tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11330498176842104212024-03-12T21:22:37.725-04:00Gain Faith, Lose WeightStriving to increase my faith each day, a little at a time, and lose the things that weigh me down.Lisa Tomarellihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15387353577959237975noreply@blogger.comBlogger130125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1133049817684210421.post-87456890298774082742021-01-10T17:28:00.000-05:002021-01-10T17:28:31.072-05:00<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQKikO1_cVY6m8QMzEtvz_8idYvj-3Wd1RuHiWf3x6eJWVlZh5xsSquj4p2ynANz58tMBfLrPIY25UIC_KLqbqhotEsxJtTbbTKgsSq7hyYNBun0UHmKmXg4tGo3YHj_duj7NWGM1LvT17/s2048/20170507_081758.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1152" height="289" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQKikO1_cVY6m8QMzEtvz_8idYvj-3Wd1RuHiWf3x6eJWVlZh5xsSquj4p2ynANz58tMBfLrPIY25UIC_KLqbqhotEsxJtTbbTKgsSq7hyYNBun0UHmKmXg4tGo3YHj_duj7NWGM1LvT17/w180-h289/20170507_081758.jpg" width="180" /></a></div><br /> <p></p><p class="MsoNormal">The threshold was within reach. My parachuting excursion all
those years ago still holds a treasured spot in my memory. I can feel my heart
beating louder than the whoosh of the wind through the open door. The cracked
white paint on the helmet of the brave soul in front of me reminded me this
could be dangerous. Most vivid, though, had to be the <b>countdown</b>. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I stood into a squat and shuffled to the open door. Standing
tall, I was silently freaking out. My instructor’s eyes were kind. <i>“You’ve got
this, Lisa”</i> he said. He glanced out at the open sky and started to count.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i><b>“Three.”</b></i><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Hours of training and suddenly I had amnesia. What was I
supposed to know? How to land. How to throw the reserve chute. How to steer the
chute itself. Why I was there. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b><i>“Two.”</i></b><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">In an attempt to calm down, I concentrated on my breathing.
Breathe in. Breathe out. It’ll be okay, I said to myself. Almost time…<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">And then the heavy-handed pat on my shoulder pushed me out
the door. I fell into the most glorious five seconds of freefalling before my
chute deployed. I finally exhaled, and descended three thousand feet.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The instructor knew I would’ve gotten stuck on Two. But with
a little boost out the door just before I was ready, I could then move forward.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">As it is with my faith.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">So many times I find myself stuck at Two. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I want to trust God for His plans in the world, despite the
ongoing pandemic and unfathomable events at the Capitol and in the White House.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I want to believe God for His provision as I reset my finances
after my divorce and reentry into the workplace. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I want to know I’m fulfilling my purpose in this world,
where I am free to be the source of light God designed me to be, and allow
myself to simply be me.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">My faith boosters push me forward. Prayer. Waiting.
Journaling. More prayer.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b><i>“One.”</i></b><o:p></o:p></p>Lisa Tomarellihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15387353577959237975noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1133049817684210421.post-68097523360962632102017-09-15T06:59:00.001-04:002017-09-15T06:59:43.208-04:00Suffering and Joy<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
The combination of suffering and
joy in this world intrigues me. Is it about experiencing one and not the other?
Is it about avoiding one and striving toward the other? Or is it about figuring
out how to survive—or perhaps, thrive—when suffering and joy coexist? Riding
the tangent line between the two is exhausting.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
I
wonder about all these feelings and what to do with them. I can choose to feel
nothing in a bubble of emptiness, or feel overwhelmed by everything. But if I
place this suffering on a spectrum instead, where it is simply one of the emotions
from the abundant well of my heart, it can be contained into a manageable
space, which affects me only as long as I allow it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
Suffering
and joy are birthed from the same source—my heart. Wouldn’t I rather feel something,
even if it IS suffering, than nothing at all? Only then can I have the capacity
to feel joy, too.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVKYvHeDbLYfxmxpLCgCi3uef2g8ntpo0xI2L48QOcyRyfp6b-wcy5xQIWjZvGp0AyWlRo7mEH1q0IQIhvE3_0FJ99nUxfTgoQEVJoNZznAYwzCLtAmDLP4xnQUnITbR3vdZ1BcVlwXh8Y/s1600/20170912_130903.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVKYvHeDbLYfxmxpLCgCi3uef2g8ntpo0xI2L48QOcyRyfp6b-wcy5xQIWjZvGp0AyWlRo7mEH1q0IQIhvE3_0FJ99nUxfTgoQEVJoNZznAYwzCLtAmDLP4xnQUnITbR3vdZ1BcVlwXh8Y/s320/20170912_130903.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
In
this painting, I imagine a full moon hidden behind the dark clouds, its pure
white circle framed by the rich blackness of the sky. Its beauty is in the
contrast. Black—the suffering, and white—the joy, seem opposite, the two sides
of a fence. But they are only the endpoints of an infinite spectrum of colors.
Those colors represent the infinite perspectives of love.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
When
the ends—the black and the white—turn and reach toward each other instead of
away from each other, they intertwine, united, blending all their energy,
ideas, and broken pieces into a braid which strengthens the colors and protects
them.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
Instead
of opposition, perhaps the contrast of black and white is the only way to
reveal themselves in all their fullness. The brilliance is in the contrast, not
the separation.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
When
black and white; suffering and joy, merge, united, the promises encased in the
pink and purple and blue and green blossoms emerge into new life.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
From
the black and white, united, the colors are born again.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<o:p></o:p></div>
Lisa Tomarellihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15387353577959237975noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1133049817684210421.post-23406159718892753052017-08-17T16:53:00.001-04:002017-08-17T16:53:51.129-04:00Obvious<br /><div class="MsoNormal">
In my prayer journal I wrote: <i>"I want to experience your presence, God, in OBVIOUS ways today." </i>I had been feeling a little disconnected; unanchored in my core. Prayer felt ritualistic and shallow these last few months.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Time to dig
deeper.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I still
remember our family trips to the Wildwood, New Jersey beach when I was a kid.
The only way my eight-year-old legs would survive the endless trek to the
shoreline was the anticipation of finding those little sand clams. The moment I
got to the water, I’d drop to my knees and start to dig. With the very first
scoop, those tiny shells appeared. I’d giggle as they hesitated for a second or
two, then twitched their way back down. A thin film of salt water would soon
flow over them, fully hiding them, and I’d repeat the scooping. They never
stopped digging deeper. Doing this in my prayer life helps me find safety, too.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Back to my
journaling. I asked God to be with my daughter as she attended her senior prom
that evening. Before long, her high school graduation would mark the final
chapter in my soon-to-be empty nest. I wonder: Did I do this parenting thing
well? What is my role now?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That same
day, as I was driving home, I couldn’t help but notice a scarlet red hot air
balloon, as big as the clouds where it floated, nearby. There were yellow words
written on the back side of the balloon but I couldn’t see all of them. The
balloon chase was on. Heading to the next corner, I could clearly see the
basket of passengers, waving enthusiastically. My eyes widened as it hovered
too close to the power lines above the trees. I exhaled as it finally floated
upward with the breeze. It was then I could see the full message on the balloon.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Brilliant
gold letters, bold in their capitalization, on the scarlet background of the
balloon, speaking to my soul:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“DO ALL TO
THE GLORY OF GOD.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijLK7fVT_hIfHhk9XZxmCXJ0eIYA_rqRjX42uv_Jq26I0q3LeCKbk2XQGG6qeoOFZBICLMnnM07c6K3RhTrGqwrGvOVOpPVQiIIG_Hpo0mNtkGVit7mTEyLyP4Jm5WVhQZuDs_CmMIgloo/s1600/20170429_191543.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="900" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijLK7fVT_hIfHhk9XZxmCXJ0eIYA_rqRjX42uv_Jq26I0q3LeCKbk2XQGG6qeoOFZBICLMnnM07c6K3RhTrGqwrGvOVOpPVQiIIG_Hpo0mNtkGVit7mTEyLyP4Jm5WVhQZuDs_CmMIgloo/s320/20170429_191543.jpg" width="180" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="text-align: center; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="text-align: center; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="text-align: center; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="text-align: center; text-indent: 0.5in;">Navy and yellow flags accessorized
the full perimeter of the balloon, waving a royal salute to the neighborhoods
below. More people streamed out of their homes, pointing to the sky. Phone
cameras were out, capturing the view, a beautiful orb of promise and hope and
life. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">Digging deeper helps me to be
grounded in my reality but not tethered to it, like the hot air balloon. The
glowing flame of the balloon gives it the fuel to fly. This spirit sparks in
me, giving my soul its flight. My own tethering strings to God in prayer and
the Bible guide my direction to safety.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">I never saw where the balloon
landed, but my soul, for a moment, found its grounding.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
Lisa Tomarellihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15387353577959237975noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1133049817684210421.post-24130143566955657292017-06-19T19:53:00.000-04:002017-06-19T19:53:38.948-04:00Clarity<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
The sky is the soft blue of a
robin’s egg, the clouds a cottony white, shadowed in muted gray. There’s a
breeze, but the clouds are strangely still, as if snapped on a background
photograph above the sandy beach scene. The grass in the sand dunes sways ever
so slightly, with the darker green bushes dancing a smooth waltz in tune to the
ocean breeze. The salt air cleanses my lungs, allowing my breath to slow to its
own natural rhythm.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
Clarity. I seek clarity on these
girls’ weekends at the beach, and this time we are given a gift of the
perfectly bright summer day, blending in perfect unison with our energizing
meal of friendship. Our shared stories are the yeast, working all through the
dough to make it rise. Faith is often lost in the complexities of our life’s
experiences, and our foursome’s experiences span more than 240 years in total.
That’s plenty of time for muddied emotions spanning from fear to loss to pain
to joy, blended into this concoction of clarity which can only be seen through
the common lens of faith. The brown mud of our minds shift into life-giving
earth, the hidden seeds of promise and hope and purpose finding a new crevice
through which to grow.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
There’s an unusual sense of
completion in our team of four, pulling all aspects of laughter and love into
the present moment, reminding us of the view at the other side of this life
through this shared lens of faith, glorious and beautiful.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
Ahhh, clarity.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Lisa Tomarellihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15387353577959237975noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1133049817684210421.post-34140755913290830782017-05-18T16:49:00.004-04:002017-05-18T16:49:37.952-04:00Pen<div class="MsoNormal">
Our writers’ group prompt this week was: <i><b>Describe an object that describes you.</b></i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am a <span style="font-size: large;"><b>pen</b></span>.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sometimes thinner, sometimes clunky, I am a pen. I
occasionally leak or even run out of ink. I am always in need of spilling out
words, whether to create a well-tuned perspective on paper, or simply a bunch
of jumbled letters onto the page like Scrabble tiles, waiting to be sorted and
then placed into words. Sometimes I remember to try for the triple word score,
requiring extra patience while exchanging words with someone else.
Concentrating, planning and listening help provide those extra bonus points.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sometimes I
just don’t work. I click my brain cells, waiting for the point to appear, but
it stays inside my shell. These are times I need to unscrew myself in the
middle and pull out the ink refill. I’ll shake the refill a bit with a new
perspective, or a new place to write, or a new start to my story, and I’ll get
going again. At other times, I invest in a whole new pack of refills by
spending time in meditation.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I smile to
remember the four-color pens of my youth.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p> </o:p>My life seems fragmented like this. The blue pen is for
inspirational writing and articles about peace or prayer or unity. The black
pen is a true writing color, when I’m moving ahead in the groove of a piece.
The red pen of self-criticism tends to show up from time to time, but when I
write in green, I enter a whole new world where I really don’t try to fit in.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: lime;">Green is my
favorite.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This is the
color I’d choose at my writers’ group when I am allowed to be off-color with my
tribe of like-minded creatives.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Lisa Tomarellihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15387353577959237975noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1133049817684210421.post-8235600139932358442017-04-11T17:05:00.000-04:002017-04-11T17:05:51.877-04:00Three Days <br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-pagination: none;">
The
envelope looked official, but it could’ve just as easily been junk mail. The
orange words across the top, authoritative in their capitalization, intrigued
me enough to read further. “JURY SUMMONS,” it said.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
Holy smokes, this is real, I
thought.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
I was called for Federal Jury Duty
the other week. It’s a three-days-or-one-trial gig, paying $40 per day. Well,
at least it’s something, but seriously, only $5 an hour to be a good citizen? It
was my obligation to serve, though.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
I checked the family wall calendar
hanging on the inside of my pantry closet. First, I rescheduled my dentist
appointment, which of course I didn’t mind. But the next day I was scheduled to
meet a friend I hadn’t seen in a while—changing those plans hurt a little bit.
To top it off, I’d have to mentally prepare for rush hour driving to
Philadelphia, a task I managed to avoid for more than a decade. Sure, I love
going to the city, but I’d lose another couple hours a day in the commute. Not
fun. Maybe I can get an audiobook from the library. My mind continued to spin
like the teacup ride at the summer carnivals.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
The summons paperwork included detailed
instructions; first, I was to look for an email the day before jury service to
get an update on my status. If I didn’t receive an email, I was to call the 800
number after 5 p.m. the night before to get my final instructions for
reporting.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
It was 4:20 on Tuesday afternoon
when my email inbox pinged.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<b>“<i>You
do not have to report for jury service tomorrow, Wednesday, February 15</i>,</b>”
it read, <b><i>“but you are required to call
the 800 number on Wednesday evening after 5 p.m. to receive your instructions
for reporting on Thursday, February 16</i>.”</b><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
Wow, they’re serious about this
three-day thing.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuRAsFdbH0PHH5UO1SqT2QbzOfADOUfDOsrPpj3BlMubBv7BUHSmVJINSPKngHHme0UBqR4NeaSx9KPZ3DJA234A-rIw3mZDZVMAuz6v1v7UqbK1ef2ln6D7992bBbemvk147d-gi2zLsk/s1600/tulips.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuRAsFdbH0PHH5UO1SqT2QbzOfADOUfDOsrPpj3BlMubBv7BUHSmVJINSPKngHHme0UBqR4NeaSx9KPZ3DJA234A-rIw3mZDZVMAuz6v1v7UqbK1ef2ln6D7992bBbemvk147d-gi2zLsk/s320/tulips.jpg" width="180" /></a></div>
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Which made me wonder about placing
three days of my life on hold, like an unbalanced warrior pose. In hindsight,
three days doesn’t sound like much, but it’s enough, as with the Easter story.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
Day one. Jesus hung on the cross,
said “It is finished” and then died. Jury service had only begun for the disciples,
their grief overshadowing any perspectives beyond the first day, the first
moment. I imagine they were buried under the depths of their emotions, afraid
for their own lives, with no real assignments except to wait. And pray. And
wait some more. In this type of waiting, coated with the pain of the unknown,
time slows. The disciples must have felt unsure and unstable, a table with one
of its legs needing a few napkins shoved underneath to keep it steady. They must
have questioned everything: their faith, their futures, their hopes.<o:p></o:p></div>
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On Wednesday, I received another
email just after 4 p.m. No service required for Thursday but I was again
required to call on Thursday night for Friday’s instructions. I was finally
reaching the summit of my duty to serve, the top of the mountain with the
descent in sight.<o:p></o:p></div>
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But I’ve always wondered about the
disciples during that day in between, what I call Day Two, the day after Jesus
died and before the Easter resurrection. For me, this in-between season of
waiting includes a multitude of questions. I’m wondering about health issues
for my family and friends; the future for my college-age children and my own
purpose in life. My soul cries out “Are you there, God?” I ask, “What about all
this suffering? What’s my purpose?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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It’s as if nothing but fog appears, and
I drive more slowly. I read the bible, listen to sermons, sit quietly to pray.
Many days it feels as if my fog lights aren’t working. Sometimes I try using
high beams instead, but they only make the fog appear whiter. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
In the waiting, however, the
molasses movement of time is starting to reveal a gift. These seemingly
extended moments give me bonus time to connect with God more deeply in my soul.</div>
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<span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">Finally, on the third day, I
received the email: </span><b style="text-indent: 0.5in;">“<i>Your jury service
has ended.</i>”</b><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;"> I breathed a sigh of relief. Fog or not, God’s presence becomes
clearer in the waiting.</span></div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br />Lisa Tomarellihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15387353577959237975noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1133049817684210421.post-72045153595297682092017-03-20T14:58:00.001-04:002017-03-20T14:58:24.545-04:00IntertwinedNeed a story of hope? I share my challenges with weight loss and being loved in this essay.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.faithhopeandfiction.com/intertwined" target="_blank">www.faithhopeandfiction.com. </a><br />
<br />
How do you persevere through the tough seasons?<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Lisa Tomarellihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15387353577959237975noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1133049817684210421.post-81156239431566583222017-02-10T10:41:00.000-05:002017-02-10T10:41:49.524-05:00Stairs<div class="MsoNormal">
Every Christmas morning for the past 18 years, my children
waited at the top of the stairs until Joe and I gave the thumbs-up to come down
and see what Santa brought.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3x1wNHeCqydEeUKqLRTy_gvud5nrMvP6HKp9t03YgCkka1Hqks-nxainXwt_pvvfpjzB4Yw0zLIezuTuY8rgURbNd7WkxTDIlf96lSRRTAUVRGL8MBNfelLmz6A1PEUUNVtpjvK38SDr7/s1600/stairs.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3x1wNHeCqydEeUKqLRTy_gvud5nrMvP6HKp9t03YgCkka1Hqks-nxainXwt_pvvfpjzB4Yw0zLIezuTuY8rgURbNd7WkxTDIlf96lSRRTAUVRGL8MBNfelLmz6A1PEUUNVtpjvK38SDr7/s320/stairs.JPG" width="239" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Of course, we made the kids wait a few minutes longer than
necessary. Their excitement bumped up a few levels and I took an extra few
moments to reflect. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><b>Thank you, God, for
these children. Thank you, God, for the provision to give them Christmas
presents. Thank you, God, for the gift of your son, Jesus. Help me, God, to
remember and teach my children the value of your gift, which is greater than
anything under the green Christmas tree this morning.</b><o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Next came the thumbs-up, and with a squeal, they’d
butt-slide as fast as they could, their eyes growing wider with each step. Then
they’d stand and stare for a few seconds, all smiley and sparkly-eyed, their
minds buzzing as they took it all in.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
One year, we came up with a plan to open the gifts in our
stockings first. One at a time, we’d each get a package, open it, and share.
Then we’d open our other gifts, one at a time. I liked the slower pace of
gift-opening, extending the moments far into the morning.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>This past Christmas,
my munchkins were 18 and 20 years old, and still they waited at the top of the
stairs.</b> Perhaps they wanted some things to remain the same, even in the
middle of change. Alex is away at college and Jenna will be starting college
within the year, their descent down the stairs extending out the front door
into their new lives. Unknown adventures in their futures hold more excitement than
wondering if Santa showed up. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Maybe it was my imagination, but Alex and Jenna lingered a
teeny bit longer at the top of the stairs this year.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Perhaps they were confident Santa wouldn’t disappoint, and
they were enjoying their time together, just the two of them. My momma-heart
swells with joy to see the friendship these two adults of mine have formed. I
wondered, though, if maybe they didn’t want to stop being at the top of the
stairs.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m not sure when we won’t have our top-of-the-stairs
tradition any more. Maybe it’ll stop when there are boyfriends or girlfriends
in the mix, or maybe when they can’t come home for Christmas because they live
so far away, or perhaps, just perhaps, it’ll be because they’ll be standing at
the bottom of the stairs so their own children can wait at the top,
anticipating the thumbs-up sign.<o:p></o:p></div>
Lisa Tomarellihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15387353577959237975noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1133049817684210421.post-24392179309524878492016-12-30T14:54:00.000-05:002016-12-30T15:00:07.012-05:00Letting Go for the New YearCrises, big and small, good and not-so-good, seem to be pouring
in at a faster pace than usual these past couple weeks. Can you relate?<br />
<span style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br /></span>
<span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">There are always a few things on my
mind: faith, family, health, finances. Add to them a few extra issues: my dad’s
health is unstable right now (not good), my son is home from college for a few
weeks (good), my husband caught the cold-going-around (not good), Christmas and
time with family (good), my intentional approach to Advent and slowing down
this year (mostly good) and now New Year’s considerations (some good, some
not-so-good). A former pastor of mine used to call this situation “The pileup
effect.” </span><br />
<br />
I used to
think of God as being a bully with these overwhelming seasons. If things are already
tough, why add to them? I finally had a lightbulb moment. Perhaps I’m listening
more when I’m dealing with a couple tough things. When I’m already listening, why
wouldn’t God want to give me a few more situations to exercise my “letting go”
muscles?<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And so when
even more bonus events came rolling in last week: my credit card was
fraudulently used, my freezer broke, and the insurance company started to call
again about a car accident from six months ago—none of these things had an
impact on my stress level. I dealt with them practically and without extra
emotion. Pretty cool.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My favorite
event from last week was during my drive to see my counselor. I was pondering
these so-called crises to determine which I would discuss during my session. A
car pulled in front of me, bearing this license plate: “SURENDER.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Thanks,
God.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Here’s a
practical, witty, fabulous talk on Letting Go by Jill Sheerer Murray which I
know you’ll appreciate and enjoy as much as I did today. Happy New Year! And
here’s to Letting Go.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p> <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nirKw3mWB3I" target="_blank">https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nirKw3mWB3I</a></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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Lisa Tomarellihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15387353577959237975noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1133049817684210421.post-82716412883811183752016-12-07T12:45:00.001-05:002016-12-07T12:45:52.350-05:00Christmas Lights<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; text-indent: .25in;">
My heart always
skipped a beat when Mom got the plastic tub with the holiday decorations out,
especially when it was almost Christmas. There seemed to be an endless supply,
and when it was Easter, or Saint Patrick’s Day, or Halloween, or Christmas, or
Valentine’s Day, she’d pull out the knickknacks and wall decorations and put
them around the living room and front window.</div>
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<span style="text-indent: 0.25in;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; text-indent: .25in;">
<span style="text-indent: 0.25in;">But for Christmas,
Dad got involved when it came to hanging the lights. (Think the movie </span><i style="text-indent: 0.25in;">The Christmas Story.) </i><span style="text-indent: 0.25in;"> </span><span style="text-indent: 0.25in;">The classic bulbs had to be lined up just so,
to appease Dad’s (and my) preference for order. Our black wrought-iron railing
would soon be brightly lit with Christmas colors and the use of many pieces of plastic
tie-wrap kept the decorations intact. Of course, there’d inevitably be a
light bulb needing replacement and no spare bulbs on hand. The entire
light-hanging operation would be shut down until Dad returned from the hardware
store.</span></div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br /></div>
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<span style="text-indent: 0.25in;">I remember a
couple things from my German grandmother’s Christmas decorations. A statue of
what I thought was supposed to be “Santa” was actually the figure of St. Nicklaus,
drab and slumped over, carrying a brown bag, looking more like a homeless man
than Santa Claus. And who else remembers single strands of tinsel? Grandmom draped
hundreds of silvery slivers, one at a time, onto her three foot tabletop tree.
It weighed the tree into kneeling submission. It was dreary yet beautiful.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; text-indent: .25in;">
<span style="text-indent: 0.25in;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; text-indent: .25in;">
<span style="text-indent: 0.25in;">On the other
hand, my Italian grandmother preferred decorative bling for her holiday
display. The all-white Christmas tree in her bay window with its filtered
spotlight mesmerized me with its changing colors, red then blue then green then
gold then red again.</span></div>
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<span style="text-indent: 0.25in;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; text-indent: .25in;">
This year,
our family decided to put only red and white lights on our little artificial
green tree. <span style="text-indent: 0.25in;">More importantly, I prefer to remember the meaning of the light. A
single beam from the North Star pointing to the true light in our world in the
form of baby Jesus. Hope and joy personified. </span><span style="text-indent: 0.25in;">How beautiful. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; text-indent: .25in;">
How do you
like to light your Christmas tree?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in;">
<br /></div>
Lisa Tomarellihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15387353577959237975noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1133049817684210421.post-22876450117264587772016-11-02T10:55:00.000-04:002016-11-02T10:55:23.138-04:00Roller Coaster College<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigMwdVB_sGD1TtJfN71COS1JHxZ7lmtyvzZNkZGpQpcp-N3NiGBYX8GBKUeQJKUGYfcOF9YIYNLt0VlaNtflXoZdPcs7DPQG4Kbxc4wsEZTSgN8zSMWQnlEAIK-VzNivvgQpLGpeR8Ht7V/s1600/roller-coaster-1403092780BKH.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigMwdVB_sGD1TtJfN71COS1JHxZ7lmtyvzZNkZGpQpcp-N3NiGBYX8GBKUeQJKUGYfcOF9YIYNLt0VlaNtflXoZdPcs7DPQG4Kbxc4wsEZTSgN8zSMWQnlEAIK-VzNivvgQpLGpeR8Ht7V/s320/roller-coaster-1403092780BKH.jpg" width="214" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
The empty roller coaster slides
forward and beckons me. Holding my breath, I step in and sit down to exhale. I
pull down the metal bar which determines if my ride ends in life or death. I
pray it locks in properly. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
This ride is familiar; only two
years ago, I was involved in a college search for my son. It was an adventure,
more than I anticipated. I tried to prepare myself by analyzing statistics,
reviewing the majors, reading the mission statements and marketing
material—anything I could get my hands on. Like the contrast of a wooden versus
steel coaster; each university presentation was unique, but somehow similar. We
visited at least a half-dozen schools and researched another dozen online. Matching
the college details with my son’s personality, talents and goals was daunting. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
With God’s help, and the help of
others along the way, my son is thriving.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
This time, I’m hoping my daughter’s
college search will be smoother. I don’t like riding roller coasters all that
much.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
First, I need to pull on the safety
bar to make sure it won’t budge. Am I the only one who does this? Coaster
adventure-seekers love to throw their hands in the air on the ride, especially
during the descent. Not me, I hold on tighter. This metal bar is all that I
have when I have a million questions. Will she like the school? What kind of
friends will she meet? How about safety? Will she learn a lot? And what will
she be doing during her free time? I need to let the bar do its thing, and I do
my thing. Research. Ask questions. And pray. School size. Student to teacher
ratio. Average grades for admitted students. Population mix. Majors offered.
God, help.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
The real questions, the questions
inside my heart and mind, won’t be handled by a metal bar, though. What I need
to hold on to is God’s promises. He is always with me, and is always with her,
too.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
Up the hill we go. Looking at a
local college. Touring an out-of-state college. Reading the college glossies.
Slowly, slowly, slowly we climb. So much to see and read, and yet I know the
curve to the downhill descent awaits. This is the curve where I trust our joint
decision will match up with God’s plans for her.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
Remembering the path laid out for my
son, from the professor who offered a personal consultation to advise my son,
to the other parents who gave me tips and hints along the way, to the prayers,
the many, many prayers, I know God was there to help guide us in this process.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
Maybe I’ll throw my hands in the air
on the downhill after all. Who knows, I might like it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
Lisa Tomarellihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15387353577959237975noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1133049817684210421.post-76455036526071145932016-09-30T11:33:00.000-04:002016-09-30T11:33:23.715-04:00Stress Test<div class="Body">
Sitting in a waiting room anticipating a nuclear stress test is
stressful enough, but this? Yikes.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
I knew I wanted coffee, but with the sign in place I wanted it
more. Why is that? Perhaps my personal "edit" button was broken. You
know, the one which helps me be a responsible adult most of the time and choose
the better decisions multiple times a day. This day, I wanted to just be held,
be coddled, and be given a cup of coffee. Most days, I don't take the time to
think about what I want. I'm learning to slow down and recognize those inner
desires. The key? The slowing down part.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
When I slow down, I can sort out the rest of the messages,
conflicting or not, and get to my personal truth. The truth about how I felt.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
Scared. Now what do I do with it?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
Part of me wanted to pull out my phone, scroll through emails or
Facebook or anything to distract me from what was going on. Another part wanted
to act on my idea to download the song "Radioactive" and play it
loudly as I walked in for my testing. But I decided to stay, instead. Staying
put gave me a chance to experience feeling scared.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
I came to an interesting conclusion:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="Body">
Being able to sit with myself and know I'm scared was actually
less scary than trying not to be scared.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
Sitting with my feeling gave me a chance to own it, know it, feel
it. Fighting the feeling takes more effort, actually. Fighting the feeling
would demand I figure out a way to put on some armor, perhaps a sword in the
form of researching the medical information online. Or maybe a shield in the
form of repeating personal positive statements like "I am healthy,"
"I am fine," "I will be okay." I chose to put down the
weapons and discover what was left--my inner strength. This strength gives me
power to embrace my feelings--even if they're the scary ones. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
No one ever knows for sure if they will be okay, health-wise. We
simply do our best. Sometimes it means taking the tests, sitting with the
unknowns, and then drinking a cup of coffee as soon as we can.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
I know I did. And I enjoyed every last drop. I even felt a little
less scared by then, too.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
Lisa Tomarellihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15387353577959237975noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1133049817684210421.post-3729692099059557362016-09-14T11:15:00.001-04:002016-09-14T11:15:25.267-04:00College Mom's Ripcord<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue'; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">When I walk through a door, I prefer there be a floor on the other side of the threshold.</span></div>
<b id="docs-internal-guid-60efdd6a-293d-ca41-5846-55e041b50fd2" style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue'; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">More than thirty years ago, I stepped through a door into thin air. That time, I had a parachute strapped to my back and a reserve chute on my tummy, like a baby to whom I preferred not to give birth. I was twenty, just a little older than my son is now, more excited than scared to dive into the adventure. And I jumped.</span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue'; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Three weeks ago, I stepped over the same threshold as I drove away from my son's college campus for the six hour ride home. Hot tears threatened my view and I grabbed the steering wheel as if it were a lifeline, a ripcord. I continued to drive. My heart sped to the ground, frantically waiting for the whoosh of air to open a life-giving chute. </span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue'; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I remembered surviving this a year ago, when I dropped him off for the first time as a freshman. </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue'; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I focused in on what I know. I know my son is thriving, excited, and ready to take his next steps toward adulthood. It takes every fiber of my being to trust the air and the invisibility of it all. It's the same air which saves me, though. </span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue'; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">They say that every landing is called a crash landing. The best I can do is crash a little more gently each time. Maybe I'll have a bigger parachute next year.</span></div>
<br /><img alt="Image result for istock free images parachute" src="https://encrypted-tbn2.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcQAvJuQStdZHWvKReRVG4LG1ndXrXRJL_nvOFCHxqz1V_6_9DZo-g" />Lisa Tomarellihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15387353577959237975noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1133049817684210421.post-82407056355583480872016-08-31T13:00:00.000-04:002016-08-31T13:00:14.214-04:00Weeding Through Changes<div class="Body">
How is it that my miniature patch of yard containing only two
hedges formed so many weeds overnight? <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
<img alt="Image result for google images free crabgrass" src="data:image/jpeg;base64,/9j/4AAQSkZJRgABAQAAAQABAAD/2wCEAAkGBxITEhUTExIWFhUXGB8aGBgYGR8gHRofIB4eHh4gHyAgHyggISElIB0iITEhJSorMDAuICEzODMsNyovLisBCgoKDg0OGxAQGy8lICYwLS0vNS81Ly0tMC0vMC0vLystLzUtLy8tKy8tLTUyLS0vNS0vLy0tLy0vLS0tLy0vLf/AABEIAKgBKwMBIgACEQEDEQH/xAAbAAADAAMBAQAAAAAAAAAAAAAEBQYAAgMBB//EAD8QAAIBAgQEBQIEAwYGAgMAAAECEQMhAAQSMQUiQVEGE2FxgTKRI0KhsRRSwTNicoLR8AcVkqLh8RZDJFSy/8QAGQEAAwEBAQAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAQIDAAQF/8QALxEAAgIBAwIDBwQDAQAAAAAAAQIAESEDEjFBUSJh8BNxgZGxwdEEQqHhIzLxUv/aAAwDAQACEQMRAD8AlqOUoxTR5k1GqwBbStiSxgBd/U6sb5jNI4DCIuOXoLWnoSLWPacceJv5QqalbU4AuPopiyrf8znmj2nA+YzFIIEZmLEBmsqwOlgSB7D0xzVZ3Tz3tgPXrtOVGq4qai55m8wQLKV+gCJAiCLxuMWWeyK57LJnKNJWq6dVSntrIHMJEGbWvcHpviIYIsLpqNC2AcaoYwBGi223+uKLwrxI5bMaL+U0CqS4ikRZSLC82JHteJwWB5EJObETHiHlIYQcxh1AB0ECWBa8kSLDaepmHHA85rOkHUDTqhZv/wDW9h2M/fDvxdwlURm0TTJLOFlTrtDypi3qCLme+JfhyCm6MuoEnYlZvbYRPuBG3pieHEVqYWOZ1yWYEO6nUVWFB3BYxAY9IBsZjBGTy9N0JVdLCTpi/SRAuDfpIuNsA5vhmrL6KcjW+pvQwVjf3t72xt4boZhaqIolzygRPe5PQKLyTtOGHFiIVBUkH8x5wis9NwvNpIMLq3+O/wD5+eVHjTLUNTy10qpsGIJDMQQQTpgi4ePkYd1OH0yFZWD82oPvJuCfUXNtsRC1CrlF1Ea9DXkDSDqHe8fJMYmosxEBlTneKpSYQfw6qq6VNMiopmFYbmxIPxOOnAcjpzFCrS/sjPLqnSdok/UvY/B6FlOWBKGiyAmWqUQwDGNRNRBf82mQtoIO4tjbJcaahVorTojy6jgGG7sBqCgQDcmNxBnGrtOldPcLl/xXhFGu9wPMAD6Ts6qw39jF+k4neLZTNVai0mRWSoygBRCpBJJMRygAGD2i84c8ZzPlVMvmJgI8OemlhDT6W+8Y78WNLLaqnmkU6g10x0BjmCneDIIHqY7YkpxH0ud3b185C+OUarm5pxpVdCsyk01VZJO0HeNPWMB0OE0dPmVSTSUajMy5vBbqd4VPXrhlnKtSidIChakl6v5o/lHYbbbz2wvzNB6ihnlaZggAxA2kx1Px0x0KSBtEGr+oOo13QMe+G8w1R3dkCqo00xBkA7z/ANPS1/krfGmZ15mmnRdIv8sfe37YM8P+UiOaRYqzzLd9Kgxc2thfn+JL+IwGsAmWkWgzpH+/2xNjXEgWHtDtHHEZZfPLlqbVmWWZtKJ1PMAx9gd/aMbeLuIVfIBDkLUA0gGNzefWO+JHP5lpBuYgE9iRMX7YrOO5JquTy6gS3KfYCSSY7LfDVwTFC7QLjHwfW1NVE35WPvAB/bCDjCVKVZkp09UMedjAA99lt7Yf+HFVMwVUboZ9x/6/3GFni+pQp5k+ZS1MyKwLCQLkfTs11m4JH6GQO1z5zIARmbeGMs9StTZ/onUYAZSBeAbAk7WJ3w0zleg9WGzFMMRyquwHxYddx1MDCjhnEloZJ821Nj5kUqYZzfUwlRFlFyZHWmfXA3DvHOXU+XTyekg6RpYRb/KOn7YcqxlzpHZVece52rU/sqaAllJU6luNrkXH2+ThLS8O512itVpLT/kUE+1rfqTjtxLjdakfMWiKhqibOOQAkBSIn1kWvgbI8brVaihiNLD6RYf6n74yWBc56Ki6jT/kuTo89ZtTRHMYEdgo3HoZwZkeL03UplaaEoP7IstNvSBBEfbcYScV8PDV5lOBIOtGawAvIJsBIFj97RgXheaoqwKIzsNmWCt7mDIO5M23nfBYgiCzV8xvnfGFdDo8qkj6ZIcsdPubDe8XtHfHHhnibO1WHVYEhEAHqNR9Ov646U+Da3BqBmq1mlVaCug2Xl3MmR8euNk4rJNJSOQX0iF9BIH7WwljoIxcgYEYpmXiataoYk6VJG9xMHoIHvPfCri3HdC6ZMkwqrJInb11Gf1tjhxDPrRkNUhyNQUCWIJgW2vcQfU3GAEAcs1CEczqRZZi1yYbeNInTb52BodYFBJtow4DxJl1U6ilQ20mSDsR3Hsb2OAeIgq7SZQnUWI6Ezp+I/btjVaYWWJkwI0kNMz1tFxcT0x5TzRaVgl12E6dUjoReOn2w27qJ0MCpscdYZVreehldKhiquqqGgW0g6pInYm5ixthpkfD9YopCCsVEeW7D6bmzT9U97cxmcKOBvDa6lMKZHKXYx2LSTcT6dbYdZ3jNemzT5emdIpwYYW/KCJ67ki1hvCEsxscRtNyXsHiB1ctWpkOVSkUYXvpUCCA0FwG3GkMRt8FcQ4Eleo1ZANNSGFt5Ak/Jvhll/FhaiTVWl5aiHVZNrCy3tJFj3xqmeyqgLpdIsFEEAdI9I2wrFhmVJbTbcDz66z5Xw7iWYbX5iqVDj6wdA+qYJPLcAArB23wyovReGspbqVkW6alC1AsiOedhfoXq1aOZAFWnTqMokmkwVlJHNITkbqCYPvjXM8NWmfNVjUYAaQ0Bl7Me8d9hv0x1Eg4qpAuASBg9pP0+G/wyMxkVGIJaJKqN73Bcibg8s/zTHLz6TIo0l1kaZJAtMtP1GPS1xG+CG4o3kFmVCush9WzAhel5IMgbmcdKOSpEItMFQUkbtpDEyZmQDFpPQXweASYQhbJ69vVx/4d4yuYp1KLSaqrOhjM09hEk7CJHqPWJmqEp5xKbBiNSsjEiLkR6ypGki0wemOPC8nUpVAWrUvNpGaZUkxY8v0gFSNgJnbFTUQZqmXFHmptqnaP8PUg/Usxsw7ShpDY4isoVscRNxcilXei3MgZkZQoIBDEkyZAvEf+MUHh/K00Hk1J8zMKZKm9OmQdNz1aCTPQ/dTxHKIKhqaPwhBchgesaSTcyO479rdctXqDL5jMOZqNyg2kajcW/lG3phBEBriOOD8PrJTdVZCkxpLKTZgpb6gF5YYgxNoG0LeIcLK5z6Y1VGdt4Ew0X2ltJA9CMUeToylR6Mk1itSQY3Cj4gDBJomqPMRA2YQAFCTDhZkRsCQbR6doJsg3HCqykLz6+kiOO5xv4qnTpah5Kh2KgGdWkgAdzYL6sZkTjRvK89X0lVeXkFtIdbVFYWOmTZh0YWjFLU8QVqNNycmVVSSApB1A3tFhExft8Yn148MwhqMpQEhNMiGZl1WsAbGObBzzUwYqLUcSz4s2vKkzEAPMiwBBN/bGnBc/R4nk3pEa6mXcSrWNp0nvBGpcbCHyqEXV6IiR3SNj+2EXgOtTWsKlJUUOkMQLnYj9QP8AzOIpQBhRgOZxp0UqtVoKSwo1AYb8tMkggHrpsLyeYY242xdNNM09Ckq4a6yDBkRfT2kYouJUqWXzAqhQEzDeW5A/MxCSfazbbqcR1DycvqSpU0iox1iqNJDbGI1J7yVxZSDA3+1qPXWM61UKgk2Akm2w9LD4xP5dvMYIgMVX0UlNyLsdRPxqJ6Rh63D6VSkyrUlCDDiHTaSC2oW36nD7hdMKgrPeoQTJF7m0+pAUHtHvhHYAYkl8N31kL4ozS0MwtKkpJpXLAxLsBqJ6nl0r6AYsONVDRytEj8opKT7lQT7Yi24Pm/NZdChar6qhkEEyTJG5PUSN8WHitS2W0WuEW+24kf8ATOGNeECUbaaHuk14f4v5Nam7KB5lYKYmApAUmT7jfDr/AIgo5r5anTWWqgoLXnUAt4kCXwgr5FG/CAvHKP0WPZo+Dir4WpzObpV6jFqNDKh4H52dmpkkzuwBg9CB1vjMAGDdo+kd+Z54+RfLo5YIWampqKVICz9CE9BMu5X1BtiI4Pw7RMLqaJLEXJjcA3Vf13J6ANeOZmiHrK5NZ6jM1XSTJkyQWmYmFCLJ2k7QdkqmcorQrUcqwUag6IgUabAA6htHXe1o6bIFR9Ri9i8evOJGy6yC5XeRLDe20npHxJ2nHKhXZqgA0rzQsVFLnoCACbhotf8Aphv414SFqLmvLQFwTyiFFgb2/MPXvhv4M8IQFq1UhyCJJIZUO1ps99xsLdbbeNtxFUEbybMGy3CcxmkHnOzUgDqZSolgdlB0gqsRqvJntgXhmQAby0mWad7kbc0fGxG3rij8eceTLZc0acKxXQoUfQI7D0G3b3GJfwESz1KpXUaa6nt2UAD7sD8HExZBY8RShYAdIZV48CcxUpqP/wAem4QkEJqEUkVVnUOZxBnf74FzLtSoqxX8VzAEKAtpJI6hQV+8nG/D6TU6OtgWrV6vIOgVJlm6FmqMTtuAemB+M+azCkit+HCFzYsw+ttjyzsPT5wwFmhxGYJ2HfPnBaZJDMzFgD9JP0neAbwLSZnvHXHgdwGdShCtIAWPLNoJAuALXk99zGOi5FrCBpBuNpa0kdAfSLe1sEZPIPTZQvKxNiIkk7knYTbaOuCaHMUNpg951zfEKToDUtWjZRPmHsQSIPXV9782NE4yi0NFSmQ7Ed5A6qYDFZ7262OC2yDsJZvKdoksfqIEWWYQwB6Qd1jCDieRXLV010KtVmTVrLQVJnlCiQGkXBJwBpgmUpTx6/HriPW4h54X8JE0rH4dwQO5MyYvc98D8T4Y9StTqI4HLeWiCJuAZE369hj3KItSNK5umTtCJBufVR0iOoHW+DqtFLox0wNxysLwZgkKdUdYkxAwR4TIkFG3CJs5kK+ojboXQQWFxzD17g2PfBuR4g6U1RhTYqIlg0+k26C2MzGVqKS65lysnpAgydLqbW7kT69lWZ4pSDsNS79Uqf0AH2wwzxKEljZzOuW4P5TCq/1kzTBdV0yoio8m8kWXrubQHe8IplzFfM5UxvFQattyNr9/1wn4uy6y9VmZtOoMB0MmRIm4tHxbCzKUUkP531fSxRhoAMsQL32Hp13w5vrCE3jM+h5rwhlKv1iV+ohWgWFyY6d+mN814Ky9VAEqVFAgjQ4IkTBuDsTOFvB8+6oKXneYy2DI8lh/ev29T98KuNcNqNV1LUZNXKgt6yAFO/UH3tN8Jbd4UFHbZBjfiPg8qhWnpPNqTUDyC5ZQQfpJuJFrxa2ElPhdeiKrCkWcLpUi8G0dBMBiRawgXwqfi8jRTzNVYVmYr5mo6bki+w7AXnBWS4jW5nOYqGmLdbsRvveBzHtAHWMYhqzJuWJ/qUy0daCpDKSIIaCfVZ7SPXCjiaMUVEGnSWfT1a0EidwASCMbZTjboND02KpAM2YjqZBKmCD7/OHWc47k3AoVCUYw6EqSBFwwI6W9LWthNlHEjsYMfKe0M1VpLSoUEWb62cGEVQDsCL8wFz3tbCPhXiatUq1aigFUPIYjUBMzHcAkDcdZxT+IKZNOoKJGvMlQGU/SCAste0m2rt7YmOK5pAlREBuFIKqoDMNQd7dHBHf9MMZXTAHJoyzWpTzdJczQBIdgtVJujGxJ7Cd4B794n6ORo1tLCgYk9dEWiSsGSAIkRjl4RWpRdig5HMuDsR1Md9o9fSRik8SsKeXqZigLGxgfQTaY6Cb4Xb4sQMwbKfGD8KqB8opBB0ki3vI/7SMIODVNOYrUwphObUd9xYdhB/8AWBfBnFkprUy5n+YWFzMGL3t+i47owXO1bmXozHSBoE++E2UxEOp4CQO0qa7eatejHMkNTI9V1KfQ6wb9iPXCjxBwvLnMvXrjkjUVb6eZQTK/muDA74F4fnHL6hY0+RyeqwGQj15iPZPXG/8AxRo6vLIbSQFKtNplo+Ok/wB70w6ghqiq19a4geUrfxlemV5aNMlvL2JgaUkC0EmYnp7nB2e4xOb8imf7JC1S0ibcp9gQfc+mEdOs2TyYgRXqiRA2McsAWsGLRtL+mPPAWVZqlU6iSVjV/iIBk77if9cagcniNtWifgIWPFFxrowzOqqNUAgsVLXFoIgDqSNt8UD58ooOixMQW/8ABH64i+KMuZz6CikUKNVKaGwBCESxOx1MWPsRhv434i+XFKmtMmpVPJIkdBboxM26d8NsER9IhgBzNW8UVjX00qNIKCV80iTqG4WIJINrbdSMOsxmUWktPM1YJGtgoIJHaEExeSB3wr4ZkaeWQ1cw+p6aB6h7fyoIEAEwAoid4FsJeK5s1cuM0CysazyWIBFlaJ2jpe0YxANVxHVCTjjj3x3Q8Z8Oy4/CptETZANXzv8AfHfN/wDEQFJp5bzDqjmqRv1jSftb/WKpZA5lORWJLwFWDpc2ABFtLQPYgbc2Lbwj4WoS3mHzghIqQYoh+qKReoyn6mBCg2Gq8E6aAWZ1BF2385S8IC16FFqigBlQiDIB/qvT1x245xdcugAg1HMIO3dj6Dt1Nu5HHjvFEo0xEBVgqgGwWDAgbACNsfLzUzObquUmpmC0ELsob8voqhev7nEUTdfaQVbuoL4hq+ZWFXzdS6S3WZBcE9jJHf7YrfBuTajQrVS0NVbSigWZFIAUHqWZzv2nucE8I8AEc+aKBYsgJJW5P1SAN4i84rVyFEBdIBZTy8xIEEyxkkWZjNug302bUYKoEtY4HFSG4qFSoXvGXiigF5qajrf2Ulm9JXExwnzSeV30j8xJvvsTY++PonE+Mii+inkXcLMOaZCy0sdlm539T1vifr+M8wSYpUVX8g8vmMzA5jE9NuhwyWBJlSRxNKFdaYhnBYxAJgG/0p1Yn0B2+CTW4yqOW8sE7EJGqd/T7AwDbtjbK5qu0GqyqxHNCKNIvIXSoLN33HTecCrwiq5JkovSBLn/ACiw+SMbHWIUQZPxz+IyyfFKDSGBiLarMp6TuYntjU0TmRFMFtB/DLhmE23M8q/JYCYjYl8F8L+WvmOqiB+dh06sQLm+239H1Ospp6hVUAKTtpsP5QTJnpFv2xItRxFXBxxIZfCfEKrRXqUKSkfQgkg9xH/9Fj2i+KXhvgegg/ErVKkmSJgbfJAt0I/17NximhRVdauoS7qZju38rCezD+mJDjni3NrqVWHSGVQBBuNM3uDuSelhvhx7RscSxLOcy8PCslTG1gDOqodN99UnT1wsHCuGG+nL/DEj7hwMQPCqVdwa1Qs7KOxa55theALW6+wxQ0KaMoYZbTPRqh1D3iROFZSsK6TPx9/xFlejSpKKNVzWlmblUqFnUILmWMtc2tc+/vC/LqPUVwaVPyjTdAYKqHQ2gDUCBqBiZB3sSbxGooLB6RYNfVbSBsJ0w3S8n9zjjQDKZFOkR5ZYAuTYSZEPquATE36bjF7zcQavhBF+faAvqNSpVjyZdNAH5USdKiPbrvJ3nD16y50LTEoebWuzCF3+Sw/UYASrSqLLIQ1tOipuYY7P15dpEzjnwyv5bmtSYBV5HVoVjMHSRcex1TK2B2xiwqhA25/HJ7J8KqU8zUR1AASoJGzAoYPfrtjvlarIlMMJRGg2gc0Bie5AXrtbFTxAUatRK1MfiVKbIbSVHZgD3EyDcXBgjExmEqcqAQSdkBgE9RMmRa57Yaw4js1rkzzN+ZSJWo7BRUilJsFjUbdBLR7yfdlksuGK8pazBSsSh3KkdAdx0n3xp4j4HVrUqdWmeukyYO6gbx1Ef5hhjTzVDhaU6RZamYeGYEkQOn0qTAuFHXuJwq5UHrJWSL6mBV+C5xsw1R1p6W5UCkyqgHSu2wFyZ3JPXHKlQamhpVejWVXXUotvDTEyNv8AwdxbxAXsaiFWANNQpgX68pk3G5wqo0MvVqEZhnQsF8qpRAaSAZ1ILt0AKjcGZ3B5hALZPafROEqv8OtS0FZkD9PjbAfC+LimPMYFqVRvLqUys7zvcxYHffYwTgDL8MqBfKXMCrTW5ppCvq6yD9Pchtu2PMlReXOgJT2qBwRUUi6v/K6g9QFgd+kHYLyYNPSJsrmpz4pwP+FzHm0xryz8yETa3MrkmPaY/Q410A5pdTJdNO41fUdovEDG+S4j+JWymY0Pk6wGhgwLITaY3Em+0WNzJxwz2WNDM85liqJT0/mJgavQWmfU9cNVtcXVSsxpn3o0iis4XXyqoBJYj/dye+PePslanSqOG0BFOwkgEGIkwTEYms9Qq5nMoxiFUgt/LLDb4B+cUvG3dUyyoVBZWJLKCAOYiQbXZv0xmFUOsRV/8yI43n2zmryysmIiSwXmkCOnXa/zer4NwirSyR08lWqRPKSwF7lbRbTYkXnbBPCM3XKJpRVBFlFPT9haB2m+Cc9xZ0BSRr7gAhT6zY+2CT+0R/aCq4kqcgadWmCWBBGldPM0WF4CqtphAo/xYqTxrySqN+JqAikRYXMtMWJ2EwNzfC2nQpNXGZqDVWAiZaBylZAmBIPQx13nBbnLs6FwiEtCu2mVJ9Ttt3wWIbmJvthRuKPFCUfKC0qbkNVL1KWsA6ys8zEHUBJsDvJmRgDUq5RtYpoiVlNtTRrXReSZ6i0A2sMX3/x+msyq/wDSJ9ZnrjyrwXLFXQ0FYOQWEWcjYm4Ei0WwA5K10lRqVhpA+HMp5+YIRSKTqRVBbUPLEdrbkFB0Ps2PpOXXkCU1hFFlHT1J7k3nqb3OB+H8Jo0VYUaBQPdobffuxjc29cDcfy1avTFGjUbLqJZ2hTKjeWLCP9ja2Fd7NTM240OIh4yVVi+Yq+axeEp0gYFo0kzJ7k8uFT8dzau1JCKFFVBYU7aZAIJdYYtHSe3vg+jTp0zoy4OgAAmpB1dT9IgBpuBG/TCteIZUIadYVGCOKWghm5oOmD/lMSZtaYnDKDzGqgayfLpGHCNVapRplmfUwkuSSqC7EljMkDfFhxXilOirsp5hzE9hfTbufq/xXxO1a9PIp5n/ANtRYpo8AqCI5iLgECIN9xvMLBxVtGp11sSWIHMN7epsLe+JFAxswKcVdWYBxvM1atVWes6ropEi5kmmpO55bnrvgzhlViwXy2eI+oksB00n8vS+3vhj5ppnW7Mg0I2hdId/wUszHmpgNvcNY++E9TjdRzAZKauSIRjJJ2JYfUd5k4ozEmoWOJSjJ06EvWqBQbgGdTdL7sT6D743TxJT2pUyBFiy7m1o6WvJ7Yl6GUGhhUe6nXJJ2aAZMEwTpuO5x5mcrUpBWVQUbUA4YMJH5SfysSRYx7YwQGIBWY3zvFMw4CkmoZBIsEHxsf1OBUyZ1Co+iWckcw5JAm5aw9JiwwiohnHmKQHJ3PS0mP1+xwfl6UJp1DqdS7SBNpmYAmPTDBO0c6bquDz6+lzvT4VUqKVFXLCmN1SolzPW/tudx8YG/wCXbAlGRTchlJA6ix2+P2ts2XJ0mmwqSCSWJgc02m28iZ+MdsnRo/xKKSalRmVdM8imdzYT7bemKcTPa4HPl94v/hXrAspppTpEh3cwoNxBOkj107kkEbXSeS3/AO2i+jBp+dUG+9xikzVWqznzWCpT1BREJYkAKo3vEiNt4mcZk+HZHQuoieuowZ9eQ/ucHidemUVQOYRxrM1VdtBsAbQDBiQY37j4GAMrnp5WHMOWRIgkGR8XE9/fBXFMzpqDUFIYAGVgi5jmF4npMDf3VU0R1dVVgQJI3Ag35hE3ncd8brOXTVRo8ZxCOH1GKMzXp7SxuxsYPe2/xjrW4ihJYZfUzmCWkEzc26zvHf1wJlcwo1JIYkj6TcGRDDtqC39lw2zOQFYeWV5YAJmN+cmTve1uuJsADADt5sQda4YRTHN+QaQqm06etrfV6ScCjNulmQswJmm5LSTFuU2gdAcP04MrXKawFIAg8o6nf9b/AKYE43w6kgBdmQhdRC3qPELPQ2kCdhadsLYB98kGBPHMMyniRaFFR/CAamMUwxIIO7QZK9NjuB2sYOJ0XVnanUQ2kwskna872P2OJupVLVVUDdNWuoGZyoEC5Ont0nvvONy1SqjIqlVSeYQGtuew7dY74oB2EzCzgxvm+KUaSaqg5Z2ZJY/GwHq0A9JwrPiKiKZNJFooWKnTylibmSBeb7Ae2FBo1lU6KzMT0YkH1kAwx6dt8OuFcINaipc0gzMCoqALDCRaNzcgG3tgmgMzoRAfvFVCv5TrUQaqRNqga8wOVtMaSJF+xB6xiqq56rVE0CtYADVScha1M9w03UiYaDe0yYANbwtVpiougsK1iwIZUIBCsRIMA7wCYJGFo4bUemocKKoH1Raxibi8douME7WEp/hNn1/2deKZYq0tNJiN6kAbj84lT7TO+KDgWeXM01pPFSpTUlKkWZSSCs7A2kdbe5IfDaBzCMprKwBhwyqq/CABQva3zjSjTpjSmXrCkabSUIkNexWoGIYHpuY6DEigogSJA2ki43dtJChRJjSo3dmMKPnb0E4oMxwmVo1KjKRTV1bsWD2+0G2BeB+XWqU67CauWLco6hlYTHUiTHyOuB+N5gVP4OoDCnNvN7cyv/UzjnyGAm0UX2ZPU/SA/wDyFMyGTK6h08xhBP8AhHQf93oMTtDL5upVp0DposWY1GsYQEAEFu/f9jhhxLhy5daeUpw1RV82qQ0FWqMStxsQoj7YdZTiFMutCq34ujXPpIA1GAASfi337ABWJn0wpJq/tBatBGEopgCFncjYT6kCfnE1n+EVarJTWkWpLIZp0gkwWYQepmxGwGK50FFSapCIOUEncAC/ztG+9rY40uMU6gPkxawLCFHsN/lvkYgHKnE5lJXxSebzskgprXrVLyBqYIi3vbc+k+trYL8P5nNmcxmK7igthe9Q7kIOptudr/DSjRXmfMwUkBVDS1RjsFAvHr0xwp5epmagepyIshKaiF07AL6evXphi/hMuX/x7iOZrl85mM3VpinrVAVkEkaQCC2s9TH3mPZz4xpillgg+klVAky0GY7mSJM+5w3p1KWVp80L0Eb+wHX/AGcSXHM21esD2EIs/SCAWP8AqcKLJ7ARCw6T3w3kvwQTBLXkdZ7fbAmYFLLVGcqlTMMxNNZHJA3JO7wxgdNXrOH1OqVTlAEDl6Sdh7Ceu+FfCfCtGm3n5qpqIG9wLyTYsAdRJMkjfbB3c3GSusl+G5Gpm2GZrxSpM2tqtQfUBsFBOph0ta9r4L4jxunLjK0GELH8RUEO5P8AICDoS/TmMgSNxR5rgq5lxUNetoBOkGCY7AssBR0AAPcnG+Yy2VpkB6pJC2pvVJssn+zBiQCbxONusxzqgnj5SCzeeNLP1GfmpFjTYHcheXlBuSNMztve846Z/hwp1FjnTdDtYHc/mJExH7daPiFbKVaegZqqDqDC76CSbagbEeu46HCunla1QMgjy/yMSRzXFiYGnpYmTB6YpvxmPYvcMTlwzOGlWXznWGAReYGNRAFh21TcdBsN6DwznvNeplcwORyOYg8rhl0GSTcMRfrMGcTmXylKk8VmDEmAKe19gZgG/YH4wzq1V1hoVdUPJMt3eAbSDPTce+F64jNRO1R8p1HDWpO6saegagSoHSQQSASpBsQSB6gYCrURTKVW1KxA8sEHS25kHrFhE3mLm2KPjiF2pV1Ynz02YHSrjleJnTe8ae5wg4dmGSqJJKxpP5gU1EaSpAVhKiBED9jZie/HunPi1IJppK/My6lULZQZ06h3Igke2NeCs9OpT1sW1VEEgjSpkRFomb29L3jB/Eqqt+JDGq+8qOY7brUm3sem3QDNIqPTIqIsFSQwIMg2gyV/U4IYHEa1raJy8QIgr1hFTUKkHUQwszfSYsCNJANx3x7luH1CoM6Zm0jv74L46pp5hnI0zU8wMQv4gGwuLySQSP8AXAlLhWZcal83SbiCAPtpOGLYxH9ogqx8sTfxIuly6nUFLIyRZgDeR0K3uP2wHkgq5oEGUqkKhn8zAz+oHycM/EVKotevrLKk6yT0BW2kfz6zAuCCT0mUXDaVQsQ1OAr69QBsyzLfoZAF5NgcUGRmKE/x+X5nr5OoZpPNOxYVBIBKiQxAswIWNX1A+kYMr8WbLqFeNbKCAQDF4af6d7ntqIq/xCVWdCr0GhtDgxb6tBiZhbhd5jrjnU4b51JXpKupBCCoDAQmRI66YgTa0kcs4nYuun3gbNbhPKPG8wSU8xVfWadEPZXIO8WBN9I1HTJvEX6ihVosRmDrfUSXMsYYDUIKggQNgB2Hqxyvh5qpVyrNpEx6sZO9rCAO2D6fGEDHLZyg5UAkVCukqBvd4lQLlp2HXE9wI4nOH6AQrhnDabZZAsEoCoPUrNvW4CnHvDeEoUdYszMD7Hf98cvC1YDMOq10ekUUKnlsj04sJUgSsfm2OC/DubDnOUhujkqep1KG/ecKdwkzpz57nsg60zqFhBIBgG4W/Un1JnbBXD+K61pU2VEWmoSWaNQnc/zTJvO+HvB8uTRprVBqoZUv1ibT1MRJPTSb494jwnL0k81gKoZiyQJX0BAmSBAv2G2HDDgzs09XahDDntDMhm61KpBdjTKghCqlI6aWBmfa3X3P4lnsq6RWmnqEb7940nXI7gY945w4/wD4lEuyHyiHVLflUj1BDbR/eHW4FagKppxpJTUGMgaeZl1RsZ0m2EFMLkdVfHXEW0OBZSupeg+tNm1yJ9JZQD+h9MbUf+HmYemp1KArQqsxEqBAaVVpJnD2vWFLLNSypWpUS0SIVvUC9psOth6iUo5vPZjkV6/mmqoCuxBv82Xv84ZGY3KUBe0/OU3AeG18nmVaqy6KnIOY9QIF4vqH2xx/4gUf4fLqyGFGdFUW+nWpLf8Adq+LYeLwnL8Py1SvmnBfTzVIuT0CT11RHUkSfQSnnUzlIM+oeYQOQXptDEMN4+oEHphGOQekyDaYEuXepm61RlVSQir1LaaYuYvAiYjr9+PCeHolatVhmcsw8yqAAdJAOhATKrEamIFoC9caLlmo1AKpar/CrqJJgOdM6p7R1nocb5NqgqxXl3qhmLqpCIFI8umB05TMemM70KEv+pGMRR/yVOI1pOatTstDqg62JmSbkxGG+U8Frl2VhUKogPpJjdiDcT09ALYC4NwnLvUqsikmrUbmaCo5iZUgiB3Y27GcOx59FDAbN1TsEKinTjbS1QgsbxqNtrdMZnPAkS20bQb9/wBIN5JLgkMxiVm1u8bgfAnvhhkcxBMDWwEzsJ/3+3ziYzubzJRhmsrUpht9BLfLMoN/mPQY1pcXY0tFCERSPMMiVXctG94jVe8T0xth5P8AU5ijE+qjLxFXny3aoDaGB3BMsIjaFi/7404XSNSoWpKHVjdes9Ncj6ANoMekzhBkquczbHTrFMtILLCqO4kX36YuxXpZPLy9SFQSztuT8bknZR7YzWorrGYKOOZ3zZo5ema9Y/QJ2ML7LuT/ALtj5lxDxTWzNUvSajEwisGJUfPIWPf47Y+g8G4yM1z0SGEDkL6WHqygar+8YcvSem29MP8AmFJNv8T7z6YVWIuxmMrKP9hc+Y0qHFa9MljXROurTSWDINzoFtxvjgMglFWZ6mqZRVy4lpN7FoGrSCCIP1Y+kZvhqVmVqgLFdpdxB9gY/TCpvCCiVpAooHLpYSNp3HoMMNT4THV/8iS1EogD1dFIkDSmoGqYtLPcn3Gn17YHz3E1/IQjMblYbUFBJ1MpvHKYnae2H/EfApbmvq3MrqHxDSL3kYU5XgL5YVABLNZYJOmRDNcAgxbc4qpQ8RdygZ/r1855m3KVldAGVgraSupWkXkTe8iZ7dDGM4pVQMawSCxI5blBeYvKiDHr8YNy+XQU18xYcDSrRGm3QXUmIidiOs4FTLBUqTJAAVdY0hnYwoBUz0J36euAuJRX8WD6+UYcMqtWyVSmSddOrrWZBGpS0byfoYW/mwFwzhvmuFZiA6apUiQF1GLjYkC/YnG/AswNVZZZKmgmfq0lOcm4B+kMLk2Jx0yGYAzVJgsh6ZCwTyAhhAAsQpOm/WT2xsgwM5BxETioFYhlDBvxCZGkdQAegiCbfAwLmeKVg4K1FKkFihUFT2BBEwRf2GKClxGHdKyrUTURP0uoBtBB2+2Oef4NlZNWnWgBQxR2ggSQIsR9TEAGNwBaMUBA5g02BPiFzXibP5i1w7BHTW1PUYWokC8GCNhtJg9LYW5jjFZmJOcZSTsgOkegi2CMxn6QpgVKRAMGCTqPvFyOsG2OFDjNNVCrTKgbBTYe23vheBmINRhnNcDiWXEgWpJXlGJRSxYAgsITVB5SfcdMJK1LN5sVKdKo1RiNYhuixZdhvfQu/rAw24dobJtTR/MNPuCJB3BHS4JucLs5lyoXTCEnlYTInrZSysNpJgfaWuuJfScDwmJMvlHVGX6XRwpYOQJEQGa4JJJHWdjhtkqSZZaKapLOAqkWnTot1URJvEg39erUxmaaU3vUb8TVoKzp+ksEJILEQNjYT6s6JbSiPSB0T0NiRBKk3WRbT9oFsIzYmLHYbnDNeLqmTrJSOXNWnUGqm9MkMQ0yIMhiDIIlbYNzXGcvXBpuQQYlHH6QftjKYii+iHKkmnrAhZgMpiCR+f1giRbEVlOGaqgfNVxTJOryqYXUfgEgfvgAKRiQC71u69dpRJSp5d0fK1Njy0n5kv8AUFJ5kkTYGPTDngNGka1WulN8s1Snzo5GgsomVM6hABH0wZEeovDs7l6Q/DoSWkyqyzSfvv02xR0cotVVY6QCJAJJP2GEdhCrNnrJuvw2pTSm9I/hQUcT0AZt+pkQD1mfbMzxKi16Bpq9NphkdhTJJEypv9RvfczimzOWqU6NmWpz64YEQukAhYm8i09zOFPGuC5KoNd6bMBKqZUje6mIPtGJhh+6diMgNseAILwzMVa76zDNqILAiFUTHMCQY2tvOCMwyqDSRnBH1PckSZ+qZvJtsAbdsd8iKVCnIXQrNI7mdh3OF/GeJZd7haiOJh6YKkyIMgjSwv1Bw1ngCc+o6hyYn4HkKVJqoCxUpiCx5iQYYEbd5NvT3ecPp5qmjVHC5hE2qUzpqwQZgWBIG4BFj1wg4dxVfOWNzKnuewPt/XFVk2NJxFT8KpdQwsjW2IGx9bjvH0s91fWMzlgGI/7OuSy1DOKvlZlqrAavLrO2sTJtrJPW0/fAjcXymTY069Q031GAVYzB6EKZv2wl8SeHaK5n+KLvS1WYrPI5ICuCLhTsY2MdCY8zPidkqHLZjLpmqEKYcQxaLurd567z1GMueDYhGkrkEZlJwvP0861VKZUwhCtEzqPWR0JNo6nAXFgtOuuSVRUZlV2J/LJI1b2MT02wP4ep5dHL5KqQKkTQrNDqRMBGJ0tvtM+pwbWyBGZbNS3mOgRkIuCtpB7Ef174VlF1UZ9RkY3j3ya8X8TqUKlPL0SGOnVUhTAU2UQL9CSfbAvDOI5zRqGZNMA3mGXrAmoP09sUOYyFMVmd1fU5k7ewkSdoG+OS+HaBd2apUYueZHIIneYKiPg9dsOpAFCINZCtHmJanijMkWzBbsQqgH2IUD9ce5epXrQa9V6at9MxrfryLfV72Hr0xa0eC5dQDKBt9R5j8SNI+BPrgY5agjlgTUc/ma/3JnBNVxOZiIDkFWmhNNXIi7E6mY9p+n7QMcs8KjHXW0pSj6Waf0iGPzgji2YzhQ+TSB7CwA9TJk/GIPOZl3qaa2rWd0e09gCbqSbgd4E9siXmImmWzLbhPFMmtTTQ8uk2mCw0+bB2g/lm5OmbRcGYp6NV9PK50jvB/WJx8eNI1E8sRoNkIsZn6GvJbrJG28RgwcQYMFFWqg0+W4GxKwA4H8xtNt79TjNo7jzLbOxn0qpn82JZaKVwJlFJR4AmwOoNb1E9umAMl4/y7GHpvTIEmdMC0xMg+m2+JHIcTz9OFp5xxUDAAkSG1bETqsZG3UxF4FYeKZlqTJnadGu7Ly0kEVGnqzEro+BOFOkAMzAgDMZUPGWUZC4dgi/UTTcAekwRMXiZwfluL5TMiVq0nnpqE/8AS0MPtiPr8DfM81VTl6S/2dMlTpHoFgCe5v3GBsxw/J0BakKh/vwZj0JCn5GJ7F7w+0UWCJbcT4UujUpVI/m+n79PfE1nkr6URaQZSCzMjrpkmFnUBI0gHr9Rwpy2ZaqwTy3QGysukaDNiCrwPb+u/vF/EObpVnCmoVm1yVg7QfKK/wDdO+GTcODcAFnj6Qmhl6qurPlywAKzTZSQGGkgKSOhO0AXx34Rwd6T6t1SQCXBYBgJUrAMSqkG4+u+JxvHOYP5esDoSZsLKP8Acdxg3K+JK7tLwANOkg7hjsRG9v2wzBwLxKurBcj+f7gGdqhHLoFANncAF2J/LJEqLEn998Df8zZQWWSo3Ubt0BPoINuhMzvND4hzdGnV8x6WtZALKIZGI1IYkawRsZ3VhbScCughnZKL01E61DBkJk86GSlh1NztO2Hvr0mJwLHSK6GRo1AA7lX1gatNnLCfX9rX6Tgv+Az3/wBLUxT/ACaACI9yDPqe8455XME0y6UwphhR/miwZr7G8W/0wF/GsYL065aBMAxMf4sUVd2TJ6a6jZX+cxxl8zXQuA5OsGF3Ok2sTOkRe2M4eX5vMV11fSEGwAsJkBZsAN/vbylXYHXzg3bQDfTMagZ5lERI7H1IO4blKIDZl3CE9G/wkHsN+pnrtibt4d3r3Tp1hQxgfWoKalWm/wCG8A/VqIhr9Q3+nTrjbL8arounWoWTpUabzsJP3gGAPjA/EqSlkdy3lsRLsQggsR15ieoFumC24alR3SmzfhwNJEGIt9Sg3HWDt8YUCxOMggeKbeHatWrUVdatE8pOp1OkHWQDBVmEQJ7G0SRkfCJ8wuaiIu3likX5TspZo2mQfnfGnhvhFQZg1WpCkFNm1KxZiItpPLa5kfvgLKcVetXCUxCln8zUTrjm0aQTYEiPuMGjZqbdWVlZQ8P5dGQ+WSFJILORpbvym23XDDifHKNATUr00tIFpjvJuR6x98RHHeM08uVUEPUp87yZWn0vfmcg6VU2BJJkiw+R4cVarmKy+ca48yij834YXVrqekwgB3ZewuuwnmFQdtnErqvFqblvxHYKAWjlMHaJXoY6DHuV4krOtBKLDU0M/LAGktJadRkCAY3xN+GEfzHWoCPNpMbjcyGB/Q4pPDegM1WZinpb3mR/X74BTaYqnxVO3EazmppphSojcTf22/8AeNf4ilBSsKIgiwSmLx6369sC1cw1TloG5+qoOk/y2ufXb1nCxPDuVW1R9dTYpIBMWmAdV/fc4AA4MIbJMYUctkkbVSpoGBkFAqwRsZUDbDOtTCiTpem41qbQDcnWQRAnqAd/S63N5LL5WiaminTMWUwCRvc7n2wdwmoGpimVAIIgi0agTHpcGBjHnEYapHObiTL8cVmanRXzKSoxaoBYXK2JYGx2AN+U7YWZVBmHqifMVDtYPTksJW5/l2MA+mLd8qIKkSDuNifeP97YC4Z4ep0KjPSkBwdSnqSQZn4P3OGwojrqg3WIgy65eaYzJGnlIzCgpM7axvE9dx12nFFneJ+SwRUJlSVcCVI08pB2IJgWPfthfx/LsFAFOYkhTs4ksVtsbyP8Pvjn4f8AElJWOXqALTVVJDCyllBJBNtIYlehET1wKsWIdSjUX8XeoH8xn1oTcMYK+giPjf560WZCxSqpUJpMIUm+n0P+E7j3wBxvhGjXXyiCq5gupYsSgMkLex+/p2xvTzS5OdZnLV40tuKTtGlyNivRhODYaU3K6jTfjoexhGey7l9D1VDEcqMxWfabNtNr4i+NVuJ5ZiKvl0Um1QjlPYAmST6C+LvMVKTxRzIV3QQdBEdxaWj0nphXnKubpSlLQ1KLKQRA7EGR8x/pgLg8XOdQinoZy8I0zXIzP8Q1SmJAUEgFhvulwPYdOkjD/jVbLlSa1OlaLsq6RE7lrnfE5R8TV6a6RlVIFyFMX9lAHzGMfxKlVfxMnQkbaqeuPkjBIa7rHwhvaMcRTxTM5cVAUMhtRJVAApvcFjJMdwN+s238N5MZotToVf7Mc5qKENMbXAaGFott1jFNwmvSqLC0ctqVQDroA7SNUSN7SfbC/wAQ8RzdGnpWnSUGNVWmmlRJ6KoYj577nBsnFfzMoRhjmElloqaVBoeIOYqKJuZ/DT5O/pfrjzKqaf8AZUazud6jIWY9+aIH3+DiZoZ+rSLFmBK3PKB17gTtPebeuD6Hip3W9SqsiRpM2uOl/wBOmMyMZNkYHxD5RoKebqMfMy9QL0bXTt8FtsL+LZdCYJyjOIlXdVcD/KWO/qBgHiFao1xWFVXAmlXYwwgDZiCDaQRpIM3xPZzgwcO1FrpepRcy9KLEygOsCfqABA+oDc0RByZ16Ogo8SHPuz+YxzPhfMit5yAMAj6TrUkMUYLFhYMQd22x24dl6oyoy9RnpVGny3IYBCCOUtAIDsDYG0T9LYX8C4g9IuFriAhIH4kCFLW5OwJsfvOHFPjtfygQ9KpqgBao06t7AwgM6TFgdjBtLlbNGF2cci/PMVZhqwdVFbVEhlcmeVeziTqtO8T1GD8wdK0000w51OBYhhI6qdNu8T3uMG5bMUczIrUWp1VaJQwQWEfS1rxG5m3pgXPZcoEam4qUk0oSpkiLaXG6kmTO2IsMgSeqykYFH+PhGleslSitUMbKUcqJOmbEX3RiGBjYt0JxOZrh2hWDOdOqXZWjW22ltrEWvE/NmeQzEO1OdWq6KdzAgg+hBK+2OAoOBVKVCzhQQTCyoLMhi4PIxQg2PUEjAT3yaizV0Imp56oa41Lp5YWxsALAfl6dP64YtxCuTK1HjpDW9tum2F1fOMKgZQVSxcF2YAzfSJssQbiQZGwk6188UZlhzBImX7+lsdNZup0bdh8Hb3yx1LqHk0PMqG2php6TYGY9ztF8e1M6gBQHXVEs7SCqQDOkwNrjXb+7G51XKVFRWMw31NJtBsokxykSwI5o0mwJLbhPBcigOkrUZpDMzTMmSI2F8c4VZJl9mL4PrzkinG67eUcvqYOhkBA089Qc3KSRIG56d8M8uKlSoBq8uuRojddURFJje2+ltv5mGHHHOI06MJ5qU1gwosfWALm19sFeDGp1VasmogHQGYRJ3MewI++NYq6kt5H7cec6cXytSnllC1C7qADYDzGiD7Tf2+MJeH0ijVHZvxCDpEf2QtIHczPoAAOpw48VcYFAKwAdidKKSAATfUzEWAH6nERnONVKgCAU0chrXm4kTJubSPpjrOMqk5ktpjFvEC02NaQwUEL9M1X20gACwMam6bCSbG8HzNTMZWrWqf2lRKkEEG1woUDaBAixmbd5LJcNZ1NOmuvTpVjMbmSRNgABtvfubWfAeF6Mmymqy6S8qumAYn6ihbYjaI6dMFQoyBKkqF2jmJeEEpmcrmqgdQSaNRGB5WhlDAHYNZtumLJG8pkUfSK+mpA3VpQA+gD6sTuSzwFYUVZmLW1HYG0SJ6zsZO0xMYoKnE/4em76FYgA9p2HT07YLMTmom6iOn4irhvh7MalR9YpIoDO7HQTeYGrUY2Fr2+OmfRcoKgoJLKJV3ElRBO3uTB9pFsOeD5jM1FU5kqHI1FVEKk9Lkmw6kkyThHl+LpVzTSDpflQxAgREztqJJH2xIbiajHBxFWVyTagatV61Wq0oG+oSNjExH5iLDFYvDuR6YPYMfUKR/XEJ4xyFfKu1ZHby2sXBbWsn6CQbL0Gw6GbTQeHM85yyX+tbwfXf3g/f2w7LjdDqJjf0gvCcznWDCt9G6hjzL3KsLj2JjDnh2femCr1TVvI1xKjtIEn3JOIrxFnXWq1IVGBUpaTsWWZ+DEe+N/BvGULrSqDmKmGNww2IbGKMV3CF9NwNw4M+lZXi1NuRhE/zRH3/wDWEnifwquYBNEqpMN6l1Mrf8w3sTI1E3m3TP5R8vFWkAaX/wBlMj6R3W117ztvtsXwviCVB+G3WCp/Kex6j/cYmuPEIqMRzFWZztbL1Kb0rAyGBEjuNVpAsbiL++GWfq0czQqIogrpc02H0mdW3VSQYI69iIHLxPwkZqg9NX0Vel7H0PQg7dxOJj/hpxPMLmTlMxTNkIBYQyQRyk7FT0/qDYjxCx0ltti7uMPEOUSoEqUHWpVprsrc3lNAuPyskggMNpEWwy4Pm66QaimtRYbMR5ikb6X2PyLiNsKK3Dqw100VfOXU1IzK5hAY5TIGsbFT1t1wiXxjmBTWlppppJPMCGn2JA9LxhttjETaxwBL3NcJqVh5lJ00AiKgpnzEI6OuqNvQg7xjr/8AHwwBZ1cjY6It98SXA+N1/MBFR0qLYNH4bjswHKQYm1xc9DFkmfOYBRXFDMD8pAKsfW0/I/XqtkcwbyPDx9IrzXh+sHD06zBlMqvQH2/1nDjhVZ6oNOtS0NsZAKN6jf7HEq3i7O0KjU8xTojQrMSNXQct5IGo9Y2uNsB8R45WzAR6blAt1CN17+uHKkzMu3JjDxh4ZSmTUlvLLSW06wh9QWFjO94+2EOV4azk+VXp1gdkVgrD2QwYHoDi28G+JxXnL5oqtUCAWstUfNtXcfbrHDxD4TylLVUUBFmGsdKn10kEC+9wO3YqxGDzH4FyD4nwupqgqwYCCG5fUgzG0zJ79ZxplaCUUU03PmrqiuAdNNoH5TvIMA+4A7XlGlyRVTzaJFiHNRV6BlvrSP7sGJwkzHAabOwp1Ya40kwR7NYERIkg2O+KjUxRj6f6no/EW0chTetTrhlWnVP4giFQt+G66i0iSxZYUwrAG+B+KUfMUnkDpVaQDAHKqoIIBGhU0jrAx2HB6iL5ZDuCw0hdIAN4jcCQTuDeJxpm8mK2s0iD55BOmD+IpGskwJs2oMQAdWw2xsA3c6X1VIDKe3r+Zy8P5itSpv8AxDEiyIRdxMFirXMKOaNpK4LemfNGhtLCpzMJkgECohGxUiCN7HC7M5EspoUmkIukaQZJku7dBEqBM9tsN+FUyFphuZlAVz3heUzsZSBIJErMnCt37/Scmr4QX6mJs+gFdKiVdIVyNrEgwJg2iImNp9i3zOYCsrMAFF9r6SfxNhzaHOvrYk9BhdnkZYNQc9RRs4lAzwpvymyi0iJiQJlx5ThGU5dA4JZEiEY/m0yTo1AkQOUTAJGJuKo+qgohR6xEefq6yA4S0HWZ0X2k6IBJEAjb0ucDVcpqOoq4J3017fEWw6zWXFYoFW6oJUabAKBBI9r6d/kytbLubxUT+7pBj9cMGJGMQKw/b07ynrcSyNanpZ1VX5gDIWSZJ2gNJ7774nuI8JqJYN5iTrVkJg9FPYgCbyT2x1rZ/LOrs+UphIlmpuQAR0K3k/uJ7EDvlOL5UESzhWhVXQsD2ZBIEm83wyk8CIVK5HMVZTJvVQmppBRnlzEKCq8xP39/UycfVuE5ankchTUklUXUZ3ZnMx7ksFA6WGIekoq5ikgrr5bnSaMWYEXIJAJ7zJJ+2LDx7VdadNEMamJPsFIj/qYH/LhX7TWazgSIfP1K2aYySDIKjYLuPm49p+/b/lI81nOmSZlVAYADbVuSTafbBfD/AMNKjRCi7tBhRBMe9j74Kcp5ZHnrTrOZp6hClRtzflJO25ibYQkmlEhknECzvFqdAKlQLNgqrYtJ/aev74J4ZxtquVrkAL5eqI7abT6iI+xwk4hwiqc5RSplyw5RTq6iRIXUdrG4JgwcduE5unl6LEyFauQ4PUcqMBH+E/OHUAY68yw06UN3mcBUGqsyXUoSCZIJJifXdv8AKMWHE3SlSarVXUi6SVFp5hHveLHfCLgPDDSrINQeahdmEwQbKf8Ap0j0vh543I8gKYClgWPooJ/oMA0SBJu+5y3aTfjvxgi5VaWXZvMr/U1wUXqPcm1uk32xy8C0vNcM3MPIIJN5JZe/XlxJZ6k9R/MZSqbATfT6DyyTMzaRvfFh4Z4kg+lzJSZIAIBgiQBpne4tioWhQl9VQumO8q+FZtK3nZZ9LMpYEGbqCQDMAyOpHWMT3h+g+XrVMrUbWFJKMSJIJkEydUkN2tpI7Ymszn61LM+eputVyCeqybf5l67XPpio4zmFfOZPMLcVAFkdQ30z2u84mRXxjgeGuhH8iJPGGXAzewJqKpEC5j4jcd/jCPKcPzCmky0KupTf8JvWQwjYj9xj6L484W70qbUiuoSsEjSQSvQyD7x1Px88HClOlDU1VF1SlBeUahcFjCiPUjD6bWJVWGwA9P7n0bw5xepph6beWo5tQOqnNgLjmUnYdvaMB8YoUsu4qgRSckrVUnlPVCRt3G1rdMNeA06eXyophWYsddRohZPdmgQoj7E9cTdLPrXWo+VOqfry9S3mJMA/YWcXBxDlrHE4wt46RvkeMUaqytdTpPVxH/Uf/OG2VdNUmNT6dNQAaeSGALep2H+uJJsrl2LUkBK0Rzkk3N5vYnbf7WGEfBuPNlSQ6k0tbIQput7RfbSbg+/vtl8Qops7Y7oZmpRzTeYjtlqld2lbim5YlaikSykAgGIBDNOoQMO+JeFMrm6gdyUr76kgLUMSDp2JIF4N+h3krJZyhWTWrQSIDDYx+Vh3B7i2MXLqMoXpx+d102AIsI6C4n3JwTd9jGOseanznxR4br5NvOKfhM0+ajMRJMgG0o3abTEE4ovD3FFqoq1mC1laEfaeqf4Sbj3BHUDFnwTiq5igdSyY01qbAEgkfmXZlI6++8YlfEfhCmtJ2yq8t5S5KSb6Qb6f7vSTuDY7w3hfmULK4psGPOMcPTO0zTqCHiNQFxdTb0LAEr6dMQqZGpk6oDjkJIZvyEbhp6exj9sUfBOJVdKuSCUGmpBkkdGMixsB3Mg3gnDnNPTqr7jf/e/7d8ZHK4kNzICpyPXEnc3kQyBqcEbjt8Hp7jFF4e8TpVTy66wDKlmFmJJ5WB6mfn4OJ7J5paFRaNQBVZmCuoIpyLieimJkCwI2FpB8R5dqVRqlM/V9VON7GWja8DYXODVzaY24PwjDj2QrZBtWXqEUZChgbLIBCtIINjadxjinFw6TmFHmfSz0hDQYCkqRBuI7XXoYwHRzr1aXlVCwQwNEiI+pbGYAk2tFx1uRlaILEBYUjmYm8bfTEiIkGOgv0w4JrMuSpGR6/mZRr8xVXDiCdipHuu32OObFVqgQIakwJFgDqAO2x2k+uOfnU15JaWJ+kQT86WtANiJ9b44LVp6tKLA08pLFzquTeeotEAWFsK05SvJ4+848RzTgQ7QIEAcqR7ySYjscEcNzCAot51gAx63sblbkAnrPTcVc2osZ21C2wncfbB9Pi6o/MBrF4AUXgXgRPT5wQbhztyDcC8aUyK9MU6JKimsEAk7tymO1vvjlw3hpQu1KmIL6lNwEEAFSTctzfTOwk+jfj+aMMF3VlDEbwyhpHTrF8DHi38NTpaaXLVLFlNoRbAkkXJaTe8aY3xrJWpUO7rVQn+EW5QlGaeu5vMW9iOaPTCrNcYo0mNNs2dSgAzSYnYdQQPtho1I1R5tFtcMrBWMEEQdLXjSw2bbrPXHKtSpuxY6FJ3DKpI9yCBienI4H+w+ECz1UlzT0SBd6iQoNTY3BF7aQGUsYnYzhQlBWqClR1BlMadMgx6rO3cjvj3GYuFpcSqsaJ7Sm8GcH0ZqglZtVRDqVAfomTP2Xfbph744zmqtp5tCrpsYBJu19wQCLi4+MeYzEn8RzFazXnFXDWNMa6T6FI11S0FdKKd1NjIBJi/UQMaU85lswlKueRqhZJCyOS+k6gSoKmRHr2xmMwFTwlo3s/BuvOfvC+E5zMLVQq1N8qxOpqRkDeIvbpMR64X8Wo5fMWCmmQzcjGFaSZNjF5m/tGMxmHUU9RHehtHcx1lcww0BhpL1FJAOyqw6+rdOw9cbf8SQxGXoqgbzC7ENIA0Bbkg7CZjvGMxmF1MGx5x/0ah9QAyBq0alKoxUuCI1BTsSoYSIuYPUxPfD3JU2C+Y1IrKqZc8z2uYVVgDeb9elsZjMO7EYndroPZg1zNEytB51syQTOkahYkiB9R7Gx62vYocPr8lSlU8ynTKlAnPFyWWCQRM9R/wCPcZghbE5mYoMSuytHVlqGpjpCraACOUj835vtfC+rkaYfXsrczEk8sfUSdgI5iepJxmMxFVyTOd+AILneKeeK6K2saDqTf6haVLBgPT6Y9ZiUyeXegBV1B6oJYDWiQTabtYBYER3tfGYzDqNpIHlO/SUNa+77Q/hnFTWqOWFKaghjTEEnlAkwAwEG/TVEdSm47kh5WlASxrMWIm5ddR6dlIHoB3xmMw9bTiYIPamu02yvEny7mLamMKfoKgkXPcmSIuL+ox9OqEDIoYIHlTHUTB6db49xmF1BhZLX01tfOTGbzFSmgzGWZdYAg7qyyJB7iP8AYOKjgXiGhm1MQtQfUpO+9x3U/fuMZjMI6AqfKRVKVh2MWcf4c1Ga9BdpLKBt6/4SJUgbAmPSZGeq0H8okPTYBqRVTr0k2iDci67bjtjMZhdPxcwDIoxvxBqS0wlbQQ0hkc3EQR83mR633ws4rmPM0oia1JVw5kAKF0qN5+lievSe4zGYoo8IMoUCJuHb8CCLmDDGPzRBHqJ/QyPSfbC6vnGUh6cCpJOnURqvBK9uggnoQO2MxmLBRDpKDiM87n1c6a1PUJHPTlWG31CYcdOhjrhdVrFJ5+VtnUEiOish+nbpEHYmBjMZiZFqJQjbpqR1m1fUYNNyWLgMPyjuQD1gTG4vaL4DrKGZmfQEk811iLQO5+NoxmMwumPFUmijHy+sodQq5g0CSFalJMA6Yk6rk7BdtO/UnZTxqazMzcqC69QEAhAALtACi3a/XGYzBuiPXSIvhIrymvCOK9KKuHDwrWOpd3VrGF9J3I63xQGnl35mDBiBIU2EWt6YzGYXXwbk/wBZ/vU//9k=" /></div>
<div class="Body">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="Body">
Kneeling, I was armed with a hand-held rake and garden gloves. I
eyed the first clump of crabgrass and figured I could take it down in one
round. Grabbing tightly from the middle, I yanked. I ended up with a tiny
handful of green slivers in my glove. Time for round two. I dug the garden rake
just around the center of the clump and pulled, scraping bits of dirt to the
top. The root's wiry white tentacles held on to the deepest recesses of the
ground. After a couple more tries, the root released. Methodically, I tackled
each weed in similar fashion, finally cleaning up the garden for now, at least.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<i>Those weeds would grow again, and I knew it.</i><o:p></o:p></div>
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To me, those weeds represented the deepest recesses of my heart
I've allowed to get locked away in an attempt to deal with changes. And now, my
son is several hours away at college, and my daughter about to start senior
year of high school.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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As I snapped my daughter's "first day" photo, the
reality snapped right back. <o:p></o:p></div>
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This was my <b><u>LAST</u></b> "first day" photo. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I wish my diligent recording of time could make it stand still.</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
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<o:p><img alt="Image result for google images free first day of school" src="https://encrypted-tbn2.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcR01zrYG43zkAZp384c5wYh5HEt2GxUnUt8qsC7eo6d7J3gS9VlzQ" /></o:p></div>
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<div class="Body">
This isn't about "letting go" as so many seem to
advise. It's about redefining my role. I'll never stop being a mom to these two
incredible humans, but these moments have forced me to stop and see things
differently. My children have grown and changed, but more significantly, being
a mom has changed ME. Motherhood forced me to engage my heart in ways I never
knew, into the deepest chambers of life--theirs and mine. As I've used my heart
in nurturing ways, I learned I could love more deeply than I ever imagined. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
It's time to dig out the weeds stuck in the recesses of my heart
and clean out space for a new life of my own. Honoring my inner beauty, I want
to be intentional in planting new, life-giving seeds. As I pray for my
children, I can learn to open my heart wider and receive God's love, too.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
It's no surprise that in order to weed effectively, I need to
kneel.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
Have you been weeding lately, too?</div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
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<div class="Body">
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<div class="Body">
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Lisa Tomarellihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15387353577959237975noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1133049817684210421.post-4393042220731960802016-07-21T15:59:00.002-04:002016-07-21T15:59:59.603-04:00Fireworks<div class="MsoNormal">
Every year, on the Fourth of July, the relatives on my mom’s
side went to Grandmom and Grandpop’s house in northeast Philadelphia. A cozy
neighborhood attracting a variety of European immigrants, Lawndale had blocks
of row houses and twins with single homes mixed in. My grandparents lived in a
brick two-story twin, which presided like royalty on a main corner of the
neighborhood. My grandfather set up his shoe repair shop in the basement and there
was a separate entrance around the corner for the customers. The smell of shoe
glue and the sound of hammering reminds me of the Bazooka bubble gum my cousins
and I would snag from the shelf in the back of the shop. There were only
fifteen of us, including my aunts and uncles and cousins, but it felt like an
army as we crowded Grandmom’s living and dining rooms to indulge in our holiday
feast. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Our meal
was unlike what my friends back home would be eating: hamburgers, hot dogs,
corn on the cob, watermelon. You know, the usual Fourth of July food. Instead,
our meal incorporated unusual favorites from my grandparents’ German heritage,
including succulent bratwurst, a bowl of vinegary potato salad, red cabbage, a lone
dish of pickled herring, and the dreaded German lunch meats. No, I didn’t eat
the lunch meats. Just looking at them scared me. I’d learn years later that one
of them, called head cheese, is a meat jelly made with the flesh from the head
of a calf or pig. If that wasn’t bad enough, they’d also have “blutwurst.”
Translated, it means “blood meat.” And the word tongue was involved in one of
those delicacies. I felt sorry for the poor cow who wouldn’t be able to talk
any more. Yuck. But there would always be orange soda, so that was a good
thing. It was my grandmother’s favorite. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I remember
being 11 or 12 years old before I got a taste of personal independence when I
was allowed to walk to the local park with my cousins---and no adults. We’d
skip the entire way down a couple blocks to the carnival held there every year.
Our coins jingled in our pockets, ready to be spent on games and treats. I
never won a stuffed animal there, but it was always exciting to try. We’d
eventually find the ice cream truck, and take our good old time savoring the
pictures of the ice cream choices before making our decision. I always picked a
chocolate éclair Popsicle with the candy bar inside. It was a sweet ending to a
sweet afternoon.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The grand
finale would be the neighborhood fireworks display. Just past dusk, we’d suddenly
hear the first boom, then a whoosh, and soon pinpricks of light exploded into
starry arrays of color. We’d marvel at the showers of light for what seemed
like forever. “Did you see that?” we’d say, or “That one was my favorite!” Our “oohs”
and “aahs” followed each one. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I always
wondered why we went to Grandmom’s on the Fourth of July when there were other
holidays to choose from for our annual visit. Over the years, more and more
stories were shared by my mom and aunt. With each detail, I’d fall in love all
over again with the love story of my grandparents’ immigration to America
despite all odds. They met in Germany but Grandpop wanted to come to the states
first, so he could get established with a home and a business to provide for
his anticipated family. Months passed before he sent for his true love, and Grandmom
followed him, leaving all she knew, including her dying father, to join him in America.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">Eventually they married, but I
didn’t know until I was an adult what their anniversary date was.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">It was the Fourth of July,
fireworks and all.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEyRTI6KkLQkz52WRmWeoTDeU8L8nMAr5WbesLZroDEFgCjQN4La3JZO9mxmSsUBxuw9OXKXLuu4Z3rig_miDJNlXv9Cj-pQrVmcSTCM2uGxHtGmX5gNwxpTbaM1Gi2ZP2igIq9OU7nbaU/s1600/Grmom%2527s_1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="248" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEyRTI6KkLQkz52WRmWeoTDeU8L8nMAr5WbesLZroDEFgCjQN4La3JZO9mxmSsUBxuw9OXKXLuu4Z3rig_miDJNlXv9Cj-pQrVmcSTCM2uGxHtGmX5gNwxpTbaM1Gi2ZP2igIq9OU7nbaU/s320/Grmom%2527s_1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKtol_XtDJPGRzUEApBKoQIj4TyrIPBb2PP6Xy95wGkOwNJphZgfIp_4ytvpPSggVOXvA8FsRk_kZX4ufYGiaCD37PaURa2GDgCASnKX9Cw0V0AiWETPWks3WK7RZczpncq5rjf7Iaf6WC/s1600/Grmom%2527s.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="124" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKtol_XtDJPGRzUEApBKoQIj4TyrIPBb2PP6Xy95wGkOwNJphZgfIp_4ytvpPSggVOXvA8FsRk_kZX4ufYGiaCD37PaURa2GDgCASnKX9Cw0V0AiWETPWks3WK7RZczpncq5rjf7Iaf6WC/s320/Grmom%2527s.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<o:p></o:p></div>
Lisa Tomarellihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15387353577959237975noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1133049817684210421.post-71002855107765555152016-06-29T06:38:00.000-04:002016-06-29T06:38:08.468-04:00Ordered Chaos<div class="MsoNormal">
I walked into the studio, greeted by the scents of paint and
glue. Busy Bees is a colorful playground for the creative artist, and it makes
me smile every time. They offer a variety of crafting options, and this time I
tried something new: mosaic. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
I chose a square piece of wood as
the background for my creation and went to work picking out tiny chunks of tile to glue
on to the wood into a pattern. After the tile pieces were glued on, I would be
sent home with grout (the color of my choosing) to fill in the spaces between
the tiles to finish the piece.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
The assortment of colors and shapes
overwhelmed me at first. It calmed me to start with a loose pattern. I glued
little square mirrors in alternating sequence around the edges. Silver. Gold.
Silver. Gold. My heartbeat slowed as I got into the rhythm of creating. Faced
with a wall full of bins in every color of tile pieces, the design started to
form in my mind. I cut a tiny square into two uneven triangles of green. Funny
how going from a square to a triangle changed things. I was inspired to cut
some more. Next, I cut off the corner of an odd blue piece of tile and it
formed a pentagon. When I halved the clover-shaped pieces, they became figure
eights. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Changing the shapes gave me a sense
of control. While I allowed some pieces to remain whole, I caused others to be
broken. All the colorful pieces, broken and whole, show up more clearly when
surrounded by the black grout of emotion’s dark depths. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I call it
“Ordered Chaos.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAubMzYlypwydyI6MCIxkIXg2taj_KUY9_-hg7z6MM2Y0YY2CD5UVWqjIU4VG-mHMtzQ0XESKUsriLSxtj7BLgcqxfDaS91o-TiWmSIrtLp9cgmf66lOdyZ5R9PcHgFbKYbamFRb-M1G-i/s1600/IMG_2516.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAubMzYlypwydyI6MCIxkIXg2taj_KUY9_-hg7z6MM2Y0YY2CD5UVWqjIU4VG-mHMtzQ0XESKUsriLSxtj7BLgcqxfDaS91o-TiWmSIrtLp9cgmf66lOdyZ5R9PcHgFbKYbamFRb-M1G-i/s320/IMG_2516.JPG" width="239" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A single clear stone belongs in the middle. I may not
understand the stone fully, but I recognize its characteristics. For me, the clear
stone is like a steaming cup of coffee first thing in the morning. It’s the
smell of the bookstore where my writers’ group meets. Sharing hugs with my
daughter and long-distance phone conversations with my son. It’s when I send
the words “I love you, babes” in a text to my husband. Bible and prayer time.
Sharing time with friends. Each of these represent wholeness yet are pieces of
the whole of me. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What does
your center stone represent?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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Lisa Tomarellihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15387353577959237975noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1133049817684210421.post-20913371361576692742016-05-03T09:23:00.000-04:002016-05-03T09:23:44.502-04:00Ginger RootWhy do I buy ginger and then not
use it?<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizZWv_A5RJ0Cy7N_Ro9xGTQUa4pMWJ-i1mBtX03yrk5M6mxevQle8nw2kJmwHUApTG4a2kPKYCg3VgXAW_r-dq3jK8GLE8hP7NNvIZ8AuRCf8QWCnujqXspvUyvG_UOuMdLCtAoVKvGk7u/s1600/DSCN9443.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizZWv_A5RJ0Cy7N_Ro9xGTQUa4pMWJ-i1mBtX03yrk5M6mxevQle8nw2kJmwHUApTG4a2kPKYCg3VgXAW_r-dq3jK8GLE8hP7NNvIZ8AuRCf8QWCnujqXspvUyvG_UOuMdLCtAoVKvGk7u/s320/DSCN9443.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
There’s something about an
odd-shaped knob of ordinary ginger sitting in my refrigerator door which makes
me feel like I might be a gourmet cook. Or maybe something about being a redhead attracts me to it. Ginger root, when grated or sliced
fresh into a chicken or pork dish, is absolutely delicious. Once I get it home,
though, I tend to avoid using it. It requires that I peel it, then cut a piece
off, then grate it. There are simply too many steps. Often I’ll give in and
pull out my powdered ginger jar instead. But it’s not the same.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
This reminds me of the authentic
root of my faith when I take time in the Bible and pray, as opposed to
sprinkling a quick dose of an on-the-go prayer into my morning. The point of
prayer is to be with God, right? It’s not about the recitation. God only knows
He doesn’t need more noise in this world. The fresh, pure taste of connecting
with God adds spice and joy to my life.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
It’s worth the effort.<o:p></o:p>Lisa Tomarellihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15387353577959237975noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1133049817684210421.post-9938126437834677172016-04-14T06:14:00.000-04:002016-04-14T06:14:00.320-04:00Ordinary Faith
It was almost Easter weekend, and I packed my overnight bag
for the six-hour road trip to visit my son Alex at college. I counted down the
days, no, the hours, until I would see him and hug the heck out of him, even if
I had to reach up to do so. Blended with my excitement, though, was my
apprehension about his faith. I knew Alex wasn’t attending a church regularly,
but have continued praying that he would connect with God somehow out there in
college land. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
Several
weeks prior, it occurred to me I could ask Alex to attend church with me when I
was visiting. It would be Easter weekend, after all, and my request would be reasonable.
Right? I wanted to let God be in charge of Alex but felt I needed to give God,
and Alex, a little help. Eventually, I sensed God telling me to relax. I wanted
to attend the service, and decided to do so even if I’d be going to church
without Alex. So, I asked Alex to find us a church service to attend and waited
for his response.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<strong>Nothing.<o:p></o:p></strong></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Come on, God, </i>I thought<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">. I’m leaving first thing in the morning.
Should I look up a service myself? I need some kind of a sign. Do you hear me,
God?<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
I like numbers,
and one way <strong>I’ve learned to notice God’s presence in the numbers.</strong> Whenever I
see either of these three times on an ordinary digital clock: 1:11, 11:11, or
3:33, I think of God and His three-in-one existence, and how He really is
number One above all things. Those times are a little eye-wink from God to me,
reminding me of His presence.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
Finally, as
I checked over my bag on the night before my road trip, I received a text from
Alex sending me a link to a church he found for us to attend that Sunday. Excitedly,
I clicked on the link to find out more—the service location, time, and the church
information. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
He found a contemporary
Christian service geared towards college students, held in a nearby college
building. It sounded similar to the services Alex used to attend with us at
home. The location was less than a mile from his dorm. It was an <em><strong>ordinary</strong></em>
service and seemed perfect for our needs.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
However,
there was nothing ordinary about the time of the church service. I had to
reread the information on the church’s website.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
It was slated to start at <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;">11:11</span></b>.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
Easter was
extra special this year.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1qqSNUw9N880p7QKy0HJiRdWxY1AGnhPuGU9rd4tQg6ieH80jneX4OrOZRZ7wraoASrLPtVLK1oExsdtoc1T66MmsNsstzBtLJcrUEo8CH1l3Bgh11ZOA-Zn-a8KMR3MbkFS6j6aadNLt/s1600/11_11_photo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1qqSNUw9N880p7QKy0HJiRdWxY1AGnhPuGU9rd4tQg6ieH80jneX4OrOZRZ7wraoASrLPtVLK1oExsdtoc1T66MmsNsstzBtLJcrUEo8CH1l3Bgh11ZOA-Zn-a8KMR3MbkFS6j6aadNLt/s320/11_11_photo.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<o:p></o:p> </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
How about
you? Can you share a time God shown up in YOUR ordinary experiences?<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
Lisa Tomarellihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15387353577959237975noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1133049817684210421.post-34521689181017443882016-04-01T07:00:00.000-04:002016-04-01T07:00:19.736-04:00Mistress Cancer
Unwelcome, she takes energy away from our marital intimacy.
She requires my husband’s time and attention. She penetrates through to his
veins, taking over his body, inside and out. She has her own rules, statistics
and the illusion of a plan. She flirts with unpredictability, her greatest
strength, her source of passion. She calls on my husband any time of day or
night. Sometimes, he ignores her. Sometimes, he can’t.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
She is Cancer. <o:p></o:p></div>
<o:p> </o:p><br />
This mistress is a Life-changer, a Killer, and an Enemy.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
It was April 1, 2011 when my husband was diagnosed. I was
shocked. We thought it was something related to reflux or other gastro-whatever
conditions he experienced. But tumors? They were not expected.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
I went into survival mode. Learning whatever I could about
what was going on. Tests, more tests, research, doctor’s appointments. Planning
for treatments, impact on our family, our financials. How do you plan what you
do not know?<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
It’s now five years later and Joe is stable under the
treatment of a clinical trial. Basically, it means he is on a chemotherapy
regimen which seems to be working to stabilize the cancer, which will never be
gone. Never. Yes, I know miracles are possible, and yes, I’ll embrace anyone
who joins me in prayer for the miracles. In the meantime, however, I live with
her.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
I want her gone. Can I forgive her? Can I let go?<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
She is cancer. She is simply a diagnosis. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
I am Lisa, Joe’s Wife. Holding on to hope in this
complicated life.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEippkPNXaMghqBWW1X3gR2aGQvMDF4IpquKJDR5yY3ztrp6l_2xf4KhHgkG-RXS9XAqBODexUonJuApsWFY-mUucLwGzdKJtShoMRS2YKTzmd4yiHIBD9Qqq0fs9xgNYK5LzblBmnOetjOC/s1600/DSCN6408.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEippkPNXaMghqBWW1X3gR2aGQvMDF4IpquKJDR5yY3ztrp6l_2xf4KhHgkG-RXS9XAqBODexUonJuApsWFY-mUucLwGzdKJtShoMRS2YKTzmd4yiHIBD9Qqq0fs9xgNYK5LzblBmnOetjOC/s320/DSCN6408.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
Lisa Tomarellihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15387353577959237975noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1133049817684210421.post-12828670589759274312016-02-14T13:26:00.000-05:002016-02-14T13:26:40.499-05:00For the Love of Ice Cream
The ice cream carton beckoned. Although shoved in the back
right corner of my overstuffed freezer, its voice was crystal clear. <o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“Hey, baby. I’m in
here. Go ahead, grab a spoon and get me out of this cold corner. It’s time for
you to indulge.” <o:p></o:p></i></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
The cold, smooth vanilla creaminess with buttery undertones
threw my taste buds into heavenly overdrive. Crunchy candy pieces of chocolate
lingered long after the vanilla was gone. I wanted—no, needed—more. Just
another spoonful. Only there was no way to end it. A spoonful turned into a
carton. At least it was a pint, not a half-gallon, I thought.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
Three days later, it was time to weigh in again. Three
pounds up. Ugh. Dreaded ice cream. <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">You give love a bad name</i></b>.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<strong>It’s all about balance, they say.<o:p></o:p></strong></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
But how do I balance a crashing wave? I’m supposed to fall
over, sink under, swim for a while, maybe catch my breath later. My desire for
sweets is one-directional. It’s always a “yes.” What’s to balance?<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<strong>Eat just a little, they say.<o:p></o:p></strong></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
But how can I section out a portion of joy, when by its very
nature joy is all about abundance? Why consider even a little bit when I can’t figure
out when I have had enough? Happiness is a dessert buffet, especially if it
contains the Italian cookies I ate growing up, and of course any form of
chocolate. Love has no bounds so why should my dessert have a limit?<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<strong>Measure your food and count your calories, they say.<o:p></o:p></strong></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
But how can I measure the moments I love? Seeing my son
after a couple months of being away at college, or spending time watching a
movie with my husband, or catching a cup of coffee with a girlfriend, or
sharing an after-school hug with my daughter---these are all unmeasurable. When
I weigh out my grilled chicken or measure a portion of cottage cheese, I
believe I have some control over food, but, seriously, it’s only the healthy
food I’m measuring. Who wants to measure the good stuff?<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
Love unbounded, like a giggling child running through a big
wet puddle just to see how high the water will splash, is the best way to
experience it. It’s not available in single-serving sizes. Love is an
all-you-can-eat buffet of deliciousness.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
But by continuing my discipline of day-to-day weighing,
measuring and tracking, most of the time at least, I gain the freedom to
understand how to love my own self without the ice cream. To love my body which
can dance, run, climb stairs and hug a friend means to take care of it. And
this means the ice cream must be kept to a single-serving size. Love <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u>can </u></b>be a buffet. It costs no
calories but lingers long after the experience.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<strong>Ice cream, you give love a bad name. But I love you anyway.</strong></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiD9jSEOUPfHIsQb-VYJvBFcY15hyvV3j1dJ_Xd84XA2aHk9vgxxRQYJPkcgDtKnRweFf82_QTZxBsFE63moJ-tDnfRVvbQcLXFAAnJDWReP8xPngC-p8OxzZR07ZNVooLwDadVXcgD1Uf1/s1600/imagesR8D0IPA3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiD9jSEOUPfHIsQb-VYJvBFcY15hyvV3j1dJ_Xd84XA2aHk9vgxxRQYJPkcgDtKnRweFf82_QTZxBsFE63moJ-tDnfRVvbQcLXFAAnJDWReP8xPngC-p8OxzZR07ZNVooLwDadVXcgD1Uf1/s1600/imagesR8D0IPA3.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
</div>
<o:p><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<em>1 John 2:15-16<o:p></o:p></em></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<em>
“Do
not love the world or anything in the world. If anyone loves the world, the
love of the Father is not in him. For everything in the world—the cravings of
sinful man, the lust of his eyes and the boasting of what he has and does—comes
not from the Father but from the world.”<o:p></o:p></em></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt; text-indent: 0in;">
<strong>I
want to enjoy my sweets in single-serving sizes, and indulge in the sweetness
of God’s love with unmeasurable abundance. I’m still learning to do this, one
day at a time.<o:p></o:p></strong></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt; text-indent: 0in;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
</div>
</o:p><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
Lisa Tomarellihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15387353577959237975noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1133049817684210421.post-7835546137433264022015-10-07T20:48:00.000-04:002015-10-07T20:48:55.170-04:00Pottery<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0in;">
I went to a pottery class with my
husband the other day.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0in;">
Okay, there are a couple things to
clarify. First of all, this was a class to make the pottery, not just paint it.
The primary equipment consisted of a spinning wheel, a lump of clay and our
hands. It was the scene from “Ghost,” minus Patrick Swayze. Well, you get the
picture.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0in;">
Secondly, you read correctly, my
husband joined me. We are soon-to-be empty nesters, and have been trying out
more creative options for our date nights. A couple months ago, we went to one
of those painting workshops together (including the wine) and this time, it was
pottery-making.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0in;">
<strong>I learned a few things about
pottery</strong>.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0in;">
Pottery starts out as a formless
lump of clay. It needs water added and a special touch to shape it into
something recognizable, useful, and possibly beautiful. I appreciated the metaphor
of God as our Potter in a new way.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0in;">
<strong>Isaiah 64:8 (NIV) <o:p></o:p></strong></div>
<strong>
“Yet, O Lord, you are our Father. We
are the clay, you are the potter; we are all the work of your hands.”<o:p></o:p></strong><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0in;">
I have no defined shape except what
is given me by God. On the outside, I can be curvy or slim, depending on the
season of my weight loss efforts. But on the inside, I have many more
components, such as a passion for meeting new people, a love of numbers, and a
heart to make others feel loved.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0in;">
We each received a softball-shaped
lump of cool, gray clay which was dense and stiff. We had to add water so it
would be more moldable, softer, smoother. Water softens things, makes them
pliable, more receptive. Perhaps I could use some of this extra water for
molding my perspectives to be more like God’s. Wish it were so simple.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0in;">
When I reached my goal of losing 100
pounds a few years ago, I had a new shape outside but I started to harden
inside under the pressure of the goal. Coupled with my husband’s health crisis
at the time, I then fell back into old habits of depending on my own abilities
and pulled myself out of God’s hands. Now, I’m losing the weight I gained
again, but this time it’s with an even greater focus on God. Like the clay’s
response to the water, life experiences can adjust my shape.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0in;">
The end result of our pottery-making
extravaganza? <strong><em><span style="font-size: large;">Simple beauty</span></em></strong>.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
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Lisa Tomarellihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15387353577959237975noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1133049817684210421.post-16685888562335365052015-03-05T15:40:00.000-05:002015-03-05T15:40:05.866-05:00Fastnacht Traditions
In my teen years, I participated in a youth program at the
local Lutheran Church. It was a fun way to celebrate my German heritage while
spending time with friends. We prepared and performed a new skit every year;
one year, it was a Carol Burnett tribute, another year a variety show. I still
remember lip-syncing the song “All for the Best” with my friend Debbie. What a
blast. The best part? Eating fastnacht at the end of the evening. Why? Because
my grandmother made them.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
These weren’t your typical doughnuts found at Dunkin’,
though. Authentic German doughnuts made the traditional way didn’t come easily.
The time, effort and love blended into the delectable treats were not only food
for our bodies, but food for our souls. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
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This year, I decided to pull out Grandmom’s recipe to pass
the tradition along to my teen daughter. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<o:p> </o:p><em><strong><span style="font-size: large;">Step 1: The recipe<o:p></o:p></span></strong></em><br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRgi3jlUeya5d7p_yfqXMMJB0RvfI2UQixCZnZM-wWfqsTdUVUy1C7G4oqfzH6Qylq8AbifRTKjeWKxFSFHLVDXBXWtFpf04U7wnnVi4GB6Ln0RFCsDdtbS_J6J2VV_hrz-2WrT0nc3DuA/s1600/IMG_1150.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRgi3jlUeya5d7p_yfqXMMJB0RvfI2UQixCZnZM-wWfqsTdUVUy1C7G4oqfzH6Qylq8AbifRTKjeWKxFSFHLVDXBXWtFpf04U7wnnVi4GB6Ln0RFCsDdtbS_J6J2VV_hrz-2WrT0nc3DuA/s1600/IMG_1150.JPG" height="320" width="239" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Having the right mix of ingredients creates the perfect
doughnut, and the perfect environment for conversation and connection. When I
hung out with Grandmom, the primary ingredients were love, hugs and smiles. She
was a fun-loving woman who avoided conflict and I learned to observe moments of
pure contentment watching her in action. </div>
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</div>
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</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0in;">
<strong><em><span style="font-size: large;">Step
2: Knead the dough<o:p></o:p></span></em></strong></div>
<br />
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<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0in;">
<o:p> </o:p>This
step took a bit of effort. The only way to get it right was to dive into that
mound of dough and muscle it until the texture was just right. It was a
hands-on experience, and relationships are no different. Simply being together,
whether we were talking, cooking, cleaning or simply saying nothing, is what I
remember about the texture of life at Grandmom’s house. <o:p></o:p></div>
<strong><em><span style="font-size: large;"></span></em></strong><br />
<strong><em><span style="font-size: large;">Step
3: Wait and wait and wait<o:p></o:p></span></em></strong><br />
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"></span><br />
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"></span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"></span><br />
I
remembered thinking we’d never get to eat those doughnuts when Grandmom set the
bowl aside, putting a towel on top so the dough could rise. The yeast would do its
job only as long as we left it alone. Patience is probably the most important
step in creating meaningful traditions, and without it the result will be an indigestible
mess.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<strong><em><span style="font-size: large;">Step 4: Cut the dough<o:p></o:p></span></em></strong></div>
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"></span><br />
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"></span><br />
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"></span><br />
A
few hours later, the overflowing bowl of dough needed shaping. We’d dump it all
over a blanket of flour on the counter and roll it out, then cut into
diamond-shaped portions to make it manageable. This is the only way those
beauties could face the heat of the frying pan in the next step. Relationships
are like this. At times, we need to cut back to shape our connections into
precious pieces we can handle. It was in the little things, like a conversation
about high school, or my current boyfriend, where I could ask Grandmom’s
perspective on shaping and dealing with my own issues in life.<o:p></o:p><br />
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"></span><br />
<strong><em><span style="font-size: large;">Step
5: Fry the dough</span></em></strong><br />
<strong><em><span style="font-size: large;"></span></em></strong><br />
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</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0in;">
Ahhh,
the heat. Now that the little beauties were rolled and shaped, they could be
placed into the hot oil, resulting in puffy clouds of deliciousness, cooked to
perfection. The heated challenges in life, like the oil, can turn our perfect
little pieces into something more satisfying, and thoroughly enjoyable. <o:p></o:p></div>
<strong><em><span style="font-size: large;"></span></em></strong><br />
<strong><em><span style="font-size: large;">Step 6: Sweeten<o:p></o:p></span></em></strong><br />
<br />
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<br />
<br />
A little sugar to sweeten the treat, like words of
encouragement and time with Grandmom, gave the perfect finish to our tradition.
The result? Heavenly perfection.Lisa Tomarellihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15387353577959237975noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1133049817684210421.post-40089139591866258622015-02-19T07:39:00.000-05:002015-02-19T07:40:00.157-05:00Book Review: No More Peanut Butter SandwichesAs much as I love to write, I also love to read. Therefore, I chose to participate in a book review of:<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
No More Peanut Butter Sandwiches (ISBN 978-1-63357-001-6) by Jeff Davidson.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Jeff shares his personal experiences as a dad having a son
with special needs in No More Peanut Butter Sandwiches. The stories provide
insight into his perspectives on life, on parenting and on his faith. Families
raising children with special needs will benefit, however the encouragement he
intends to share also applies to the universal theme of challenged faith, no
matter what the struggle.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
As a pastor who is called to serve the special needs
community, Jeff’s generous heart to help others is evident. The book, however,
falls short in story-telling techniques and instead slides back and forth from
anecdotes to sermons. His writing is redundant and preachy, as if his existing
sermons were assembled and printed together to compile the book. There are
helpful ideas interspersed between the stories, however.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
I found the concept and ministry appealing and useful,
however recommend Jeff’s blog site www.goodnightsuperman.com and Rising Above
Ministries as a resource for inspiration instead of the book. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
The paperback is available on Amazon:<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/No-More-Peanut-Butter-Sandwiches/dp/1633570010/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1424269210&sr=8-1&keywords=no+more+peanut+butter+sandwiches+book"><span style="color: #0563c1;">http://www.amazon.com/No-More-Peanut-Butter-Sandwiches/dp/1633570010/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1424269210&sr=8-1&keywords=no+more+peanut+butter+sandwiches+book</span></a><o:p></o:p></div>
<o:p> </o:p><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<b><span style="color: #444444; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 10.5pt;">Disclosure of Material:</span></b><span style="color: #444444; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 10.5pt;"> I received a complimentary copy
of this book from the publisher through the </span><a href="http://www.bookcrash.com/" target="_new"><span style="color: #ff7200; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 10.5pt;">BookCrash.com</span></a><span style="color: #444444; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 10.5pt;"> book
review program, which requires an honest, though not necessarily positive,
review. The opinions I have expressed are my own. I am disclosing this in
accordance with the </span><a href="http://www.access.gpo.gov/nara/cfr/waisidx_03/16cfr255_03.html" target="_new"><span style="color: #ff7200; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 10.5pt;">Federal Trade Commission’s CFR Title 16, Part 255: “Guides
Concerning the Use of Endorsements and Testimonials in Advertising.”</span></a><span style="color: #444444; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 10.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 10.5pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
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Lisa Tomarellihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15387353577959237975noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1133049817684210421.post-88011637171872399222015-02-10T18:59:00.000-05:002015-02-10T18:59:28.308-05:00Targeting My Thoughts
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My daughter and husband are competitive pistol shooters.
Some of you may cringe at the word “pistol” because of the fear of guns and all
things gun-related. I get that. Guns, in the hands of people with evil intent,
can be used as deadly weapons. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p> </o:p>It’s not the guns themselves but the people with evil intent
which frighten me, though. When I think of my daughter’s bull’s-eye
competitions, I smile with pride at her skills. It takes intense focus,
physical training, and a gut-level dose of courage to hit the tiny little “x”
in the middle of the big, bad white paper with black rings. I also smile with
joy at her shared experience with her father. Nothing will replace their
special times together, in training and in competition, and my daughter’s life
is blessed as a result. The guns they use in these competitions are not in the
hands of people with evil intent. Instead, they are in the hands of people who
love competition, who love each other and who safely handle the tools of their
sport.<o:p></o:p></div>
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As for me, I have my own version of target shooting: <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">healthy eating. </b>I watch what I eat,
when I eat it and how much. It takes gut-level motivation to continue to plow
forward even when the scale moves slowly and everyone else in the world seems
to be eating donuts. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p> </o:p></div>
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There are three principles in target shooting which I can
apply for success in eating right.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p> </o:p><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">1)<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span></b><!--[endif]--><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Everyone
in shooting knows it’s virtually impossible to hit the ‘x’ every time.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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When I watch what I eat day after day, there are certain to
be moments when I miss the mark. Today, for instance, I had a York Peppermint
Patty (yes, it jumped from the counter into my shopping cart) but counted the
calories towards my day’s allotment. This meant dinner was a tuna salad and
soup, but it still worked. Not quite an ‘x,’ but close.<o:p></o:p></div>
<o:p> </o:p><br />
<o:p></o:p><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">2)<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span></b><!--[endif]--><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Shooting
professionals manage their thoughts by approaching the target one shot at a
time. </b><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><o:p> </o:p></b><br />
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I take my eating plan one day at a time, and sometimes one
hour at a time. The focus it takes to figure out what to eat to stay healthy
and yet manage to keep going can be overwhelming. Instead, by weighing in one
week at a time, and approaching each new day with a new attitude, I can break
the long-term goal into smaller, achievable goals. These are the goals which
result in healthy weight loss.<o:p></o:p></div>
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"></span></span></b><br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">3)<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span></b><!--[endif]--><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Finally,
true competitors know that each shot is a clean slate.</b><o:p> </o:p><br />
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Having a plan in place for the entire day makes it easier to
stay on track, but if I blew it for that half-hour between picking the kids up
from school and figuring out what’s for dinner, then I start over by
approaching the dinner meal as the next shot. It’s about writing down what I
ate, then continue to write down the next meal, too. There’s a finality in
putting it on paper, instead of replaying the mistake over and over in my head.
Not a good idea. For me, it’s about watching what I think about, and then I can
have results with my actions.</div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Most importantly, hitting
the “x” for me is when I reach out for help, either from God or friends or
both, when I’m having a weak moment and want to eat instead of coping with the
feelings I prefer to avoid.</b></div>
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This verse helps me:</div>
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Philippians 3:13-14 (NIV)</div>
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“Brothers and sisters, I do not consider myself yet to have
taken hold of it. But one thing I do: Forgetting what is behind and straining
towards what is ahead, I PRESS ON toward the goal to win the prize for which
God has called me heavenward in Christ Jesus.”</div>
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<u><span style="font-size: large;">Targeting my thoughts…now that’s a worthwhile
competition.<o:p></o:p></span></u></div>
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Lisa Tomarellihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15387353577959237975noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1133049817684210421.post-74111930510366510602015-01-28T17:23:00.001-05:002015-01-28T17:28:19.259-05:00Broken Faith<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">A faith-buddy gave me a cherished gift
which adorned my powder room sink for many years. It was a ceramic knickknack
of the word “FAITH” written in all capitals, painted a cheery lavender and adorned
with yellow and white daisies around each letter.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I was extra
klutzy one day and, not surprisingly, dropped it on the hard tile floor of the
powder room. It split cleanly into two pieces, “FAI” in one piece with the
emphatic “TH” separated from it. Broken faith still contains the components of
faith, I thought. I just needed to put it back together. One dose of hot glue
and it dried back into one piece, with only a fine line separating the ‘I’ and
the T’ evidencing the damage.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I think life is like this
sometimes. My faith gets broken and needs repair. Sometimes the repair line is
noticeable, but hopefully, most of the time, it is not.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I had been working on a submission
for “Chicken Soup for the Soul,” but had a dragging, nagging, sagging day and
felt my little roots of doubt settling in. I wondered if my ideas were
interesting, or if my writing was valuable, or if I should be writing at all. I
hadn’t experienced a hefty dose of self-doubt in, say, two or three days, so I
was due for this episode. Regardless, I managed to spend time working through
and completing the article.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The next day I planned to review,
edit and send the article to the Chicken Soup folks. A dark cloud of self-doubt
promised to accompany me each step of the way. I started my day as usual, with
my steaming cup of coffee, bible and journal. I asked God for guidance and
maybe a shot of confidence to go with it.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My doorbell rang. It was a
neighbor, handing me a brightly-wrapped red and white package, with a note
taped to the top. “This is for you,” she said. “I saw it and thought of you.”<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It was a copy of Chicken Soup for
the Writer’s Soul.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Faith
repaired is still faith.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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Lisa Tomarellihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15387353577959237975noreply@blogger.com2