Colorful Redemption

Kaleidoscopes. They need to bring those back. As a child, I remember holding one up to my eye and turning it until magic happened. Beautiful patterns and colors, tumbling and remixing as it turned. I also recall seeing one that had broken, little bits of glass, all gray and sad, spilled out. 

As we sit here waiting on Christmas Day for the family to arrive, I think about the kaleidoscope of time that I see. Layers of family, going back to Christmases long ago. Jeweled memories, made warm and fuzzy by the buffer of decades. Grandmas and love; fudge and peppermint; trees with their citrusy scents; dolls; dresses; new pajamas; trips to Aunt Ellen's house, where oranges, bananas and Brazil nuts overflowed -- on the way home we'd stop at a life-sized nativity scene at a church nearby; trips to Illinois and my cat-eyed, Tigris-scented Grandma (with Karen Carpenter crooning silky Christmas themes); Christmas Eves where Daddy talked about hearing reindeers outside with their bells; my Mama creating joy out of cocoa, sugar, milk and the Sears Roebuck Catalog. Sweet, happy childhood I was blessed to have. Life moves so fast. I am not a spring chicken, but sometimes I have to remember that I am not a child....that I have to be responsible and hop to it. At the same time, we all have that child in us, that ten-year-old that wants to run free and not yet know about the cynical, the evil, parts of the world. 

My tongue tends to find the bad, to report what is wrong about people and about all that is around me. To gossip, to belittle, not ever shutting my trap, in particular to my loved ones. The very ones I influence the most. My heart was afflicted last night, Christmas Eve, as I contemplated the state of my thoughts and words. I tossed and turned upon my bed, feeling the guilt of my failings. I dreamt strange dreams, scary and disturbing. But as the sun slowly began to rise and the pink hue of the morning crept into the bedroom windows, I embraced the hope of the day...the hope of my Savior. How He came as a tiny baby, vulnerable and weak, yet fully God, sacrificing Himself to redeem the hateful, the cynical, the murderer and the gossip, these. The little child, the perfect lamb, in the humblest of places. He defied logic, confounded the wise, and turned the world upside down. His beautiful kaleidoscope.  "For now we see through a glass darkly, but then face to face. Now I know in part, but then shall I know, even as also I am fully known." I Corinthians 13:12. Amazing grace, as the old saying goes, "I will understand it better by and by."

Merry, Merry Christmas

"I am enough!" The mantra of the century. I do not agree with it. At all. On no level am I enough. I think I understand what people are trying to say when they chant this one, though -- what they're really saying is: I'm good enough; I don't need anyone else to affirm my sufficiency; I don't need to try harder to please you; because I'm who I am and that's okay. All that stuff. 

I still don't agree.

We are all an amalgam of many other people. Even our DNA is intricately made up of pieces of our ancestors, brought into fruition in one person. Exquisitely and beautifully made, mysteriously wrought in the bowels of the earth. Our bodies, minds and souls are virtual miracles of creation, precious and priceless. There is no earthly treasure that rivals it. Here we are on this spinning orb, woven carefully into the ecosystem. Plants, animals and glaciers consort together to keep the balance. One thing consumes the other, dies and replenishes the earth, and round and round it goes. If we consider the impossibility of the spark of life itself, we will see the face of God. 

Throughout this fine dance, no man is an island. The warp and woof of our existence requires give and take, interdependence on both the planet and mankind. We need our ancestors, our parents, just to get here. Then we need one another in order to work, to plow, to plant, to weed and to obtain our food. If we can quit striving to be the kings of the world, and see our fellow man as our compatriots rather than our opposition, we could also find far more peace on earth. To stop and be grateful throughout our day: to thank those who feed us, who clothe us, who provide our trash removal, our mail delivery, those who birthed us and raised us, those who put their lives on the line at home and abroad -- and so many more. 

I am not enough. I am here and sustained thanks to the energies and efforts of so many. But especially I am dependent on the God of heaven who designed and placed me here. It's sometimes hard to remember that my purposes extend beyond my own nose. This year, let us look across our own fields and thank all of those that benefit and make it possible for us to live. And look to the Christ child, the great Redeemer, who makes it possible for us to live forever. Merry Christmas.

Snowstorms, Time and Handsome Princes

We were all snuggled up together under blankets on the front porch, admiring the freshly minted snow piling up around our house. Suddenly, four explosions filled the air, blue sparks raining down like some mid-winter fireworks show. And just like that, we were taken back 117 or so years, when our house was built. The street was silent, hushed by banks of white. No one dared to be driving or even walking yet. I could imagine horse-drawn buggies coming down the road, ample dresses shushing by to lay out the fires. As we came to our senses, we shuffled back into the house to make a plan. There was no plan. The five ancient fireplaces lay dormant, unblinking. They haven't been used in decades, besides, they're designed to burn coal, not wood. Only an idiot would risk using them now. But they sure are pretty. We lit candles, shut off parts of the house, then eventually crawled into our beds, doubled up with socks and layers of clothes. There's a lot to be said for having a heater box for a husband in these circumstances. 

When I woke in the morning, snug and warm under the covers but with a frighteningly cold nose, I thought of all the things we take for granted. We line up at the Redbox, to watch movies about the Apocalypse, viruses decimating the population and MadMax, but an actual few hours of power outage and we're about to lose our minds. We still had our phones, thus also able to see all the cussing going on about how the schools messed up again by opening on Friday. And how the weather man missed it big-time, so nobody could raid the stores for bread and milk before the big Event to keep from starving. We have at least one of these every year in the South. Schools let out, cars get abandoned, people miss work. We don't have snowplows and salt trucks like they do up North. Besides, down here it melts then freezes again. You can't ski on that, much less drive. It probably does us good to get our lives interrupted, occasionally, to remind us of how good we have it. 

I remember one of these Events, back in the winter of 1982. My sister and I were both engaged to be married. We were living at home with our parents when a massive ice storm hit Atlanta. The whole family eventually made their way home from jobs and school, taking many hours. My sister's fiance decided to aim for our house, since it was closer than his, so they curled up on the couch, canoodling. Everyone hunkered down in the living room with a roaring fire and hot cocoa. I was thankful to have made it home, but feeling sorry for myself because my beau was an hour away, in Smyrna. We had only weeks to go before our wedding. I didn't imagine I would see him for several days with all that ice locking us down. Suddenly, there was a knock at the back door. I walked into the kitchen to see a cowboy hat and a grin in the window. That crazy man had left a perfectly warm, safe house to drive through hours of snow and ice, wind and weather, to get to me. 

All these 36 years later, I still remember that feeling. I'm from a wacky and wonderful family. I knew he was going to fit right in. But I especially knew then that he loved me.

Love in the Pandemonium

Here we are again, another rushing, rocking holiday season. I got out my pen and marked up the family calendar with upcoming activities. Ken has our markers colored-coded. Of course he does. Mine is purple, and now the wall looks like someone smashed grapes on it. Meanwhile, we have an active renovation going on in the nether regions of our house, so it looks like a bomb went off in here. I'm desperately trying to get the back fourth of the house painted, the tree decorated and everything put back into place before our company party (Southern Homes and Land) here next week. Nothing like pressure to stop the mojo. 

Tonight, as I muse over the day and laugh at all the plans that got shot to smithereens, I am sincerely focusing on what matters. One of my sons, Daniel, was working on that back bathroom, so we got to enjoy his warmth and irreverent humor. The guy could be a stand-up comic. His wife and darling daughter Maddie popped in, like a whirling dervish of fresh air. Then another son, Jon, joined us towards lunchtime, hauling in their infant twins Bennett and Addison, along with their dear Mama and non-stop delight Annabelle. The two four-year-old Energizer Bunnies never tired, and by the time they left, I needed a nap. It was like a really fun, happy tornado blowing right through the house, leaving as quickly as it came. The only thing that could have been better was if our third son and his family would have been able to be here too. There was much sawing, buzzing, music and commotion, then suddenly everyone left, including daughter Liz. Ken and I collapsed in our recliners and acted like old people.

I know that I will indeed have to get some serious work done in the next few days if we're going to have a company party here by Wednesday. But I have to say, if it's not perfect, if the dust bunnies live to see another day and the junk all gets crammed into a back room, it needs to be okay. There's a lot more to be missed if I don't stop and enjoy the moments, the opportunities that present themselves along the way. I can spend all my energies making this place perfect or I can remember what Christmas is really about. It takes five seconds to stop the merry-go-round and then enjoy all the reasons for the season. The decorations are just gravy. We don't always need gravy. I cracked up when I read these words in my Bible the other day: "I make peace and create calamity; I, the Lord, do all these things." Isaiah 45:7. If you want to hear God laugh, tell him your plans!

Abundance in the Decrease

I had a dream last night, as real as earth. I could even smell the dirt, that delicious aroma. My family and I were deep into a structure that we had built years ago, with much sentiment rising from my emotions. When I awoke, I cried bittersweet tears. It at first seemed because of the loss of the house and the land, but the reality was the loss of that season of our lives. You simply can't hold back the tide of time. It moves ever forward. Change comes whether we want it to or not. Children grow up, our folks die, stuff goes into landfills. Our stubborn insistence that things must stay the same can hamstring us, though. I love the scripture in Proverbs 31 where God talks about that awesome woman, how she strengthens her arms and takes on the world and the future with a fresh face. So I got up this morning, washed off my sadness, read my Bible, prayed for my people and got on with the day. The devil is the father of lies and he'd like to keep us down for the count, with thoughts that are simply not true. 

My parents are facing the Big Move, where they are letting go of their home and moving twenty miles closer to civilization. It's hard to do. It feels like failure, like the end of the world. All the things that they've spent their whole life obtaining are going out the door for pennies on the dollar. It's an admittance that they are growing weaker and that they are on the decrease, rather than the increase. In the world's economy, all seems lost. But in God's economy, they are getting richer and richer. They started out as teenagers, poor and hungry, everyone doubting whether their union would last a year. They scrimped, saved, worked, toiled and trod water to make a life together. Inch by inch, they kept moving forward. Stability came. Three kids came. They improved everything they touched. The world again scoffed when the Lord broke through and gave them a heart of flesh for a heart of stone. Then came the salad days, the years of increase and full hands. Marriages, grandkids, great grandkids, houses, land, projects, more houses, much laughing. The clock ticked. The bodies began to feel the gravity. Sternums cracked open, years of desserts showed their ugly sides, tickers wore out. The air became heavy and not so easily obtained. Is this where, as Solomon talks about, all is vanity?

Nay, nay, quoth the truth. My parents, by God's grace, have a spiritual heritage far beyond what the eye can see, though the eye can still see precious fruit: three children (with in-laws), twenty-one grandchildren and lots of weddings, fourteen great-grandchildren (with one on the way), and untold numbers of spiritual children. Over Thanksgiving, with family all about, I heard three of my 4-year-old granddaughters (they came here in a batch) mention their love of God. I heard prayers from sweet little lips. I saw love and service all around. Where the world is at war, killing and hating, devolving into abuse and addiction, I saw a family filled with life, wisdom, hope. Funny thing, at the heart of it I did not see two people who pulled themselves up by their bootstraps. What I saw was a couple surrendered, humbled, trusting God more than their own goodness. People full of faults, cracked at their core but turned over to the grace of God, grace that is greater than all their sin. On this planet, there are manifold riches -- gold, land, houses, prestige, titles, fame. In the end, none of those matter. They all burn up. But in the harvest of days, when all is said and done, there are kings that are not of this world. Truly, all that glitters is not gold.

Who Needs Marital Counseling When the Man Wears Carhartts?

Ken and I always seemed to move in October and when I was pregnant. Since we were eternally busy tearing out and putting stuff back, we grew to think that was normal. I am naturally lazy, so I have to put enormous pressure around myself so that I'm forced to get things done. That's where this November's project came into being. I could see that big Turkey Day 2017 looming and saw my chance to make myself miserable for a couple of weeks so I'd have to get it finished. I invited the family for Thanksgiving and got started. 

When we bought this lovely Victorian home in Villa Rica, five years ago, there were so many cool things about it. Twelve foot ceilings, intricately patterned hardwood floors, five fireplaces, stained glass, a walk-in pantry, and too many other things to mention here. It had been beautifully maintained even though the walls were uglier than a mud hut, with all the dark 80's wallpaper and colors. Each room was its own entity, with no flow or continuity. I've been working on putting that right, with some rooms being painted a couple times already. But then there was that living room ceiling. It was dark with age, wallpapered years ago with a cream-colored paper. There had been roof leaks and moisture damage, so there were ugly splotches here and there. The woodwork hadn't been painted in decades, so it was chipped and sad. It is a gigantic room, and I couldn't decide what to do with it. Our eldest son, a master carpenter, decided that we needed to coffer it. Time, money, and three babies put the quietus on that one. I saved up, though, and bought these awesome reproduction ceiling tiles. Two of my boys popped the lines on the ceiling and threw a few of them up there. That's when I decided I had a deadline. Thanksgiving was in a week and a half. 

So tonight here I sit, turkey and cranberry sauce on my mind, with my house turned upside down. Sure, the tiles are up now (thank you, Daniel son, who put the hammer down on his day off from the fire department). I've got the woodwork and upper wall above the picture rail primed with Kilz....like to have Kild me with the fumes. Tomorrow is Monday and Baby Girl and me are revved up to get painting. Trouble is, we have to caulk around each and every one of those ceiling tiles because Mama didn't think about painting that nasty ceiling before she started, so some of the nastiness shows through the gaps. That's 450 square feet of tile times four sides of each 20" tile. I am not adding that up, no matter what anybody says. 

Pa says he'll do the grocery shopping and help with the cleanup. Meanwhile I don't let that man anywhere near a paintbrush. He puts the paint on too thin and takes too much time. It's so thin, I'd have to paint over it again anyway. I will admit he's very tidy, but I've got a schedule to keep. They say that people get divorced over home renovations, but apparently it works for us. He's got his roles and I've got mine, but his don't involve paint. There's nothing like the smell of freshly-sawn wood and turpentine in the morning. And turkey on Thanksgiving Day.

And did I mention, I sure do like that man in a pair of overalls? 

Maybe He's Sleeping With the Fishes...

Sun Valley Beach. They have one in California and they used to have one in Powder Springs, Georgia. It was half a mile from our house, made from a lake that had morphed over time into a beach. Years of work and thousands of yards of sand and concrete were poured into the coolest place we kids had ever seen. It was truly a concrete pond. When I was twelve, I started working there in the summers, teaching swimming lessons. This was apparently before child labor laws and background checks. We worked our fannies off so we could get free entrance to the park. The juke box played the top 40 all day and you could buy a frozen Snickers at the snack bar. Heaven.

One summer in high school, I decided to take the plunge and become a full-blown lifeguard. The owner at the time, Murray Homan, put us through our classes at night, after our extracurricular school activities. The final test included making my jeans into a flotation device and hauling a football player a quarter mile through chilly black water. I somehow passed. Then I entered the world of lifeguarding, where most of it is boring. But when it's not, it's truly epic. 

There were only a few times that I came close to saving lives -- one was a set of twin toddlers who were drowning each other in four feet of water. A simple enough rescue: I jumped in and picked them both up. Another was a fellow who had stupidly tied the rope for the Tarzan swing around his ankle and then missed the next rope, leaving him hanging upside down with his head under water. That one was not so simple. I loved cooling off and swimming through my entire 15 minute break every hour. We lifeguards thought we were the best thing since sliced bread, but we didn't care much for the head lifeguard, Stan. He was old, to us, something like 24 and obsessed with his feet. He was redheaded, freckled, and constantly sunburned, so ministrations to those feet were paramount to him. The jokes were endless.

One day, I happened to be at the snack bar, picking up my (very meager) check. I heard a commotion down near the water. There was a large crowd gathered, hollering and pointing towards the middle of the lake. Murray (the owner) ran like the wind and dashed into the water, yelling for someone to call an ambulance. He swam furiously to the dock, dove under and then hauled a man all the way to the side, where it appeared he gave him CPR. The man was revived and soon an ambulance drove up and he was whisked away. Murray turned back from the ambulance, exhausted, to see the head lifeguard, sitting up on the stand, dutifully rubbing his feet. Stan had missed the entire drama while he was preoccupied with said phalanges. 

I never saw Stan again. 'Nuff said.

Pogo and the Church Lady

I think I slunk into church today. Is that a word, slunk? This past week and month left me deflated like a used-up balloon. Months of work for a client finally closed and another stressful situation was tabled for a time. When Monday came, I slept ten hours, something I haven't done in a decade. A neighbor came to the door and I looked like something the cat dragged in. I felt sort-of like Jonah did after he preached to Ninevah and they actually repented... he felt sorry for himself and crawled under a bush and asked God to go ahead and end it. Sometimes big events, trials and even successes can leave us depleted. 

So that's where I was this morning....a big ole mess of used-up emotions. The pastor read from the Scriptures, I'm not sure even which ones. My husband was home sick in bed and I felt all alone. I looked down at my dress and realized it was pretty sad. Some of the beads had fallen off and there was a whole lot of wear showing on it. On top of that I was having a really bad hair day. I felt fat, ugly and squashed. That's just the truth. There was lovely music, great fellowship, confession, and truth laid open from the pulpit. I have a good vantage point, as I sit by the piano during the music and Scripture reading with my flute. I can see a lot of souls from there -- happy ones, tortured ones, mean ones, sweet ones, old and young, wrinkled and fresh. All hypocrites. Yes, we all are. We put on our finest, but we're still sinners. We hurt people when we don't mean to, we lie in ways that we don't even know, we steal time, we lust, we blaspheme, we covet, we don't love. And worse, much worse. As I looked around the congregation of hypocrites that all say one thing and do another, I feel sad for those who have left the church because they say it is full of hypocrites. Well, to quote Pogo, "We have met the enemy and he is us."

As Communion was served from the Lord's Table, I contemplated Christ....how He paid for my hypocrisy (and all the other stuff) and for those around me. Living this life so imperfectly, so messily, but also understanding that I'm seeing through a glass darkly, I left church still feeling grumpy, sorry for myself, selfish, defeated. After a long afternoon, husband still sick, my flesh and fear overtook what was good about the day and then I did it. I picked a fight with him. It was a doozy. As fights do, it degenerated into a stupid pick-fest, with he-said/she-said and much chasing of tails. We went round and round, the bites getting nastier. The dog was starting to get worried. 

Then when all was exhausted and there was hardly anything else to insult each other with, the Lord gently reminded me about the hypocrite. That one in the mirror. My heart melted as His grace flooded in, as I asked forgiveness, as he asked forgiveness. Grace. It doesn't start at the top. It starts at the bottom, where ugliness and rancor and all that smells has seemingly won the day. Grace, where He finds us at our basest and replaces our heart of stone with a heart of flesh. Grace. Where love really does win.

The Monk and the Devil

Not Just Marking Time

There she was, in all her glory. She had on a big, red apron, channeling Rosie the Riveter. This gal wasn't working with metal or guns or planes. She was in the kitchen at Hardee's, of all places, covered with flour. Her work-wear face not flinching, writ with years of life experience. It threw me back in time, to all the many Southern kitchens I've been privileged to experience. Old women, full of wisdom and fire, working mysteries with white powder and butter. As a child, I would pass through those hallowed halls, awed by the power of food and sage women. I didn't stop on my way through, no, I was on my way to the outdoors, the woods and the ball fields. I got the lucky choice of playing in either place. 

Country rides were a favorite pastime of our family. Windows cranked down, dust roiling behind the car like tumbleweeds. We would make stops at various relatives' homes. Wooden, unsophisticated houses with no paint, pigs under the porch, dogs panting in the heat. The adults would sit inside while the kids poked around the creek or the barn. If we were really blessed, we'd get to ride somebody's pony and get bucked off in the process. My siblings and I might be some of the last generation to see these remnants of the Old South, the parts where the steam rose off the field, poor people worked hard for a living, fourty was old, and nobody seemed ashamed of what they didn't have. Maybe they were, it just didn't seem like it. I only saw bits and pieces of it, like dusky whispers on a hot June morning. Stopping by little creeks to fish. Trolling through miles of countryside without hurrying. Those things we know nothing about now. I remember the smells, the animals, the old people. I recall tiredness, but deep contentment. Houses baking in the sun, the big, sprawling brick ranches saved for the rich people. Cicadas buzzing, time standing still. It did stand still. Now it won't stop, but I'm thankful. I've seen the vestiges of the past and yet I'm standing in the future. The greatest generation, they're passing in front of me. The millenials, they're coming behind me. What a great time to be alive. 

Monsters are Real!

The old dragon sat dully, stuffed into his truck like a toad, eyes bulging. When I first saw him, he was puffing up like an adder, waiting to explode. He spied me walking across the lawn and I met the force of his vitriol as I made my way down the hill. I extended my hand but was met with hot breath and spittle, as he spat out his pent-up hate. My thought was that the only thing between me and certain death was his old beat-up vehicle. That, and not a few years of too many carbs on his frame. Of course I had left my gun in my car this one time that I might have needed it. Visions of Annie Oakley ran through my mind as I called upon the Lord to go ahead and send those 10,000 chariots right about now. 

I had never been cussed out, until that day. I am 57 years old and have lived a sheltered life, since I've never had the experience of getting brutally beat up, verbally or otherwise. I've had the rare blessing of being surrounded by good, noble men all my days. My husband, Daddy, sons, brother, brother-in-laws, father-in-law, nephews, pastors, elders, brothers in Christ.... so many great men. As I stood beneath the gale force of an evil man's barrage, spitless, my thoughts began floating around, pondering my sisters in the world who hate men and who wrestle with feminism in their souls. Maybe this is what they faced as children. Maybe dragons such as this rendered them powerless, so that when they escaped they armed themselves to the hilt that it might never happen again. God help.

I was calm, but quietly bipped the dragon in the nose with truth as I was able. I also rebuked his repulsive language, only to be met with more of it. Time was on my side, as he began to lose steam and strength. My gaze and prayers kept steady, until I saw his mind begin to right itself. Somewhere in there he regretted what he had done and began to realize the possible ramifications of his actions. Eventually he apologized for his language and asked if he had ruined our deal. I told him I didn't know. That opened another sluice gate of rancor, pouring out. I wondered what conspired to make this madman so angry, so full of hurt that he would delight in hurting other people. It could be a lot of things, either within or without. In the end, we are all responsible for what we do with that. I believe it is God's grace that enables anyone to rise above their depravity. We can cloak it with manners, money, strength, perfume and youth, but when it gets down to the end and we're out of all those resources, I'm banking on Him. The old fart dragon might oughta watch his back.

Lord of the Digits

The world has to stop spinning when you get a pedicure. You're kind-of trapped there, with the warm water swirling around your feet. If you're lucky, and the massage chair isn't murdering your back with strange mechanical demons, you get all cozy and relaxed. I really have no business exposing my bare feet to anyone, particularly strangers, but I still do it. I only wear shoes to placate the conventional world. I even have sets of barefoot sandals (they don't have soles), where I try to deceive people into thinking I have shoes on, when I really don't. It would help, if my feet were at least passable in appearance. They are not. They yearn to break free and they mostly hurt, so I indulge them. They're actually too knobby and gnarly for anything but sandals and the warm earth beneath, but apparently this condition is rare. When I saw Lord of the Rings on the big screen for the first time, I was so happy to see that there were other people with feet like mine. But then the movie was over and I remembered that Hobbits aren't real. Very strange tootsie-roll DNA runs strong through the Slate family toes. The gene is very persistent, and you can see it running through the generations. I do believe my brother-in-law hesitated to marry my sister after he saw her feet. He's so very proud of his, and the thought of exposing his progeny to those future genetic combinations might have given him pause. But alas, her other charms, which are myriad, overwhelmed him and now they have eleven children with (mostly) Hobbit feet. My brother's six children are running along similar paths. Grandpa Jerry is with Jesus now, but there's no denying he was here. We see his DNA busting out everywhere. 

This week, as an impossibly tiny woman worked her magic on my digits, I wondered what she thought about women like me, with large, firm foundations, while trying to tidy up those mangy hooves? Hooves got me to thinking about God, how He made almost every creature (that walks on legs) with tools. Our appendages all end in some form of keratin, which we spend insane amounts of money buffing and painting into mostly unnatural shapes. He put these cool, natural utensils on the ends of most mammals' extremities. We humans stuff ours into shoes and forget how to use them. They can be pretty handy while climbing trees and such.

I tried to squeeze into some actual shoes today, after half a year of making like a hippie in bare feet and sandals. It's starting to get nippy in the mornings, so I guess I need to start training these puppies to tolerate a little restraint. I suffered with the constrictions of a million little leather cells trying to force my happy bones into strange places. I don't think that Hobbits ever had to submit to such injustices. I have a feeling it's going to be a long winter...

Death, Taxes and a Little Blood

On a good month, I'm a realtor juggling at least three or four dead peoples' houses. Not in the air, but definitely juggling. I've got people grieving, fighting, complaining, worrying and trying to kill each other. Just last month I found myself in the middle of a domestic fight, with glass jars, picture frames and Buddha figurines being lofted in my (and mostly my client's) general direction. When furniture started making flight paths across the living room and then the yard, I decided it was prudent to meet elsewhere (ya think?!) With blood flowing (ever so lightly) from my left foot, I pulled my car away from the curb and thought I might want to write a book. I could be the James Herriot of Realtors. Write little vignettes about houses, clients, closings, murders. There's just so much good material. But then again, if the book didn't take off, I certainly couldn't keep doing real estate. Who would sign up with a Realtor who was going to expose and detail all that family drama? 

In all seriousness, however, I have learned much from these histrionics. Number one, get out a legal pad and detail who is getting what, who's doing what and then decide what they are going to sing at your funeral. Do it now. Then get a competent lawyer to draw up a will. Better yet, give everybody the stuff you want to give them. Now, not when you're dead. Then you get to see them enjoy it. Or not. Why are you hanging on to all that anyway? Number two, clean out all the junk out of your house. I don't care if you are twenty-nine or a hundred and nine, it's evil to make other people clean up your mess, especially when they're grieving and fighting with your relatives. A beautiful gift you can give them (and yourself) is to minimize your stuff. There are folks that will come and pick it up or throw it out for you. I do estates all the time and guess what? Most people really don't want your refuse, even if you think it's valuable. These young people might want that furniture, but they're just going to cover it with chalk paint and sell it on Craigslist. I'm no minimalist, but our paraphernalia is crowding out our brain cells. 

Lastly. Let go. None of us need to expect that Aunt May is leaving us a million dollars. We need to learn to work hard to make our own way. If there's two nickels to rub together, people lose their minds and do awful things to each other in the name of fairness and getting "what's rightfully mine." Whole families fall apart over all the little bits and pieces that are left after someone departs. Yes, I know, some of it's not little. It still ain't all there is, folks. There are larger things at play in the universe than our tiny patch of earth or our big treasure chests. Peoples' souls and hearts matter so much more than their trappings. And it's tragic to forget that, just when our lives are stripped bare by a death. Someone is going to act horrible, but that doesn't mean we have to.

A Crispy Day in Villa Rica

September wings its way in like an eagle, determined and bold. Exciting, new, fresh. The books crack open, the notebooks are clean, the band is playing and the whistles are chirping out on the football field. October hovers near, with its promise of bonfires, the smell of leaves burning, crisp air and apples, fields and parking lots full of pumpkins. Here in the Southland we might have several Indian summers, heck, all the way up to Thanksgiving. So we get the best of it. 

It's a true story that we voluntarily kept our kids at home for 18 years and homeschooled them. At the time, it was considered radical and even weird. We gathered on the porch in the morning and did the pledge of allegiance, sang the national anthem and sometimes other songs (to our neighbors' chagrin -- have you heard Nortons sing?) I got more schooling done in the month of September than I did the rest of the semester. September was honkin' serious. Our kids reveled in the hundreds of acres that surrounded our house, taking every opportunity to suck the marrow out of life after class. The animals turned cartwheels because things were cooling off. Church, family, field trips, wrestling and dancing filled in the other gaps. Don't tell me my kids weren't socialized. It was a wonderful, terrible time. I'm glad we had it.

So here we are, another September. My kids are grown, flying, bearing eaglets of their own, extending their orbits beyond what I could have ever imagined. When the wind blows just right, I hear the band practicing on the other side of town, the drum corps tapping out a cadence. I stop and consider the years, the seasons, the trajectory of life that I have known. Look homeward, angel. But look forward, with hope, to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.

Two Funerals and a Hurricane

Two funerals in one week, both attended by a lot of the same people. It was two of our old, old friends, one 95 years and one 80. When I was young, I thought that was terribly ancient. Now it's not so far away. 80 is the new 60, right? The same pastor preached and the same pianist played for both, but it was all good. So very good. Music flowed, rich words were sung, hugs given and received, tears dabbed from eyes, friends reunited. As I listened to the exceptional sermons, it came to me that this was the finest part of life. Funerals aren't always that way and there's not always peace or joy accompanying them. But for these, that is what was present. I've been at wakes where people made things right with each other. Hatchets buried, bridges gapped. The summation of life is right there in that death room, good and bad, life and death, future and past.

One of my grandbabies was with me for one of them, asking a hundred questions. Where is he? Why is he dead? Where's his wife? Her best thoughts came after this one: "Yaya, was he sick?" I told her yes and that he was old. She said, "But he's glad he's not here now. He's with Jesus." Four year old wisdom. The occasional joke sprinkled in with the speakers made her laugh, loud and uninhibited, making us all chuckle more. The joy of a child, mixed in with the sorrow of death. There's hope in that, hope that tomorrow will indeed come. 

So winding up this week with funerals and a hurricane in the mix, I feel renewed. We hunkered down with naps and food while the wind howled around us; shortened work days reminiscent of snow days in Georgia that never usually materialize. But it was okay. A fine excuse to muse and pray for the families those who've passed on, those who are struggling elsewhere with trials, and to love and be grateful for those around us. It was good to remember that we can stop when we need to. And we don't have to wait for a hurricane to do it.

Blingin' and Laughin' Loud

I think I've figured something out... most people who have money are skinnier than us. And they also don't laugh as loud. Pa and I took our last hurrah of the season to the beach this weekend. Somehow we got a really cheap room in the heart of an expensive section of one of those fancy beach towns. Those places where people get up really early and run or ride their bikes. They do Crossfit in the parking lot. You have to watch constantly so that you won't run over five of them on the way to Hardees in the morning. There's not a Hardees for 20 miles, so that's a feat as well. All the fancy dining spots are outside, where it's still hot. What? Those people don't sweat, either, except when they're supposed to, like when they're exercising or paddle-boarding. 

We ate breakfast one morning in one of them elegant restaurants and I saw yuppies cutting up their kids' pancakes and fruit. These kids were, like, 8-10 years old, not toddlers. My eyes got wide and I thought the woman might cut me up too, so I tried not to laugh. Then there was the evening where we went to a Mexican restaurant for twice what it costs at home. I wore my deluxe new leggings with roses on them, with a blousy, fun top and my normal amount of bling. Nothing super special but I felt pretty spiffy. An imperious lady looked me up and down like I was some sort of circus freak, so I grinned and looked her up and down. She never did smile, but Ken thought I was mighty cute. There were so many beautiful buildings and people. I was impressed with all the kids and parents who were cycling on those old-timey cruiser bikes. It was great to see everyone so active and out in the air, not just marooned in their rooms. But what I found odd about the bike thing was this: if you're lucky enough to be staying and riding around in Seaside on a vintage beach cruiser, don't you think you'd be just giddy about it? I mean, it's one of the most wonderful places on earth and you get to be there. So why so serious?! The adults, in particular, seemed grim and determined. You're not on a racing bike. You're not in a marathon. For the life of me I couldn't get why so many people needed to be taken seriously when they were riding around on a cotton-candy-coated chunk of love. Oh well. Once again, there's some things that money can't buy. But I wish to goodness I could have bought a few more days down there. I'm not ready to be a grownup again. Maybe I'll string up those party lights and turn up the radio.

Unexpected Gifts and Tilt-A-Whirls

We probably should have named him Isaac (the Hebrew name Isaac means "laughter") because the first flip he turned in my womb was apparently accompanied by laughing gas and jazz hands. For nearly 10 months, that child used my bladder for a trampoline. I found out I was (unexpectedly) pregnant for the third time when we bought a distressed property that was half-built and head-high in weeds. With two wild-man toddlers under the age of three in tow, we moved into a friend's basement apartment and proceeded to finish that giant 5-bedroom house. This was the most challenging project I ever took on, given the ages of our babies and the state of my body. I took to wearing Ken's coveralls, since there was nothing else that fit. We moved into the house a month before Jesse Caleb was born and I think I immediately went into a coma, surfacing just long enough to birth that 11-pound, 2-ounce behemoth.  

My hands were so full it was scary. Three precocious boys under the age of four. I was nine weeks pregnant before I realized it, and we had not planned this pregnancy. But God did. After the joy of this child, we left our family planning up to God. I could sense Jesse's personality as soon as I could feel him move. Happy, joyful, athletic, loving. His birth was an experience in faith. He should have died or at least been damaged, but the Lord spared him. He came into the world fearless, oblivious to danger or unhappiness. His brothers and sister and he traversed the woods and life with abandon. He came here with a light that dispelled darkness, making us all feel hopeful. His laughing eyes and giant buck-tooth grin refused to be squelched. Anything resembling a sphere was his game. He could deftly bounce a basketball at eighteen months old. He leapfrogged, jumped, careened and twisted his way around the world, lean and muscular as a monkey. He loved to snuggle and be held. Any pain could be fixed with a hug. He had the most sensitive of spirits, often taking his brothers' blame when things were not his fault. His heart loved Christ from a young age. I believe he was twelve before his brain allowed him to read. He wrote whole sentences backwards and turned numbers upside down. He made up his own written language, made of runes known only to himself (he eventually taught his wife how to read them). Everything was an analogy to Jesse. He saw the parallels and significance, the deeper meanings behind the world around him. Before he could read, he would tell me what things meant, how they fit into the cosmos of his planet. Apparently there are more important things than letters. 

He made it to college on a basketball scholarship, struggling but working hard. His junior year, he met the love of his life and suddenly his grades improved. He started studying and reading. He came home and asked me to buy him books. We knew she had to be the one. They are now happily married with three adorable rug rats tearing it up. His first kiss was for Bailey, on their wedding day. Tall and handsome, he waited stalwartly and patiently for his bride and that special moment. He is a youth pastor, bounding his way through life, throwing his kids ten feet in the air and scooping toddlers away from danger. His joy and zest for life are lighting the world. 

I still marvel at God's providence, how He bypassed our plans to bless us with this precious son. We think we're smart, but He is smarter.

Forks and Knives and Other Tools

I ran far away from him, all those many years ago. I got lucky, when the spirit of the Lord compelled me to run. Tonight, as I saw the empty eyes of the one that he caught and the children that he begot, another wave of thankfulness wafted up. Many nights, over these thirty-five years, I have woken up in a panic from a dream that I had married him....feeling over to the other side of my bed to find that I had blessedly not, that the warm form slumbering there was Ken, protector of my heart and soul. This cracked earth, we traverse together. Seasons of life and light vary with those of death and darkness. The sea ebbs and flows, joy, sorrow, love, madness. How unbelievable was my kismet, how I got to love this man and he actually loved me. How I almost messed up, how I almost was sold into a slavery of sorts. When you're young you have no idea the harvest that comes from small seeds, good and bad ones. All these years later, I sense the plenteous crop about me. There are tares in the wheat, always, but the wheat flourishes and ripens. I know that what we have is beyond our own effort. It is God's fruit borne of that which is mysterious.

I tucked my tail and ran away, ran home to Daddy and Mama, the hot breath of the devil breathing down my neck. I rushed through thick fog, feet of mud, lake of tar, 'til I found my wings beating, slowly at first. So slowly, but then leaving behind the earth to find the sky. It's been a long time now. Funny how I remember those days, how the pungent emotions of youth still resonate. The tape recorder of time rewinds, and the events where I chose one road over the other would forever change my life. God intervened in my foolishness. He protected me and brought me to sanctuary, despite myself. Mercies of God in the forks in the road. 

Southern Showers

Showers are a rite of passage for every Southern girl. They speak of a different time -- a blend of comfortable, genteel rules where the women gather 'round and bless a sister going through the gauntlet of marriage or pregnancy. I remember going to many of these events with my mother and relatives as a child. Cousins and siblings playing in the yard and then sneaking into the kitchen for snacks and lemonade. When it came my turn to get married (and blessed), the showers I was given are still fresh in my heart. My Mom's best friend's house, where the ladies of the church poured out manna from heaven on me. Ken's dear aunt Francis, who invited the family to her antebellum mansion in Washington, Georgia to anoint me with the family love. I still recall their voices and accents, sounding like soft breezes blowing through the room. She served a special fruit salad called "Rosie." Such thoughtfulness and decorum, the flower of many generations of sowing the things that are good in this world. At my place of employment, the ladies brought lunch and gifts, unexpectedly adding to our larder. Then finally, aunt Debbie opened her home to the Norton and Slate sides, where I began to wonder how I would live long enough to repay all these favors. I had a friend who said, "You can't repay them! But you'll have your chances to bless those coming behind you." 

It wasn't long before I saw what she was talking about. I've helped and hosted many a shower in the thirty-five years hence. It's always a joy to see the gifts opened, to enjoy the fellowship of a gaggle of women in the same room. I did a mad dash of a shower this last weekend, with the help of several lovely people and a daughter-in-law or two... My daughter stepped up in new ways to make it happen. Our 117-year-old Victorian house is sheer confection for these types of events. I thought about her old bones as I was dashing about...wondering how many times she might have hosted a wedding or shower or party. We're trying to wear her out while we're able. There's simply nothing like an ancient house to host a soiree. I think the mature, beat-up floors make everyone relax and the soaring ceilings and beautiful glass are inspiring. 

At 9:50, only one guest had arrived for our 10:00 brunch. I was frantically throwing on my makeup in a locked room after yelling at my husband (that's the way it works). The cheese grits weren't made yet, the glasses and drinks weren't arranged, but I figured we had time. Before I could blink, the house was packed with three dozen chattering women and giddy little girls. The food was divine and the company even better. We were celebrating our daughter-in-law, pregnant with her rainbow twins (look it up). Everyone in the house was bursting with joy over the chance to rejoice with her. Each of the two great-Grandmas gave a devotion, laden with sage wisdom and hope. We could barely see her unwrap the gifts, with half a dozen jumping-bean girls crowded around her. Four-year-old sister Annabelle shrieked out thank-yous to each person when their gift was opened.  It was another of those rare Kodak moments in life, where everything comes together in a succinct snapshot, a blissful and sweet morsel where time stands still and we see the reasons we work so hard. A bit of heaven, it was.

Life in Prostrate Mode

It is amazing, what ramifications can occur because of one small mistake. One rash decision, one impulsive leap, one lapse of judgement -- can make or break our lives. Perfection is not possible in this life and I can't say that I'm crazy about making anything perfect. I'm really okay with the fact that nothing is. But then there's those cliffs with crumbly edges. That one number that's off. A tiny detail that gets missed. A few inches of pavement between my pretty red car and that 18-wheeler. A lot can happen in the blink of an eye or in the one digit that didn't seem to matter.

I had a contract, months ago, where everything was crazy and helter-skelter, but then in the eye of the hurricane we somehow got it to closing. Cheers all around and the sellers wandered off to their completely new life, the buyers settled in to a great house, and the rest of us jumped back into the seething pool of activity that's always at the door. Months and months go by and a little mistake, with big ramifications, emerges. Seems like every single entity that was at that closing table missed a minor detail, setting off a firestorm of emotions. Sorta reminded me of insects scrambling when the light gets turned on. I was the least culpable of the guilty parties, but I was indeed at fault. That old adage about the log and the splinter. Yup, it's true. We all saw logs in everyone else's eyes and only splinters in ours. But what happens when you view a splinter up close? It looks just like a log. Tempers rising. No one wants to admit they did anything wrong. This is human nature. We hate to admit that we make mistakes or that we are not perfect. We want to blame someone else. We all do it. No one wants to take the fall. But here we were, all bearing some measure of fault. My weekend consisted of two nights of worry at what might happen on Monday. Tomorrow is another day. I'll think about it tomorrow. But Monday comes in the morning, even when you try to put the brakes on it. 

I hunkered over my computer, making lists, calls and hammering out emails. My husband asked me if we could take a break and go to a movie. A movie, when the world is caving in?! But we went. For two hours, I watched a true story of valiant (some not so much) men saving other peoples' lives. Taking bullets and sacrificing their own bodies to protect their country across the water. My problems seemed like so much silliness. Ken deposited me back at the house to finish my toiling; he left to run errands. I was thick into my "important" stuff, stressing and worrying about all that was before me. I was almost done when he snuck up behind me, one hand holding chocolate and the other holding flowers. It was too much to hold in and I boohooed like a baby. Love can walk through fire without blinking.

I laid all this at the feet of the Lord, praying and asking Him to help me and us. I have only so much wisdom or power or brains to figure it out. He gave me peace, as I thought about Him in the storm, asleep on a pillow. That image is one of my favorites and I bring it up a lot. Sorry if this is redundant. The storm is raging, the disciples are moaning about dying and He's just lying there, sleeping. He's God, so He's really not asleep like we would be. He knows what's going on but He's also man so His body needed to rest. Then I thought about my predicament, how one silly mistake (more like a comedy of errors) might end up costing me (and my cohorts) a lot of money. If everybody bows up and lawyers up and the volcano rises, it could get pretty ugly. But on the other hand, if everybody owns their mistakes, takes responsibility, and shares in the correction, we might get through this without bullets or courtrooms. Praying for that. I love the Lord and I love His humor. He's not asleep and not a sparrow falls without His notice. I feel like a baby wrapped up in His arms tonight. I think I'll go on to sleep now.

Makin' Money Right Now...

I can't sleep tonight because I'm so excited about tomorrow. Some fella is coming to pressure wash the house! Pa and Liz moved all the furniture off the porches onto the grass. I'm going to take a truckload of pillows to the laundromat while Joe Ray is squirtin' off the siding. We normally do things like that ourselves, but I got tired of waiting, had a nice closing last week and decided to hire somebody to do it for us. 

I've been thinking about that a lot lately -- hiring somebody besides ourselves to do things. I have a cousin who's a doctor, who's married to a doctor. They've got lots of loose cash and live way up north. They're putting in a $50,000 pool. My Mama thinks that's plum shameful, shelling out that much money for a concrete pond. I think it's awesome. Too bad they don't live down here where they might actually use one of those (and I might get invited over). I told Mama that they are contributing to the economy, buying that pool. The contractor, employees, concrete guys, and the landscaper are all feeding their families this summer because people like Mikey buy their goods and services. He worked hard getting that education and works hard helping sick people get better every day. If he wants to buy the North Pole, it's his money and he should spend it how he wants. He's greasing the wheels of commerce, plus his kids get to jump in a pool. Good for him.

It's hard for me to pay someone to do something that I know I could do myself. But this guy can do it quicker, he has all the equipment (whereas we'd have to rent it), and my joints are protesting the gravity right now. He's a firefighter. Those guys almost always have to work second jobs to make ends meet. I'm praising the Lord I get to help him with that tomorrow and praising the Lord I don't have to do it myself. I'll stay inside in the air conditioning, make him some tea and work on making money with my phone and computer. 

I hear people complaining about the wealthy, about how they ought to pay more taxes. I say, leave the moneyed people alone and let them do what they do: employ other people, build buildings and businesses, create jobs and spin ideas, and generally buy lots of stuff. I've labored in many a well-heeled person's home, painting their walls and ceilings and translating their ideas onto canvases. Long live the rich people. And thank the Lord for good work.

Ridin' that Hill

The humid heat envelopes me like a blanket as I step outside. It's early but the dog needs the yard. The heavy air is hard on me. Its turgid density flows like molasses into my lungs. My poor joints fight against the gravity and the pain of it, burning like a fever. I'm not that old and I have a lot to do, but my body is saying otherwise. I should go to the gym but can't imagine dragging myself up any more hills. The grocery store is hill enough. 

I remember events where the Holy Spirit whispered to me not to eat that bite, that snack, that serving. I didn't imagine one little bite or serving would matter. But when it happens a thousand times, it becomes a truckload. You can't burn a whole shipment off your butt when you're preoccupied with lots of life. You have to purpose to either chip it off along the way or avoid it altogether. Because one day you wake up and the proverbial elephant in the room is no longer proverbial. Sorry, but that's funny right there.

Nobody plans on getting old, but you do. Nobody plans on wrecking their health, but it happens. I've seen people spend their life obsessing about it, fussing and never being able to enjoy anything. They live like emotional paupers, plagued with rules and the vinegar of worry. Then there are those (like me) who live life in the wind like there's no tomorrow. Our worries come later, when everything's used up and thrown under the bus. Somehow there has to be a happy medium, but I've yet to find it. Because I didn't at least chip away at the excess, now I'm having to use dynamite. 

So I find myself on the porch, the dog gleefully spinning circles with the cat on the lawn. The birds are shrieking with joy, the fig tree has decided to triple itself and is dripping with fruit, and the fish in the pond are doing backflips in the water hyacinths. But the thick summer heat is not doing me any favors and Southern Living is lying about all the parties we're supposed to be having. Don't kid yourself. Nobody's having soirees with darling party lights, watermelon and barbecue out on the lawn, at least not until Thanksgiving. I sound like the Grinch and I'm looking sorta like Jabba the Hut. Since Fitbit is telling me I'm only eating 1500 calories a day but using up 2500 calories, you'd think the deficit would kick in. Apparently I've got to get out the dynamite. And probably get on my bike. 

So if you see a fat (but hey, pretty) lady pedaling about on a bike in Villa Rica, please don't hit her with your car or crack mean jokes. And don't shoot me if I ride on the sidewalk. That's a whole lot more fun than pushing tires or climbing fake stairs, though I humbly respect all those women I see doing that. I'm just trying to find my inner ten-year-old before she gives way to that fossil that's trying to take over her body. Lord have mercy.

Sentimental Journey to Hoardom

Why do we think we have to have so much junk? Everywhere I look, there's stuff that needs to be dusted. Why do I have that frame with an ugly picture of us in it? Or the strange "holder" with a candle in it and a bird on top? It's grotesque and serves no purpose. Do I really need ten pitcher and bowls, one for every major room in the house? There are bland clocks everywhere that we've picked up as gifts from companies and vendors along the way. I have a phone, microwave, oven, computer and watch that tell me at a glance what time it is...why do I need another blurt on my horizon? 

I have ended up doing a lot of real estate listings that involve estates. Most of the houses are chock full of the things left over from Ma, Pa, Aunt Josie, Grandma Smith and the next door neighbor who died. In most houses, you could actually furnish two domiciles with what is crammed in there. In America, we think we need a formal dining room as well as an eat-in kitchen, a den as well as a great room, and then a finished basement to make sure we've got a good place to sit and watch TV. We work our tails off, countless hours, rarely home, to let our homes collect dust and things...to have a pretty place to perch ourselves and veg out when we finally get off. How did we get here?

I grew up in a simple neighborhood in the 60s, with rows of plain brick ranch homes built with cookie cutter plans. Our moms stayed home and tended the unruly edges of life. Supper was almost always there, on time and healthy. Dessert was a rare treat (and so it was a treat). Us kids ran the streets and fields with abandon, then washed up for meals and bedtime. There were no video games or computers or cellphones. We talked a lot. We had conflicts and fights, but made up because there was nothing to help distract us from the thick attitudes in the air. I have put on the rosey glasses of time that cause me to forget a lot of the difficult things. I remember it sometimes being hard to not have everything I thought I wanted. But then I also knew I was lucky. One friend got off the bus to an empty house and had to avoid the advances of the creepy men her mother brought home. Another friend had all manner of ponies and outfits, but never felt loved one day of her life. Still another was imprisoned by parents whose ridiculous rules eclipsed both reason and kindness. I was thankful to know both love and boundaries where I grew up.

Do we collect things to fill up quiet spaces in our lives? Or is it to prove to ourselves that we are worthy because we have things? We collect and collect, but at the end, when the dust cries out our name and we surrender, somebody has to deal with all of it. Even the valuable things get a pittance and it's just a bunch of sweaty work. I'm doing one exercise to try and help get rid of my junk: I have signed up for two different ministries/charities to pick up at my house. Every two weeks I've got to muster out at least one bag of something to put out on the porch. Even if I'm dashing about the night before they pick up, there's nothing that I regret getting rid of in the end. I'm giving my grown kids the things that they want out of my house too. Now. Not when I'm pushing up daisies. I use the beautiful things that are in my china cabinet. When a grandbaby drops one and it crashes to smithereens, I remember it's just stuff. Things. Not people. And the less rubbish that fills up my house, the more space I have for them, both in the living room and in my brain.

Can I Take a Nap Now?

One of my favorite places is Charleston, South Carolina. It's magical -- history plus the beach. What could be better? There's a whole town of gorgeous Victorian homes, crowded together like jewels on a necklace. Ken and I have visited several times and simply love it. When Liz wanted to do something special for her 26th birthday, she and I wound up planning a trip. Speaking of trips....

Liz likes baseball, so we bought a rasher of tickets to three of the minor league games by the river. We thought, wow, Tim Tebow's going to be playing that weekend. Liz can bring her lasso. They traded him before we could get there. Poor guy doesn't know what he's missing. Either way, we were running late to that first night's game. We had front row tickets and were hoofing it in the gate to find our seats. There was an unfortunate piece of bleached wood jutting out into the aisle we were running down. Yaya didn't see it and hit the concrete like a slab of steak on a grill. Every joint in my body screamed out to the heavens as I lay there, pondering life and how I was going to gracefully get up. I can't get up nicely on a good day, with no one watching. There were about a hundred eyes on me, with eight to ten people in my periphery just waiting to help. I was offered ice, water, hands. My back, wrists, and waist were wrenched out of their usual places. I believed with all my soul that one of my ribs had punctured a lung and I was going to bleed out any minute. My right foot was scraped underneath and the middle toe swelled up like a mushroom. All I wanted to do was curl up and die. Eventually I pulled myself up and tried to disappear into the crowd.

That wasn't the worst of it. All weekend, every move was torture. With our full agenda planned and paid for, there wasn't getting out of any fun. There was a carriage ride around town, a plantation jaunt with no actual plantation but miles of gardens and strange birds stalking me, a mansion tour, shopping, two more baseball games, the downtown market and obligatory ice cream stop. Worst of all was when I decided to change out my sneakers for sandals, since it was 150 degrees in the heat...I peeled off my socks and wisely stepped onto pavement that was hot enough to fry shrimp. So now I had filleted, toasted AND grilled toes. My feet always look rather like Hobbit feet, but now they looked like brats straight off the barbie. Liz had no sympathy for me at all. I think she believes I'm a hypochondriac, even when I had all the evidence right there with my sausage toes and black bits of asphalt ground into the pads of my feet. 

We actually had a marvelous time. Liz got lots of attention from the cute pitchers warming up in front of our seats. We saw beautiful architecture and heard new history lessons.  We ended up at our former pastor's church on Sunday and then had a delightful lunch at their home. The brief touching of our lives was a bit of heaven on earth. Looking back on the weekend, it was a picture of life. Rush. Fall down. Get up. Get there. Sit. Participate. Pain. Fix the pain. Clean up. Sleep. We keep repeating those cycles, if you think about it. On our drive back Sunday night, my right shoulder decided to start screaming. I guess it was a good thing, since we left really late and drove through the pounding rain like madmen to get home. The pain kept me from getting sleepy. As my dear daughter snoozed in oblivion next to me, I turned off the radio. Without my phone or computer or humanoids to distract me, I talked to God about a whole lot of stuff. Heaven and hell always seem to ride real close together. Precious times.

Remembering Pain and Love

The hard things in life seem to interfere with all the sugar plum fairies and Twinkies. Today is the anniversary of the loss of one of our grandbabies, via a miscarriage. It may seem morbid to some, to dwell upon such an event, even to put that date on the calendar. But for those who have experienced losses such as these, the heart cries out for remembrance.  My daughter-in-love has lost three babies. Add onto that the challenges of infertility and you get a perfect storm. God in His mercy sent them (and us) our precocious and intensely-nurturing Annabelle, who is now four years old. And this last spring, God and all the honeybees, pollen, birds and planets aligned to fill my d-i-l's womb with not just one, but two babies. Addison and Bennett are now jostling for space while Annabelle reminds everyone which side they are on in her Mama's tummy. They are due in October, with about a thousand prayers going up for them every day from people all over the planet. 

Remembrance. I also call to mind my own three unborn babies, lost to the earth several years ago. Two were early, but one was a fourteen week pregnancy, with me way late in years for birthing a baby. I named him Ethan. It broke all our hearts. I can still feel it all, if I let myself. Suspended in the water, not breathing, numb, drowning, unable to move. The stillness. The ringing in my brain. But then grace. Life, with its circles, includes death and letting go. The Lord speaks peace to my heart as I embrace the passages of my loved ones, babies and old alike. There's regrets, but I have to own and then release them too, as part of the redemption my Lord died for. He didn't die in vain. He didn't snatch me up in vain. 

There are choices and then there are circumstances. Sometimes the two intertwine. Pausing for a moment to look back, remember, grieve, cry, but then smile and look forward. To not remember is bad, but to stay back there is bad too. Hope springs eternal and today is fresh and unwritten. Love covers. Love bears what is difficult. "For now we see in a mirror dimly, but then face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I have been fully known. So now faith, hope and love abide, these three; but the greatest of these is love." I Corinthians 13:12-13. And love is what carries the day. 

Seasons and Spinning

"For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven:

2 a time to be born, and a time to die;
a time to plant, and a time to pluck up what is planted;
3 a time to kill, and a time to heal;
a time to break down, and a time to build up;
4 a time to weep, and a time to laugh;
a time to mourn, and a time to dance;
5 a time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together;
a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing;
6 a time to seek, and a time to lose;
a time to keep, and a time to cast away;
7 a time to tear, and a time to sew;
a time to keep silence, and a time to speak;
8 a time to love, and a time to hate;
a time for war, and a time for peace..." Ecclesiastes 3:1-8

Wiser words have never been spoken. The seasons of life that we pass through, they are ever changing. Yet we mourn when things change, we resist that which is uncomfortable. Life can become a place of ruts, where our wagon wheels easily jump over into the familiar grooves and fail to seek new roads. How sad, when we become tired as we age, to forget the wonders of the earth spinning around us. I have been pondering these things of late. It is our default, as we are madly striving to survive, to numbly and thoughtlessly submit ourselves to the grindstone. We see the wheel in front of us, we toil and push, thinking we must do this or that...without questioning our goals or our reasons. Why am I doing this? Is it worth it? What is my purpose on this planet? Am I making a difference?

In my line of work (real estate), I daily see people making changes in their lives. Some are being forced while others are simply jumping into it. A sad widow loses her husband and must simplify her life. Another couple is failing physically and needs to move closer to their children. A young family wants more space. A job takes a single man to a new city, so he must sell his home here. In the adventure and excitement of a new move, usually there is also some fear and trepidation, mixed with thousands of details that must be tended to. They say that moving is one of the top five stressful things you can do in your life. No wonder I'm stressed -- I'm completely immersed and emoting peoples' moves every day! I can't seem to separate myself from their joy, pain, emotions or trials. 

This new season of my life, I'm being stretched and called to sprout new wings. I thought after raising four babies to adulthood and numerous other career paths, my elasticity might just be gone. If you could feel the pain in my knees, you might say it was definitely down the drain. They say our brains have some kind of plasticity to them, that they are malleable and changeable, if we will keep using them. I hoped that after Algebra 2 and the advent of calculators, maybe I'd be done with math. But no, I whip out that calculator every day and actually use it. Technology, traffic and grandbabies are assuring me of all kinds of plastic in my brain. Trying to keep it between the lines and not overheat. Touchy subject. 

Ecclesiastes always bothered me, because he keeps talking about how everything is vain. It's like he's really depressed because he's worked hard all his life for nothing. I recently listened to the whole book in one felled swoop while I was driving in mad circles around Atlanta. I came away hopeful. What I heard was: hey, everybody's supposed to work hard. But look, enjoy it. Yes, enjoy your work. Enjoy the fruits of your labor. Enjoy all the people God put in your life. Don't put too much stock in stuff that doesn't matter, because we're all gonna die soon. Look to God, enjoy Him too. We all need to stop what we're doing, take a gander around us, crack a smile, find something to laugh about. Embrace the season we find ourselves in. Say what you mean and mean what you say, even if it's difficult. Then love our people, unashamedly and unreservedly. Be honest. We need to get over ourselves.