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.