Mother's Chandelier

“It has to be here.”  Don said it this time.  We’ve taken turns saying that as though it would make the box appear.

I’ve tried to be organized on this move to Georgia.  Every box packed in Florida was supposed to be labeled with all contents.  When we arrived at our new home in Georgia, I made stations in the basement—one for kitchen boxes, one for bedroom, another for office, and on it goes. 

Then in each station, boxes were stacked with their labels to the front, and a path to walk in between each stack.  

I’ll admit that we still say, with some regularity, “Have you seen. . .(insert any common household item here).”  But, for the most part, we find what we’re looking for. 

Except for the box that has my mother’s little chandelier.   I grew up with this petite fixture with its crystals baubles and glowing lights.  After Mother and Daddy died, it became mine.  It was just the right size for my powder room in Florida. Now, in Georgia, our bedroom has a small sitting area that, I believe, Mother’s chandelier is what it needs.   That is, if I could find it.

So Don and I circle the stacks.  I thought it might have gotten put in the wrong section. I’ve checked in bathroom, office, even the laundry room area. 

I last saw that box in the living room in Florida with other boxes ready to go.  It was marked “Mother’s Chandelier.”  So I know it has the correct label, and it made the trip. It’s here.  But where?

I take great comfort in knowing that God is findable.  He made us to long for Him.  Then He set Himself in full view.  Look at what He says. “I will be found by you."  God makes sure He does the “being found.”  No hide and seek here. He’s standing in front of you.  “Here I am,” He’s clearly saying.  He’s not hiding behind other gods or taunting you just beyond reach.

I want to put up that fixture.  I’m eager to see if it will be as perfect there as I’m picturing.  But since it’s not making itself known, we have to continue with the other projects that need completing.  Sometimes to move forward, you have to wait for something to show up while you keep working.   Thankfully, I don’t have to wait for God.  And neither do you. 

Thank you to those who’ve linked this blog to your facebook.  I really appreciate your support!

I’d love for you to visit my website: sharonkiser.com

Woohoo! It’s Garbage Eve

I like to have fun.  Mention the word ‘party’ and I’m there! (Notice I didn’t say invitation—so be careful about saying the “p” word around me.) I love to laugh. My husband makes me laugh every day—after nearly 44 years of marriage, he can still make me laugh till it hurts.  But even with all that merriment and enjoyment of merriment, I find myself getting way too serious, way too often.

Every once in a while, I have to remind myself to enjoy the small things, to take pleasure and delight in the everyday, simple things and activities of life.  After all, life is really made up of the everyday.  The spectacular, the over-the-top exciting, and parties are the occasional events of life. 

I have a wonderful friend whose mother would say with great excitement, as though it were a celebration, on the night the garbage needed to be taken out, “It’s garbage eve!”

I want to be easily amused.  I want to laugh often.

I want my heart to smile at the sight of a pretty cloud meandering across a blue sky or the brush of a soft breeze.  I want to take pleasure in a basket of clean laundry, instead of the thought of still having to put it away.  I want to savor that rich taste of that first sip of the first cup of coffee in the morning, instead of mentally ticking off the day’s to-do list while I drink.  I want to be grateful for a close-by parking spot in a rain storm, instead of being frustrated for having to be out doing things in the rain.

I want to remember that life, like recipes, for the most part is flexible. Time is a valuable asset, but stopping to just be, every now and again, is as important as doing.   

It’s easy to laugh at a funny joke, but to take delight in taking out the garbage, now that’s enjoying life in its most everyday of moments.

However, when you think about it, to move forward, you need to get rid of the garbage.  So come on and say it with me—“Woohoo!  It’s Garbage Eve!”

Georgia on my mind.

We’ve moved.  Not just moved forward, but northward.  North Georgia to be exact.  When a friend learned where we were moving, she said, “In Georgia, you’re from south Georgia, Atlanta, or north Georgia.  And we’re about as far north as you get and still be in Georgia.

Our little town, Mineral Bluff, is tucked between two quaint little towns.  One is McCaysville, where a blue line runs through the IGA parking lot.  On one side, you’re in Georgia on the other Tennessee.  Tourists take pictures straddling the line.  So far we haven’t done that, however. . .

If you go the opposite direction, you head into the other quaint town, Blue Ridge.  It’s nestled in the mountains and has friendly folks, beautiful views, and a scenic railroad trip that people come from far and wide to take.  We haven’t done that yet either.  But that’s a for-sure on our list of things-to-do in our new town.

Moving to Georgia, after living nearly 58 years in Florida, has been one of those experiences that make an indelible imprint on one’s mind.  The imprint is far more emotional, strenuous, and just plain massive in every way than I had imagined when imagining the move. 

How do I pack up all our worldly goods, say good-bye to dear, dear friends, our wonderful church family, my hairdresser, the one I’ve had since 1975?  Will we find where to buy tires or raw honey?  Will I often run into someone in the grocery store who I know to happily stop and chat with?  Who will be my dentist and doctor?  How will I ever have a neighbor who shares her homemade hot-out-of-the-oven cinnamon rolls and gives my dog a treat every afternoon?  And everything else that makes up the rhythm of daily life?

In order to move, I started a new exercise routine—boxing.  As I boxed dishes, towels, clothes, you know, all the regular household things, I relived memories while I boxed pictures, my son, Andrew’s, baby rattle, and daughter, Lisa’s, tiny flower girl dress from my sister’s wedding.  Both Lisa and Andrew are grown, married, and have children.  Doesn’t matter.  Those things and the other treasures that I rediscovered are special and had to come to Georgia with me.

After all the boxing and good-byes, comes the excitement of new place.  We love our new home—it’s a gift from God in every way. 

I’m unboxing now, painting walls, and eager to ‘swap howdies’ with my new neighbors.  Moving forward sometimes means really and truly moving!

I’d love to hear from you.  You can email me at sharonkiser@aol.com or visit my website: sharonkiser.com.