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.