What I Learned From A Rubber Ducky

Lots of things are perspective, you know? Like we went to see a duck in the water at Point  Park in Pittsburgh. It was a rubber ducky, you know “cute and yellow and fuzzy?” like Ernie sings about? Only this ducky was forty feet tall.  He towered over the point and over all the people gathered there for pictures with him.  He was overwhelming. If I was a little kid he would give me nightmares.   He was too much of a good thing.

Then there is your dog’s perspective.  I remember my dog Goldie. She was perfect, except once in a while she would come home after being out in the field and rolling in deer manure. She got an injured look on her face when we held our noses and exclaimed loudly and washed all her perfume off. Because that’s what she thought all that deer manure was. Lovely perfume. It was a matter of olfactory perspective.

And today? I saw little red flags outlining a triangle concrete barrier in the road.  You know those barriers that funnel the cars in one way and out the other?  Well the little red flags were on wires and they said, SMI on them, “snow removal Inc.” 

Now snow being good news is definitely a matter of perspective. Ask them at Rock and Snow in New Paltz New York and Rich and Andrew will say, “Snow is a good thing.”  They rent and sell outdoor clothes and equipment for all seasons and for all kinds of rock climbers. They think snow is good.

The people who make a living from SMI think snow is a good thing. A matter of perspective.

So the is the fact that I’m the wife of a guy that’s 59 years old and sat and watched the younger set dance at my brother’s wedding this weekend.  I always felt sorry for my mom and her sisters when they just sat and watched us dance at a cousin’s wedding.  Little did I know that they sat and talked about us and everything and enjoyed themselves. Just like I did talking to my cousin Pam and Joyce and my sister. We had as much fun chatting as they had dancing.

It’s a matter of perspective.  But a forty foot rubber ducky is still really, really big.

What I Learned From Rachel

  What I Learned From Rachel

Rachel sat on top of a bus during a festival in India. She taught ESL in NYC. She drank out of a clear running stream in Poland.  She befriended and lived with a family in Germany. She stood in a public square for hours in her bare feet to raise awareness for poor children who have no shoes.  She made latte with hazelnut my favorite drink.

She also was homeless from the age of 16, living with friends and family until she came to us when she was 21. Now she is a Clapp. She calls us for comfort or advice.  She comes home to us  at Christmas. She sends mother's and father's day cards.

Rachel is a hero, beautiful inside and out. Her orphaned situation DOES NOT dictate who she is. She loves people abundantly and isn’t bitter.  She's joyful, enthusiastic, determined, and a little stubborn. She diligently rises above the hand she was dealt. We mainly cheer her on from the sidelines.

More and more she sees clearly who she is. She’s proud of her Polish heritage and her big original family. She is also proud to be a Clapp. We’ve always been proud of her, but sometimes we have to brag about our kids a little, so . . .    

The last time she was home, she said, “There’s hasn’t been a blog about me.” So here it is. My apologies if it sounds like a eulogy, Rachel is alive and well.  But really, don’t you want to hear how wonderful people think you are? Isn’t it a little late to tell them when they’re laid out in a coffin?

So let them know how wonderful they are.

I love you, Rachel. Here’s hoping your mascara is waterproof.

What I Learned In My Name.

Leslee. I met another one the other day, another L E S L E E. She was the first one I ever met face to face.

Lesley was a last name in England. It means, “dweller in the gray fort.” At first I thought, “great, my name means some big old gray house.”  

But then I thought, “Princesses dwell in gray forts.”  And Roger means “good with a spear.”  So they kind of go together right?

A fort is big and safe with a moat, and a drawbridge, and thick, thick walls.  My fort also has windows that stream light out into the dark so you know where to come. It has soft beds and yummy dinner. (even though we might have take out.)  

It’s a safe place for friends, family and extra family.  My dear extra kids have rooms here: Shayna and Rachel and Heather and Sami Jo. They have found peace and a warm bed in my fortress at 250 Grove Street, or in my former fortress in Tunkhannock. Now my house is open to Shayna’s beautiful son Townes, and Heather’s beautiful boy, Ayden. 

Emma still has a room here, and books in my basement even though she was only my kid for a summer.  Other kids have room here: Jen Clapp and Jesse Littleton have been added by falling in love with my kids, and Baby Clapp has a room reserved for him/her already.   

Looking at all those people, and all of you who read this, it’s a good thing I dwell in a fort. I have enough room for all of you and for friends I haven’t met yet. Stop by. I’ll leave the light on.  

What I Learned From Anny's Old Shoes

When Anny Clapp was a little girl--I hope this doesn’t make me look like a bad mother-- she had black patent leather shoes that she loved, loved, loved. She wore them all the time. One day I realized that they were way too small for her and had been for some time. 

She put up with them because she had no idea that we could just run down to Ames and get her new ones. Her toes were cramped and couldn’t grow because of those ratty old shoes.  

Allow me to mix my metaphors.

Lately, my life has been closed doors. I wanted to do that. The door closed. I wanted to try this. The door closed and locked. I wanted to be there. The door slammed. I wanted to go here . . . you get the picture.
Could it be that God is closing all those doors because I am still wearing those worn- out, too- small, shoes? He might have newer, bigger, and flashier shoes waiting for me if I would just bring myself to take off the old ones. I don’t know what He has in mind just like Anny didn’t know I’d buy her a new pair of shoes.  

My patent leather shoes could be a habit I need to break.  A rut I’m in. A fear of saying, “Well, I’ll try it but I never did it that way before.” My binding old shoes could be the idea that because I’m 57 I’m too old a dog to move into something new.

But Anny’s feet couldn’t grow if I left her in the old shoes. Maybe I can’t grow until I allow God to throw out the old shoes and give me new ones.