Easier Said Than Done

“God”, I said, “I wish I were a painter so I could look at the beautiful things you’ve made and save them forever on canvas”. 

                “You are a painter”, he replied.  “You paint with words.  I give you words and you paint the picture.  Words can heal an old wound, words can help ease the pain of a new loss.  I give you words, and you paint the picture I want you to paint.”

                “Easier said than done, God.  I can’t make myself write.  I can’t make myself finish what I have started.  I have ideas roaming around in my head all the time, but I find every excuse in the world, or in my house, not to go sit at my computer.  It’s a laptop for crying out loud, I can bring it to where I’m at.  I can’t make up fiction and create a believable dialogue with kids screaming in the background.  I just don’t have time”

                “I told you, make the time, I’ll give you the words.”

                

 I was at a funeral last week and my great- aunt was getting ready to sing a song.  It was another great-aunt who had died, and she was a wonderful lady.  Anyway, before my aunt starts her song, she says a few words about her sister-in-law whom she loved dearly that had died.  She talked about how her whole life she had a job to do for Christ and she did it.  It was helping people, being hospitable, even teaching others when the need arose.  My aunt looked out at the congregation and tearfully told us that if God had given us a gift to use it, don’t wait.  I remember feeling the twist in my stomach as the tears started streaming down my face.  “Am I wasting a gift that God has given me”, I thought.  Are you?

                Is there something that you constantly feel that you should be doing, but for one reason or another you keep putting it off?  Is it writing, painting, mailing the cards you’ve collected in a drawer and meant to send to people you’ve had on your mind, but never gotten around to it.  Maybe, you’ve just had a nagging to reach out to your neighbor that you never see for some reason, but always thought you’d do it another day.  I know, I know, it’s easier said than done.  I just said that, remember.  I’ll tell you what, I’ll try if you try.  You never know, it could be the beginning of a beautiful work of art for God.

Daddy's Pillow

I was making my bed the other day when I heard my 2-year old son coming down the hall singing “Datty, Datty, Datty”.  I looked up to see him come waddling into my room. All I could see of him were his legs coming out from underneath, and his arms wrapped around his daddy’s pillow.  He waddled over to me and I looked down and said, “Thank you, good job.” as I took the pillow from him.  You see, I thought he was being helpful by bringing the pillow to me because I was making the bed.  Boy was I wrong!  He started screaming, “No! Datty, Datty, Datty” and jerked the pillow out of my hands.  He squeezed the pillow, closed his eyes, buried his face in his dad’s pillow and inhaled.  He let his breath out in a loud sigh and looked at me and smiled. That look on his little face spoke volumes.  It was as if his dad was actually there holding him in his arms & it was his dad he was breathing in, not just his dad’s pillow.  He abruptly  (as abruptly as he could with a pillow bigger than him in his arms) turned around and tried to angrily saunter out of the room, which of course was coming across as an even more pronounced waddle due to the large pillow.  I couldn’t help but laugh, so I tried to keep it quiet.

As I finished making my bed I thought how sweet it was that he was that attached to his dad’s pillow.  I suddenly had a vision of a pillow I had had only a couple of years earlier.  It had been retired to the linen closet I believe, old and stained.  It had been my dad’s pillow.  I started to giggle, because I suddenly realized that until recently I had never had a pillow that had actually been bought for me.  My whole life I had just stolen my dad’s.  I didn’t call it stealing of course, I called it borrowing.  I can’t really remember how I got a hold of my dad’s pillow’s in the first place, but I just remember how much more comfortable they were than mine, and how I could go to sleep so easy because they smelled like Dad.

I remember one time Dad brought home a new pillow that he had actually gone and picked out himself.  Within a month that pillow was mine.  I just switched my pillow (that had actually been his in the first place) with his new one.  I think he fussed, took it from me a couple of times, I took it back and eventually it was mine.  As much as Dad would fuss about me always stealing his pillows, he always let me keep them in the end.

At that moment I knew exactly how my son felt.  He couldn’t hug his dad whenever he wanted, but he could hug his pillow.  Sometimes when he wanted a hug from Daddy, Daddy was at work.  When he’s older and gets in an argument with his dad, he may be too proud to say I’m sorry, and ask for a hug, but he can hug Daddy’s pillow.  When he moves away and Daddy isn’t there, maybe he’ll be lucky enough to have Daddy’s pillow with him.  As I sit here writing this now, I wish I still had my Daddy’s pillow.  I’m 36 years old, but I’d still like to be able to hug my dad whenever I feel like it.  I am lucky in that I do get to see my dad often, but sometimes I too am filled with pride and I don’t hug as much as I would like. 

I understand the security that my son gets from his Daddy’s pillow and I’m glad for the memory I got from watching him with the pillow.  I wonder what my dad would say if he went to lay his head down and his pillow were gone?  Would he remember a time gone by or would he just think he was losing his mind, and wonder what on earth he had done with his pillow?  I’m thankful for the relationship that my husband has with his son, to make him want his Daddy’s pillow.  I’m thankful that I had a dad whose pillow I wanted to steal, and who let me steal it.  I’m thankful for all the memories, and especially all the pillows.  I love you Daddy.