This Rambler Marlin, which Randy and I spotted at an antique car show last month, is way cooler than the boxy Rambler Americans my dad drove throughout my childhood. (See Something Treasured below.)
It finally feels like fall in Kansas.
I don’t care about pumpkin spice and orange leaves, but I’m happily wearing my favorite long leggings with cozy cardigans every chance I get. Even better, the chill in the air gives me about 40 extra springs in my step when I’m out on an early morning run.
When I was cleaning out my blog files a few weeks ago, I came across some bits and pieces that I had intended to turn into full blog posts at some point. Reading them with fresh eyes, I realized I still wanted to share the content, but in more of a smorgasbord-type piece.
I should probably do this more often, actually. It might keep the file of future posts from getting overgrown again. At any rate, here are a few thoughts about eating in the dining room, a writing suggestion, and a quote that you might find encouraging. As always, feel free to chime in about any or all of it in the comment section below.
• • •
When I was waiting to pick up Molly from school one day, the hosts of a local radio talk show were discussing dining rooms. One was quite adamant in her belief that “nobody eats in dining rooms anymore.”
I have two opinionated teenagers, so I’m familiar with such emphatically stated proclamations. I also know this: people still eat in dining rooms.
At least they do in my house.
It may come as a shock if you watch HGTV, but not everyone has (or wants) an open-concept floor plan. Our 34-year-old house is sort of a hybrid—there are no walls separating our dining room from the main living area, but the rooms appear to be distinct because the eating area has an 8-foot ceiling and the living-room ceiling is two stories high.
We started having supper in the dining room instead of our eat-in kitchen one December when our Christmas tree was set up in the space between the living and dining areas. When the holidays were over and all the decorations put away, we never moved back to the kitchen, and I’m so glad we didn’t.
What I love about the dining room is that it fosters lingering. We aren’t all in a rush to get up and put the dishes and leftovers away. We often just sit and talk, even after we’ve had a little bit of dessert and Randy pours his customary after-dinner quarter-cup of milk.
Our conversations aren’t necessarily profound. Those that veer toward this territory generally happen spontaneously and are usually brought on by something completely unrelated to the deeper topic.
Whatever we talk about, though, I always leave the table feeling thankful—for our family, for laughter, for the opportunity to spend these moments together every night.
• • •
A few years ago, I was working on a blog post about someone who did something to help me out that I felt went above and beyond the call of duty.
“Her kindness floored me,” I wrote.
When Randy read my post, he suggested I tone down my exuberance a bit. “It would floor me if I won the lottery,” he said, “not when someone does something nice for me.”
I suppose that would depend on what the nice thing was, but he had a point. Words mean things, and choosing the right ones for any given situation is important. There’s a time and a place for dramatic verbiage, but often, stating things plainly is more effective.
Another time, I read a blog post that the author said she had revised something like 87 times because she was so nervous about what she was about to share. A comment like that makes me think one of two things—either the writer is a perfectionist to the point of needing serious help, or she’s about to tell me that she served time for armed robbery when she was younger.
I don’t remember the exact cause of her trepidation, but I think it had something to do with the fact that she yells at her kids too much or struggles with irritability.
I realize that what might be a huge deal to one person might simply be a blip on my radar screen. But if I had the chance, here’s what I’d share with that blogger: If you’re writing about a personal flaw or shortcoming, just write about it. As a very wise editor once told me, don’t put thoughts in your readers’ minds that they might not think of themselves.
For example, resist the urge to add caveats like, “You may be thinking that I am the worst mother in the world.”
Chances are, they are not thinking that, but now that you mention it, they may very well start. Just tell the story—without trying to address rebuttals that might not come up—and hit post (or publish or whatever). Life is too short to revise anything—especially a blog post—87 times.
• • •
Speaking of irritability and yelling at our kids, I’ll close with an encouraging quote by Martin Luther about—of all things—spiritual growth and repentance.
“This life, therefore, is not righteousness, but growth in righteousness, not health, but healing, not being, but becoming, not rest, but exercise. We are not yet what we shall be, but we are growing toward it. The process is not yet finished, but it is going on. This is not the end, but it is the road. All does not yet gleam in glory, but all is being purified.”
~ from “Defense and Explanation of All the Articles,” in Luther’s Works, Volume 32: Career of the Reformer II
♥ Lois
Eating in the dining room fosters lingering. We aren’t all in a rush to get up and put the dishes and leftovers away. We often just sit and talk. Share on X Words mean things, and choosing the right ones for any given situation is important. There’s a time and a place for dramatic verbiage, but often, stating things plainly is more effective. Share on XP.S. I’m linking up this week with #tellhisstory, InstaEncouragements, Recharge Wednesday, Let’s Have Coffee, Inspire Me Monday and Grace & Truth.
Last month I wrote about the small joys in life that can still be found, despite the chaos and turmoil that seem to be increasing all around us.
I meant every word of that blog post. I also felt like I was sinking deeper into quicksand with every step I took.
“Don’t wish your life away.”
My mom used to tell me this quite frequently—when I was expressing my desire to be done with high school or college, or when I was looking forward to the end of summer so I could quit my job at the swimming pool and return to school.
I was walking at the lake with a friend.
I’ve known her for years. I know some of the more heart-wrenching parts of her story, though not every daily struggle.
At some point in our conversation, menopause came up. I expressed to her that when I entered this season of life at 41, a full 10 years earlier than the average woman, I felt more alone than at any other time in my life.
Oh, friends. The weight of the world just keeps on getting heavier, doesn’t it? I don’t have to make a list—you know what’s going on. Across the ocean, across state lines, across town, maybe even across your own living room.
And yet, can we also agree that joy can still be found? In quiet conversations, quiet walks, quiet moments outside? In our kids’ rippling laughter, the steady beat of a new favorite song, perhaps even in the overwhelming drone of cicadas at dusk (a sound that brings me back to childhood like nothing else)?