Parable of a Wild Flower

Hello Wonderers:

Following my meditation on Galatians Chapter 5. I want to tell you my story.

Have you ever wondered if you were a flower, what type of flower would you be? Personally I never thought about it but apparently I do carry the characteristic of a flower. I am Mirabilis Jalapa. To you and me just the old fashioned Four O’clocks.

Like the flower I was easy to raise. I remember how I came to this flower. My coworker gave me some seeds and told me, “Just scratch up the ground and throw them down but make sure they are where you want them.” I did just that and they grew into the most ample set of leaves with little flowers are over it. Like it was shy of showing its full potential but everyone could see it had a real possibility to be a showstopper. When I was born into the world, my mother rejected me because she wanted all boys. She was so adamant about it the nurses would not give me to her for fear that she would harm me. That was fear on her part. I don’t think she didn’t love me. I think she was afraid of raising a daughter. Maybe she knew there was a pattern of hurt that I was going to endure because she too endured it. Maybe it was anxiety that she could not do it justice because she was so damaged herself and from the beginning she just wanted to avoid it. Either way, my grandmother saw the value in me at birth and swooped me into her arms closing the bond that should have been between my mother and me. Being the middle child she didn’t really have time for me. Her oldest and youngest children had more urgent medical issues to deal with. I remember asking her about it and she said, “I didn’t need her, they did!” What she could not see was the fear and anxiety she transferred to me. Two negative traits I fought to suppress all my life. Winning mostly but losing just the same.

Four o’clocks can tolerate a wide range of conditions. They are easy to care for because they don’t need much attention. I was an anxious kid having to get my knuckles whacked every day in kindergarten because I would knock over my milk. In my elementary years I used to come home from school and sit in the corner and read books. I remember being home alone. I would just sit and wait until my grandmother would swing by and pick me up if my mother was going to be late. I did not know I could read until fourth grade. Being a shy kid I would not have ever read in class. After I discovered I could read, I became a bookworm. I never wanted to play outside. I was content just reading my books. Books had the ability to take you anywhere you wanted to go. Away from isolation, unhealthy relationships, even boredom and despair. The love of reading kept me out of other people’s way and gave me a purpose until I found love. Love brought to my life a garden. A family.

In the garden the four o’clock is a show stopper. It controls any location and thrives against all odds. It is controlling and will tower over any nearby plants. Sometimes it will cause such a shadow that the underlying plants can not get enough sun and nutrients. I can see now how I had control over my family. I took responsibility of everything and everybody. I gave all of myself so much so I had nothing left from my heart to give and I would become angry. Not at any one person but at the whole situation. At times I would be outside of myself and when difficulties occurred, I could lash out and cause discord. In Galatians 5:23 it says, “But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self control. All of which are in us to freely give but when you live in fear you forget who you are. You are a child of God and if you become hateful and selfish God does not like it and you know it so you rest until a new day begins and you wait until four o’clock again.

This time in the garden, it is about remaining quiet and composed until the appointed hour to come alive and vibrant again bringing all the love and beauty to the gardener. I think back to how I would patiently wait all day for 4:00 p.m. for my day to begin. I would lay low, keeping the house quiet so my husband could sleep. I would go about my day taking care of errands but staying close to home giving little time to myself or others trying desperately to be available if he needed me. I kept my house immaculate and my children orderly and active outside of the house. Inside they also had to be reserved. My husband never demanded any of it. It was just easier to be complacent. So at the appointed hour I was ready to give all of myself to him for the little time we would get to spend together. I would praise him and give him all the credit for the things he was doing for our family. All in his own strength not God’s. He was the gardener in our garden. Galatians 5:19 speaks of idolatry. We are not to put anything or anyone before God. It was okay for me to be submissive to my husband but coupled with fear and a obsessive desire to constantly please made me a servant to him. I thought Serving him was my way of showing God’s love but when fear, anxiety and anger came into play it became burdensome and none of my actions were voluntarily given. The Spirit was in bondage.

I feel I am to tell my story. I hope you will read Galatians Chapter 5 for yourself and see how it relates to your life.

The garden of four o’clocks has been turned under and the gardener has hung up his hoe. God is now maintaining the garden and there is new freedom in Christ. “It is for freedom that Christ has set us free. Stand firm, then, and so not let yourselves be burdened again by a yoke of slavery.” Galatians 5:1. This is the message I received. I will never again go back to living in fear. I will live by the Spirit. If I am going to be a flower I will be a pineapple. I will hold my head up high, wear a crown and be full of sweetness.

God wants us all to be filled with joy Wonderers.

Until next time, Thank you for perusing and have a good night rest. God Bless You!

Denise Mundy

Day 7 of 25 Days of Christmas Crafts

Good evening Wonderers:

I wasn’t sure if I was going to get to post today’s craft because it literally took me a whole day to put it together.  This one might be considered another “c” word beside craft.  A word like challenge or maybe even chore but for me I like to word chaos.

I over heard a neighbor talking about the neighborhood is “playing keeping up with the Jones’s”.  I Had to think about that one for a minute and I decided to tell you about why I hang lights up for Christmas.  I know I’ve told you guys about some of my Christmas memories before and here’s another one.

I came up in the 60’s and 70’s when a string of lights went on individual bulbs.  I recently saw replacement bulbs in the store and wondered who still uses them?  Well I wished I had kept up with the old lights my grandfather used to hang.  Every year my Pop-Pop would sit out on the front porch and wash, test, and  replace each of the bulbs on those old lights while smoking Lucky Strike cigarettes.  He’d be making up stories about us riding in wagons visiting family  and how Santa was coming to town and would use those lights to find the house because he didn’t have a fireplace or chimney.  My Pop would spins yarns for hours keeping us outside in the Philadelphia coldness of winter while my grandmother made Thanksgiving dinner.  Those lights would be up from Thanksgiving until New Years and they were never turned off, or went out or burnt out.  He had so much pride in displaying those big bright lights even when everyone else went to the new fangled version.  He held fast to the tried and true version until his passing.  But I can still see him and those lights.

At our house my Dad would unravel lights and lay them across the living room floor and no matter what he said, somebody would walk by and step on them and break a bulb.  In those days if you broke one, the whole string would go out.  But my dad had the patience of a saint.  He would just laugh and run through those lights until he got them working again and again and again every year.  We lived in the first house on the block and he set the tone of the season and he was known as the “light fixer” and would help anyone light up their house.  His lights woud be up from Thanksiving until New Years and never burnt out or fell down.  He would pack blankets, hot chocolate and Christmas cookies into the station wagon and ride us around West Philadelphia to see the lights.  He had so much joy into putting those lights up for us and still lights up his house every year.

Now here I am outside in 60 degree weather putting up lights.  Last week I was so excited that I called my dad after going through the lights on my pre-lit Christmas tree.  The middle of the tree had burnt out.  It took me four hours to find the three bulbs that burnt out but I got them and my tree is fully lit again.  I said, “Hey Dad.  I feel like I just graduated from the George Stevenson school of Christmas light Repair!”  Boy did he find that funny.  He laughed and we had a long talk about Christmas past and I felt like I was right around the corner instead of the long distance between us.

So today I hung lights that didn’t connect correctly.  I needed a grounded extension cord for some of it.  Went to Walmart and got one, took down the lights and got the ideal from my dad to light them up first, connect them then put them up.  Everything was in place and working when Alex gets off the school bus and steps on a string going across the front porch, although I told him to go up the walkway!  I HAD to go BACK to Walmart and get another string of colored lights because I was NOT going to go through the string.  I got them all lit again when for some strange reason a string of colored lights went out on the first shrub.  I went back to Walmart and got another string of colored lights and put them up and now a string of white lights are out on the center post so I give in.  I’m going  to say it’s not the lights so they will burn until  New Years  but there is a short in the shrub.  It’s not the lights!

So neighbor, in case you were wondering,  

  

  

 

 I’m not trying to keep up with the Jones’s.  It’s way more serious than that.  I’m trying to keep up with the memories my grandfather (may he rest in peace) and my dad (may God grant him a many more Christmas) left me.  I’m trying to light up my generation’s memories in hopes that I’ll stay lit up in their minds and never burn out.

So for the 7th day – Light up your houses!
  
Until next time, thanks for perusing and have a good night.

My Invitation to a Barbie Party

I was invited to a Barbie Party by a younger girl friend.  I was so excited and also too embarrassed to admit I didn’t know what kind of party it was.  In fact, I thought I knew.  My version of a Barbie Party was a group of girls getting together to drink cosmos and talk about anything that entered the conversation.  I came up with the conclusion you wore pink of course and some sort of mule styled shoes. As the date got closer, I started to get an uneasy feeling about it all.  I didn’t want to be out of the know and just ask what is a Barbie party to my friend.  I didn’t want to be uncool, so I asked my daughter, who just laughed at me and said, “I wasn’t invited!”  Okay she was happy just to leave me flapping in the wind.  I just kept my vision in mind and purchased a pair of straight leg jeans.  Lord knows I have plenty of pink up in here.

The day of the party I dropped off a plate of appetizers and a salad at the party location.  My girl asked if I wanted to see the cake?  Sure I did, what kind of friend do you think I am?  You my girl, your super excited about your birthday cake.  You’ve been talking about it all week.  When she opened the box, it was a penis cake?  OMG what kind of party was this?  It just didn’t matter at this point.  I wasn’t gonna show all up in the strip club with no dollar bills!  When I got back to the house I asked my daughter if a Barbie Party was a exotic party or a male dancer party or maybe even a toy party?  She just laughed and said, “Worse.”  Okay, I’m always telling my kids to use their words so I looked it up in the dictionary.  The Urban Dictionary and guess what, there is actually a definition in there.  I just can’t make this stuff up!

“Barbie party – incapacitating a female and or females by either a club or drug and having your way with their unconscious body or bodies, this is usually performed by the incapacitator alone, friends must be very trust worthy! usually performed only on really hot chicks that you couldn’t get otherwise.”

The only thing I got out of that definitions was, she didn’t know what a Barbie party was either!  We are like minded. Besides the cake, her definition was right up there with minds.  I missed a fun party.

Mundy Madness / Fight the Battles You Can Win

Wonderers:

A few month ago I heard whispering in my sleep.  A conspiracy of sorts between my husband and 4 years old granddaughter.  “I’ll get you your own room real soon.  I promise.”  “Can it be pink?”, she said.  His response, “Whatever you want!”

Now there are two concerns going through my mind.  Where is this room coming from and why is it I’m the only one cleaning in this place and I don’t have my own room?

I thought I was taking over the office but the husband has claimed it for himself.  He is taking a 6 month certification class and feels the office is the only place he can study.  He bought himself a new desk and a new office chair to go along with it.  It looks pretty darn studious in there too.  He goes in there and shuts the door and studies until his heart is content.  Sometimes I swear I hear laughter coming from there and it is funny, I went to college at night for 6 years and I studied at the kitchen table with major interruptions.  But okay, fight the battles you can win!

So I know the only empty space is the spare bedroom.  The spare bedroom I’ve had my eyeon (after I lost the office that is) for my art studio.  It has morning light and a real nice size closet and it’s close to my bedroom.  Is this the space he is conspiring to give her?  Of course it is!  She isn’t even ready for her own room.  She sleeps in our bed every night as it is.  

The two of them were making plans.  She told me she was going to get a bunk bed.  We went to the furniture store. I’m was looking at full size beds, she’s looking at bunks.  Before I came to the conclusion the bed I was looking for was not at this store, the bunk bed had been purchased.  As we walked out the store she leaned over to me and said, “I told you so!”

Another explained plan, pop-pop was going to sleep on the bottom bunk and read stories to her every night.  Okay this could be promising!  If I lost my room for a open bed, well, that could work.  So I help paint the room pink and had a life time insured closet installed at pop-pop expense because after all, she might move out and it will be my room someday.  I’ll have to paint over the pepto bismo pink but Once again I conceded.  Fight the battles you can win!

The bunk was delivered.  The plan was executed between those two.  She won the prize!  I cleaned her room, moved all her clothes in there, decorated and spent all my mad money on making it fun for the two of them.  The first night was all set for the bunk mates.  I was popping pop-corn for them when something strange happened.  I was caught me off guard.  I didn’t know what to do.  I heard whispering.

“Mom-Mom can you sleep with me and read me a story?”

 Wonderers, I think I won?

Thanks for perusing and Good night.