A Scarlett Kind of Christmas

There's got to be a name for it... that blissful, bittersweet space of time in between all the presents being opened and getting back to work. Everyone lays about like so many stuffed sausages, deliriously happy, exhausted, glad it's over but then sad. The Moms get a bit forlorn when they think about all the mess that's got to be cleaned up, with no motivated helpers to be found. 

There's this tension that begins to awaken by the time Halloween rolls around. I know that I should have already done a lot of things -- bought gifts, planned my decor, written things down. But instead, I have just rolled through the days, putting out fires as they pop up, hoping that I can still pull out a Christmas miracle. When my kids were young, I'd always warn them that Christmas was going to be really small this season. Somehow I don't remember that ever happening, even in the leanest of years. But the best one ever was when we were living in an old, beat-up camper on our land. We were completely immersed in working on our new house, and since apparently I don't multi-task well, I had not bought a thing and had no decorations up anywhere, except a 12-inch tiny tree that my Mama had given us. It was now Christmas Eve day and the Grinch was looming. I swung into a local gas station, where they had live (read: dead) trees still for sale. I negotiated the guy down to $5 for a decent-looking one. He strapped it to my roof and I headed off to Kmart, where I found paintball guns for the boys and a beautiful doll for our daughter. I scrounged around and found presents for immediate family and then hauled it all home. Ken and the boys dragged the tree into the house (which was dried-in, with a roof and not much else) and nailed it to the floor. We strung lights and a few ornaments on it and had the best Christmas ever. It's good for me to remember that year, when I'm already getting stressed in October. 

Meanwhile, back to the stuffed sausages laying all over the living room. This year, we ate and ate, rushing to and fro to get it all in. This was not a good thing, because we promptly got a stomach virus, starting on Christmas day. I'm sitting here now, wrung out with joints aching and cracking all over. That brief twilight moment after all the gifts were still fresh in our minds was overtaken with devilment and Montezuma's Revenge. The torn paper and ribbon, crumbs of every kind, and a basic dusting of sugar is covering all the important parts of the house. I guess I'll have to default to that old adage, "I'll think about it tomorra..."

My Haunted House

The question that many people ask, within a few minutes of stepping inside our house, is: "Is it haunted?!" It's a 116-year old Folk Victorian with a gothic wrought-iron fence around the front yard. The ceilings are 12-feet tall, with plaster walls about a foot thick, windows leaded and wavy. There's five coal fireplaces and every area seems to have ten doorways.  A warren of rooms lead you from one to the next. It's got porches all around and ancient plants deeply rooted in the yard. There's nothing new about it, except where tasteful and careful kitchen and bathroom necessities have been updated. The old floors don't creak. They were finely joined, with many details, by some insanely skilled craftsmen. The mantels are each a work of art and have been preserved by past, loving owners. We were lucky to buy it, right at the bottoming-out of the downturn. We had to trade in our much-loved homeplace on acreage to get it, but it left us without debt and in a place that makes a dandy Papa and Yaya house. The question still looms: is it haunted?

Our society seems to think there are ghosts everywhere. There's all sorts of reality shows and people chasing poltergeists. Thousands of movies feature gore and havoc stirred up by displeased, floating souls. In my realtor treks, I am often asked by clients if I believe a house is haunted. Sometimes there are freakout sessions because of a strange doll or hole in the wall or a spooky feeling in some of the houses I show. This happens a lot. But I have my own story that I'd like to share...

Ken and I bought a huge fixer-upper home from an estate. A dead guy's estate. A man who had, unfortunately, killed himself. Thankfully, he didn't do it on the property. That might have been too difficult to deal with. There was a profound somberness as we talked with the family and entered into this huge project. The house was only half built and standing roof-high in weeds. Our goal was to bring joy to it, even as a testament to God's life-giving spirit. At the time, we had two toddlers and were pregnant with a third. Ken worked nights and we were living in a friend's basement apartment. I would leave out after breakfast to work on the house so he could get some sleep and quiet for a few hours. 
The first day that the children and I walked into the empty house, I heard heavy footsteps upstairs, directly above us. I yelled "Hello!" and carefully proceeded into the hall. Creeping across the downstairs, I kept hailing the ghost, with no response. Curiosity got the better of me as I slowly climbed the stairs. I even hollered out things like, "Hey Ken, honey, somebody's here." (Remember, Ken was back at the apartment in deep snooze by now). Great security tactic when you don't have a weapon on you. Eventually I realized there was nobody else in the house. At least no Body. I got busy and shook off the spookiness, but we didn't stay long. Ken had to work several days of overtime, so he didn't go to the house until a week later. I told him about the phantom that had made his presence known every day we were there. He thought I might be leaning towards the dramatic and brushed it off. 

Bright and early the next Monday, we pulled into the yard. I wondered what Ken was going to think about our little (well, he sounded big) friend. I didn't say a word when he opened the door and walked in. Within a few minutes, Mr. Casper began his heavy trod across the ceiling. Ken jumped, then grabbed a large metal tool. He went into Ninja mode, crouching around corners and anticipating a blood-thirsty mercenary. After an exhausting search with no visible results, he turned to me: "I'm sorry, Rose! I didn't believe you." He then made a call to my Daddy, who made haste to come over to the house. We stood around, hands linked, and prayed over that abode, over the other family, over us. With the most sincere of hearts, we asked the Lord to bind Satan in the name and through the blood of the Lord Jesus Christ. We had a good laugh and went about our business. It took us six months to finish that house, and then lived there quite merrily for the next eight years. The "ghost" was never heard from again. Not a peep, creak or even one chilly draft.

We're not charismatic, heck we're not even non-denominational anymore. We don't watch scary movies and we've never celebrated Halloween. And now we live in a really old house that people want to believe is haunted. So what's my take on all this? From the scriptures, we can find truth about these things. The Bible says that it is appointed once for a man to die, and then the judgement. Once. If you're dead, you're dead. You're not floating around. You're either in heaven or in hell. But the Bible also says that there are spiritual beings, both angels and demons. Good and bad. And there are entities on this planet that we cannot explain. He also tells us that we are to take dominion of this earth and to pray against principalities and powers that are evil. This spiritual warfare, in my opinion, can attach itself to all sorts of things and people. I know that I am not in a bubble, life is not ever going to be perfect, and I may have bad things happen to me at the hand of evil people and things. But I also know that, as a Christian, the Lord is working all things for my good (Romans 8). I have that confidence and do not have to be afraid. When we prayed over the weird spirit that seemed to be in our house, we knew that God had the preeminence. We never had to doubt or to be fearful of what something might do to us. God's on the throne and Satan has to flee in His name. 

When we bought our Victorian, we did as we have learned to do. We prayed and dedicated it to God and His glory. These flawed, sinful souls that live in it are firebrands that He picked out of the flames, redeemed bearers of His mercy. So when someone asks me if our house is haunted, I just tell them, "Yeah, it is. With the Holy Ghost."

A High Calling

In this most childish of seasons, I have been pondering the role of children in our society lately. Every generation tends to bemoan how the next batch is doing...or not doing. As a youngster, I recall the seasoned folks shaking their heads and wishing for the old days.  The truth is, societies do tend to rise and fall in cyclical fashion. We often point to the downturn of the Roman empire as it met its demise over decades of gradual moral slippage, slouching towards mediocrity and decadence until it imploded. 

We've raised four children to adulthood, so now I'm the one clucking and shaking my head. It's easy to raise commentary when you are no longer responsible for little humans. It's easy to forget how difficult it is and also how profoundly tired you were. But meanwhile, I still have my checklist. We used to breed and raise (responsibly, of course) lovely Golden Retrievers. Over twenty years, I saw dogs go from being treated as pets to being adopted out like children. In the same period, I've seen children go from being potential adults to being pets. Children as pets. I think there might be a book with that title. They're cute, with these big, dewy eyes. They're standard issue, for most families. Sure, they come with their package of problems, but if you can find a way to outsource a lot of stuff, maybe you can keep your hands clean. Good luck with that.

I'm just hoping that we will have enough parents in these next few generations that have the gumption to see past the immediate. Because the immediate is what is generally getting answered. Instant gratification, devices on auto-pilot, entertainment at every juncture. They say that the attention span of today's typical elementary child has shortened to a ridiculously few seconds, because of the amount of artificial stimulation that children are receiving these days. Gone are simple pleasures that drag out the minutes and hours and teach us to focus. There are some families that are defying this trend, but they have to be intentional and vigilant to make it stick. 

I made plenty of mistakes in raising our children -- neglect, germs, yelling, not noticing dirty sheets, spending too much time on the phone, being generally selfish and sometimes stupid. At the end of the day, it's only the grace of God that gave us these awesome children who are hard-working, thinking, God-fearing adults. I pray that there will be those in this generation who will look beyond surviving today's crazy bustle to the deeper, nobler, higher things that they have been entrusted with. That they'll see children as a blessing, not a curse. Not as pets, but as the framework of the future. God help us.

Goin' Nuts

We were seeing smoke, almost every day. I'd wake up, walk outside and think somebody must be burning leaves... but then we heard that there were wildfires tearing through the woods. North Georgia was a crazy place, with new flames cropping up every day. The drought did a number on our dear South. We had the hottest, longest summer on record and the skies had no mercy. Our grass went away, til all that was left was moss...my goldfish pond starting looking puny. Nobody wanted to go outside all summer. We waited, not so patiently, for fall, but it never really came. We rolled from Hades right into winter this week, when the sky finally relented and let loose the rain. Drought is a scary thing. Everybody grumbles at first, strangers talk about it to each other in elevators, the weatherman reminds us every hour. But then something wears thin and it begins to worry the earth. We can't help but start to think about what will happen if it never ends. I think about the book of Exodus, about locusts, dust bowls, dying cattle. But then again, I do tend towards the dramatic. Funny, how many things are like the rain after a dry spell. It starts pouring and in short order we forget what we were worried about. Sorta like when my husband was unemployed, then got a job. A few months ago our lips were starting to stretch real tight over our teeth. Feelin' a little parched and gettin' bug-eyed. He gets a job and next thing you know I'm buying recliners and a new mattress, when I probably ought to be tucking dollar bills under the old one. 

It's so easy to get into debt. We slap that credit card down instead of putting stuff on layaway or paying cash. The card is a deceiver. "I'll think about it tomorra." You walk away with your goodies, without paying. But the extortion is looming. Layaway makes us wait. It's not real fun. Until it is. I remember my Mama picking up all the Christmas gifts at stores where she had been paying for weeks. Then I tried it after I acquired children (it's almost unheard of now)...and what joy to retrieve something that's already paid for. There's a giant sinking feeling when your credit card bill comes in the mail, but there's no happy dance quite like paying cash for things. I'm considering just putting an orange and some pecans in everybody's stockings this year. Wouldn't that be special? I am joking, but the truth is that there's eighteen shopping days left and I've only bought one present. Don't tell my grandkids.

Dance to the Music

I get cracked up when I see commercials where you can buy CDs of "the classics." And they're talking about Pink Floyd, not Mozart. I like all sorts of music and at the same time can really hate others. Music is spiritual in nature. It burrows right down into your soul and tells you things. It makes you dream, makes you mad, makes you crazy, makes you think. I marvel at the immense power it has. 

As a child, I heard my MawMaw humming as she swept. It changed what she was doing. I used to sneak out to my Daddy's Volkswagen Beetle and flip stations until I found songs that I liked. Georgie Girl, tunes by the Beatles, Up-Up-and-Away, the Mamas and the Papas. It was fascinating and forbidden at the same time. The public pool and the skating rink were dangerous, because of the boys and especially the music. Christmas was about the shows that came on once a year, with their delightful verses woven throughout. And church, well...there was nothing more beautiful than voices lifted in praise, hushed arias to the Lord. In fifth grade, our teacher introduced us to Mozart, Bach, Beethoven, Haydn, Schubert -- music that stopped time for me. My Mama bought me albums at a yard sale for a dollar -- Beethoven's Ninth Symphony, his Pastoral Symphony and then a whole whopping sixty minutes of Mozart. I died and went to heaven. My friends thought I was weird. It was the most deliriously gorgeous thing I had ever heard. 

Time marched on. Music, a smorgasbord of delights -- sweet and sour, tangy, spicy, creamy, smooth, bitter, salty, from subtle to insane. I added likes and dislikes to my palate, ever thankful that I was lucky to get to play the piano, my flute and sing in the church choir. Music doesn't ask you, it compels you. It brings other worlds and the field next door right on up to your brain, your soul. I remember the first time I got to see the Nutcracker, with its Pandora's box of melodies springing out. The story came alive because Tchaikovsky churned it. Hearing Messiah and the Hallelujah chorus, then "For Unto Us a Child," not to mention the incomparable Alleluia at the end -- I heard angels. Then again, how I love an earthy folk tune, sung by a husky, time-worn soul. A traveler who has seen those places I haven't, whose heart has dragged the depths. There are mysteries there and at once all that is familiar. There's rock, pop, swing, jazz. And so much dancing to be done.

When the holidays roll around and Christmas peeks at us from the bend, I love to drag out all the decor and music. Recent years have cheapened it, as they start playing it right after Halloween and at every store and street corner. No longer do we pull out the Perry Como album once a year from its fragile sleeve and play it with the white noise and pops and scratches. We open an app on our phone and conjure up instant gratification, any time we like. There's good and bad in that, but I just don't want to lose the magic. It's kind-of like the cure for anxiety and the eating of a chocolate truffle, both... The anticipation, the taking-in of it, the melting into the soul. In the end, it's about that crystalline moment where the cares of the world fall away and, if even for just a little while, all is well.

There's No Place Like Home

There it was, a castle rising out of the ground. Behind it were the rough and tumbled mountains, all golden and bronze. Crowds of people lined up in their cars and then in a queue to get inside it, freezing and blown by an unexpected onslaught of northern wind. My daughter and I had abruptly made our plans, booked a cheesy, cheap motel, cancelled all other projects, grabbed an extra friend and drove four hours up to Asheville, North Carolina for the weekend. All because a chum had given me the idea a few days before. It just seemed like we needed some early holiday cheer -- a trip to the Biltmore House, all gussied up for Christmas. Even though it's a tourist trap, costing way too much, it truly is splendid. Liz and I love to tour old homes, and this one is the Mack Daddy. From the smooth Indiana limestone to the finely hewed mantels, the craftmanship that makes up this mansion is overwhelming. Gargoyles on the corners, statues overseeing the edges, soaring glass conservatory, a library to die for, fireplaces everywhere, wood and stone, exquisitely crafted etchings and carvings...it would take weeks to really properly examine all the details. 

At first glance, a rich man's ability to command and pay an army of workers to build him a monument might seem superfluous, useless, too much. It is certainly nothing I can relate to, as far as being the rich man. But I have been on the other end - the worker, the artisan. The wealthy who have employed me to paint, create, and decorate have done me a great service these many years. They have helped us to feed our family, to own our home, to enjoy the fruits of our labors. But even more importantly, they have given me the opportunity to perform my crafts with abandon. The things that I am gifted with, I do not lay claim to... I wasn't trained in them, I didn't chase them down. They were given to me by God and He put internal compulsions inside that I cannot explain or even sometimes control. When people pay you to swim in that, well, it's just gravy.

These days, it seems that there is some sort of righteousness connected to being jobless and homeless. Though Ken and I have never been without a home, we have experienced rounds of unemployment and have had our trials, though in America I find it hard to believe there's much true hunger or suffering. Go to a third-world country and try to make a case... Currently, however, the trend is to act as if the rich man is the devil. I know several devils, wealthy ones and dirt-poor ones. Having money doesn't mean you are one. Looking at this garish, over-the-top mansion this weekend made me think about all the thousands of people who fed their children because a monied tycoon employed them to build and sustain his empire. Even today, as the wheels of commerce turn and myriads show up to gape at it, a hundred years later, scores of jobs have been created to keep it all moving. The American dream, where scads of poverty-stricken individuals, children without shoes or family, the humble of the earth, have managed to scrap their way up to the top and build mansions. Or a humble cottage. Or buy an RV and travel the land. Where people like my folks, one from extreme poverty, one from dysfunction, can work hard and change their world. I'm not only talking about wealth, but possibilities. They are still here for the taking.

We wound up our tour and sat outside at the stables, drinking hot cocoa and looking at the magnificent house and the glorious sky behind it. Somehow it suddenly seemed intimate, not so grand, not so impossible. We had peeked into the life of other people, with far different lives than us. People who were also now pushing up daisies. They had a few brief years, with money, yes, but also with sins and trials and indigestion, just like us. It made me think of my own family, my husband, my children and grandchildren, our sweet domicile. I think I'll keep 'em.

Bah Humbug!

I never intended to become Scrooge. I've always loved the delightful promise of Christmas, with twinkling lights, wonderful smells, the excitement of the season. The baby in the manger has held my heart since childhood, so the advent and celebration of His birth holds much meaning for me. When we had our four babies, it was like getting to be a kid all over again. Their new discoveries peeled the years off our old cynical selves. And then grandbabies came, with their innocence and joy. I had no clue that was part of the fun that arrived with the treasure of a baby.

But something happened. Maybe I've just gotten tired. Or older. Or really out of shape. Never mind, all that has kind-of happened. After Halloween hits, the pressure begins to mount. Layers and layers of guilt from all directions press onto my psyche. What I should do. What I don't do. What I will do. What I won't do. Food, more food. Gifts and thoughtfulness. Not to mention forgetfulness. Thanksgiving is looming. Gotta get the trees up, get the house cleaned. How will I do that turkey this year? Butter and more butter. More and more guilt. I start thinking about last year's resolutions and how this next year's are starting to seem like a broken record, played how many times? And are we gonna have those potato yeast rolls or just buy some packaged ones? I want everybody here, everybody. No grousing or griping about this or that, what am I supposed to bring? I have no idea. I'm making the turkey, with rosemary and butter up its hiney. And some jello. Bring whatever you like. It'll all work out. I haven't even read the Thanksgiving edition of Southern Living, much less the Fall edition. That insane pecan pie on the front will take me a week to figure out, so I guess I'll pick one up at Walmart. Speaking of pecans, they're dropping all over the backyard and I can't even get the ones picked out that I've got sitting in a monstrous bowl in the living room. And that's just Thanksgiving. Then there's four weeks to Christmas. A mural to paint, three houses to decorate for clients and obligations to city events. Don't mention the real estate. Or how I've neglected pretty much everybody I love this year. 

Ah, there it is. My people. We run about, making money and projects, only to forget about the people. It all starts with good intentions, where that's exactly what we are doing: taking care of our own. Then it morphs into the tyranny of the urgent and chaos and mayhem, until we've forgotten who or why. How do we change it? Here in America, we've made the holidays into a strange melee of consumerism. It's what makes the world go 'round. How do we make it stop? 

We don't really have true winter here, in our lovely South. There's very few snow days, though usually a day or two of some really bad ice. There's no lingering with a snowflake tipping onto your tongue or long months curled up with a book next to a fire. But we do have Christmas. Let's take this year to be intentional about our lives. I am going to vacate for a day, sometime in the next few....and write down what each person in my family means to me. I am going to put to pen all the things that I'm thankful for. I'm not going to promise to lose a hundred pounds or change the world. But I'm resolving to make these holidays better, to have a plan and not just wait on Chernobyl to happen. To seek the face of the Lord who made it all and who makes it all worth it. Maybe I'll just cancel that confounded magazine.

Special Christmas Tour!!!

I adore old houses. Their walls have seen lives unfold before them, but they keep them secret. I ponder at all that might have conspired in the 116-year-old house I live in. I wonder if there were babies born here, if people died here, what kinds of love and pain were made here... We are adding to the layers of words, memories and thoughts swirling inside this peaceful abode. Many people want to have new houses, to make them their "own," to not have to live in other peoples' dirt and mayhem. It is indeed a pleasant experience to move into a fresh, shining place that is full of possibilities. But then, there is something wise about an old place. It tells me that we are not here forever, that we are just passing through. Stop and savor it, ponder eternity. Slow down. Sit a spell on the broad, gentle porch. Curl up toes in the old moss in the yard. Look up at the old pecan trees in the backyard, spitting their nuts everywhere. Ken and I have loved houses and real estate all of our 34 married years. We have ridden around and stared at architecture, posing scenarios for the different places we see. Our annual anniversary trip in February has usually included tours of homes. We've been all over the southeast, wandering around ancient places and marveling at everything from mansions to wee cottages. Our daughter, Liz, and I love nothing more than to get in on any kind of home tour. It's fascinating to see history and craftsmanship, be it rich or humble.

This year, Villa Rica is having its own show-down. Suffice it to say, I am promoting our Tour of Homes this week. We have several delightful, historic homes: cottage bungalows and Victorians...and a beautiful old church. It will be on Saturday, December 10. We are having two different tour times: 11-1:00, which includes lunch(!) and then a second tour from 6-8:00, which includes heavy h'ordeuvres (that's snacks, ya'll) and drinks. The price is $25 and includes the lunch (the early one) or heavy snacks/drink (the late one). Here is where you can go to order tickets: http://www.downtownvillarica.com/events/tour-of-homes/ -- or you can purchase them at the Main Street office in Villa Rica (106 Temple St, Villa Rica -- 678-840-1160). Each tour will begin at Uncorked on Main, located at 129 Main Street in downtown Villa Rica. There will be lovely music, musicians, hosts, Christmas lights, and of course, FOOD! Main Street will have shuttles running to each property, bringing you right to the doors. What a lovely addition to the Christmas season. Bring your friends and loved ones (hey -- it can be their gift!) for a fun day and then do some shopping in downtown Villa Rica!

Dog Nappers

We had a bad neighbor. He was always putting notes in the mailbox about our dogs (or dog), about how they were killing his chickens. He never actually called or talked to us face-to-face, but he threatened us via notes taped to our fence. He even sent a cop one time to give us a special message. We were confused. We had 4-5 large Golden Retrievers at any given time, but often when his cryptic messages arrived, the fence was closed and nobody was missing. Not to say our dogs never got out....they did, and often, unfortunately. Golden Retrievers are never content to stay home, even with five acres, multiple playmates and a splashy creek to play in. If they believe there are other humans within shouting distance, besides the half-dozen living in your house, they will seek them out as well as any body of water located within a few miles. More than once, we found them 4-5 miles away, where they'd trolled down the Dog River for a fun afternoon of socializing and playing in the creek. I'm not excusing our slum-dog ways of forgetting to shut the gate, not keeping the fences tight, or failing to pay attention to all sorts of things...it's just a fact that we were busy and often distracted (particularly me). So when one day we came home after a long day of work and school, opened the (then-shut) gate and rolled up the long driveway to no dogs, we began to parse together the fact that even though the gate was indeed shut and locked, we were missing two of the four dogs. The other two happened to be inside the house. To this day, we think that he let the dogs out, but we can't be sure.

After much calling of neighbors and driving about the streets around us, we got concerned. After checking with the pound and putting many miles on the van, we began to be despondent. We started distributing flyers everywhere. We made a map and with multiple kids in the car, covered half the county with our brochures. Time and weeks went by. One of our sons, Daniel, was particularly vigilant. When school was out each day, he'd implore me to get out with him and hit the streets we hadn't flyered yet. One day, I (of course) was out shopping when a man called our house and talked to the boys. He said that he knew where our dogs were and that they were being taken care of, that he might call back sometime, but that he wanted to be sure we would be responsible dog owners before he decided to bring them back. Good luck with that. When I checked on the number, I discovered that it was from a payphone at a trailer park 10 miles away. On another day, a woman called and told me she had almost hit them when she was driving by the river. I noticed her name on the caller ID: Debra S________. We must have talked for 20 minutes or so. She asked all sorts of questions about them and said that we might should look near that part of the river. We did, with no luck.

More weeks went by. We despaired of ever seeing Chloe and Bethany again. Then another call came. This time from a woman who had been talking to people at the Corn Crib trailer park when she saw two magnificent Golden Retrievers at a woman's trailer. She thought that they didn't seem to belong there. She couldn't remember which trailer or street, but suggested I start canvassing the area to find them.  Daniel, Jesse, Liz and I headed that way. We went door-to-door, until a homeowner asked us to wait a minute. I heard her printer running inside the house and she emerged with a picture of Chloe. She said that the dogs had been at her house for a few days, and she had put up flyers at the local gas station....but then they ran off and they were now down the street at a different house. We pulled down the street to the house, which was locked up tight. We could hear dogs inside and in the back yard, but no one was answering. A lady walked up and asked what we needed. We asked her if these people had any Golden Retrievers and she said yes, they did. I was about to faint. She said, "But they ain't your dogs. Her boyfriend gave her those dogs. They're show dogs." She asked me what their names were. I told her and she said (no kidding), "That's not your dogs. These dogs' names are Buster and Katie." Oh. My. Word. 

We went to the animal control office, where a policeman told us that they didn't have time, but that if we wanted, we could stake out the place and call 911 when someone came home. Daniel and I set up reconnaissance on the hill above the trailer and waited. Soon, a boy came outside into the yard. We called 911 and waited on the police to arrive. The policeman asked the boy to release the hounds, and out they flew, nearly knocking us over. I showed him their papers and pictures of them. About this time, Mama Bear arrives, madder than a wet hen. She asked what was going on. We explained our story. The cop filled out a report and asked her for her name. She refused to tell him. Some tough talk ensued and she tried to keep me from hearing her say it. Eventually she whispered it to him, but I heard anyway. Deborah S________. 

Now that's just pure meanness right there. We got our dogs back and that's all that mattered. But I definitely wanted to punch her in the nose. 

The Short, Wonderful, Winding Road

A driveway is really just a private road. There's plenty of coming and going in a lifetime, and it could be only a practical thing...but it's really so much more. I think of our land, when we first looked at it in 1996. It was so thick with brush and trees on the front side, you couldn't walk through it. We had to circle around the back just to get to the house site. We brought chain saws and machetes and hacked a trail from the road. It was then that I began to realize what we were in for. We worked and sweated for a few days and it was still little more than a walking path. Eventually a tractor was hired and the real muscle was applied. I remember shouting and jumping up and down when that machine started moving. Since he was already there, I had him whack down the front part so we could have a pasture. Ken never forgave me for that. All that front field ever did was erode and look sickly. 

We paid for trucks and trucks of gravel. I never knew there was so much skill involved in laying a strip of crushed rock. Then there came the day when we moved onto the property in our camper and we started using that blessed, 400-foot driveway. Ken and the boys laid out an area to be paved, with three parking pads. I thought it was ridiculous to have that much concrete. It looked like a runway. Ken reminded me that all these kids would one day be driving. I didn't want to think about that part. Then there was that time the menfolk sawed a failing, 50-foot tree and landed it straight onto the pavement (and not on the house). My brain has all these memories of life lived on that place. I see our kids playing monkey-in-the-middle and some kind of baseball-related game in the driveway, always with much yelling and running. There were years and years of basketball games. They would adjust the basketball goal so they could dunk and I would hear loud thumps reverberating off the walls. Each child had an epic story in that driveway. Our oldest, Jon, was running full-tilt down it when one of our 100-pound Golden Retrievers intercepted, causing him to crash and scrape his hip and elbow down to the bone. Our second-born, Daniel, decided to race his Pa down it (Pa was driving the car. Daniel was running), slipped on the gravel and got his leg run over. Try explaining that to the emergency room doctor. Miraculously, he was (mostly) okay. Our third-born, Jesse, hitched a ride, grabbing onto a ladder that was extending out of his Pa's truck, only to get bounced high in the air and into space when the truck  skidded onto the concrete. The law of gravity prevailed. Then there was fourth-born Liz, who had the misfortune of backing over two of our animals. Don't ask. 

I think of the joy of coming home from somewhere, children running out with laughter and smiles to greet me. Pa always talked about the way it felt to pull in there after a long day at work, how he could breathe once he turned off the road. In the end, it wasn't about just that house, or that property, or that driveway. It was about a place called home, where you could be ugly and still be loved. Somewhere, where you felt safe and knew that the earth was going to keep turning. Not everyone's home is like that, but I pray that some way, somehow they can find that place. In this life or the next. 

Wishing and Hopin'

I hauled my four kids all over metro Atlanta, looking for a perfect piece of land.  We drew a circle around Norcross, GA, where Ken worked at the big Lucent plant….anything within an hour of there was fair game.  I’d throw everybody in our pimped-out conversion van with  PBJ sandwiches, a box of Little Debbies and a jug of frozen water.  We’d map out our route and then drive around looking for land.  We did this for years.  This was our main form of entertainment and certainly the main reason I put so many miles on that van. It had 290,000 on it when we sold it to an enterprising paint crew.  We’d finish school before lunch and I’d pull out of the driveway, so excited that I had to make myself slow down and not get another ticket.  The cops in Cobb County are not very sympathetic to people like me….I never have figured that out.  They must have some sort of heat-seeking beacon that finds me.  I cry, I argue, I act stoic, I tell them funny tales….but none of those tactics work.  I tell them about my kids and how I was distracted by the bow and arrow that my son was shooting or the addition of a stray cousin was just too much for me to keep my focus.  But in a cold, hard voice the cop tells me to hand over my license and registration.  They never act like they like me. Why is that?  Everybody likes me. Well, everybody but cops and librarians.  If they could know that I understand the rules but that they don’t apply to me. If only.

Me and the kids would hike all over the land, some of it beautiful, some of it ugly and barren.  We’d narrow down the places we liked, and then we’d haul Papa out there on the weekend.  We’d find a piece we liked or an old homeplace that needed renovating..we’d put an offer on it, contingent on our house selling, and then wait.  We did a lot of waiting.  After we put our house up for sale, we waited over 2 years before it sold.  Do you know how hard it is to keep your house “show-ready”with four young children who are home all the time, just so people can look at it and say, “Well, the floor plan is weird”?  Or – they’d put a contract on it and we’d wait for a month and at the last minute the lender would figure out that these people couldn’t qualify for the loan.  I began to get very jaded with real estate agents (maybe that's why I decided to become one later?).  I'd tell them over and over what I wanted to see -- either a house on land or just plain acreage.  How hard can that be?  They'd take me out to look. We'd pull up into some cul-de-sac in a neighborhood and there would be this cookie-cutter split-level house, when I had clearly told them we wanted land, not an acre in a subdivision.  Later, I found out that the realtor's mantra is "Buyers are liars and liars are buyers."  Well, I hate to lie and I certainly don't buy things, particularly large investments, that I don't want.  When I’d pray, I would get very frustrated that God was holding up this process.  Well-meaning people would say that maybe we weren’t supposed to move.  But we had to move, had to get out of Marietta/Smyrna.  It felt like we were aliens in a foreign land.  Now that we’ve been in west Georgia all these years, I am still astonished at how much I feel at home here. 

We wanted to get out of debt.  We had already bought and sold several fixer-uppers since early in our marriage.  We had a dream of fixing up and selling homes until we were able to pay cash for one.  We had read and heard Larry Burkett and Dave Ramsey, but particularly the Scriptures that said, “The borrower is servant to the lender.”  We had seen other people do some pretty crazy stuff, and we really didn’t know we couldn’t do anything, so in our youth and ignorance we dove in.   People talk about how wallpapering with your spouse can break up your marriage….honey, we’d already tore out, put back, fixed up, chinked it, sawed it, spliced it, painted, sold it and moved 7 times before we’d been married 6 years.  Every year we either bought a fixer upper or had a baby.  When we were pregnant with one, we bought a big 5 bedroom, 3 bath house that was half-built and we finished it.  I painted, stained, sanded, etc. every inch of that house myself while carrying a 11 pound, 2 ounce baby in my womb, breathing and ingesting every known fume to mankind while hanging precariously on a ladder.  Actually, it was a good situation, since my big belly hung perfectly between the rungs and acted as a sort-of counter balance.  I have worried about that child, however, and wondered if that’s why it took him so many years to learn to read. We eventually did find our land -- a serene 5 acre, rolling piece of heaven where we built a lovely farmhouse while living in a camper. I remember those difficult days and they seem like a dream. We sold out and moved to Villa Rica four and a half years ago, fulfilling our long-awaited wish of paying cash for a house. We're overhauling a big closet in our old Victorian right now, making it into a bathroom. It's taken us virtually years to get it done, but we're very close to finishing. It's taken us as long to outfit this bathroom as it used to take us to fix a whole house. But who's counting?

Bends in the Road

On the heels of another whirlwind weekend, I stand back and think about the many mysteries of life. About how one goes and one stays. One moment in time can change everything. How scarily, divinely we stand on the edges of bedlam, literally all the time. 

We spent yesterday in north Georgia, at the ordination of our youngest son into the ministry. As he stood at the front, tall and proud, handsome and bearded, I remembered the baby. Long ago and not very far away, he treated my uterus like his personal jungle gym, bouncing from one side to the other, hands and feet dancing. I wanted to name him Isaac, since it means "laughter" and he was having a party in there. We wound up naming him Jesse Caleb because he was strong and it just seemed right. The day that I birthed the 11 pound man-child, I labored without drugs because I had tried an epidural with the first-born (which didn't work well) and then a drug with the second-born (which only made me drunk and unable to cope with the pain). Every time I tried to get up and walk, as I had done before, my afflictions grew more intense than I could bear. Eventually, the midwife urged me to limp into the restroom, thinking I might jostle something loose. As he and my husband talked me through a few contractions, suddenly Jesse began to make his entrance, with me standing up. The midwife yelled for the nurses to bring the cart: "We're having a baby in the bathroom!" What went through my mind were two things: #1 - my Mom and Mother-in-law will miss the birth! - and #2 - I am not having my baby in a bathroom. So I held his head and walked back to the bed, where Ken and Daddy picked me up (no small feat) and carefully laid me down. The next push brought the baby, who presented with the longest cord known to childbirthing, wrapped neatly and tightly around his neck not once, but twice. The next few blurry moments still move through my brain like a movie in slow motion. The panic, the blue baby, the low Apgar score, the team of nurses rushing in. We were afraid to breathe. But then a lusty cry. Pink skin. More fussing. A man-sized sneeze and we all tilted into laughter. It was really years later before I fully contemplated what conspired in that bathroom and how God intervened. If I had remained upright, there's a high likelihood that this child would not have made it. I was compelled to walk to the bed, no matter what it took. Then the midwife knew just what to do to treat him, with a dicey situation looming. 

With deacons and pastors lining up to pray for Jesse and his wife, and then later as his three darling babies were passed around at the reception, I couldn't help but think about how God precisely kept him safe. There are a trio of extra hearts beating because of a split-second decision that came not from wisdom or knowledge, but because that's just how He does it sometimes. There are peoples' lives that Jesse is affecting as he ministers, not to mention the blending of families and his marriage to his lovely wife. In the turning of the pages, we won't always be safe. There are horrible things that happen to good people and stories that don't end like this one. At the same time, none of us knows all that we have been spared from so far....a curve in the road, a narrowly-missed boulder under the water, one more drop of cholesterol down the wrong tube. There are a thousand praises to be made every day for all that we don't know. And a thousand praises more for all that we do.

View from the Gutter

Looking across an exquisite ocean view, with the sun dipping into a lake of fire, I think of this earth and all its scenery, all its substance. In our days filled with technology and hurry, we forget about that giant sphere that's turning underneath our feet. I'm not a tree hugger or an environmentalist, but don't judge me. I love this ravishing place that God made. There are wonders at every turn, though I (and we) forget to notice them. I'm staring now at the magnificent trees just off my porch, leafing out their splendor. Just standing there, showing off, clapping their hands for the glory of God. People want to deny that. I read a comment yesterday from a cynical soul that challenged anyone to come up with just "one shred" of evidence that God exists. Dear man, you have been wounded or perhaps you've gone and puffed yourself up to be your own god. Look out thy window. Look down at your feet. Lay on the earth and feel the warmth, crumble the dirt there that feeds and sustains your health. A massive cycle of symbiosis throbs all around you, yet you imagine that it invented itself. Your cells work in an impossible orchestra, made with such precise design that it defies explanation. You want to argue about all the flaws, about what doesn't work. You hate me for loving Him, for believing in Him. You deny that there is such a thing as sin, yet you rail about the warts. I pray that someday you will see, that the scales will fall and your heart will nearly burst from the love that finally frees you. This not from a place of pride, nay, from the life of a beggar who knows her weakness and yes, warts, but who has been redeemed anyway. 

We're Fancy Now...

Boxes. I resist them. Why do humans like to categorize and pigeonhole themselves into comfortable packages? I'm an Artist. I'm a Realtor. I'm a Mom. I'm a whole pile of things, but I prefer the banner, "I'm a Woman of Great Contrasts." My Daddy always told us to be a tiger on the basketball court, but wear dresses on game day. Dig a ditch but play classical music on the piano. Help the dog birth her puppies but write a song. We're all a mix of beautiful, awful things and we should embrace all of it. On the other hand, maybe not.....

Like today. It is a challenge to have more than one official vocation. I truly am a working artist and a working Realtor, never the twain shall meet. I started out the day with a plan to have two closings, hurrah and hallelujah. Early on, one of them began to crumble and become delayed because of a mortgage issue. So I made another plan: work on my "quilt" (a painted quilt project we're doing for downtown Villa Rica) and caulk my new shower. Then I'd quit at a decent time for the next closing. So I threw off my fancy realtor duds, tossed on a paint shirt and shoes and started on my adventures. When it got to the shower part, I opened the caulk only to find out someone had opened it before me and used half of it. It came from the store that way. Elated. So Zoe the dog and I hoofed it on up to Home Depot (I love it because they let me take her inside!) I was in a hurry and sweating bullets from my first assignment, trying to get done before I had to get gussied up again for the next closing. As I grabbed a cart and headed into the building, I happened to look down at my poor, not-quite-Naired-legs. I realized a serious problem had occurred in my attire. First, I have to interrupt with this: I hate, I mean hate, Spanx. Whoever decided those things were wonderful needs to have their head examined. The only women who can wear those torture devices are women who don't actually need them. Because if you are a fluffy gal with acreage, you might just give yourself a hernia putting them on. This is too much information for, well, anybody, but whatever. I'm too far gone to care. Instead of Spanx I have been buying these awesome, sweat-wicking underwear at Walmart. They have nice long legs to them, they help with chafing and heat. They're kinda silky and work perfectly under dresses. Unfortunately, they only come in gun metal gray and camouflage. There's a reason for that. One evening, I took one of my precocious granddaughters to a public restroom and had to discreetly (I thought) go as well, while we were in there. She hollers out: "Yaya! You have on Papa's underwear!!!" It's really not Papa's underwear. I promise it's mine, even though I definitely did not buy it at Victoria's Secret. So today, yes today, when I looked down and found myself in Home Depot wearing a paint shirt and Papa's underwear masquerading as shorts, I was fairly thankful that I brought the dog. Although she might have drawn extra, unwanted attention to my predicament, here's hoping that people were looking at the dog, not her fascinating owner. 

Blame It On The Moon

The first time I heard the expression "Harvest Moon," I was in college. Some friends and I had driven out to a romantic cliff, where it appeared Noah's flood had carved out a canyon that meandered across the countryside. The blood-tinged, full moon rose out of the woods, coloring everything with a mysterious orange glow. It was so huge, I felt I could touch it. Someone who was with us mentioned that it was a harvest moon. I had seen such orbs before in my life, but didn't know there was a name for it. We gaped at the magnificence of it, until it waned orange, then saffron, then butter, to cream. No one wanted to move under its spell. So we didn't, until the night got nippy and we remembered that tomorrow was still going to happen.

I saw such a moon this weekend. We planned a trip up to see our new grandbaby, because although I had seen him twice, Papa had not been able to get up there yet. I worked too hard this week, starting by Wednesday to feel oddly fatigued and hot. I didn't pay attention until we were almost to Helen on Friday evening. My face was flushed, I had no energy and all my joints were aching. But that moon. We pulled up to our son's home and there it hung, not as much orange as rich yellow. The grands came out with us and stared at it. How come it's so big, Yaya? I don't know, and in a little while it went back to normal size. Magical moon, built for little kids and people who are looking for hope. Steady moon, decades and millennia of circling, soothing beams. 

Speaking of harvest, the next day we went to a small-town parade. It consisted of about 50 tractors of every conceivable size and make, as many horses, mule-driven carriages and wagons, four-wheelers, golf carts, proud cowboys and lots of thrown candy. Not a Corvette in sight. They circled up and back several times to the childrens' delight. The boots and jeans testified of the reality of their work. It was refreshing to see a glimpse of where we came from, still being proudly displayed. There was enough barbecue and sweet tea to feed a small nation. Welcome to Georgia.

Our trip was cut short. I was in a bad way come mid-day and all I wanted to do was curl up in a fetal position and die. We made our way home. I cried when it hit me that I was missing those babies and that our hours and hours of driving, renting a hotel, and sweating it out at the parade had yielded precious little time with our loved ones. I was inconsolable until our son called me and blessed me with his words. 

Tonight I am starting to mend. I went out to walk the dog and looked for the moon, the harvest moon. But it was hidden behind thick clouds. There's been an oil spill, so getting gasoline for our vehicles this week may be a challenge. That led me to a mixture of thoughts as I waited to see if the clouds would part. That sky has been there, well, forever. We've had gasoline-fueled cars for only the last minute of mankind's reign on the earth. Somehow people have made it without all of our modern inventions and conveniences. Even now, many people on this planet don't rely on electricity or gasoline and the moon keeps showing up for them, too. Maybe this week, I'll just lay low, clean my house, actually cook supper and look at the moon every single night. Maybe my body will heal too. I'll blame it on the gasoline.

A Perfect Moment in Time

In this fallen world we live in, there are only a few perfect, fleeting moments that happen. In actuality, there is no perfection in this life and it is quite stupid to make perfection your life's goal. I have seen way too many people that are frozen in their work, creativity, or momentum -- they can't move forward because everything is not perfect. They are afraid to jump in the fray, because something might go wrong. Something always goes wrong! And if you don't jump in, all you get is a sideline picture of life. I would much rather be sopping wet, nasty with bacteria, and yes, even drowning, than to stand pristine on the sideline with everything still intact in its frozen state. Better to be in the muck than to have watched from the balcony. Because of this attitude, I often and usually feel like I am hurtling 120 mph in a rattling, shuddering, ramshackle tube down the highway....always on the cusp of some irrevocable disaster. There are brief moments of serenity between trips, but generally things are pushed right to the edges. Ah, for a simple life.... 

Daniel and Jessica's wedding this weekend was such an endeavor. Up until the hour of the actual ceremony, we were patching together everything we could to make it happen. Too many details to mention, but suffice it to say that there (finally) came the moment when the music started and we all started our procession. Ken walked me down to the front row and we sat down. At that juncture, it seemed to me that the world stood still. The sun was shining warmly, the wind stopped, the trees beamed their golden hues at us from across the lake. In front of us was assembled all the beautiful young people that mean the most to us, dressed in their finest. The lace, the wood, the silk, the gently blown hair, the handsome assembly of muscles, the shined-up shoes and perfect makeup, the smiles, the scents of nature and clean people mixing in a sweet perfume. The music beckoned us to relax and to hear, to relax and enjoy the moment. I was fixed on Daniel's face. He was immensely tall and handsome. He was all muscle and manhood,  broad shouldered and strong. He turned his back to the aisle so that Jessica could make her way across the meadow with her father without him seeing her. He was turned to the minister, who happened to be my brother Jerry. Daniel looked at Jerry's face, his uncle and friend. Jerry, with tears, said, "I love you." All the emotions of the moment poured out as Daniel turned to see his bride for the first time that day. There was Jessica, a perfect vision, her dress a feathered cloud and her eyes huge warm pools. I could not turn away from looking at Daniel's face, there was so much emotion there. It was full of love, happiness, surrender and gratefulness. His tears caused all of us to cry as well. The moment was perfect, one of those rare glimpses of heaven that make us remember that we have so much to be grateful for and so much to look forward to.

Circles of Life and Death

I experienced two parallel universes this last weekend. Death and life. Endings and beginnings. It was surreal, seeing the swirl of the circle of life up close. Bittersweet.

On one side of town, my dear friend's mother, Zora, began to go downhill. She quit eating and drinking and fell into a stupor. On the other side, my pregnant daughter-in-law's (Bailey) blood pressure started going up. She was more than 3 weeks away from her due date. Troubles. Zora slipped further away, each draw of oxygen becoming a trial. Bailey felt the weight of the baby and the struggle of uncertainty looming. Each side was waiting, waiting. The unknown, the crossing-overs, were painfully borne. The breath of life was cherished on each end, one leaving the body, one receiving into the body. Labors began. Gasping, lungs of air. Time, never seeming to go forward. The advent of a baby. The advent of the unknown. As Bailey wrestled with the pain, Zora did too. There were medications for each, one precisely tailored not to hurt a child, the other engineered to ease life away, not so considerate of whether the toxins might hasten death. The toil seemed to never end. Finally, as the waves crested and the daughter cradled the mother, her soul left like a bird in flight. The shell was left, like a thin and fragile egg. Across town, the other mother bore down mightily and as that tide broke, a man-child entered the world, beautiful and creamy. A pitiful, sweet wail lifted over the room. The breath of life, leaving one, entering another. Both are now home, one we can't see, one we can. 

Tears. Relief. Sorrow. Happiness. All mixed together. All the arrangements. Funeral, food, flowers, gifts, homegoing. People everywhere, obligations, love, hugs. Both sides so similar, yet polar opposite. Life and death circling close. Talk of what is new, what is old, what has been, what will be. I am struck with the wonder of it and how dear both the sadness and the joy come to one another, join together, infusing and layering themselves into our souls. 

This is life. I don't want to live in the dread of death and I don't want to miss all the life here either. I am grateful for the beautiful death of a saint who flies home, and joyful for the new grandbaby who brings his own bucket of love with him. How good is this life and how wonderful the promise of the next...

Cake by the Treadmill

A simple life. What in the world is that? I've read and heard admonishments about the need for it, all my adult life. But what is it and how do I get there? 

I think about when my universe was simple, though that's all relative. When I consider the buzzing that's always been inside my brain, it might just be impossible in this life. But there were those childhood summers where time stood still: the nights rich with fireflies, damp grass under our feet, cool baths before bed, nighttime prayers, goodnight kisses and simple dreams. Then early days of marriage and child-rearing, where my life revolved around feeding and cleaning sticky faces, bedtimes, reading by the fire and paying attention to when Daddy got home. My personal writing and reading were done in dashes of time tucked between naps and the next meal. We morphed into years of home schooling, always trying to figure out how to find balance in the huge responsibilities before us. As our fledglings began to leave the nest and I took on work to make ends meet, it got more complicated than ever. At least when our children were at home, I knew without a doubt what my priorities were. As things began to take me away from my beautiful nest, I wrestled with my priorities and the guilt of a complicated life. 

I know, deep down, that there's got to be a better way to manage these things. We live in a world that is rushing all the time. It's plumb crazy, how we're living now. I think back to my husband's grandparents and our visits to them, years ago. Upon arrival, there would be a meal on the table, comprised of leftovers from days past as well as new dishes prepared just for us. We would eat until we were stuffed, then clean up, sit around and talk. We'd walk around the yard, the menfolk would tinker or move something around. Before long, everything was brought back out, warmed up and started over. It was the same old cycle of meals, work and sleep that I experienced with my children. Time for serene talk, laughter, sustenance. You can get fat on that, if you don't have to work too hard for it. Our old folks had seen impossibly hard times in their lives. They scrimped, suffered and survived. Their golden years were spent in the calm wake of many storms. All they wanted for us was to have peace and everything they didn't have. I think they may have spoiled us a bit, thinking that an easier path might be a better path. But like a baby chick fighting its way out of its shell, I believe we just might have needed the trial, if we were going to appreciate the reward. 

If I had a dollar for every time I've heard this, I'd be rich: "In this day and time, a Mama can't stay home and raise her kids. It costs too much to live now." No, we just don't want to live simply. All our toys and trinkets have a price. I think we might be extracting more from our souls than our pocketbooks. And if it's not our trinkets, then maybe our problem is that we don't want to have to sit still and contemplate the deeper things that lurk in the corners. If we keep the treadmill moving, maybe we won't have to actually think. I'm guilty of filling up days with furious activity, hopping from one role to another. How much of it is necessary? Where are the spaces in there where serenity can be found, where the needs of a friend or a neighbor can be met without scheduling a seminar so we can have a sit-down? Saying no and removing activities works for awhile, then those spaces get filled with noble enterprises. Nobody wants to hear the word "no" and there's so much to be done. Or is there? I'm chewing on that. It sure seems like I have a lot of food and eating references in my brain. Maybe what I need to do is get my fat butt over to the gym, get on the treadmill and find myself some of that nebulous tranquility, endorphins and all that. Work off some of Grandmama's cakes that are still living on my hips. I'm sure she'd appreciate it.

God Speaking

Stress.... we hear about it all the time. There are reams of materials written about it: what to do about it, where to go to get rid of it, what to take, what to breathe and what oils to ingest to make it go away. I have to admit, I wrestle with the sin of worry, which I believe is where most bad stress comes from (there is good stress too). We worry ourselves to the grave. Of late, I've allowed way too many things to worry this overtaxed brain of mine. I wound up at the doctor's office with chest pain and heart-attack-mimicking symptoms. She suggested exercise, hydration, wisdom and yes, anxiety meds.  When I went to the pharmacy and discovered that the prescription would cost $200 I told the tech that, hey, why not just go drink a glass of wine?

I was telling a dear friend of mine (who happens to be a nurse) about my misadventures. She promptly deposited a book at my house that night and gave me a hug. The name of the book? Anxious for Nothing by John MacArthur. I dug into the simple truths there, told with authority. I had a houseful of company coming the next day, but was able to get several chapters under my belt. Midday on Saturday, however, I began to freak out from various and sundry problems that we were facing. My husband stopped me mid-chicken-preparation and told me to go breathe and spend some time with the Lord. I protested but knew that something needed to happen before I caved into a panic attack.  As I was walking through the dining room, my Pandora station wafted sweet words from an old Psalm: "Be still and know that I am God." I sat down and absorbed the peace of it. Opened my Bible to a marker that happened to be stuck at Psalm 46, which begins with "God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble. Therefore we will not fear though the earth gives way, though the mountains be moved into the heart of the sea, though its waters roar and foam, though the mountains tremble at its swelling. Selah..." and then ends with: "Be still and know that I am God..." At the point, I couldn't stop my eyes from spilling over. Unbelievably, I looked up at a little frame sitting on an easel across the room, where the same words spoke out in beautiful calligraphy: "Be still and know that I am God." Three messages, same words, in less than a few minutes. Buckets. The evening ensued, then church on Sunday morning. Sitting in Sunday School, one of our elders did a lesson from Habakkuk, ending with loving words about how to run to Christ, how to trust Him, how to be anxious for nothing. God wasn't content to leave it at that. During the next hour's Scripture reading, our associate pastor gave us a word from them about not fearing, not worrying, about learning to trust God. I was starting to wonder if there were cameras lurking in my brain. With over 200 people in attendance, all with needs, troubles, concerns, I'm sure He had something to say to them too. But He wrapped all that goodness up in a sweet, sugar-spun, personal gift to me that spoke directly to my heart and to my weakness.

Don't tell me there's not a God.

Old Dogs, New Tricks

I was reading a Harvard business article. It was advising people to do something really radical: ask for advice and admit when you're wrong. Two sage pieces of wisdom, going way back to the dinosaurs, masquerading as cutting edge swag. But hey, when it works...

I have a friend, she is the same age as my youngest child. She just had a baby and messaged me yesterday, asking for help with some decisions they are making concerning their child. I pulled up those old files in my brain and told her what we did. What a wise mother! Rather than rely on what the latest magazine touts, she taps into several older mothers who she respects, gets free advice and makes use of the paths that have been carefully traversed before. Not to mention, she makes these old birds feel pretty useful.

I am a realtor. I got my license back in '07, right before the housing industry fell apart. My husband and I had incorporated -- he was going to build houses and I was going to sell them. I had ten darling Southern Living house plans lined up with ten specific building lots. We were going to bring adorable bungalow-ism to Douglasville.  My Dad and I had just signed on with a new, tiny firm that didn't have its sea legs when the crash started. When strange terms began invading real estate  (like "short sale" and "foreclosure"), and the terra firma began to crumble out from under us, I had nothing to cling to. Daddy decided it was time to retire, my broker decided he had to get back to painting cars and my husband got a life-threatening illness. I started painting rich peoples' houses. They all decided to fix up their properties since they couldn't sell them. There was always a little confusion when the fluffy white girl showed up to paint (they seemed to expect someone else -- different gender, nationality, etc), but I am grateful that God gave me the will and the opportunities to do it. My realtor card slipped quietly into the background and I did what I had to do. Fast forward a few years and I find myself drinking coffee with a handful of wily realtors who made it through the mess. The best thing that I do is to sit and listen to them, ask questions, pose scenarios. There's nothing like a seasoned, divorced realtor to bring some salt back into your world. There is not one encounter where I don't learn something new. I had no clue I would be learning so much, this late in the game.

There are trajectories and plans that people make: finish high school, go to college and maybe grad school, get a career, make a family, work for x-amount of years, retire and move to Florida. Real life is rarely like that. Ken and I have had several makeovers in our lives, looking nothing like a planned orbit. More like rabbit trails leading off other rabbit trails, but always with God and our family at the center of it. We could have been more intentional about a lot of things, but we were definitely laser-focused on taking everything to the Lord, hoping to glorify Him through our mess. Maybe it was about throwing ourselves on Him, from one crisis to the next. Yeah, that's more like it. Meanwhile, we've depended on the advice and wisdom of our opinionated and astute parents, pastors, elders, and grandparents over the years. I don't know how we would have made it through without such guidance. 

Harvard's fancy article about admitting when you're wrong and seeking advice: not so new and not so fancy, but still right on the mark. Listen up. You might learn something.

A Life Remembered

There's a story in our family that bides deep in my soul. I cannot think of it without fighting back tears. It has probably made me far more morose than I should be about dying and death. It is the story of my husband's birth mother.

She was the only child of a kind, sentimental farmer and his diligent and cheerful wife. She grew up on a farm but was spoiled and adored. She was smart and sassy, valedictorian of her senior class. They married young and had a big bouncing boy a year later -- my husband. Two years, a second beautiful boy was born, his brother Kirk. With a toddler and a four-and-a-half month old newborn in her arms, she came down with a sore throat that quickly escalated into pneumonia. Within days she was dead, probably from a strep germ that was unreachable with the antibiotics they had at the time. Twenty-four years old, with her whole life in front of her. How utterly impossible, how cruel. The boys stayed with the grandparents, as their Daddy was still in the military. A few years later, he met a tender-hearted woman who embraced the two boys and raised them as her own. Dad's employment always took him away, first in construction and then truck driving. She bravely jumped right in and never looked back. She never referred to them as stepchildren and did not view them as anyone's but her own. They eventually added a sassy little girl of their own and lived quietly on a street in Smyrna.

I met my husband and he told me he had three sets of grandparents and told what had happened to his birth mother. I, being too curious for my own good, wanted to see a picture of her. He had never seen her. He and his brother spent summer breaks, holidays, visits with his maternal grandparents, but had never viewed his natural mother. He knew nothing about her. When he did venture to ask questions, he was met with choked words, brimmed eyes. It was too much to bear. Better to pretend it didn't happen, than to open that infernal gate. In many ways, it was as if she never existed, though the wake that the tragedy left behind nearly emotionally bankrupted Ken's grandparents and others. That tore me to my heart. How could you leave someone's life to the grave and not remember them to their children? The black hole that is left when a parent loses a child defies description. And this was their only one.

We cling so tightly to this life. The barren holes that are left by death are viewed as something to be feared and avoided. We don't want to look into them, to travel them. It is too deep, too scary, too unknown. As we age, we see more of the holes. We live our lives avoiding the subject, but there it is on the sidelines, looming ever closer. We're just lucky it wasn't us, and if we speed by quickly enough and stay distracted enough, maybe we won't have to acknowledge it. Grief doesn't take holidays, though over time the storm becomes a regular pattern of waves, sometimes easier, sometimes not so much.

I think of her sometimes, still, when I'm thinking about the purposes that God has for our lives. It seems that a large part of hers was simply to have those two babies. They've now grown into grandpas who have raised wonderful families and are now handing off to the next generation of babies. My husband didn't know her, my children or grandchildren certainly didn't....but her life mattered. God had a much larger purpose than even she could have imagined. 

Isn't that the way it is for all of us? One little light shining on a hill dispels so much darkness. Darkness is easy...just blend in. But light is always a choice, takes the extra step, burns, sparks... Let us look around us, get outside ourselves, give way, love. Stand for what is good and right. Find the noble things, the honorable things that matter the most in this life...and live our lives to make a difference. What's this got to do with a 24-year-old woman who died young and is still held dear? Simply that old cliche: that every day counts and that we're not promised tomorrow. Live.

Summer is Overrated

When our children were wearing out the days of my life, and I was constantly foraging for enough food and sustenance to keep them full, my life was simple. I didn't think so at the time. Hands full, pockets empty, busy running and doing. I remember getting hot blooded mad at them sometimes, and when I'd had it up to there, the cork popping off the top of my head and all that steam rushing out. We've all heard the sounds that kettles make. As a busy mother, your life tends to be in overdrive and very moment-to-moment. There's not lots of time to contemplate tomorrow or next year. I kept a Reader's Digest magazine and my journal on the back of the toilet, since that seemed to be the only place I could find quiet moments. I thought once all these humans grew up, I'd be tranquil and my cork would quit blowing off. And life would be simpler. Insert: trials, troubles, human nature, more bends in the curve. But not all bad, mind you. Where I was busy with young people and survival, I've been busy ever since with all sorts of mortals and yep, survival. But summers, they never really change.

This afternoon I sat on the swing in our backyard, basking in the humid breeze that was trying to whisk by. Dog at my feet, lovely overgrown lawn (the mower's broken). My husband blew in with his really-old car (but hey, he keeps it polished and the oil changed). I began to bless God, because even though we did lots of things wrong, we mustered for all these years to eventually pay cash for a house. We did insane things for that to happen. Fixing up homes, living in squalor, going on murderous rampages while tearing out walls and putting up wallpaper, living in basements, parents' homes, even a camper, while we worked on said homes. Today I looked up at our beautiful, solid Victorian house, 116 years old. There is truly something different about a place that is paid for. We really own it, not the mortgage company (though the tax man might disagree). I worried that because it was so old, it might feel like someone else took up all the history here and it wouldn't be "ours." But it's as comfortable as an old shoe, and since I'm busier than ever, it sorta looks like that, or maybe an old boot. It has a sweet spirit and it seems to forgive me when I neglect it. People ask me all the time if it's haunted and I tell them, yeah, the Holy Ghost lives here, praise God. We prayed over it and it's all covered. These thick, plaster walls and the 12-foot ceilings make it nice and cool in the summer. And the winters aren't bad either, thanks to those walls and storm windows. Our last house, super-insulated and shored-up, wasn't nearly as energy efficient as this one. How weird is that? 

The divine porch is beckoning but I'm not going out there 'til September or 'til Pa puts me a ceiling fan up. It just kills me, all these magazines that shout "Summer's here! Time to break out the grill! Put up party lights and invite guests over for supper on the deck!" Dripping on the deck is more like it. Did they ever actually live in the South? We don't do that partying stuff in the summer. That's done in the spring and fall. Summer means slogging through thick humidity to everywhere you have to go, getting inside as quickly as possible, or finding a swimming hole somewhere. We go to Florida about once a year so we can throw ourselves in the ocean, bake all the saltwater off, jump in again, then hurtle headlong into a cool pool. Repeat. Then beg God for maybe one more chance to do it again before September is over. There's nothing like that sensation of floating in cool water when your skin is cooked into a par-boiled state. Even as I write this, I can feel that part of my soul that is in Panama City just waiting for next year. I always hate myself for not appreciating it more while I'm there. So for now, I'll content myself with that soulish place in my mind. Summer's almost over, praise the Lord and pass the peas. 'Cause if I can't get fully immersed somewhere, Fall might as well come on down.