I hear it in their voices these sudden outbursts of anger the I'm-annoyed-with-you tone the dramatic exasperation over something trivial And in my Don't-talk-to-your-brother-that-way lecture, I wonder aloud... Why are they so easily angered? Why so irritable? Why so quick to raise the volume? and then the echoes of my own boiling frustration and annoyance from minutes, hours, days earlier point the finger squarely back at me Me. I have been their teacher. I have been their example. When my harsh words stir up anger, then that's what they'll choose, too, no matter how many times I tell them "A gentle answer turns away wrath."
I need deep breaths. I need breaks. I need a full tank. I need the Holy Spirit's fruit in me.
They need these things, too, but they also need an example of choosing love even when frustrated.
I heard it in their voices, but first, they heard it in mine.
In a van-to-van conversation in my sons' school parking lot, a friend was sharing that she had a lot of story ideas bouncing around her head. I could relate to some degree, but the writing ideas bouncing around my head are never story ideas. I've never had the patience or desire to work out a story.
It all goes back to Kittie Dempsey. That was my pen name of choice as an elementary school student. Why? I don't know. I do know that I LOVED names. As a kid, I bought a baby name book and would scour it for the best names. Choosing a pen name was another way I could play with names.
I started a notebook with my "story ideas." Most story idea notebooks would contain some kind of plot brainstorming. Not mine. Mine consisted of lists of names, and the main characters usually involved multiples. The Dilley sextuplets were born in nearby Indianapolis when I was nine; as a result, many of my story ideas revolved around sextuplets. After writing a paragraph or two, though, I would become disinterested and abandon the story. Kittie Dempsey never had her chance to shine.
Back to that parking lot conversation. I told my friend that the writing ideas in my head were reflective, essay-type ideas. I don't want to write a story, but I DO want to write about how I don't like writing stories. I'm a reflective person by nature, but aside from prayer journals and poetry notebooks and graduate classes, I have not had an outlet to be able to write reflectively for a long time. Moreover, I would love to have my writings more accessible than what-journal-from-which-era-was-it-in? or which-version-of-Works/Word/Forms-was-it-typed-in?
The parking lot friend suggested I blog my reflections. When I think "blog," I think about gaining followers and saying things in a profound, shareable way. Eek! That's overwhelming enough not to even want to start. But perhaps my goal isn't followers. My goal is reflection. My goal is documenting the journey. Even if it is only for my own mental health. And for having a record of the ups and downs of raising four boys.
I was pleased to find some actual entries on this blog from my past self. The entries are random and sporadic, but I'm thankful for what is recorded here. And so, here I go again. Musings from the heart and mind of Mary Thomas. Sorry if you were looking for stories by Kittie Dempsey. You won't find them here.
One of those lovely, flattering photos taken by a child who gets ahold of your camera
