Monthly Archives: September 2010

Featured Bigger Picture Moment: A typical Morning Where Nothing Get’s Done

Today’s featured Bigger Picture Moment is From Carolyn Phillips Scribbles and Stories.

Want to be featured? There are two ways, link up your bigger picture moment on Thursday with Sarah or link you your favorite post of the week in our Blog Frog Community.

How often as mother’s do we get to the end of a morning and look around us, feeling that we have somehow wasted out time, that nothing has been done? We have a tendency to undervalue the little things we do that no one notices. We see them as routine, chores that get in the way of whatever we feel we ‘ought’ to be doing. We do these little things without thinking, and because we don’t think, we feel that we have somehow wasted our days. Sometimes, instead of the big picture, we need to look at the little picture, and value ourselves and our contribution to our family. Mothers are important.

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In the scheme of things, doing my laundry will not solve world hunger, nor will it bring about world peace. It may not seem to make a difference. But it makes a difference to my family.

Doing the washing up may not seem like an important task, it doesn’t have any kudos attached.  But it makes a difference to my family.

Cleaning the house may seem like an impossible and unimportant task. But it makes a difference to my family.

Getting my children out of the door in the morning may not win me a Nobel prize. But it makes a difference to my family.

I know that each day, even in the little things, I make a difference to at least 3 other people.


Wake up.

Sit up.

Rub eyes.

Stare at the wall.

Stretch.

Stand up slowly.

Pull on jogs.

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“Get out of bed”

“GET OUT OF BED”

“Are you not dressed yet?”

“You have to go soon”

“Eat some breakfast.”

“Do you need this book?”

“Your PE kit is your responsibility.”

“No, you can’t have a lift.”

“Have a good day”.

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Coffee.

More coffee.

Toast and email.

Empty the dishwasher

Fill the dishwasher.

Answer the phone.

Talk and move toys.

Hang up phone.

Look at the sky.

Weigh the risk.

Fill the tumble dryer.

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Shower.

Dress.

Gather wet towels and dirty washing.

Washing machine on.

Kettle on.

Clear the units.

Wipe the units

Answer the phone.

Talk and facebook.

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Hang up phone.

Find the post.

Sort out diary, fill out slips.

Think of dinner, check the fridge.

Throw out mouldy leftovers.

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Pick up mess.

Fill the bin.

Sort recycling.

Hoover the living room.

Remember the kettle.

Brew and sit.

Where did the morning go, nothing has got done again?

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For a funny take on things mums say have a look at this video,  William Tell Momisms by Anita Renfroe, which has become pretty much a funny classic view of the things mothers say. If nothing else it will make you laugh as you recognise yourself or your own mum. Then remember how important you are. Remember how important she is.

Bigger Picture Moment: I’ll be 28 this January {and it shows}

Welcome to Bigger Picture Moments, a weekly writing meme where we breathe in the moments that paint a picture of the grander scheme. All moments are welcome in this space — small or large, as community is just as important as the grander awareness brought on by searching for a bigger picture every week.

Bigger Picture Moment

You can link your Bigger Picture Moment at Hyacynth’s blog today. Next week, Sarah will be hosting, so be sure to pay her a visit and link your moment.

I had been wounded.

My already grieving heart, opened up and reinjured.

Tears stung my eyes.

I breathed. I cried. I prayed. I called my mother who offered me lots of love, but who also said she couldn’t give me the wisdom I was searching for in this specific situation.

So I called my grandmother, my heart still heavy with hurt and sadness from a conversation I’d ended not an hour before with someone I’ve known for many, many years.

I needed her listening ear, her advice, her support, her love to carry through the telephone wire and cover the fresh wounds.

And like so very many times before, she bandaged me up, loved on me a bit and sent me back to my daily life with thoughts to ponder, words of Truth to embed in my brain and cover the place on my heart that had been pierced.

“I know this is hard for you,” she said. “And I hate to see you hurt. But God is in control of this.”

“Oh, yes.” I’d remembered and then mused aloud, “He is, isn’t He?”

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This fall on Wednesday mornings, I’m taking a study that focuses on exploring the mentoring relationships found in the Bible.

I thought it appropriate because I just entered into a more formal mentoring relationship at the beginning of the summer with a woman who attends my church.

During our first meeting for the mentoring and wisdom study this morning, one of the women in my class shared with us a study that cited findings about how people do not develop dendrites in their brains that give way to major wisdom until the sixth decade of life.

I’ll be 28 in January. And it shows.

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A few months ago, while having coffee at my mom’s house, my grandmother shared with me that she doesn’t like being the oldest generation.

At the time, I thought, how strange it was that she didn’t like that. After all, she could enjoy seeing the fruit of all her hard work – her children, her grandchild grown into kind people, who love her, love others and love the Lord. Her great grandchildren even know her, and they demand her voice over the phone at least once per week.

But now, after yesterday and after today and after years and years and years of wandering around blindly in the dark searching for answers in my own mind, on my own terms, I get it.

I really, really get it.

There’s wisdom in the oldest generation.

And sometimes you just ache, you just crave for someone who has walked ahead of you, who has tread a different but oh-so-similar path to come up next to you, slip their hand in yours, bandage you up and say, “I know it hurts. And I hate to see you hurt. But God is in control of this.”

Because He is, isn’t He.

Melodrama Suits Us

The spider was huge — baseball sized.  Like a tarantula that had lost a few pounds of flesh but kept its long legs and terrifying fuzz of hair.  (Propped as it was under the porch railing, I don’t even know how I noticed it — Spidey sense?)  I backed away instinctively, but before I could gain the safety of my car’s interior, I noticed something worth noticing.  A blob.  An undulating blob.  Creeping closer than my survival instincts would have liked, I peered at the blob while avoiding the vicious glare of the giant spider.  She eyed my advance with apparent bloodlust and a tremor of fear shuddered over my skin.
The tremor grew into a soul-shriek when I recognized the quivering blob’s source of locomotion: babies.  Millions of baby spiders had crawled free from the egg-sack I was just seeing, hidden as it was until I’d come within a few feet of the dark corner.  They’d congregated into a small nest of writhing, seething, creeping arachnidity.  (Like humanity, see?  Try to keep up…)  Their mother — the enormous creature who’d spawned a million more just like herself — twitched the first bend of one hairy leg in my direction.

The darker blob is the seething mass of newborn spiders.  Cringe.

I jumped back, flailing my suddenly jelly-filled arms (but not before snapping a carefully aligned picture with my trusty spider-hunting camera), trying to reconcile my thirst for knowledge with my desire to beat the the thing senseless with my all-consuming need to run away screaming.  Three things to reconcile in such a short span of seconds left me breathless, and I decided to call for backup.

My cousin — a hunting, fishing, fearless, man’s man — agreed to ‘take care’ of the situation for me.  I couldn’t live knowing that those million tiny spiders would soon grow into a million giant spiders, just like their mama, and propel themselves around the house to torment my family.  Later, I dialed my husband’s number, grateful that I’d spared him, and by proxy, myself, any more involvement in this nasty business.
But I’d vastly underestimated him.  He was angry.  Hurt that I’d not trusted his own toughness enough to remove the threat of Lady Eight-Legs and all her million infants.
I tried to explain to him over the phone, but he didn’t want to listen.  Babe, I whined, I only didn’t ask you to do it because… because… it’s just… sometimes you’re as likely to PLAY with the spider as kill it, and then it gets away.  Plus, I didn’t know if you’d actually KILL the babies so much as…take them across the street and find them a nice rock to cling to in the woods.
And my suspicion had been correct.  Well, he huffed on the other end of the line, who’s the better person here, the one saving lives or the one KILLING lives? He went on about the harmlessness of spiders — FALSEHOODS! LIES!! — and how if I’d really wanted him to, he’d have killed them all in one quick smash. And really, then you’d have a bunch of murders on YOUR hands.  And you know what they say about killing a spider, don’t you?  Other spiders come out to avenge their lost relation.  They crawl up your bedsheets at night and reach for….
CLICK.
I hung up the phone.  I knew my limits and hearing a grisly tale of vengeful spiders coming to take me away in the middle of the night would have been more than I could stand to hear and still maintain my sanity.  As it was, I was already brushing at imaginary creepy crawlers on my neckline and across the arches of my feet.
RRRING.
I considered the chances of this being anyone but my mean-spirited husband, and answered without saying hello.  If you’re going to say one more word about the things a spider will do to me in my sleep, I rushed, I’m not going to listen. There was a longer pause than I thought there should be before I heard his low chuckle.
I gave him a chance to redeem himself.  It’s no big deal, he bluffed,it probably wouldn’t hurt when they…
CLICK.
I hung up on him again.
RRRING.
This time I let it ring until the answering machine picked up.  I wasn’t going to listen to nightmarish tales of murder by spider-fangs.  But I knew what his next step would be, so I listened carefully with the phone by my side, waiting for his move in this impolite game.  The answering machine picked up and his oh-so-funny voice bled through the room.  Sometimes they’ll even lift up your eyelids until…
BEEP.
I turned him off.  Game, set, match.  Someday my husband will realize what he’s up against, and then,
he’ll just…
bring home a pet tarantula or something to keep me in line.

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Written by Sarah, originally published 15 September 2010.  Sarah is a wife and  mother to two girls . She writes about her daily escapades into the adventures of motherhood at This Heavenly Life.