey that allows the Father to carry our troubles while carrying us when we need Him to.

Going on” mandates the “letting go” of what our heart strings desperately cling to. It’s giving to God what has been His from the beginning.

There’s no looking back in the rear view mirror when your life is moving forward.

We must allow God to pack our suitcase of memories; a loving tour guide who encourages traveling light, not weighted down from the cares of what “used to be”.

I sure love you mom.

I love mom

I keep your beautiful smile in my heart of remembrances.

face of our holidays

Your prayers for the three generations you petitioned God for were not in vain.

moms prayers

Your prayers have taught us to place our hope in God.

hope

And accept the things we cannot change.

Serenity Prayer
God, grant me the
Serenity to accept the things I cannot change,
Courage to change the things I can and
Wisdom to know the difference.

I drove by Lot 232 just the other day; an address one street over from when we used to be neighbors.  Seems like yesterday we were sharing an early morning cup of coffee together on your porch.

They say you can take the neighbor out of the neighborhood, but never the neighborhood from the neighbor.

We’ll always be neighbor’s mom.

Addresses may change.
But keys to the front door of our memories will never need a locksmith.

Thank you God for Lot 232.

I have no doubt my mother didn’t need a change of address in heaven.

I’ll know exactly where to find her.
LOT 232 SIGN