Midnight Train in Georgia

There are so many things that pull at me. So much to do. So many obligations, needs, wants, and then there's all the distractions in between. Plus the corners are mighty dusty. 
This week was absolutely dizzying, with work and multiple commitments looming. I dashed about from here to yonder, trying to make a semblance of catching up. One night, my sister wisely suggested making a master list (I have plenty of lists, just hadn't made a "master" one). In fifteen minutes, I emptied every worrisome thought out of my brain onto a piece of paper. It sat there like an accusation. I rewrote it onto an index card, this time with priorities in mind. There were things on there that technically could have waited or been cancelled. My friend, Pink, whom I had committed to helping paint her 9-foot-tall bunny (Mr. Adderholt)... An old client, who needed assistance with tax questions that I could have shuttled off to someone else... My nephew's play... That trip to Carrollton with my daughter in love and granddaughter... 

We could go on and on. I still had a distracted week with my phone to my ear and eyes as real estate roared in like a shrieking train. Every night was an adventure when my eyes would pop open at insane hours of the night with my brains firing the next days' directives. I love to whine and complain, it's just the truth. And I hate that. It's a sin! One such night, after the craziest evening ever, with knee pain on top of it, I decided to go on and get up and do some real estate work. It was midnight. Ken woke up with pain too at 2:30 a.m. and needed a heating pad (no smart-aleck comments, ya'll...there was nothing romantic about it). I laid back down. Then some strange dog got up on our porch and started barking at the cats, so Zoe started barking and growling too. At 3:00 a.m! Chased the dog off with Ken's big axe handle that he keeps beside the bed (don't ever try to break into our house. Ken Norton with an axe handle = Thor). We both took some pain killers and laid back down (again). I kept laughing which led to coughing, while trying to keep Ken from waking back up. So this morning when my eyes peeled open, I smiled and thought about the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living. "Oh sing to the Lord a new song! Sing to the Lord, all the earth. Sing to the Lord, bless His name; proclaim the good news of His salvation from day to day. Declare His glory among the nations. His wonders among all peoples." - Psalm 96:1-3. If we don't sing, if we don't laugh, if we don't thank God for all the stuff -- in, out, in-between -- we'll miss the blessings. Praying for eyes to see, even through the crazy.

The True Keeper of the Secrets

As my 98-year-old client walked in front of me into Wallace's restaurant for a bit of barbecue, I couldn't help noticing her freshly-coiffed hair. It was beautiful and silver, springy and curled, ready for another week. Her dear daughter drives an hour and a half every Friday morning to bring her back here to the salon she's frequented for fourty years. We are listing her little brick ranch for sale, something that is difficult for her to face. Even though she is mercifully ensconced with her daughter (dare I hope to make it to 98 and my kids let me live with them?) she despairs of letting go of the last vestiges of independence. I marvel at the kindness of her daughter, who understands the significance of the deep, mysterious rite of womankind that binds us all -- the ritual of the beauty salon. 

As a child, I remember being relegated to a corner of a busy shop while my Mama endured the shampooing, snipping, curling, ratting and spraying that was the required maintenance for a 1960s beehive hairdo. Millions of women went for their weekly refresh, carefully winding nets around their hair every night, sleeping in strange ways to keep from un-doing all that poofy goodness. My Grandma Betty had a standing appointment every Friday after work. When we would visit her in Illinois, I always thought it odd that she kept that appointment, no matter what. I was a kid and didn't yet understand what was so important about those hallowed tents of ozone-depleting fumes. Time went by and the beehives, though they have yet to disappear, became less sought-after and were replaced with the big hair and perms of the 1980s. The 90s and 2000s brought lots of highlights and blonding. Now we're morphing into every shade of the rainbow - blue, purple, pink, along with twenty-somethings having their hair silvered. Silver, really! I'm getting mature, just in time. 

When I began having children, I started to understand the allure of the beauty salon. There's nothing quite like a fresh cut and highlights when your days are full of Cheerios and Fisher-Price music. Those dates were often accomplished with Daddy or Grandma watching the children and a half-day of getting there and back. It wasn't a spa by any stretch, with our Walmart-worthy-budget, but it might as well have been. Sometimes my sister and Mama and I would all head out together to our favorite stylist who lived out in the sticks of Roopville, with our dozen or more kids with us. The kids would play outside while we got permed, cut, and colored. It took hours but it was like a day at the Ritz for us Moms. 

I went this week for my pre-vacation-hair appointment at Belize Salon in Villa Rica. (I always have two large fixes a year, one before the Christmas holidays, where my stylist puts lots of dark drama in with the blonde...and one before vacation where she turns up the California). As I was waiting, listening and watching all the theatrics that occur in any salon, I couldn't help but eavesdrop on numerous conversations. When a woman drops her head back to get shampooed, then submits to a rotating chair and scissors in someone else's hands, something puzzling happens and she becomes unhinged. Before I walk into a salon, I tell myself to try and shut up this time. Be quiet, be humble, be subtle. But the stylist is not a hairdresser any longer. She is my psychologist, confidante and mentor. She can say what she wants and I will believe it. But mostly she listens to the stream of consciousness that flows unhindered from my mouth. I can't seem to stop. I say things that I never mean to say. The time goes too fast, the job is done, I'm fresh and ready to go. As I pay her, I wonder if she ever reveals any of the codified information she gets from all the women that pass under her hand. She is the keeper of mysteries and the helper of Moms, Grandmamas and prom goers everywhere. I am very grateful for her.

Noah's Boat and a Bad Egg of a Day

Today was beyond rough. It began with an emotional real estate transaction where a family was selling their mother's home. Her many trinkets and clothes had been mostly dispersed, but all the sentiment and trial of remembering and honoring her life took its toll. My client and I ended up crying in the kitchen. 

Then on to a visit with plucky granddaughter Annabelle and her good Mama. There's nothing so sweet as the shrieks of a grandchild when you walk in the door. I stayed too long. My hair needed washing but there wasn't time to get home before my next real estate appointment...so I did what all harried women do -- I popped in to Sally Beauty Supply and bought more stuff. I was borrowing my Daddy's car and didn't have a hairbrush with me, much less dry shampoo. Ten minutes later I emerged with a whole arsenal of products intended to produce miracles on dirty hair. I sprayed and fluffed in the Walmart parking lot, then hit the road. I ain't nothing if not adaptable.

The next three hours were spent in frazzled travail as I did the realtor two-step between a Rock and a Hard Place. I called the listing agent to give him an update on the dance lessons, but was driving distracted because my bluetooth had gone awry yesterday. I was trying to drive, talk, keep from losing my mind and balance my monster Iphone on my shoulder. When I looked up and saw the green light and people moving in the next lane, I failed to see the massive red Hummer right in front of me. Yes, it's true. I smashed my Daddy's little car right into it. The Hummer didn't get a scratch but I think the Toyota is totaled. How ironic that my Daddy taught me to drive the back roads of Powder Springs in a little red Pinto at the age of thirteen...and my first accident occurs 44 years later, driving his car. 

Eventually, all the people that needed to be told and all the people that needed to get there, got there. Our son Jonathan happened to drive by and jumped out too, as a great comfort to me. I sat numbly in Ken's car as we waited for the wrecker. (I still haven't finished crying). He took me to our favorite Mexican restaurant and told me that I was not on a diet today and that I had to have comforting food and beverage. So I did, without guilt. Tomorrow's another day and it will be okay. All I could think about was how stupid I was for being distracted, why couldn't I have been driving my car instead of Daddy's and ouch, I'm starting to hurt. As we began to relax, though, I noticed the weather outside. The sky was tumultuous, with large dark clouds and rolling winds blowing. I saw a little piece of a rainbow peeking out from behind a cloud. It was different -- mostly green and orange. Over the course of an hour it grew and grew, more colors blending in -- purple, pink, blue streaks. Then another rainbow came alongside it and it all stretched from the ground, arching above the massive clouds. I couldn't help but think of all the spiritual connotations emanating from this scene. My real estate deal seemed to be unraveling, with the immovable object meeting the unstoppable force. Then the plastic car meeting the concrete one. The darkest day I've known in a long while. But then, there were rainbows...

Later, as I stood in my glorious pink pantry in our Victorian house contemplating a bandaid for my toe (another story), I finally started to break down from all the seeming failures of the day. I was feeling sorry for myself and starting to sob when I suddenly remembered that it was Maundy Thursday, the night that Christ and his disciples had their last supper together. The night that Judas went out to betray Him. The night that He washed their feet and sorrowfully began to face the great hell that yawned before Him. The dark, evil clouds mustered up to consume and defeat Him. All seemed lost on Good Friday, but then the promises of God broke through on Easter morning as He crushed the serpent's head, redeeming a people for Himself. Easter is my favorite holiday. Not Christmas, not Fourth of July. Easter, when the stone was rolled away. My favorite hymn, in its fourth verse, says: "Long my imprisoned spirit lay, fast bound in sin and nature's night; Thine eye diffused a quick'ning ray, I woke, the dungeon flamed with light; My chains fell off, my heart was free; I rose, went forth and followed Thee." (And Can It Be? - John Wesley). This life is full of all sorts of chains, with some crazy dark days. And on this very wicked day, with too many swirling problems to explain, I was given the gift of precious signs in the sky. Signs of promises given way on back to Noah, where a way of salvation was provided to carry His children to safety. Symbols and types of what was to come -- what is celebrated here at Easter. I love the bunnies, the spring flowers, the eggs and the festivities. The earth is bustin' with life and greenness. But what I love most is that God-man, Jesus Christ, who defied death and hell to pluck this girl out of the flames. 

The Value of a Tough Coach

It was the beginning of ninth grade and they made an announcement about basketball tryouts. I had played intramural sports all through middle school but had little experience with a basketball. The ninth grade coach lined us up. He had a clipboard, a list and a plan. He was handsome but grim. It was obvious he was serious about this. I liked that. The tough teachers in my past were my favorites. I knew that I only had a slim chance of making the team. I was lanky, goofy and all over the place. But I was tall.

I made the team (barely, he told me later. He also told me that it was because I was tall). Coach Buster Brown. He might as well have been Sergeant York, because he was military tough. We were sent out to run the cross-country course, throw medicine balls to each other, hike the bleachers, run suicides and do drills. All without a basketball. Weeks of it. He took us into the exercise room, threw the boys out and made us lift weights. Girls didn't do much of that back then. Just when I knew I was going to die or at least pass out, he'd send us for a water break. And then back at it. I began to notice that I was losing baby fat and that I could run faster than I did a few weeks before. Finally the day came when he let us use an actual basketball. Practices were full of drills and more drills. Shooting, dribbling, maneuvering, but very little playing. He prayed at every practice, taught us the Scriptures, and drove us mad with more running. By the time the season began, we had learned how to reach deep inside for more. He taught us Maravich drills and we warmed up to Sweet Georgia Brown.

He ended up being my coach for all four high school years. It seemed impossible to please him. He pushed us until we thought there was nothing left. There were some people that hated him, thought he was too hard for high schoolers and expected too much. But I loved him for it. The character that emanated from digging that deep was irreplaceable. It still affects me, because he proved that I am capable of much more than I think I am. I still carry that in my soul. He was emotionally aloof and never afraid to offend those he coached, in order to take them to the brink of selflessness. There's a courage in that. Teachers and coaches who shoved on that line are the ones that I respected and learned from. The soft ones didn't teach me that much, though I'm sure some people needed them. I was terribly sad when I graduated; it was difficult to leave my beloved McEachern High School, and especially Coach Brown. My college coach was too sweet. I ended up injured and back at home after a couple of years. I pined for our tough drill sergeant from high school.

When I had our four babies and time drifted on, I often thought of him and the many lessons he taught me. Sometimes I thought about how he'd probably fuss at me because I got fat and quit working out much. But I knew that he'd still be proud of my life and what the Lord had done in it. Many years went by and as the children grew up, our last two ended up at a small college in North Georgia. Jesse was playing basketball there and the ladies' coach had talked to us about Liz, who would be coming there Jesse's senior year. Alas, she quit coaching the spring before Liz was due to try out. But mid-summer, the athletic director called and asked if she was still interested in playing. He told us that they had hired a new coach. His name was Buster Brown. Yes. That Buster Brown.

Liz wound up playing for him her freshman year in college. He wasn't as mean or as tough as all those decades before, but he was good for her and she learned much from him. He decided that he was meant for high school coaching and went back to White County High School the next few years. But I will never forget the goodness of the Lord in letting Liz be on his team. It started her education and she was able to graduate with little debt because of the scholarships and opportunities that spun off from basketball. 

There's a place that I go back to...those blistering summers (and falls, winters and springs -- he never gave us much time off) days of Coach and his whistle, making us run and work, lift and push. When other athletes were taking time off, he was cracking the whip. Every day on this planet, there are coaches and teachers who get up, work, care, do the hard things... with little pay and little appreciation. They've changed our lives forever. Remember them. Thanks, Coach.

--

The Eye of the Storm

I found myself in Atlanta this morning, when the rain started pounding my car. I knew that there were going to be storms but not tornadoes! There were warning sirens going off. Huge drafts of wind were tossing my poor old mini-van to and fro. The raindrops sounded like hail on the windshield. I got to my destination and looked around at the other people in the room, of whom I knew no one. There was a bit of fear and uncertainty as the wind whistled at the door. I imagined, what if this cool looking ceiling just crashed in on us? But alas, it didn't, and eventually I made my way back to Villa Rica by inches. My kids started sending me pictures of tornadoes in the area. A Carrollton fire station was hit badly. The news was going crazy on all the situations around.

What if it were my last hour? I heard that Rhubarb Jones, that familiar Southern disc jockey, died yesterday. I assumed he was old, but he was not that much older than me (so that means he was young). I had just heard him talking on the radio and now he's gone. We're all going to be pushing up daisies someday, though we don't believe it. I have wrestled with the fear of dying at times, not because I'm unsure of where I am going....but because I see how very difficult it is for families and loved ones after you're gone. I still grieve for my Grandmas and a few friends. You never really get over that. But it's all a part of the mysterious fabric of life, babies and the old folks, birth and death. 

In the middle of the storm, I got great news (and a couple of pictures) of our twin grandbabies that are on the way...babies that God has been talked to a lot about, even before they were conceived. I think about the mind of God, how He knows everything since before the invention of time. Those beautiful little souls, in His mind's eye. We dare not treat any of them lightly. Made in the image of God, with a couple of twists of incomprehensible DNA twining together to make the most complex beings in the universe. More sophisticated than the planets, more vulnerable than we can imagine. Trusting, trusting in His plans and timing. We breathe, we pray, we plant our faces to the ground. I hear the birds' riotous singing after the storm. The shrieking wind, swirling, debris everywhere, fear, reports, caution, danger....then came stillness and then the song. That's so much like life.