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.
Sunday, July 30, 2017
Sunday, July 23, 2017
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.
Monday, July 17, 2017
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.
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.
Monday, July 10, 2017
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.
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.
Monday, July 3, 2017
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.
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.
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