Finding hope, purpose, and joy in authentic relationships with Cheryl Peachey
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Seeker of Jesus, iced coffee year-round, Netflix period pieces, and solutions to small space living challenges produced by 6 people and a dog in 1100 sq ft. Homeschooling newbie while supporting my husband as he returns to school. Finder of incredible relationships, hope, and inspiration I love to share!
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He is up before the crack of dawn, preparing for the day of vast unknowns.
He may gently stabilize your grandma who has fallen down the stairs. If she’s been incontinent and vomited, he will carefully clean her up…all the while speaking to her as if she was his own respected grandma. He’ll assure that she’s as comfortable as possible, and then ask questions about her life, distracting her from her condition. When she worries, he comforts her with a promise of the best possible care.
She will get the best quality care, regardless if she’s homeless or a celebrity.
He may return to the station to start charts, and before his foot leaves the ambulance, be called to treat a dialysis patient who isn’t responsive. He treats the patient quickly and skillfully, while recognizing the loved ones panic and reassuring them simultaneously.
The patient—and loved ones alike— will receive the best quality care.
He is charting and hungry, but the next call sounds. An attempted suicide, victim is unstable and the unbearable sounds of a wounded soul escape her lips. He holds her hand and speaks gently, firmly, “Look at me. You’re going to be ok.” She grips his hand and doesn’t let go until she’s carried from the ambulance.
The patient is cared for as if she was a sister and his heart is broken with her.
Lunch is half-eaten at 3:00 pm. Breakfast was at 6:00 am.
A bullet wound. An accident or attempted murder…unknown. Careful, concise assessment and skilled care happens within seconds and while the police scene unravels.
He experiences the trauma, and yet will need to separate the needs with his emotions…until later.
The clock shows his 12hr (or 24hr or 36hr) shift is coming to an end. Late call. Car accident. He texts me to let me know dinner would not be 7:30….8:00, maybe later. The victim, dead on scene, reminds him of his son. It could be his son.
He must keep going. Famished and nauseous, he starts home and his mind is weary, yet hyper-alert, replaying all the calls of the day. Was there a better alternative care plan? Was there something more he could’ve done? Was there someone to care for the hurting when the ambulance pulled away?
Pulling into the driveway, he remains seated in his truck. Separating two lives—the transition from saving lives to meeting the needs of a family of six—it’s a tough one. Just as important, more important, but the urgency of the first flows into the demands of the next.
I serve another late dinner. He engages and laughs at the funny stories we tell about our day. There’s a sadness in his eyes…a heaviness he must yet grieve. His day is not over because the mind does not easily put down the heartaches of the day. I unpack his lunch and see food, still uneaten.
And yet, he goes on. He does what needs to be done. He gives his heart, wears compassion like a badge on his sleeve, and skillfully pours out all he’s got, with each and every need.
Skillfully caring for one patient, one loved one, one valuable human life at a time.
The thunder crashed. The storm raged on in the land of motherhood, and I was growing very weary.
It had been a particularly difficult several months of trying to win my big kid’s hearts and their trust while giving them room to work out some struggles for themselves. I realized direct, authoritarian-style parenting felt most natural for me. “Do this and this…and expect this. As a born problem-solver, it took me a long while to realize that my teens usually don’t want me to solve theirs. Listening and guiding while giving them the freedom to make choices feels like pushing against driving rain—and frankly, is just as uncomfortable.
“I don’t want to talk about it!” The adamant, closed tone was in response to me trying to understand what had caused the sullen, defeated demeanor.
“You just don’t understand!” This from another kid. True. I didn’t. I really didn’t. The dramatic response just didn’t seem justified for the current circumstances. I fought back the desire to say it out loud.
Another teen slumped around depressed and with moods relentless and intense—enough to ensure this mother was armed with strong espresso and a sudden desire to run needless errands. An umbrella to protect myself from the storm brewing in my house when I returned. If I returned….just kidding…kinda kidding.
I tried my utmost to remember that none of these responses to typical teen struggles was a rejection of me as a parent. I couldn’t afford to be offended and distracted even though sometimes it hurt deeply. These were battles I had to let them fight while fighting in prayer.
All I wanted to do was speak frustrated truth to them, and truth in love wasn’t in my radar. If my teens have doubts and fears my tendency can be to tell them the truth. But a truth-speaking parent without love is simply a controlling parent. Love shines through when we listen without an agenda, give them empathy, and gradual, earned freedom to make decisions without coercion.
“You must let your kid’s battle in order to strengthen them for the many battles they must fight ahead. This can mean letting them question their faith, and go through other really hard things without trying to convince them of your opinion or the truth.” The wise words spoken to me several years ago from a mentor-friend lingered in my mind. I realized the hardest part of motherhood to date wasn’t sleepless nights or even the trepidation of choices they would make in the future.
The hardest part of motherhood is standing by, letting them know you love them and support them, while looking on as a raging storm batters them mentally, emotionally, and spiritually. It takes parenting grit and guts to keep from scooping them up, distracting them, and reassuring them everything will be just fine as we used to do whenever a bee stung or a dog bit. In retrospect, to distract with a few of their favorite things was so easy compared to this.
But parents, storms and trials are hallowed training grounds. God created parents to nurture, care for their kids and to protect them from harm. It’s hard offering to show them how to fight, but then letting them get dirty, bruised, and training for future battles—battles that are only sure to increase in difficulty.
I reminded myself that things felt hugely important to me as a kid that were now pretty insignificant. I attempted to understand. I tried to just listen and care without trying to control the situation or fix the problem. To listen with my heart instead of my head and to let them ride out the storm.
The winds started to change. Not that I could control the winds, but God knew I was depending on Him and blessed me with a bit of sunshine. I sure was grateful!
One of my kid’s asked if I would do a Bible Study with them. I chose Armor of God by Priscilla Shirer and we’ve been learning how to fight spiritual battles together. I was humbled that she, not I, suggested it. There has been a new hope growing and blooming. Laughter and lightheartedness are becoming a new norm.
One evening I finished our evening study and prayed blessings over her, then went upstairs and asked the man-boy who towers over me if I could pray over him. He let me. Right there, in front of his friend who he was helping on speakerphone with his homework. I prayed for courage and blessings over him…that boy with so many questions that have no answers…and that he would know the reality of God’s love for him. He gave me a hug and a kiss on the cheek. It warmed this momma heart until it was just melted puddles.
Then to the other very tall young man whose twin bed looks too small for his lanky frame, who has frustrated me more than I can say, even if I knew all the words in Websters. He looked up from reading his Bible—rarely missing a night since over a year ago when their youth group suggested a Bible reading challenge to create discipline. I told him how proud I am of him and that he’s more diligent than me. He smiled and told me he sometimes skips. I prayed the same prayer over him I’ve prayed so many times.
Prayers of blessing, for courage as a disciple of Jesus to stand up for and fight for what is good and right. For my kids to know how completely they are loved by God. Because until we know, deeply and truly know, how much we are loved by God, we will not love Him back. He first loved us.
My heart is full. I know I can grow so much in modeling personal spiritual disciplines, walking with them in prayer and teaching godliness, but I’m so grateful for God’s mercies shining in the lives of my kids. It is definitely not me—a mom who really just wants to do battle for my kids—who helps my kids grow in faith and hope.
I definitely don’t have all—sometimes I don’t have any—parenting answers. It takes pressure off of us as parents to know it is Christ alone that will help our teens weather the storms and trials. It is Him alone we trust to bring them through those storms with a stronger faith, and the tenacity and courage to continue on!
Battling beside you,
Cheryl
PS. I know it’s an unpopular opinion, but I do love parenting teens for the most part! Just like earlier years, there are ups and downs bringing both delight and heartache. I appreciate those that ride the parenting rollercoaster well, focusing on the many joys, and then encouraging us by going along for the ride! Please encourage those that are behind you in their journey….we can learn from your mistakes and celebrate and learn from the lessons you have learned!
There are those extraordinary people that God—in His loving kindness—puts into your life without any real fanfare, but that make such an imprint that one cannot reimagine life without them.
-Cheryl Peachey
Ours may have been an unlikely friendship. Our social, economic, and educational backgrounds were worlds apart, and yet Betty Lou had an attractive, authentic faith that was impossible to ignore. Curiosity compelled me to get to know her, but her depth of character created a loyalty that caused me to stay and form a friendship that will transcend time as coheirs of the same Heavenly Father. Wife of the late Judge James McClure–who left a similar, beautiful legacy–Betty Lou became an extraordinary friend to me. This is our story:
My dearest Betty Lou,
A rare home. Your elegant gardens carefully planned to bloom beauty from early spring until frost, were meticulously cared for by a man who both gardened and loved with his whole heart. I knew there was something different–something genuine, heartfelt, and good–mingling in the dusty air of your lovely, historic home that looked like it belonged in a fairy tale. Once upon a time, the long, curved staircase gracing the entryway must have been a spectacular slide for your daughters, giggling like the von Trapp children. I glimpsed memories of once polished candlesticks, buffets boasting hearty, tasty fare for celebrations, or delicacies for tea parties, laughter making the large dining room intimate and cozy. Third-floor rooms used in decades past held stately fireplaces for warmth, designed similarly to those in upstairs and downstairs rooms, and floor-to-ceiling bookcases….oh, the books!
Your housecleaner was retiring after decades of service, and as a replacement, I was welcomed with a genuine warmth from you that mirrored the gratitude I would hear for the next sixteen years, each and every time I said goodbye. “Thank you.”
Thank you, Betty Lou! I never expected to receive more than I gave in my years of service.
You taught me so much about life, just by living yours. Let me count the ways. Just a few of my favorite things, for fear this letter morphs into a book.
No pretenses. Though I was simply a housecleaner, the manner in which you treated me was always genuine, kind, and without partiality, as if I had the same esteemed reputation. That respect makes one want to live up to being honorable…you know? Though your dining table stretched long with multiple leaves, making a long oval to make room for friends and family, I knew your position. In all relationships, you had a round table. There was no head, no foot.
Enduring faith and steadfast trust. The silver-framed black and white photo of a beautiful, smiling girl with corkscrew curls–she could have passed for Shirley Temple–who was she? I guessed it could have been you as a girl, or maybe one of your daughters, and yet questioned the significance of it, knowing you had five daughters. I later learned it was your firstborn daughter, Betsy, who had died of leukemia at age six. I wondered why your laughter, ringing throughout the house every time you spoke on the phone, didn’t hold a hard edge; your sparkle for life remained untainted. Your mother’s heart remained soft in the wake of great grief, and I wanted to know why. I saw many around me suffering great loss; why were some grouchy, angry ladies?
A few, like you, seemed only to grow in joy and depth of character. I knew Christ was your hope, and the surety of a reunion with Betsy again someday brought you great peace, and yet…there was something more. I experienced it firsthand as your loyal, loving husband, the father of your six daughters, and the Honorable Judge James McClure was diagnosed with leukemia, and then met Betsy in glory. Your trust that God was good, even when life didn’t feel good, enveloped you in peace that passed human understanding. Instead of focusing on what could have been, you focused on being grateful for what was.
Perseverance. It wasn’t a coincidence that as Jay enrolled at Penn College, and I was needed to provide an income for our family, that I was needed to attend to your personal care, transitioning from weekly cleaning to sufficient income to keep us afloat. You were such an encouragement to me to fully support him and told the stories of army wife life, and a butcher who assumed your liver was for a dog when it was your dinner. How we would laugh at your stories! Even in your late sixties, you attended college and exercise classes for seniors and lived by example. You never stopped learning, and because of you, neither do I. I hope to go to college someday, and I know you would exclaim, “It’s never too late!” Just as Jay graduated from college and could provide for our family again, your need for my care ended. That was no coincidence either. As your memory faded with the disease, I realized why your former housekeeper, your gardener of thirty-some years, and myself all remained loyal to you and your family for as long as we could serve you.
God’s faithfulness, goodness, and provision were represented in and through your life in countless, tangible ways. This is your legacy, my dear Betty Lou. Our loss is great, but your gain is unimaginably glorious. You’ve left me, and many others, an inheritance of unparalleled treasure: a legacy of faith so rich, that although you’re no longer here with us, we are forever changed and eternally impacted. So now, I will follow in your footsteps, and instead of regretting that your presence is no more, I will choose to be continually grateful for what was…and for what you meant to me until I see you again.
His eyes were unblinking…black with hate. Moments earlier irritated with a normal circumstance, he had angrily spouted off. My defense had verbally turned a light switch from irate to instant rage.
I didn’t see it coming. My indignant response had poked a deep wound I didn’t know existed, and the bear went from growling to snarling and threatening in mere seconds. I rarely crossed paths with him and didn’t know him well enough to realize my words had poked a wound of fear. Fear is possibly the most powerful motivator behind offense.
The expletives, curses, and threats roared in my ears while shock, anger, and indignation coursed in tears down my face on the drive home. My husband was angry at this man who hurt me and his protective nature felt safe. I was justified in avoiding this ticking time bomb and in responding the way I had in defense. Or was I? I didn’t know. For a while, I didn’t care. He deserved to be hurt even though I didn’t intend to.
Have you ever experienced and tried to understand the extreme imbalance of the reaction you received to a position you took, a statement you made, or an unintended offense? It doesn’t make sense no matter how much you try to figure it out. It won’t. A barely simmering person who lashes out in boiling rage cannot be reasoned with or rationalized. I knew there was no way that hate—those cutting words—were really meant for me.
When an offense occurs and was not realized as being hurtful and knowingly forgiven—regardless of whether or not it was intentional—the wound will not heal with time. It’ll fester; it’ll be covered, and the hurting person will look and act pretty normally. But someone will inadvertently poke or bump the still agitated wound and the reaction will not make sense. Beware poking that bear.
But I’ve been that bear. I’ve been the one dishing out cutting words, reactive indignation, and proud self-righteousness. I didn’t know I hadn’t forgiven. I didn’t know I didn’t grieve the loss and rejection. I thought it was behind me but it wasn’t…until I surrendered to Grace.
There was nothing left but to say, “I’ve prayed and prayed that you would change them and these circumstances. You haven’t and I’m miserable. Change me, God. Search my heart.” It was the prayer that broke chains and sprouted hope all in one breath of surrender.
Not even an hour after returning home that day, I knew what I was supposed to do. I was reminded of God’s grace…for me. Grace is simply love and mercy poured out on us while we were still in rebellious sin. If we can’t recognize that time period, we have not yet received Grace. It’s a realization that no matter how wonderful our childhood…how good we have been…there isn’t an ounce of our behavior in the past, present, or future that is deserving of that outrageous grace. Not one single sacrifice or deed. I had to go back to the guy that was a jerk and pour out some of that that I was freely given. Grace—undeserved love and mercy. He didn’t deserve it. Neither did I. I’d lived hurting and hating (by the way, the definition of hate is a strong and passionate dislike…ever hated anyone?) and had to repent of that. Before I did, I hurt others because that’s what hurting people do.
Receivers of grace? They pass it on. They can’t help themselves because they’re so overwhelmed that they received so great a gift. You can pick these people out of a crowd because of the way they honor others in their speech. The way they treat others as if they were all siblings in God’s family and sat and ate at the same table together every day.
My apology was heard but not returned. It didn’t really matter though. It didn’t matter that his reaction was one hundred times worse than my action. What mattered was my relationship was reconciled with God by forgiving him and a hurting man got to see that we stand on equal ground in desperate need of Him. I’d accepted amazing grace. If we haven’t, it’s gonna show. Big time. Our reaction of love and forgiveness is not going to align with the hurtful offense. You might look crazy, but you might be showing crazy grace that a person has never seen before. This was one of the times I understood the hymn lyrics, “Freely. Freely. You have received. Freely. Freely. Give” My step was lighter and my heart felt free.
Only those who realize how much they have stood in the need of grace are able to receive it and only those who have received it are able to give it. When you are running on empty, there is nothing to give. When you are awed by the gift, you become so grateful to the Gift-Giver that you can’t help but pass it along.
My heart is grieved to see the attitudes and pride among even those from my own anabaptist upbringing—and the many that identify as followers of Christ. I was raised in a culture of nonresistance; turning the other cheek was taken literally. Honor was given to those in leadership—especially spiritual leadership, and Christ-like deference was given in the literal sense.
Regardless of cultural upbringing, we are all known as Christ-followers by the way we love each other. And when that love is not deserved? It’s called grace…that thing we are so full of that it pours out supernaturally. The actions of unbelievers are not concerning to me…when we haven’t yet accepted the sacrifice, what is the motivation in laying ourselves down? But when I have (or claim) to have accepted the ultimate sacrifice of Grace, and yet the slander, inability to respectfully debate in comments on social media, character assassination, and proud “Get woke, people!” looks as inconsistent as that reaction of rage I received that day. It sure doesn’t look like love to me. I don’t know why I haven’t seen this family feud before, but it’s painfully obvious now as it’s poking the wounds of fearful Christians.
Fear is a powerful agent, and if Perfect Love casts out fear, I wonder often who is winning this feud in God’s family? I flip-flop between anger and sadness as I see almost daily evidence of the enemy gaining ground before I remember….Hey, the battle has already been won!
Grace. You can’t give it unless you’ve received it. Who needs that undeserving grace today in your life, my friend? Shock the socks off of them if you must, but make it amazing…Amazing Grace.
Grace-giving ideas:
1. When you hear things or see social media posts or comments you disagree with, take just a second and ask yourself if someone has given you grace in your life that exceeds what you’re about to give before responding. If you still feel a need to post or respond, keep the comment solely based on the issue; avoid making it personal by speaking only about the issue. (Calling people sheep is not commenting on the issue. Respectful debate causes people to think; disrespect causes contention.)
2. Remember our leaders in prayer. If ever a time to lead has been difficult, it looks impossible now. I think of the slander against pastors who seek the face of Jesus constantly for guidance on leadership decisions and positions, and it will be a lose-lose situation because we—the church body—are in a great divide. Honor their dedication, sacrifice, and position by searching your own heart. Are you humble and willing to consider your own view may not be biblical? If you’re positive it is, is it a salvation issue or can you agree to disagree without contempt? Encourage. Text, cards, meals, words….so many ways to say “we’re family”. And if you’re inclined to pray readily for the president and that you get your choice into the White House in the upcoming election, then pray for those that “persecute you” such as those inconsistent, “tyrannical” leaders too. The mandate to pray for our leaders was based in a time of evil tyrannical leadership after all—Nero—look him up. School administrators, business owners, fathers…so many leaders to pray for.
3. Shut it down. Turn it off. The phone, the laptop and TV. Check your truth with Scripture. Surround yourself with those that challenge you and encourage you to speak truth (or your lens of it) in love.
By this all people will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another. John 13:35
“If you loved me you would stop making me late or (fill in the blank) because you know I hate it. If you cared enough, you would change it.”
“If you really loved me for me, you’d stop trying to guilt trip me and accept me for who I am!”
“If you really love other people more than yourself, you would wear a mask to protect me; I wear one to protect you.”
“If you knew the freedom that’s at stake by following mandate’s from a governor ruling with hypocrisy and inconsistencies, you’d stop being a sheeple!” By the way, shouldn’t that be goat people to be offensive to God’s people? He calls us His sheep all the time!)
I’m so over the whole mask thing; I’m so done with every single thing related to Covid-19. I’m pretty sure we can all agree on that one point. The exposure of some glaring human flaws in me during some tumultuous years in our marriage, I suddenly realized, were being revealed again as I participated in the mask debate. It’s neither the mask mandate that’s to blame any more than you can blame a marriage. But one thing is absolutely certain—marriage and the mask order have exposed something alarming in me.
It’s much scarier than a virus.
It’s more frightening than the people that ignore a Covid treatment suggestion given by the President that might have saved thousands of lives simply because they hate the President.
It’s more frightening than losing even some freedoms…and we all know that’s terrifying.
It’s the widening divide between people claiming to be one body. It’s the splintering offense occurring at a rapid rate of destruction that seems beyond repair. It’s the inability to be unified with our eyes on a common goal, and it’s a disheartening representation of Christ in us to a watching world…a world who is aware we are walking through some of the last days as prophesy continues to be fulfilled. They are wondering if it’s possible to live without fear while giving a supernatural, grace-filled love to others who are not on the same side.
Can we speak truth in love when we are afraid our liberties are being stolen? Will we keep our eyes locked on the mission of the church to share the hope of the gospel, or will we become distracted because we’ve begun to lose sight that those with differing opinions do not need to be proven wrong?
We’ve had those days in marriage too. I read it in the Bible, ya know, how he should treat me and love me. He should love me as Christ loves the church. (Never mind that God never said to give me flowers for no reason and let me know when he’s late for dinner.) I tried my best to convince him how he needs to love me so I feel loved. I had lots of facts to back me up. I had passion. (Did I ever!) I had a strong defense and was positive I was right, and sometimes I stooped really, really low. I attacked his character. My goal was to get him to understand my way and what was quite obvious to me, the right way.
You can give me a thousand reasons—as porous as the cute fabric masks— why you don’t think they protect others. You can share video posts from medical professionals, insanely low effectiveness rates against the transmission of virus, and more data proof than I need that you are right. I’ll probably agree with you on most of it. You can show me how our state’s governor can’t be trusted because of unbelievable hypocrisy. I’ll definitely agree. You can talk to me about how our freedoms are at stake. I’ll nod my head. Then you might say the church is under attack. This is where I’ll sit up straight, and start interrupting you because I’ll be so excited that the focus of our conversation is now narrowed in to our biggest, scariest problem. But, how I think it’s under attack might be different than the way you do if you think it’s merely our freedoms under attack. Freedom to worship, yes. Victorious battles are won when the enemy rises up from a source that no one guarding. Scarier than a tiny virus that can destroy a respiratory system is a deadly immune response where the body literally attacks and destroys itself.
That’s what I think a marriage and the mask mandate have in common. Neither one is the actual problem, but when the focus of unity in a marriage or in the body of Christ is ignored, we will self destruct. Cunning and wise as a servant, it’s obviously a pretty victory. We are looking outward to those that obviously want to destroy two precious images of Christ: marriage and the church.
We’re missing something not so obvious, but possibly more dangerous. We attempt to convince others why they are wrong and we are right. Regardless of whether it’s a way we want to be treated in a marriage or because of our decision to wear—or not to wear—a mask. In both instances of disagreement it starts with a simple inward examination, “Search me and change me, God.”
We are fools if we think name-calling, character assassination, and righteous indignation will somehow result in a disagreeable person saying, “Hey! I want to be on your team! I want what I see in you that I don’t have.” (By the way I tried it and have proof it doesn’t work. 😉) In the same way, spiritual shaming with Bible verses might trigger spiritual abuse. In the past I have heard many stories of preachers doing exactly that.
Please stop that. There is nowhere that reads, “If you love your spouse, you will avoid her pet peeves to show her you care.” Nowhere in scripture does it say, “Love one another by wearing a mask.” What God speaks of is taking the log out of your own eye before poking fun at a speck in another’s eye. He speaks frequently about the absolute necessity of humility and unity in the body sent into a mission to represent Himself. Shaming will not benefit our cause.
How are you handling these discouraging times? I’ve done my share of posting “proof” on social media and arguing for what I believe is the proof of hidden dangers in this time. It became so hard to engage and the constant I am right and you are wrong! argument was seriously killing some joy in my life, so I took a couple practical steps attempting to keep my eyes focused on the real mission: unity in relationships and sharing the hope of the Gospel. I’d love to hear what is working for you!
1. I have one social media platform that I struggle to not get sucked in to debate, hard feelings about posts and articles shared, and a desire to share what I believe is the Truth. A friend suggested Settings > Screen Time > App Limits. I’ve found if I only have a short block of time, I skim over comments, posts, and articles that I really don’t want to engage in.
2. Think before sharing and commenting. Don’t believe for a second that what we share will change the minds and opinions of others. Most of us have researched to the nth degree, and are pretty firm on our beliefs. I’ve started asking myself “Will this help someone?” and “Does this encourage and share hope?” God knows that cuts out 90% of my social media shares! 😅
3. Keep the focus on the mission. Always. Know these current events are also dangerous because they are distractions. Remember… the enemy is cunning and we are not as wise as we think. If he can instigate a battle where we focus on a bomb coming from a distance, we lose sight of guarding our hearts among each other and he’ll have a hey day as we turn on and destroy each other while simultaneously destroying the image of Christ.
4. Unity is more important than being right and relationships are more important than our defense. Let go of your need to be right. It’s pride and it looks just as ugly in print as it does coming from our mouths. Repent every time you feel indignation rise up.
5. Speak truth in love. Never have I heard of condescending speech and a resulting joining of the other side. Show me respect, and I’ll take notice of your opinion because it’s rare and I’ll probably listen to what you have to say. I’m appalled at how those of us who call ourselves believers comment in the same name-calling, character attacking way as unbelievers. We leave out the F-bomb and that’s sometimes the only difference. Truth in love, my friends. Speak it humbly, and your words will command respect.
Now, a little shocker just for fun. I wore a mask to church today. I’m mostly an AM (anti-masker) so did I violate my stance by appearing as a PM (pro-masker)? By the way, I’m purposefully using those labels because we’ve already labeled each other in many harmful ways, and this is one of them. I don’t think I did. I wasn’t wearing it “for you, because you’re wearing it for me” and I wasn’t technically wearing it because of the new mask mandate. I was wearing it simply in and out of the worship service for one reason: the Biblical mandate that commands us to meet together to worship. I don’t know if it’ll make a bit of difference. I don’t care if you wore one or not, and it doesn’t matter to me at all. My perspective is that if following an order into a place of worship helps keep the attack off my church family’s house, I’d wear one in and out each Sunday for a year. I don’t want church doors closed ever again, and if it helps to keep the doors wide open? Mission accomplished.
Step out in humility and speak Truth in love as you share hope today! Keep your eyes on the goal, focus on the mission—whether bare-faced or covered—stay the course! You are loved, my friend.
I jumped into the murky homeschool waters like I do all challenges I’ve decided are noble and/or necessary—with the adventurous spirit of Huck Finn. My binocular scope seems rosy-lensed in retrospect. “If those moms with nine kids, color-coded lesson plans, and daily menus can find it within themselves to personalize curriculum and still find time to milk their little goatherd and make soap in their spare time, I can surely homeschool 3rd, 5th, and 7th graders for two years!” My mantra was adopted from the little praise jingle…Oh yes I will. Yeeess…I will! (Too bad the rest of the words of surrender were not entertained at that time. But, they would come.)
I ambitiously started pinning cool (I guess they say “sick” these days) science projects. Pinterest has the sickest art ideas that got pinned too. And organizational inspiration for my school space. And school began.
Now is probably my cue to let you know this was not mandated keep your kids at home because of the pandemic of Covid-19. Nope. It was 3 years ago that my 39 year-old realtor husband decided to chase a long time dream of his. He would go to college—not back to college—but with the assistance of a tutor, he would go way, way back to multiplying fractions, and learn the essentials he missed in high school. Then, and only then, he would enter a college campus for the first time in his life. I’m all about pursuing your dreams and the necessary sacrifice if your dreams are fundamental to your purpose. And that’s how my children happened to be educated for 8 years at a great private school…to being a project of attempted academic, social, emotional, and spiritual growth by one little large-headed lady. My tune went from the energetic, suitcase-swinging of “I have con.fi.dence in CON.FI.DENCE AAALONE” of a petite ex-nun in The Sound of Music to the sorrowful wail of “I’ve got friends in low places…”
Ok. Not quite. My friends were still great and encouraging…but there was yelling. There were locked bedroom doors and British Drama binges and warnings to stay away as the Spanish dialogue enthralled me. I mean, I don’t know Spanish, but that was all that was left in my genre. Desperate times really and truly do equal desperate measures. It wasn’t whiskey I reverted to, like in the country songs, but it wasn’t good. There was even some all out sobbing behind those doors as I accepted that I. Can. Not. Do. This.
I chose a challenging, but well-respected video curriculum for my 7th grader as I felt she needed the constant verbal and visual instruction. I chose a cyber school for my advanced, self-motivated 5th grader, and a mixed plan for my hands-on 3rd grader that had some issues focusing on any squirrel or leaf outside a window that caught his attention. I felt confident that I could quite easily guide a 3rd grader. The eldest was an artistic, color outside-the-lines personality that despised the droning voices of video teachers, and the tech-challenged mom couldn’t begin to understand the cyber program to save her life or sanity. The 3rd grader was so needy of my attention and trespassed my personal space circle all day long. I was the only income earner (working after school and weekends), helping my husband with homework after his school day, and running the house. I was supporting all six of us financially and emotionally and barely surviving.
Fast forward three years later: The adult graduate is a Paramedic and loves his job with the exception that few seem to realize the jeopardy that is being placed on available medical care during this pandemic. The protocol for exposure to the virus will be an isolated 14-day quarantine. This means one patient without forewarning of symptoms can (and has) placed every EMS worker, nurse, Dr, and surgeon within relative contact that day of exposure is effectively be wiped off the schedule for two full weeks. As a wife of a medical worker, that stresses me out for him! That’s not the crazy news. I am still schooling my kids at home. Our intentions were to have our kids return to the private school after his graduation, but they are still here. Other than the fact that we can’t presently socialize outside our home, cyber classes continue as before.
Girl, this is why I want to talk to you. I have a message for the me of three years ago that might encourage you to not repeat some of the hard-learned mistakes I made when I jumped in those homeschool waters all fool-hardy. There were leeches in there that my rose colored glasses camouflaged. I had no Huck Finn raft, you know?
This is for all the adults with kids at home instead of school. I’m pushing a raft your way. It’ll keep your head above water. You can do this, and you can do it better than I did.
1. Lower thine expectations. Right now stop those Instagram searches of lifestyle posts the cookie-making counters have no crumbs or sprinkles. Sally wiped them all up. Stop watching those silly videos where they show you the “before mess”—a few toys on the floor. Fake vulnerability. Your washcloths are about to get folded with the creases all unaligned and you just need to say, “Thank you, Sweetheart. You are so helpful!” In 24 hrs you get to fold them again.
2. Stop trying to get them ready for an Ivy League school in the few months they’re home. Any academic loss will not permanently disable a student that works hard. If you want to teach them anything other than what their teachers require, teach them perseverance and the characters you will quickly see are lacking. (Oh, yes you will.) Don’t hold off on those issues and make the teachers deal with it later. They’re the fruit of your loins—not those of Mr. Smith and Mrs. Jones.
3. Don’t compare your child with siblings or another child. Your voice (maybe your memes suggesting that they are driving you up a wall and down a cliff) becomes their inner voice. I learned that this destructive habit of criticism I hoped would be constructive, never was. Instead, affirming the good and blessing our kids produces a desire to become what they believe we see. If you need reminders…Post Its. Accept Calgon’s offer to “Take me away” before addressing your child when you’re in over your head. Before addressing your child, always pray for wisdom to see deeper than the surface action or reaction of the behavior.
4. Listen. “Look at my face, Mom!” I hear that and I know my child knows that when our eyes are on a phone, distracted by the news, and deep in thought, he knows I will really hear him if I’m looking at his face. More than anything, the silver lining in all of this chaos and time spent in close quarantined quarters is that we get the gift of getting to really know our kids again. To know is to listen.
5. Above all, through it all, and over all…it’s more than okay to admit you can’t do this without help. Surrendering our deception of self-empowerment and letting our kids see our humility and dependence on a Higher Power is essential to reflecting faith to them. They become gentle creatures of love and support when the harsh and critical demands crumble into heaps of God-dependent requests.
Blessing your every day opportunities to be a purposeful parent—now and always.
It had been years since I’d been ferried by ferry in fair weather. The fourteen square mile island of Isleboro, Maine sounded just like the type of scarcely populated island we could explore at our leisure without bumping into people. Now, we both like people. But we all know that sometimes we need a respite from all the peoplely-people, and we sought out as many off-the-beaten paths as possible because those were the destinations that excited us most. Isleboro was exactly that.
The residents and visitors of Isleboro ferried to and from Lincolnville Beach. It was amazing that, with creative strategy, thirty-plus vehicles fit onto it, not to mention several hundred people on foot.
On the way over we could get out and enjoy the trip because there were only a few cars. On the way back, we were sandwiched close enough that a claustrophobic person might have panicked.
The picturesque Grindle Point Lighthouse was the first sighting from the sea. I got so excited snapping photos that I didn’t hear the ferryman asking me, oblivious at my boat front perch, to please give him room to prepare to dock. I’m not sure how many times he asked me. I guess I understand a little why my children don’t hear me when they’re excited.
We found a little-used back road and thought that that one might be the one for us. It surely was. Our draw to Maine was the craggy shoreline and everywhere we went, whether hiking or driving, was always as possible to where mountain met sea. A truly spectacular experience to hike through evergreens elevated by jagged cliffs, and to hear seagulls and glimpse the ocean below. We pulled over often on that gravelly back road.
If I blur my eyes, I imagine this scene as an old oil painting created by one of the past generations that left most of these island summer homes to family.
A glimpse of the corner of one such estate. I wondered which of these summer homes both John Travolta and Kirstie Alley called their own vacation homes.
Our Airbnb host recommended packing a picnic lunch since there is only a deli on the island. We found a quiet grassy spot for my cucumber sandwich and the man’s nitrate-laden manly sandwich. I balanced my meal with a glass of jarred Starbucks frappucino. Living loose. We saw no moose.
Instead, we watched these people prepare to go boating from their waterfront property and imagined what kind of jobs or bloodlines these boaters had. Chomp. Chomp. Sip. Sip. Probably with no similarity to ours.
No matter. Every moment on this little island was a little piece of heaven. Quoting Arnold Schwarzenegger on some movie I watched in another lifetime….”I’ll be back.” (Please use the accent if you know it.)
Saint Mary of the Isles was built for the summer help that catered to the wealthy summer families. If I lived on the island, I imagine I likely would have been employed cleaning toilets for the wealthy landowners and then I would have attended mass here on Sundays. The closer gap between classes today does have its advantages regardless of how far back the long fascinating history of Isleboro travels. In August, 1692, English Captain Benjamin Church chased off both French men and Native Americans. A Church Brat. He did collect a large quantity of beaver and moose pelts though, so my disappointment at seeing no moose on the loose is not so far fetched.
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We missed that sweet ferry by one car. The lineup was early for the departure time we wanted, so being that we were the first car for the next departure and the lighthouse was located beside the ferry dock, we explored every bit of the Grindle Point Lighthouse and museum. The original was built in the 1850s and rebuilt about 30 years later using the same foundation. To go to the glass top of this rare square-shaped lighthouse, you had to go down into a basement where we saw many ancient sailing artifacts including the compass pictured above.
I laughed out loud, in that musty old basement, as I found the irony in this story. Proof that, regardless of the times, people had and will have the same relationship challenges. The museum keeper was a retired librarian and historian who shared the history of the school where she had worked for many years prior as a librarian. It is a public school, previously a summer house that was donated by a wealthy benefactor so it had bathtubs and fireplaces amidst classrooms. A 2018 graduating class of only four seniors, two being female graduates headed to Yale. I thought that the teacher-to-student ratio is probably more important than I had imagined. She probably never met a young-ish couple before that asked so many questions and seemed so old-ish. It was so fun.
Waiting on the sun-soaked rocks for the ferry, I saw this lady that appeared to be in her 70s must have had the same idea. She snored softly but somehow awoke and was in her car waiting to board the ferry before I was. Summers in Maine suddenly felt like a blissful way to grow old.
The ferry is coming! Back to Lincolnville and life that is dictated by clocks, watches, and cell phones. Isleboro felt like a journey to a little land where time had no meaning. For us, we had traveled back in time to a little piece of heaven.
Belfast is intricately bricked history sloping toward sea. Their beautifully aged patina pulled us toward them, and the walk from uptown and through the architectural beauty of both former banks and masonic temples felt like a short stroll.
A former brick mason and a woman–coupled with a new interest in history and a former love of art and architecture–made Belfast a sure fit for another quaint harbourside town adventure.
Aren’t they just lovely?! It takes no imagination to see a couple strolling past these carefully laid brick buildings. She’s in a gown that’s length is gently dragging behind her and he’s wearing tails and a top hat….it’s 1799 after all. Truly, the building opposite of the former masonic temple above was built in that long-gone era.
This. All of these beautiful towns have a uniquely beautiful harbor and town green after following the slope downward to the open sea.
We followed the shoreline under rocks left bare by low tide to see the boat’s view of Belfast’s Millionaire Row homes and speculated whether or not they were owners of “old money”.
We started uptown in search of beef or pork or anything not-seafood. At the top of town, the beef hungry man got up the nerve to ask a native that looked like he enjoyed burgers for a recommendation. Down at the harbor. The search for “real meat” was enthusiastic enough to turn a man who likes only to do loops (so the steps don’t need to be retraced) to retrace his steps for this manly, meaty, monstrous….
Beef burger with bacon. Win-win. He was so happy, he shared a bite.
I asked him. I would’ve given him the very best bite of my amazing beet salad with mandarins, goat cheese, and walnuts. He said no. I wasn’t sure what to do except enjoy every bite myself. So I did.
I finally started a book, curled up with a cup of Earl Grey in the modern attic suite in this sweet 1890s Airbnb carriage house in uptown Belfast. Mrs. Mike had me laughing out loud within the first few pages…
And there she was squeezing lemon into the hot water, and there he was stirring it around. Shouldn’t someone mention that there was no tea in it, or was that impolite?”And you, Katherine Mary, how do you like yours?”With tea, I almost said. But I was glad I didn’t, she enjoyed entertaining us so much. “I’d like sugar,” I said……and, holy St. Patrick, there’s nothing worse tasting than hot water with two teaspoons of sugar in it.
Maybe it’s just me. If that doesn’t do anything for you, I feel sorry. Though it may be me I should feel sorry for: it’s been much too long since I’ve read a book simply for pleasure because I’m giggling about it again now just thinking about it.
Back downtown to the Chocolate Drop Candy Shoppe for a malted milkshake and a cone, every adult’s glimpse of the childhood soda shop dream that was actually reality. SO good. I think we were hungry. And thinking of candy, I was asked if the Airbnb’s have specialty candy they put out for guests. Nope, I had answered, just Reese’s and Dove chocolates that I put in a bowl at the lakehouse and now again at this location. The man cracks me up.
And with ice cream in hand, happy as kids, we walked down to the harbor to see the magical way the sun turns water into gleaming, rippled glass. Sun setting over water is something I will never tire of. I decided today I want to grow old beside a body of water. I’ll need to start researching how to become part of this abundance of old money if I want more than a pond.
Coming up….a tour of the carriage house studio apartment and a ferry ride from Lincolnville to Isleborough, a little island only reachable by boat with the summer homes of Kirstie Alley and John Travolta. And, a sweet lighthouse.
My last cup of coffee was spent drinking in this scene before packing up and heading out to Bar Harbor. A loon popped out of the water close to the dock as if to say goodbye. I tried to memorize the gentle sounds of the water sloshing the rocks and the gentle movement of the dock. There may have been a tiny tear left there, but I have a sketch of the scene that will hopefully be a watercolor souvenir of that sacred place.
Whether boating, kayaking, or just being close to water, I feel like moving water leaves a cathartic-type impression and I think I understand the draw more than ever. We were incredibly fortunate to reserve this waterfront cottage for our first experience as Airbnb(ers) because we needed only nights and this darling cottage with the private deck was breathtakingly perfect and available for only those two nights! We were inspired by the hosts who are living a dream by living at the main lakehouse during the summer and renting out several cottages on the idyllic waterfront property.
Portland had the artsy, trendy vibe I loved. Acadia had the breathtakingly rugged views. Bar Harbor had an air of wealth. Common and loved in each of these is the rich history. I yawned through history lessons and only memorized dates to pass tests, but now. Now is different.
The yacht (behind the man that always seeks out the town green) was privately purchased for seven million. Time For Us was a gift of dedication to the woman of his dreams after much sacrifice to his workaholic lifestyle that eventually contributed to his wealth. After almost losing this rare jewel of a woman, he presented her with the yacht he had named Time For Us, after realizing that his greatest desired wealth in life was his time spent with her. He committed to sailing six months out of the year with her to various homes along the coast of the New England states.
Well, that was the story I told the man sitting beside me on the green. It could have belonged to the couple I walked past that was mid-vow in wedding attire in front of this grand, historic Bar Harbor Inn.
If you were wondering why I was on a semi-private path in front of an inn that we neither staying or dining at, it’s because I saw a beautiful sailboat disappear behind an island. I chased the sailboat around the corners of the property.
I had almost given up hope that the sailboat changed direction, when…..
It appeared. There’s something so right about a sailboat in a coastal town so rich in history!
We bought salted caramel lattes at a little cafe and both realized that another thing we agree on is that coffee isn’t coffee and espresso isn’t espresso unless it’s d-a-r-k. I always say I like my coffee like I like my men–strong and dark. (My man is blond, blue-eyed and relatively white, but he is strong and he knows I like him a lot. 😉 We semi-enjoyed our too-creamy drinks as I once again committed to always asking for light cream whether espresso or coffee.
We sat on another town green until I pointed out a firehouse and then I disappeared into Bar Harbor for window shopping and he returned with a Bar Harbor Fire Co. t-shirt and a job opportunity in our new favorite state. I love it. But, PA is home and my heart lives there.
Bar Harbor. Rich in history. Enchanting.
We drove 15 miles in the opposite direction of our next destination to experience Tracy’s Diner boasted lobster meal. Pretty sure all humans are expected to have a fresh lobster meal when in Maine and this was our first. Owner-caught fresh lobster and local corn with homemade blueberry pie using local berries lived up to the positive reviews….after we learned from the waitress how exactly you eat a lobster. And after the first piece went flying.
We have wanderlust, that is true. But this Peachey couple has one member who is directionally challenged and one that is shy about asking for directions. Oh. I was confused for just a moment. They are one and the same. Picnic lunch ready, we found parking in Acadia and were thrilled to find out that we chose the one day OF THE YEAR that there were no park fees in Acadia National Park! Because of the challenged person that is part of us, we took full use of the park busing intending to get to a good starting point of a hike with enough elevation to get some great views of the craggy shoreline with the knowledge that we are picnic hikers.
There are trail mix hikers that wear hiking shoes, know how to draw venom from snake bites, and find it exhilarating to reach the region’s highest possible summit. Picnic hikers want to see breathtaking views and bunny trail constantly and even stop to eat lunch whenever they think the view is picnic worthy. Hmmm. Sounds easy enough to find a great trail except there are 61 square miles and we had a day to get the biggest bang for our buck. Well, it was free so….yeah. Just our biggest bang for free.
A park ranger in the Acadia Gardens gave us a couple of great suggestions when I told him we were looking for a hike with coastal views and we hit Sand Beach (so named because there are few sand beaches in Maine) and found Great Head Trail.
Several weeks earlier my kids and I hiked to the top of Mt Tammany (part of Appalachian Trail with views of The Delaware Water Gap) on a hot July day and there were two great rewarding views–one about a third of the way to the summit and the summit. It was amazing to have constant beautiful views on the way to Great Head. It felt effortless and my companion asked me to pinch him. I did. He didn’t feel it though it made me wonder how much of our life’s pain would be almost unnoticeable if our perspective was constantly focused on the good and the beautiful.
Behind me on the left is Bubble Mountain. That hike would be for the trail mix hikers. The mountain on the right is Cadillac Mountain. It’s a mountain that’s closed to hikers in the spring due to nesting of Paragrine falcons. Obviously, I have kids and those kids watch Wild Kratts. All parents of Wild Kratts watching kids know that paragrine falcons are endangered and have some of the coolest creature powers ever!
We are….Picnic Hikers! To be fair, I had an organic fruit and nut super snack. To be honest, I feel like balance is important and had a Reese’s after that.
I was getting a great tour guide lesson on the loon’s diving and feeding habits from the hubs as we watched one bird dive and eat a fish whole. It was a little while later that another hiker told us that the cormorants–not loons–loved this fishing spot. I didn’t make a big deal about the bird confusion. It wasn’t like he thought it was a turkey or something. The native pointed out seals and two sharks circling in the waters below and were glad we weren’t among the beach swimmers. We aren’t guided-tour types. It was incredible to see so much wildlife all from our little picnic spot on the rocks.
Sand Beach view on our descent off the rocks. Whether you are a serious or not-so-serious hiker, Great Head Trail views are so gorgeous, I’m not sure you’d even feel a snake bite.
I quietly opened our cottage door to be shushed because of this bird prancing around the cottage woods. “Maybe a Maine turkey or something….” Oddly enough, the turkey looked a lot like a peacock without its fan feathers. I realized I want a pair of peacocks now.
The Chocolate Bomb was a sweet ending to a day of outrageous beauty, bird confusion, and the last sunset we spent at the lake house….
