The Gazebo
The crowning jewel of the quaint Pennsylvania town that watched me grow from a shy pig-tailed girl into an independent young woman is a historic gazebo situated in the center of Market Square.
Celebrations meriting significance are often held in that lovely white structure. In a tiny borough such events include Veteran’s Day ceremonies, annual coronations of the “Cherry Blossom Queen,” and visits from Santa Claus. I often thought that the gazebo was fitting of a wedding. I’m not sure if ceremonious vows have ever been exchanged on its platform, but I have seen many radiant brides pose on its century-old steps.
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Aside for my adolescent affection for David Banner and his mean green alter ego, “The Hulk,” I’ve never been a fan of movies or T.V. shows based on comic books. Had I not married a man who stomps his feet with excitement whenever a trailer promoting the latest flick about an iconic hero with superpowers is shown for the first time, I most likely would have gone the rest of my life without watching such characters.
The first time my husband brought me to a theater to see a movie based on some legend from his childhood was to the premier of X-Men.
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I have never liked my hair. Not even when I was four-years-old and my golden locks rivaled those of Rupunzel. Oh, I liked the length, and when it was properly curled and styled I pretended to be a princess…but I did not like the tangles…and even less did I enjoy the pain and aggravation caused by the untangling process.
My mom, being the one who had to listen to my whining protests, decided that my long hair had to go. This decision was made when I was in the fourth-grade, and it was one with which I agreed.
Oh, but there was a downside…I was in grade four during the year of the mullet.
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“But when full understanding comes, these partial things will become useless. When I was a child, I spoke and thought and reasoned as a child. But when I grew up, I put away childish things. Now we see things imperfectly as in a cloudy mirror, but then we will see everything with perfect clarity. All that I know now is partial and incomplete, but then I will know everything completely, just as God now knows me completely.” — I Cor. 13: 10-12 (NLT)
Recently, I was reminded of the awkward girl who inhibited this body of mine more than 15 years ago.
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You were dead because of your sins and because your sinful nature was not yet cut away. Then God made you alive with Christ, for he forgave all our sins. He canceled the record of the charges against us and took it away by nailing it to the cross. In this way, he disarmed the spiritual rulers and authorities. He shamed them publicly by his victory over them on the cross. Colossians 2:13-15
My grandparents once lived in the beautiful and historic Brandywine Valley. I enjoyed walking down Briton Bridge Road with my PapPap and marveling at the picturesque countryside complete with rolling green hills, sprawling estates, and inviting orchards.
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All your words are true; all your righteous laws are eternal. Psalm 119:160 (NIV)
For the past month, I have been in a state of mind that I will refer to as writer’s funk. Unlike a case of writer’s block, I was able to come up with topics to write about, and even words to fill a page…but my interest to write waned. I kept telling myself that it was because I had nothing new to express. My style felt stale. My passion simmered to stagnant.
Friends consoled me with assurances that all writers felt this way at times. Perhaps that is true.
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The summer sun first sprinkled light brown freckles across the bridge of my bunny-sized nose during the season of my girlhood. Each year brings a few more to my body. My arms, shoulders, and back all wear tiny spots hand made by the life-sustaining ball of fire. I like my freckles, but I give them little thought. In fact, when I wear makeup, the ones on my face are barely visible.
Still new to the world, my preschool age daughter delights in daily discoveries. She studiously examines God’s creation, especially delighting in the nuances of plants, animals, and humans. Last summer, while we stood on our porch tending to the small potted herb garden, she asked me question after question.
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