Help me find my sister, please share.

Her name is more than likely not Christina. When a child is adopted at birth, the adoptive parents typically change the name that the biological parents gave the child. Please keep that in mind as this is passed around. Thank you for taking the time to read this. This world is a beautiful place, filled with amazing people. You never know who you know, who may know someone else, whose reads this in their feed while having their morning coffee.

Barefoot...

Take me to a place where needs are melon void. Where trees swallow my attention and dirt cuddles with my toes. I want to run threw a meadow to find a creek, and splash like a child, searching for treasure. I want to chase a dragonfly that danced by my shoulder, down into a valley blessed with black eyed suzie’s. Though we spook grazing deer, they do not run, just watch. As I would breath deep and smile, lying on my back, allowing the sun to cradle me in its arms. I wish this moment could take my hand and guide me to this peace every time I close my eyes.

Love, Mother

From your dreams,

to your nightmares,

from your smiles,

to your tears.

 I catch you when you fall, and I chase away your fears.

I’m up all night with worry, as your independence grows.

I hope I’ve showed you enough kindness, and that all your goodness shows.

 I will never forget the things that happened to shape your little smiles.

Nothing could keep us apart not even a million miles.

So my three children, I ask of you, always love each other as I do you.

                                                            

Orange Juice

    I wrote this while having a conversation with my children at breakfast. Sometimes our children are the best story tellers...

One day in a small blue house on a small gray road, lived a boy and his parents.  They had a dog and a cat and a swimming pool too.

The boy asked his mother, “Can I have an orange?”

“Yes, my child.” she said with a smile.

He peeled and peeled till the orange was ready. The boy asked, “Can I make juice?”

“Sure.” said his mother smiling once again. She got him a pitcher and a bowl and told him to squeeze. His little hand clutched tightly around the orange the juice dripped down and around his fingers into the bowl. 

Then the boy asked his mother,

“What if I had a thousand oranges all peeled in a swimming pool, and I was barefoot and I jumped in and squished them all and then it was a big pool of orange juice that I could swim in every day?”

“Well my son I guess you’d have to have a really long straw to drink out of then.“ The mother replied.

“So what if I got a hundred chickens that laid eggs every day and I would make breakfast for everyone in the world every Sunday?” The boy said.

“Well you would certainly have enough orange juice for all of them to drink.” The mother added.

“Yeah, but then where would I swim?” The boy asked.

“Swim? Silly boy where would you keep all your chickens?

“In daddy’s garage” The boy said.

“In the garage? Where would Daddy park the trucks?” The mother asked.

“I don’t know, in the yard.” The boy looked confused.

“So where would all the people wait for the breakfast?” The mother asked her son.

“They would line up all down the street and you can bring them out there food to the pool where they would be eating. They would all have big long straws to drink up the juice and it wouldn’t cost them any money so they will come back every week.”

“Oh I see.” His mother said trying not to chuckle.

The mother and son were on their forth orange and the bottom of the pitcher was barely full. The boy was very tired of squeezing the oranges.

He said to his mother with disappointment, “Mother, I don’t want to squeeze any more oranges for this juice. I guess the pool isn’t going to work and the chickens will probably have to eat a lot too, and if the trucks were in the yard where would I play? This was a bad Idea mother.”

“You are probably right about the pool, the chickens and the yard but it’s always fun to imagine things isn’t it?” The mother said to the boy.

“Yes mother, but it’s hard to make orange juice.”

“Yup it sure is.” Said his mother.  

My Place

Of all of the places, in all of the world, I would like to take you to a field. It is a place that completes me. As a child I ran and grew with the wild milk weed at my side. Heated by the sun, and warm with love; This breathless landscape was sown together with morning glories; black eyed Suzie’s and Queen Ann’s lace.

            The beautiful smells of strawberries, blackberries and raspberries would tickle at my belly. The sounds of the poplar trees flirting with the wind would make me feel safe. Everything was always okay as long as their leaves sang gently into my ears. Over their whispers I could hear the buzz of locus and the soft “who” of the morning doves searching for love.

            Depending on the flowers, which were in bloom, I knew if the summer was slipping from my fingers and falling asleep in the autumn breeze. When the mustard plants grew tall and milk weed bloomed like little corn husks, the fire flies disperse, I begin to sadden. Then at that moment, more than ever, I would urn for the smell of apple blossoms and lilacs. Returning my thoughts of spring. They encircle this perfect spot like a picture frame, holding my memories for eternity. These amazing trees strong and tall, bared the fruits that filled my creativity.

            It is amazing how a square of weeds can raise a child up to respect life and to love unconditionally. Such a cherished place shall never go to waste. I now as an adult with my family live here. I built my dream where it all began. I will now and forever grow with the ever changing seasons. My family and I will blossom with the spring and sleep with the fall, making jam with its berries and pies with its apples. We will feed our hearts and souls until one day, at Gods call, we return to its rich soil.

What is love?

Love is a moment in time when life stops. 
Sorrows, are over come with passion,
and hopes that the night will never end.

I wrote this for my husband who I love ever so deeply.

Judgement

The hopelessness in my heart draws a vivid picture.

Souls of the wicked grow more commonly then the tears they create.

To obsess about the virtues of the unforgivable,

Is to become as they will you to be, as if a contracted illness.

To do as you will, to except the failures of others,

Is to free yourself of the pain they have laid before you.

You are of your own creed.