Shedding that Old Coat

And here we are again, ready to shed 2018 off like an old coat. I think of my old MawMaw's expression, "I'd like ta get shed of that old thing." Some folks scoff at the idea of making goals and commitments at the new year, since most of them often peter out so quickly...but I love this time of year. It's a chance to examine the old and put on a fresh face for the new. We all have things in our lives that need to change (at least I do). Health, eating, exercise, plans for business, thoughts that drift back to former dreams that have not been attained. 

2018 was one of the roughest years of my life, for many reasons. Death, loss, stress, taxes...things that can certainly get your eye off the "ball." But isn't life about those things? The hard inclines, the valleys. Mountaintops are reached after long stretches of work. Their experience is heady, brief and exhilarating. But the air is thin up there and you can't get much work done standing on a pinnacle. Most of our lives are about the murky, trudging places...marching, pulling through, taking the next step. It doesn't have to be drudgery though. If I've learned anything this year, it's to keep my head up and see the inchworm on a leaf or breathe in the sweet morning air. There's a lot in life that we can let go of, and the earth will keep right on spinning. I'm not God (surprise!) and I don't have to care about every tiny detail that I can't control. I'm learning to laugh and let Him worry about that. 

When my husband lost his job this year, right smack in the middle of heavy grief over losing my Daddy, all I wanted to do was lay on the ground and die. Or kick and scream. Or find a way to fix it. What resurrected me was an epiphany in the middle of the night. I got my eyes off our circumstances and remembered my roots. What could I do to help us be healthier? There were lots of places I had neglected my own home and my relationship with Ken. First off was digging past the elephants in our room, to do the job of communicating better, where it had been easier to just ignore things. Admitting where I was weak, ask for help, clear out the clutter, both physically and emotionally. Having a heart of thankfulness, looking past the difficulties to all that is good. And even being grateful for what seemed bad. Romans 8:28 (my Daddy's life verse) says: "And we know that all things work together for good to them that love God, to them who are called according to His purpose." 

I've decided to do a 12-week plan rather than a 12-month plan, making my goals more accessible. Then I'll start over. There are worlds of possibilities out there. My personal plans include measurable goals in the areas of health, art, study and spiritual walk. Not insane, just with the end in sight. Let's have a great, mindful year, full of love for one another and with our sights set on walking with joy through the trenches of life.

The Great Turkey is Looming

I'm in big trouble. I have a 25-pound turkey beast, frozen as hard as the Arctic tundra, laying in my kitchen sink. And it's Christmas Eve. There are so many things going wrong on this...

I bought it at Aldi, on an ambitious day where I was thinking about how good I was going to be this year, weeks before the Christmas deed was happening. I loaded up my Explorer with lots of goodies, stocking stuffers, food of all kinds. The turkey resisted me, even back then. When I opened the hatch to unload my car, the turkey rolled right out and landed on my foot. I think it broke it, but now it's all mended back, crooked of course. Ken ate all the chocolate bars in between then and now, so I sent him back to get more for the stockings. The rest of the food is gone, the family is coming over tomorrow, and all that's left is this monstrosity of a turkey. Frozen solid. 

My sister, the monarch of last-minute culinary miracles (she has eleven children), said to just brine it like Alton Brown does. Which means sticking it in a 5-gallon bucket of really salty water and other mysterious ingredients. That would mean I'd have to google the recipe and then head to the store. Then manage to find a clean bucket.

My mother-in-law's advice does not count. She is the Paula Deen/Nathalie Dupree/Julia Child of middle Georgia. All these years, I should have been deciphering and collecting the encyclopedia of cooking wizardry that floats naturally in her brain, but I was content to simply eat her food and pray that she brought the dressing and gravy. Great pans of it come masterfully through the door, magical potions that drug and put us all into a blissful, dream-filled sleep. We've already had our Norton Christmas with them. How can I learn to make dressing in one phone call?

Then there's my son, whose only skills at cooking include pickup from the wing place or barbaric uses of fire, outside. He said to bring it over and he'd fry it. Then he found out it weighed 25 pounds and began chiding me for buying that much meat, when we all know that my turkeys always leave something to be desired. His fryer won't hold a turkey that big, of course.

So I'm waiting on a Christmas epiphany to save the day. We're all stuffed to the rafters with all this holidaying anyway, so why can't we just order pizza? But then I've got this roast beast that's not going to look pretty in another year, much less take up half my freezer. Oh the trials of decadent, overindulged Americans. I guess this will be today's agenda. I don't think this has a lot to do with baby Jesus. But Merry Christmas ya'll. We really do have so much to be thankful for.

Bonnie and Clyde and the Getaway Car

My neighbor had an intruder the other night. It's got us all scared out of our wits. The guy is now in jail, so why are we worried about the locks now? Just kidding, of course we need to lock up. It's the year 2018 and it's better to be safe than sorry. But it reminds me of something that happened to me one day in Villa Rica, just a few years back...

I was out walking the dog on a balmy, spring day. A lady sashayed by the house and we said hello to each other. She  asked if I could do her a favor. "If I can, I will," I said. She told me that her car had been impounded and she needed to go to the bank to get some money, in order to get her car back. We are only a half mile away from the bank, but she wondered if I could drive her over there. I didn't know her from Adam's housecat, but I said yes. I said I had to run inside and get my purse. Before I could say Jack Sprat, she ran right on in behind me. She virtually sprinted all over my house in a flash. My trusty dog didn't take kindly to it and began to growl lightly at her. She asked if the dog would bite her. I said I wasn't sure, but not to be trying to come around without us here. That was probably a good thing to say.

I whipped up my things and we headed to town. I pulled into the bank parking lot and she hopped out of the car, leaving her purse laying beside me. She stated that they knew her there and she didn't need her ID. I thought that was odd, because my bank knows me too but I still have to show them my driver's license, even after twenty years of banking there. She was gone a few minutes and came out with a roll of money. It rather looked like a fat sandwich, it was so thick. She said to drive to Main Street and just drop me in front of the police station. I never did see her go in. The whole business took maybe ten minutes, but I learned many things about this lady in that time. Things that might make your hair curl or your Mama blush. I told her I'd pray for her and that I hoped she'd get her car back.

When Ken got home that night, he scolded me for picking up strangers. I guess it did seem sketchy, but I thought it went okay (well, except for the hair curling. Oh yeah, and the casing of the house and all). And I did still wonder about that bank scenario. A few days went by and as I was looking at the newspaper, I saw that this same girl was wanted in connection with a robbery. There had been a man involved as well, but they had caught him and he was in custody. I called the police station and told them my story. He said to quit picking up strangers and did I know where she was now? I most certainly did not. But as I hung up the phone, I had a slight suspicion that has nagged me ever since. Is it just possible that I was the getaway car?

A Long Winter's Night

I had become the Tile Queen of Douglasville. We were living in a camper with four kids. It was 1997 and we were knee-deep into the second year of a house-building project. Some people said, "Oh yeah, we built our house." No. We really built our house. Ourselves. With our own hands. 

I really hate carpet. It might be warm and pretty and it only takes a minute to vacuum it, but it gets nasty and full of germs and dust. When we built that house, there was to be no carpet. Only tile and pine floors. I went to Home Depot, where they have little classes on how to tile. Someone gave us acres of beautiful green Italian tile out of a dumpster, so we added an equal amount of cream-colored partners to it and borrowed a friend's giant masonry saw. It was January, cold as mess, and we had deadlines to keep. One of our sons was my cutter and I was the layer. Yes, I was the laying fool, wearing out my joints, knees, fingers and toes. We wound up putting in 1800 square feet of tile, all told. I had been working on it for a month solid. Ken had tons of vacation time back then, so he was home for the whole month, but working on other things. He apparently never learned how to lay tile.

I had one more room to finish -- the (really big) master bathroom. Don't ask me why (except that it was 1997), but I chose tile that looked like pink marble. The jacuzzi tub deck was done in a sandy pink. I'm sure the current owners of that home would like to shoot somebody over that. I woke up that January day, the temperature dipping down into the 20s. We only had space heaters in the house, but I was determined to finish that bathroom. I made up a big container of mud for the floor and got to work. Over this long project, my pretty piano hands now looked like meathooks. Thick, crabby, calloused and kind-of in a permanently curled position. It was cold, I was bone weary, and sick of the whole thing. I got about 3/4s of the way through my bucket when I simply shut down. I couldn't get warm and I was so tired, I couldn't see straight. I threw my tool in the bucket and started crying. Then I started wailing. Ken came running, "What's the matter?!" "I'm cold. I'm tired. I can't feel my fingers." Ken, his normal, practical self, looked into the container and said, "Well, how 'bout you finish up that bit of mud. Go into the camper and get a really hot shower and get in your sleeping bag and go to sleep." I squawled: "But ya'll need lunch and I don't want to think about lunch." He said not to worry about it, he'd take care of it. So I did just that. Got in the blissfully hot shower, went ahead and put on my pajamas so I'd be comfortable, climbed in my sleeping bag and zipped it clean on up. Mind you, our bed was in the "living room" of the camper. 

Ken and our four children came in a couple of hours later, ate lunch, cleaned up, went back out to work, ate supper, cleaned up, had showers, went to bed, got up, ate breakfast, went to work, ate lunch again. Ken said he checked on my breathing several times to make sure I wasn't dead. I woke up promptly at 1:00 the next afternoon, after approximately 26 hours of sleep, never hearing a thing or waking up once.

Ken wisely waited a few days before he broached the subject of finishing the tile. He might have even contemplated doing it himself but I was a little diva-ish about anything I started. The day I announced I was going to finish, he said, "Whoa, give me a few minutes." He went up to the bathroom, turned the space heater on full force, laid out all my tools, gave me a vigorous back massage, and said okay now go. He kept bringing me drinks and refreshments all day, he and the children speaking in hushed, reverent tones. I believe we ate out that night. 

My hands never did really recover from that winter. I now have man hands that curve in strange directions and I twitch slightly when I walk. But there came a day when we moved in and had a lot to be proud of. Just don't ask me to lay a piece of tile again. Ever.

Butterflies are Free

They say that our ten-year-old self defines us. We are either trying to get back to that authentic person or trying to run away from the circumstances we found ourselves in at that time. I think this might be true. 

At ten, the world was my oyster. My fifth grade teacher was the best. At ten, you are living large. It's before all the hormones kick in and self-doubt overtakes your courage. It's before most of the bullies have found their marks. Puppy love is sweet and the event of the year is the hayride at the Harvest Festival. The playground is still cool. For me, the sky was very blue and clear that year. The rogue boys were still kept under control with paddles and clearly delineated authority figures. The girls kind-of ruled at that point, taller and seemingly smarter, the synapses of their brains maturing earlier than their male counterparts. I distinctly remember being amazed by eighth grade, when a group of boys started playing serious chess games, for fun. I saw their emergence and also (bless their hearts) their fascination with everything grungy. Our ten-year-old girl selves didn't understand that much. At least not back then. 

The ten year old is like a chrysalis. Growing inside their cocoon, unassuming about the future, free to wiggle and grow. Soon the walls will harden around them. Pain of all sorts will either impede or compel. When time ripens and then opens the doors, they will succeed or fail according to the nature of the nest they were in or maybe better, how they react to it.

I love butterflies. I love to paint pictures of them. The fine details, the veining, the colors. We all enjoy watching them flutter by, fragile jewels. Hard to imagine that such a beautiful thing was once a worm. A hardy, fat worm, not caring that it's ugly. Carefree days spent eating, grubbing about, just living. Then comes the fortress, built all around it, the death of everything it knows. One day, as the walls give way, the creature falls out, wet and crumpled, vulnerable and cold. She dries out slowly, wings unfurling. The worm doesn't know it's wonderful. It will take time and zephyrs for her to know that she can fly, unaware that her wings are both useful and gorgeous. Hopefully, she will figure that out before her day is done. 

Backwards Wisdom

Trials seem to come in bunches. There's a saying that if you're not in a storm, there's one on its way. I don't have to enumerate our recent monsoons here...suffice it to say, I have felt like our boat has been swamped and there's another wave a-comin'. We all go through these things. Life is fraught with the ebb and flow of all that is good and bad. I believe that the worst thing we can do is to compare ourselves with others and their fortunes. God didn't ask me to go down their path and they don't have to go down mine, though we can hold each other steady and help bear each others' burdens. 

That is what my dear friends have done for me: A midnight text that turns into a 2-hour call; a flurry of thoughtful cards, arriving just at the right time; a morning breakfast date where I get to vent and cry; a container of wildflowers to cheer my heart; hugs that melt the frost off; shared stories and tears. Our technology threatens to undo us, but sometimes it reaches right across the static to be used for blessing. 

Thanksgiving weekend was a virtual whirlwind. My side of the family gathered at my sister's house, where there had to be close to a hundred folks and some of the best food I've ever eaten. We all sat with our plates mounded, savoring every bite then returning for more. There was a lot of love put into that food. You could taste it. Then on Friday my children and their spouses and children came here, ate, pulled 'round our table like so many sardines. We each shared what we were thankful for, then our youth-pastor-son pulled out thought-provoking questions. We laughed and cried and kidded each other, drawn together like warm puppies on a cold night. There were the ballgames on Saturday and then church on Sunday. I might still need another nap. 

Giving thanks started for me a few days before the holiday. I was about to come apart, physically and emotionally, and (truthfully) spiritually. Doubts, depression, crankiness ensued. I remembered what God says about being grateful. His recipe isn't like ours. He's kind-of backwards about it. He says things like "the last shall be first, and the first, last." He says where we are weak, He is strong. He also says that we are to give thanks in all things. All means everything, not just the goody in the middle. I sat quietly in my warm chair, musing on the many wonderful things I am blessed with. I thanked Him for those. I also percolated over all the bad things that have made this year hellish. My faith is so weak, but I'm asking Him for more. I stepped on out there and started thanking Him for all the icky parts, the things that hurt, that don't make sense. That have no cure. A funny thing happened. My heart began to lighten, my eyes broadened as I had a tiny glimpse of His love, that sovereign love that is weaving the most intricate of tapestries where all we can see is tangled threads and mischief. That's an old illustration, but it still says it all. Thanksgiving. Not for the faint of heart.

Silvery, Mellow Songs

My lovely flute is a very old lady, older by a decade than me, which means she could draw Social Security if she could just acquire a card. I don't know her story before I found her some twenty-eight years ago, but she was pretty beat up.

My parents were simply the best. They were frugal and hard-working, with one small income between them. They carefully assessed our gifts and leanings to make the most of our opportunities. We were not allowed to quit "mid-season" in any of our sports or lessons, so we were very deliberate about what we committed to. I had a musical soul, so they paid for piano lessons for me, starting in sixth grade. I loved the piano (though I wish I could go back and tether myself to those years of lessons and really learn it). Either way, the summer before ninth grade, I begged them to let me play the flute. They prudently rented one from Ken Stanton Music for $5 a month, bought me a beginner band book and cut me loose. I taught myself how to play that summer. The first time I got to play with the band the next year, I thought I had died and gone to heaven. There is nothing like the magic of playing along with other instruments. 

The piano eventually took a back seat, but I never really put my flute down. After we married and had children, I taught beginner students in our home, and played in various church groups and community bands. But when I let a family borrow my flute for a season, to see if their daughter took to it, it came back to me dented and sad. I sold it cheaply to another student and began looking for a new one. My extended family gave me money for my birthday and Christmas, to help with the purchase. I looked in earnest, at used and new ones, but struggled to find what I could both love and afford. An instrument broker (yes, there are those), a very gentle and kind man (I believe his name was Bill Smith)...let me take several of them home, to see if I really liked them. I didn't know that different flutes spoke with distinct voices. So I played and played the various ones, taking them all back. He called me one afternoon and told me that he had three more for me to try, and that one was special. 

It was a quirky flute, shorter than normal, made of real silver, with a giant embouchere hole (the part that you blow in)... it made it harder to play, breathier than other flutes, and difficult to get high or low notes with. It also took more lung power. She also needed a serious overhaul, which would take time and money. But when I played this flute, there was a warmth that no other had, a mellow, rich undertone that won me over. I took her straight to the repair shop. The gentleman carefully fixed her, then told me to never get rid of it, that it was a rare and precious find. He also told me to not let anyone talk me into changing out the headjoint, even though it was more difficult to play. Ken thoughtfully surprised me that year with a new flute case for my birthday and we've been stuck together ever since. She's had two overhauls and I take her once a year to get a bath and a tune-up. 

Silly, how a thing can become like a friend. I appreciate her most at Christmas, for some reason. We play all the lovely seasonal hymns and the haunting "What Child Is This?-- surely the prettiest thing a flute can play. I took this semester off from the Carroll Community Wind Ensemble to catch up and lick my wounds, but I'm already missing my artistic-soul-compatriots and our togetherness. Meanwhile, there's church and the occasional afternoon interlude. I thank God for sweet blessings like these.

King Arthur's Got Nothing On Us

The table sat idle, tumbled in a pile of dusty antiques in the attic of an old Marietta brick warehouse. It had a fatal flaw -- bubbled veneer on its face that could not be scrubbed out in any delicate way. My brother-in-law worked in the building and acquired it for me, for free. It was a giant, ungainly, round hunk of wood that required lumberjacks to move. My behemoth folk hauled it to Douglasville and I'm not remembering how in the world they got it into my kitchen. Seems like it involved taking a door off its hinges.

I hand-sanded the fool out of it, not making a dent in the bubbled veneer. I got a glimmer of an idea, to faux paint it to look like a variety of mahogany. This started with a base of pink paint, which would then be striated with varying shades of ebony and brown to achieve said woodgrain. I painted the whole thing pink and then got distracted. For many years, our large family took our meals at a Pepto-Bismol-pink table. I lost the instructions for the recipe for fake mahogany and finally broke down and painted the whole thing fire engine red, since it was the lightning rod of our house anyway. We would sit around it, pulling up extra chairs as needed. You can get about 15 seats around it, if you just keep scooting. Maybe it's the democracy of a round table, where no one person has the preeminent spot, but there is something special about it. It seemed to me, from the many nights of howling laughter that emanated from it, that the table exuded some kind of magic.

It got bumped up, scraped, covered with paint projects, hot pans and construction tools. Then I'd remember that we had company coming, so I'd whip out the paint can and put a fresh coat on it, drying just in time for the first guest (latex paint dries in four hours, you know). This same scenario ensued for years. When we moved to Villa Rica, I told my husband to roll it out behind the house to the driveway, where I put on a dust mask and brought out power tools. I was done with all the hand sanding I had tried. I bought three different grits of sandpaper, put plugs in my ears and dug in. It took most of the afternoon, but I sanded off years and layers of strange paint colors. When I finally got down to the wood and that troublesome veneer, I just kept on going until things got (mostly) horizontal. I painted it classic satin black (oil-based this time) and we rolled it back into our dining room. Many folks who have enjoyed that table at both locations have remarked that it seems like it was made for this old house. It fits perfectly in the room, the Grand Dame of the castle. Very occasionally, I put out my good china and the crystal and it's plumb enchanting.

Now that my children have flown the coop, it often sits, waiting for the next party. Coats, projects, piles of paper and receipts migrate there until I take time to clear it off. There's bits of hot glue sticking here and there and it's starting to look like it needs some love. Christmas is coming, the goose is getting fat, and I might need to pull out the old paint can. By the time everything gets fixed, the family arrives and I actually sit down there, I'm always exhausted but content. I've seen all these trendy, hand-lettered signs that say "Gather." When the goose is cooked and we finally actually do that, there's nothing better in the whole wide world.

The Road Less Traveled

It was 1982 and we had been married for less than a year. I was a secretary at a plastics company and Ken was working at a big telephone cable plant in Norcross, when we decided to do the unthinkable. I quit my job. Ken had been changed over to evening shift (3:30 pm to 11:30 pm). We were going to be two ships literally passing in the night. We wanted to start a family soon and I wanted to stay at home with our babies, so it was prudent to either learn to live on what we made or work and save money until then. We had already seen that we liked spending everything, rather than save, so why not do the former? 

I had no idea how strongly the opinions would fly in my direction. The ladies I worked with told me I would be bored out of my mind, that I would be back, that being a homemaker was for the birds. There were mean comments about how I was doing Ken a disservice. A former teacher ran into me at the gym and told me she was disappointed in me, that she saw me doing greater things. There were family members who thought we were going to just go off the deep end. Much wailing and gnashing of teeth.

They underestimated us. After I served my notice, I went through a week of detox. I had a massive headache every day, until I realized I was coming down off a coffee addiction. Then I got to work. Before we had our first baby, I learned: how to paint walls and trim; how to stencil (the current artsy craze of the time); how to cook; how to garden; I painted and drew pictures for gifts and our walls; learned calligraphy; went to Bible study and garnered lots of wisdom from older women; learned how to manage my home (well, haphazardly); how to strip and refinish furniture; read books on decorating, home construction, crafting, as well as all the classic novels I overlooked in school; I began to hone my artistic soul and learn (and experience) the many possibilities where God had gifted me. I didn't watch TV and eat bon-bons, except on Thursday night when Night Court came on at 10:00. There was too much to do to waste time on watching someone else live. Ken trusted and gave me the gift of supporting me while I learned how to support him in what are considered unconventional ways now. We went on to have four children, homeschooled them for nineteen years, and ran down roads less traveled. I continued to learn and add to my skill set. I have had numerous careers within our irregular life together, many lucrative and some of them not, but done in a crazy melding of our Norton world, not a separate boxed-in cage where I might lose my sanity. I have worked in an "official" office for approximately three of our 36 years together and I never felt closer to the loony bin than then. Meanwhile, the incredible value of learning how to do things ourselves has cut all manner of corners and saved us tens of thousands of dollars, if not hundreds. I am eternally grateful for all the folks we have learned from, both in example and actual hands-on training.  

People underestimate the power of this kind of education. I always thought I'd go back to college after my last child finished...go and get an art degree or maybe an interior design degree. I still might. But I've got about 50 canvases to fill up, there's a couple of books I simply have to finish writing, and oh yeah, there's eight grandkids now and we like to hang out and paint in my studio. Too bad I didn't do greater things...

Holiday Bunnies for Sale

The dust bunnies under the couch are laughing at me. I make a half-hearted attempt to murder them, once a week or so. I don't want to commit to moving furniture around to get to them, so they live to see another day. My husband strows leaves and dried mud all over the house with his workboots. They take up residence in the corners, behind the plants and the piano. I hired a lady to help me. She was sweating and working for hours, but said I definitely needed a second day. Those bunnies wore her out. 

On Halloween, Ken always takes me out for dinner and we wait until any possible trick-or-treaters have given up and gone to bed. Our house is left dark and scary, just in case somebody takes a notion to ring the ancient doorbell. But Halloween is my cue this year...yes, it's true...I'm getting all the Christmas decorations out as soon as the last costume is put away. I don't go for fall decor. Too much trouble and then you've got to take it all down. Christmas is bad enough, so I figure just go all out and put it up right after All Hallow's Eve (or Reformation Day, in our family), then you've got two whole months to enjoy it. Check it out...Martin Luther started all that Protestant hoopla on the same day as the devil's high holiday. Makes perfect sense to me. He nailed the 95 Theses to the Wittenburg door on Halloween and bipped Satan in the nose all at the same time. 

This year is different. My sweet Victorian is on the 2018 Villa Rica Tour of Homes, so I have to get my game face on. I'm planning on four trees, have already bought extra ornaments, and I'm dreaming heavily about the swag that I'm going to put on the front door. I also have my job to do, grandbabies to keep, Christmas gifts to buy and girlfriends to have coffee with. And then there's always the laundry. I'm booked solid from now to New Year's, so don't come knocking unless you want to clean or paint something. Dust bunnies, be afraid. Be very afraid.

The October of My Year

The leaves hang, weary and shop-worn, begging to fall. Dog days wear on endlessly, hot and humid, no parties except those found inside a body of water. October came, dragging Summer with it. No one approved of this. Who's in charge here? Finally, the frost flashed across the earth, to a cabin on a ridge. Firesmoke floats on the wind. The spiders beat a hasty retreat from the flue. Sputtering flame, paper, twigs, bits of bark. Finally, the fire awakens, safe in its man-made cocoon. It drives us out. The windows, doors are opened. It centers, we've learned our lessons, the coals glow contentedly. 

Time away. Sister and I, connected at the soul from birth. Now so many things in between us. Children, in-laws, grandchildren, life, work, husbands, obligations. The universe expands and contracts. Seedlings, fruit, harvest, death, compost. The forests of us are matted thickly with the leaves of the past. Life springs forth, rich earth borne of the many fallen. A tree topples. The walnut plummets with it, sprouting already. Soft rain, feathers of the woods cover, overwhelm it. It can't be seen, but it will survive. Its greatness will take decades to be felt. There is deep quiet there, amongst the cacophony of the birds. The breath of the valley wisps over the mountain, serenity. The world nearby rushes to and fro, but the muted ground stays warm, wrapped in layers of expired life. 

Our hearts cry, laugh. Sweet sleep, then interrupted. Dreaming, thoughts, fragile air. Miles of countryside, far from towns. Crisp sky, promising apples. We were young, we remember it well. We are beginning to see the crest. But wait, we're not ready. There are so many things that could take us now. We know it. It scares us, then not. To march into the future without losing the past. To tread meaningfully without trusting in our own strength. To end well, to remain faithful. These are the tests. Not to the young, not to the mighty, not to the intelligent. It is in the aged, the weak, the downtrodden where we will see God move. Where we are weak, He is strong. The mystery of it, beautiful colors blanketing the earth with their death give rise and nurture to the next season of life. Swing low, sweet chariot.

A Wrinkle in Time for the Weekend

There's nothing like a family reunion to stir up the past. I landed Sunday night back at home, feeling like I'd had a trip in a time machine. My husband's family hails from the Lincoln/Washington/Thomson parts of Georgia (near Augusta). Our daughter, the youngest, had not spent time there since she was a little tyke, so Ken used the weekend to show her his history.

First off, Ken's dear Aunt Frances let us stay in what they call "The Townhouse." Since we are from the suburbs and not the outer reaches of rural paradise, "Townhouse" means it's a condominium. In Washington, Georgia, however, that only means that it's a "house, in town." No one actually lives there, but it is simply charming and full of delightful touches. She loves foxes, so at least one rendition can be found in each room. We drove after work and arrived late at night, to little snacks and fluffy beds. We woke to realize that we were, virtually, in town. Then we drove out to their farm where real biscuits, gravy and sausage were served up with love. I have never mastered those elusive biscuit skills. It's amazing that that man still loves me. But even more amazing is the fact that Southern hospitality really does still exist.

After a long, lovely day of visiting with dozens of relatives, Ken insisted on rushing back to the Townhouse for naps. I realized his ruse when he flew into the house and turned on the Georgia game. Liz and I crashed into our separate rooms for a long summer's respite.  There was no cell service, the phones stayed silent, the laptop useless. Sheer bliss. Later that night, after another delicious meal with extended family, we pulled back into the Townhouse driveway, noticing how clear the stars were. My 27-year-old daughter and I pulled out our pillows, laid on the driveway and saw four shooting stars, remembered my Daddy (we were honoring one of his favorite pastimes -- driveway star-gazing) and talked a blue streak while seeing the whorls of the Milky Way like you can't see it in suburban Atlanta. Sunday was memory lane, with Ken driving all over Lincolnton and Washington, showing Liz the old family places and reminiscing about his younger days. We visited his grandparents' and his birth mother's grave sites, trolled down country roads, laughed, cried and ate some more. The trip home was quick. Bleary-eyed and sore from riding, we stumbled out of the car. 

It was rather like waking from a dream, a sweet lazy one where time stood still and all the precious people that you remember and love are there. Life is an ever-changing kaleidoscope. We bump along in our existence, surviving, living, playing, working...the past constantly mingling with the present. Circles of the decades swirl around us and we wake up wondering where it went. It is here, now. We must lift our eyes past the tyranny of the urgent, to embrace what (and especially who) is in front of us. 

Life Beckons After the Wake

My senior year at McEachern High School was a blur of anticipation, fun, lots of sentiment and tears. I loved our school and was sad to leave behind those years of band, sports, classes and wonderful people. But I hit the ground running, away to Tennessee for college and more adventures. Then there was the blur of getting married young, having lots of babies and a hands-full life for all these many years. I haven't had time to be slow, to reminisce much about high school or those I left behind. 

Then the train hit last month when my Daddy died. It is interesting how that suddenly, so many things simply weren't that important. I wasn't worrying about nuances of clients' feelings, cranky agents or jumping instantly to the computer to address a situation. Unless it was a three-alarm fire, I wasn't hurdling myself over the sofa to put out a two-alarm one. Early grief feels something like you're floating underneath the surface of the water...the noises and busy-ness of life muted, everything gets fuzzy, the world doesn't matter much. You know you need to address things, there are people that demand answers. But you just don't care. There's a hole in the universe and I've dropped plumb down in it. 

What I didn't anticipate was the soothing buzz of quiet love that came from kind people. I have been astonished at folks who remember him going back fourty years, when he cheered them on at our high school games and events. One of my old friends from McEachern has fed our whole family, held my hand, written me cards, called me consistently, visited, taken me to lunch, distracted me with business talk, prayed and spoken authentic wisdom, no platitudes. Another dear friend saw (via technology) that I was up at 3:00 in the morning and called and talked me off the cliff of heartbreak, which she had herself experienced when she lost her own Daddy last year. My husband has held me patiently, curled like a baby, for countless hours while I rained tears. Our children and grandchildren have been a solace, grieving and laughing with us, giving us hope for the future. Our church has been like a cradle, a peaceful place where I am held, loved, understood. The Word of God a well, where I am fed and filled. 

There comes a day when you have to move your feet. The fires of life beckon. Honoring my Daddy means that I move into the next things better, deeper, shedding things that don't matter. You never truly get "over" this heartbreak, at least not in this life. If bitterness is not allowed purchase and we constantly reach for gratefulness for what we were given, the message of his godly, rich life becomes a part of the warp-and-woof of our souls. Legacies are not made from money, lands, degrees or awards on a wall. They are found in the wake of love left behind that envelopes itself into the hearts of those touched by such a soul.

To Pet or Not To Pet

Been pondering some deep subjects lately.... life, death, seasons, love. And gerbils. Many years ago, in a galaxy far, far away, my children started out with a couple of gerbils. Two.  No one told me that they cranked out new baby gerbils every few milliseconds. Before long we were supplying darling pets for friends, relatives, pet stores and strangers on the street. 

We were in a very busy time of life -- homeschooling our four children, attempting to preserve the lives of said Norton creatures that had been born with the propensities of wild monkeys. Ken says they were products of fine breeding, and I guess that folks say that about Mustangs on the prairie too. Either way, gerbils were way down on the list of priorities. They were caged up, most days, in an old aquarium with a screen on top. I'll save the escapee stories for another day. But since guilt is my favorite woe, I began to feel sorry for the neglected gerbils. Sure, they were fed and watered. Occasionally I'd clean the bedding out and put new, fluffy cedar chips in there. I felt terrible, because nobody was petting them. I assumed that all creatures, human and otherwise, wanted and needed to be petted.

I'd pull one out of the cage. Adorable little things, with their little twitchy noses and strange, long tails. Since they were always reproducing, we had myriads of color combinations. They were bigger than mice but definitely cuter. I'd try to keep them from jumping out of my hands and almost always ended up getting bitten. One time one of them took a chunk out of my finger, with much bleeding and sorrow. I assumed that they just needed more attention, more petting. I kept trying. And trying. 

One day, my wise sister Melanie said, "Rose, did you ever think maybe they don't like to be petted?" 

I never considered that. 

And that led to another notion. Mel said that there are a lot of PEOPLE that don't want to be petted. This was a novel wrinkle in my space-time-continuum. Was that why the librarian hated me? I so wanted to love her, since she was the purveyor of all the books. And the post office lady...I had been rebuffed so many times, even though I twinkled and offered candy and my sincere devotion. Then there was the disgruntled baroness (well, I think she must have been a baroness) who sat next to me on that committee...did she simply want to be left alone, never to know the joy of a little coiffure-ruffling? 

This was a sad day. All those pretty songs say "All You Need Is Love," or "Love Can Build a Bridge," then "Love Will Keep Us Together." Affirming, empowering words to inspire us all. But as I thought about my poor finger, I remembered those other ones: "What About Love?" and "Love Stinks," and of course the apropos "Bleeding Love." Maybe not everyone really wants to be loved. Or petted. Why? I know not. These things go beyond my current brain waves. I really tried hard, with that post office lady. I'm still tempted to squeeze her hand and give her a big hug. That might just put her over the edge, so for now, I let people pass me in line when I see that I'm going to be stuck in her queue. But then again, tomorrow is another day...

Pond Scum and Other Issues

As I am wont to do, I got a wild hair late Saturday afternoon. I had been suffering. All three of my fountains have been silent for over a year. I miss my Pa and I wanted the sound of water when I sit on my porch. There's a small pond, a concrete fountain and a container with little kids "playing" with water -- all of them moldering and full of strange creatures, spawning clouds of mosquitoes. 

I went and bought new pumps for all of them, changed into my paint clothes and started hauling goldfish and frogs out of the pond. Ken likes to plan all activities at least two weeks out but I wasn't having any of that. The outside temperature had dropped to 88 degrees, here in late September where the devil came down to Georgia and it's always Summer, rarely Christmas and never Fall. My Home Depot card needed exercising and I was feeling ambitious. 

Ken came around the corner shaking his head, about the time I got down to the sludge at the bottom of the pond. I pitifully asked if he could help me. How could he refuse? I had mud from head to toe, aquatic animals in numerous buckets, and water hyacinths laying all over his lawn. He and my daughter dispatched the rest of the pond problems, hauled the concrete fountain pieces around until they were right, and then fixed the porch fixture. At last, we had water running through all three fountains. Believe it or not, none of the new pumps had to be used, though now I've got to piece those together and take them back. Ken was the hero of the day, with several cheapskate hacks and tricks to get everything going. It's three days later and I still have mud in my pedicure. I was raised a country girl. I think something has happened since then. 

Today I took our eight-month-old grandson onto the porch, where he gleefully laughed at the water splashing. I noticed that the pond had drained almost completely dry. Again. At least the goldfish and frogs are still in their containers. That devil's definitely still down here and I'm about to have a come-to-Jesus meeting with him. 

A Good Death

Last time I wrote, I penned these thoughts about my aging parents: "I don't say all the things that I need to say. Maybe if I don't say them, they won't leave me." I wrote those words in haste at my Daddy's desk two weeks ago. I was compelled to run to their house that day for some reason. I had not written my article and remembered that it was late...so I hammered it out quickly that morning at their house and then lounged for hours with my folks, talking about everything and nothing, listening to my Daddy pray and read his Bible to Mama at their kitchen table. Little did I know that this would be the last time I would hear his voice, hear him spontaneously laugh, be hugged by him. It was a gift from God. 

Only last week, he died in the good way, quickly and with no apparent pain. He had mown his and his neighbor's grass, taken a shower and sat down in his recliner. He had his hand in his popcorn bowl (one of his favorite places) when his heart experienced some sort of arrhythmia and he slipped away, was revived by paramedics who got his heart pumping, but never regained consciousness. Three days we sat by his side, holding his sweet hands, speaking our love, regrets and hopes to him. He was surrounded by his multitude of children and grandchildren, who sang Amazing Grace and cried like there was no tomorrow. I'm sure the ICU staff at Kennestone Hospital was inconvenienced by our huge and loud family, but they treated him and us with so much respect and kindness, I will ever be grateful.

My stomach turned to stone, each swallow like acid spilling down a tube. The devil attacked my thoughts, bringing a thousand questions and demon regrets, lies. I had no idea it was like this. All the weak places in my constitution were fair game, the people around me a fog. I wanted to lie still, still on my bed and never move, my legs leaden and useless. I knew that there were others who needed my help, my compassion, but all thoughts turned inward to the loss of my Daddy hero, a man whose death I always dreaded. He was too alive to be dead. He loved me too much to be gone. He loved life more than anyone I knew. His delightful spirit lit up every room he ever entered. How could he leave? How could he be gone when his hat still smelled like him and his gloves are still on the patio where he left them?

We are still numb from the outpouring of loved ones. Raw from the quickly planned and executed funeral. People from three and four decades back showed up and hugged us, spoke of his character and his love, what he meant to them. The weekend afterward was full of more food, more relatives, more talk, more hugs. But tomorrow the alarm rings and life has to resume. Without him. Survival requires the march, paying no heed to the fallen. 

Our eldest son asked me a question, after it was all over. "Mom, are you better off now? Can you see where the places it might be better now that he is gone?" What a seemingly cruel question, until I ponder it deeply. Eternity gaped before me. I searched my soul in ways that I had not for a long time. I reflected on his life, on what was important to him and to me. I thought about how I can honor him better, going forward. And especially, I considered heaven, God, and Daddy's deep and rich love of Christ. He lived as a true Christian, simply and faithfully. Not a hypocrite. Not proud. A light in darkness. He loved all the folk God put in his path. His body is deep in the earth but his spirit has flown to his Savior. Death be not proud; death is swallowed up in victory. I love you Daddy. I'll see you on the other side. 

Thinking of Fall and Villa Rica

From my study window, I can see the street corner. There's an old, distinguished mansion that's crumbling, a sidewalk with all sorts of interesting people walking, a church, myriads of cars and trucks driving by, and a stand of poke salad growing up in the island out front. If the apocalypse comes, we can subsist on that a couple of days. My MawMaw used to pick that stuff out by the railroad tracks. She'd strip off the berries and the purple parts that were poisonous, then stew it with a hamhock all day. It still tasted terrible, but I'm sure there were times in her life that it tasted like heaven. With all the rain we've had this summer, our yard looks like a botanical wonderland, with all the strange weeds growing up. I bought Ken a new lawnmower last year, but since the bathrooms look like a gas station around here, maybe I won't mention it.

It's a sad thing to see that old mansion deteriorating. It's caught between the ravages of time and the luck of the draw. It can cost a fortune to keep a roof intact and to fight off the inevitability of the Second Law of Thermodynamics (basically, that everything breaks down unless you add energy to it). And it would take a heck of a lot of energy to save it now. I wish it were possible, but I also don't have the hundreds of thousands of dollars that it might need to rescue it. Meanwhile, we all have strong opinions one way or the other about what should happen with such things. There is that element of private property that reigns supreme. At the end of the day, what doesn't belong to me (and I'm not ultimately responsible for) is really none of my business, unless I'm willing to do something significant to fix it. Even then, unless I'm able to make it mine, it's still none of my business. We've avoided HOAs in neighborhoods for the same kinds of reasons. 

Summer is winding down, though you wouldn't know it by the temperatures. The promise of fall is there on my calendar. I love to think of the Gold Rush Days, the parade, our grandkids squealing for candy...it's always a fun spot in Villa Rica. We might get two weeks of respite from the heat before winter sets in, usually somewhere in November. You can have an outdoor wedding here pert near up to Christmas. This fall is going to be special though -- we're working on a wonderful Christmas Tour of Homes (that's going to be the second weekend of December) with lots of beautiful homes decorated for Christmas. There's also going to be several workshops from the Villa Rica Arts Coalition -- check them out on Google. One of them is in September, where we will be working on making garland and Christmas decor ahead of time. There are possibilities in the air. Meantime, maybe that will help cool off my brain. 

Love in the Leaves

The leaves are weary. The sky is clouded over, with a slight breeze. Fall is a promise, but far off and inconceivable, except for the overworked trees that whisper for surrender. 

My people who are long gone also whisper to me. It seems we are all transparent curtains, layers of years and generations passing through. Our days are but a breath, here today and gone tomorrow. My aging parents and in-laws talk of pain, of the supreme effort it can be to simply get through a day. They also talk of heaven, of glorious peace and rest. I am lucky to still have them all, yet I take them for granted. I deny that they will ever not be here. I don't say all the things that I need to say. Maybe if I don't say them, they won't leave me. My own joints are rusting up and my body reminds me that I need to take care of it. It's not the years as much as the mileage. It's not the time, it's the juice.

How shall we then live? Sucking the marrow out of life, but the toll unbearable if our excesses take over. The steady, simple treadmill does not suit me. I must throw bombs into each day, lest two of them end up the same. There are prices to be paid, no matter how we slice it. Interesting that the Scriptures say that we are either slaves to sin or slaves to righteousness. I believe that. But there are also all those gray places in between, where we have multitudes of choices that impact our lives but are just that, varieties on a theme. Balance, oh that word. What is that and how do we find it?

Our running about, our seeking for survival, money, fame, approval...so much is frivolous and in the end, silly. The houses will burn, the roofs will rot, the mortar will crumble. The legacies may or may not be remembered. Apparently, so much is vanity. But once again, it is the people, the relationships, that matter and will ripple forth out of the splash. Ripple wide and far, affecting the whole of the world in ways we cannot fathom. Does it matter if anyone fills in that credential, that space on the paper? Not in the end. All our accreditation is as much as a dung heap if we haven't loved those who God brings across our path. Him, the great lover and giver of life. He, who does most things backwards from what our natural wisdom directs. I love, because He first loved me.

Crowded Up and Still Spinning

I have a long list of obligations that have stacked up over time. They are taking up some serious space in the back of my brain. I've been chipping away at one of them these last two weeks, but it's really only a 1-day job. That tells me that I must be living highly-interrupted days. Either way, Lord willing, I'm finishing up that thing tomorrow morning and getting on with the rest of my life. My husband's brother and his wife are coming for a visit Wednesday so I've gotta get crackin' with that messy porch I keep whining about too. It's been twenty years since they've visited. Company is always the best excuse for getting my house in order. Sometimes I plan big parties, just so we'll get the furniture dusted. It's really a dumb idea, because the house is a terrible mess after everybody leaves anyway. But I did get my 118-year-old ceiling fixed last year when we planned for the whole family to come for Thanksgiving. So there's that.

I think we've been in some kind of summer-solstice-ending celebration for a week now, having eaten out every day with different people. I need to fast until Thanksgiving to get this mess off of me. Daddy's birthday dinner is tomorrow, company on Wednesday, then two closings (with inevitable celebrations) at the end of the week. Just roll me on over to the other side. I have a feeling that neither Tums or my new fancy wedge pillow are going to help with the heartburn. I'm planning on seeing all eight of our grandchildren (and of course their parents) in the next few days, so there's nothing that can top that. But somewhere in there, I have to find time to work, the moon will rise, the sun will set and the New York Stock Exchange will keep on humming. Just imagine.

Misty Mountains and Eyes

There's a lot of psychobabble out there about every subject under the sun. Especially when it comes to health. If I believed and acted on every email that came through my box, we would be broke. We almost are anyway, from the many supplements and health gimmicks that I already fall prey to. There are books about "the cancer personality" (hoping I don't have that one), how to peel ten years off your life, how your problem is the carbs, the meat, the lack of probiotics. Makes you just want to run screaming to the drive-through at Dairy Queen. Eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow we die. That might not be a good option...

They say your body responds to stress, that it "tells" you when it's had enough. I'm afraid it's true. After a harrowing week of real estate, with four deals tipping precariously at the edge right up to Friday night, they all tipped back to the right side. That hardly ever happens that way. We had a weekend trip planned, babysitting three of our grandkids and spending some time relaxing in Helen. Fortunately, all was pinned down just in the nick of time as we pulled out for our jaunt.

Oh Helen, Georgia...that interesting place. In the early 70s, my parents took us up there for a trip. As we pulled into the motel parking lot and opened the car doors, a bear roared loudly from the top of the mountain. I remember the magic of those few days. Us kids played in the Chattahoochee that was bubbling behind the motel, collecting smooth river rocks and looking for crawdads. We wandered through the Alpine-like village, ate fudge and fried fish. The cool night air enchanted us with possibilities. The whole place was a great idea and for years it was overflowing with tourists, yuppies, tree-huggers and rednecks all. Then it seemed to fall into disrepair. The downturn hit it hard. When our youngest son made his trek to college a few years ago, it seemed on its last, tired legs. 

I am happy to report that the revived economy has also turned Helen around. It is buzzing with new paint, new shops, re-energized old stores and hotels. People crowd the sidewalks, laughing, noshing on treats and generally having a good time. The beer gardens full, lights twinkling everywhere and the ole Chattahoochee rippled sweetly through it all, with all sorts of folk paddling through with their inner tubes. The beautiful mountains all around are still full of mystery and my heart fell content, glad to be shed of some of my recent stress. 

When we pulled in to Cleveland, our dear grandbabies tumbled raucously out of the house, sweet hugs and kisses all around. Poppi was the hit of the day (he's "Poppi" to some of our grands, "Papa" to the others), letting down his hair a bit to show them his crazy side. No one can prepare you for the exhaustion that makes up a day with three grandkids aged five and under. We definitely need to get crackin' with that marathon training. But there also is no bliss like the tender eyes of said grandchildren misting up when it's time to go. Time is short. Eat it up. 

Melancholy Porch Thoughts

My porch is still covered with last spring's pollen. The spiders have taken up all the edges and spun their creepy webs. There are wrens' nests in both corners. My cantankerous cats have sprayed in various places, trying to take dominance over each other. All the beautiful pillows that I bought last year are sticky with nature. The light fixtures are thick with dust. 

You'd think I would do something about all that.

I'm cranky. I'm hot, it's gluey out here, and there's not a swimming hole in sight. Besides, I'm fat. I bought two ceiling fans a year ago that have never been put up, and you know I ain't gonna do that. I also have the most darling set of twinkly lights that I bought for it too. You can't go out there without fans and mosquito spray in this summer swelter. It's very tragic, to look forlornly out this 118-year-old wavy window and not have the where-with-all to clean that mess up. It's August and I have betrayed the most Southern of heritages: our front porch. 

The list includes: Put all the furniture in the yard. Remove all cushions and pillows. Throw the (huge) rug out there too. Haul the hosepipe halfway around the house and squirt everything off, including the furniture and all areas of the porch. Have fight with husband about how I did not put the hose back correctly. Head to the laundromat with said trappings. Forget the laundry soap. Go back home and get it. Forget the cash for the machines. Go to bank and get some. Laundromat again. Spend half the day washing and drying them. Take them home and lay them all over the house because they didn't actually dry properly. Mop the porch floor. Two weeks later, put everything back. Meanwhile the rug got soaked by rain three times. 

Do you understand why I don't want to do this job? But after it's done, I will make a jug of sweet tea, call up the kids and we will munch on food and swig that stuff and it will all be worth it. Is there a twelve-step program for this?

Death, Taxes and the Barrel

The house was quiet, daughter gone for the weekend. Ken and I decided to hunker down and face a couple of demons that had been haunting us for ages and even years. Double demons: The Budget and The Will. Ken had been mapping out a budget, a la Dave Ramsey, for six years but we had never actually implemented it. We even took the course, paid off debt, but had never made the budget work. I bought the cute little envelope system, Ken worked on the numbers, and we committed to sit down together and get it started. While we were at it, we decided to also finally fill out our Last Will and Testaments that our lawyer had given us (also) six years ago. I guess we've been coasting for half a decade? 

But first, Ken had to check on one of his houses in Bremen, so since we're both off the wagon and there's a Cracker Barrel in them there woods, we gleefully glutted ourselves on Mama's Pancake Breakfast and biscuits. Lord help. It's been almost 24 hours and I'm still feeling the pain. Cracker Barrel is known for its delicious Southern food, but my little secret is that a significant number of my outfits come straight from their bargain rack in the back. I don't know who their official buyer is, but she's somewhere between Dolly Parton and Monet. The blingy DNA that flows through my veins is praising Jesus every time we go in that place. Ken said he'd be back, when he saw me pawing through the 40% off shelf.

We finally made our way back home and got into warrior mode at the giant lawyer desk that dominates our study. While he was crunching numbers, I was throwing away most of the trash that had filled up our in-box over the last two years. We came up with a plan for our money, without me pitching a fit or even complaining. It was a Christmas in July miracle. Per Ramsey's model, Ken is the Nerd and I am the Free Spirit, never the twain shall meet. But I am the Saver and Ken is the Spender. Ramsey says that's just a disaster waiting to happen. It's true. We're living proof that there is a God, simply from the fact that there have been no homicides between us. Yet. 

We got through that phase and then jumped into our Last Will and Testaments. Each section was checked and filled out, until we got to the part where we had to tell what our wishes were concerning our last days. There were strange questions and lots of legalese that required brain cells. These were difficult things to think about. Nobody wants to talk about dying, about the truth of what your kids are going to do with your guns and your Grandma's china when you're toast. We're not sick or (that) old but it needed to be done. None of us knows when that big dead branch on the pecan tree in the backyard is gonna let loose on our head. In those quiet moments, we decided to look straight into those dark places and just go there for a spell. Ken told me in a few minutes his longing for heaven, his view of time, his summation of the eternal. My tears fell unbidden, as I marveled at his simple and complete trust in God. We went ahead and wrote down the few things we would want at our funerals -- the songs, the pastors. I laughed at Ken's wish for Fanfare For The Common Man, but he was quite serious. As we contemplated the end of our days, that terrible unknown chasm, I probably felt closer to him than at any other time in our 36 chaotic years. Suddenly, everything was distilled into a clear, concise oneness of heart. God, each other, family, life's work, the joy of the day. It don't get any better than that. 

Good Times and Smoky Memories

If you meander through any small town in the South on a Saturday night, the aroma that is usually most prominent is of a smoky, rich, porcine nature. Roll those windows down and breathe deeply. Rich woods, cabins set deep in mountain ridges, smoldery fireplaces with succulent meat being roasted slowly on a spit...these intoxicating images cross my mind. We're not in a forest. We're passing a barbeque joint in town. I want to be in there. Many happy times in my life have been had with my expansive, hilarious family crowded around a table at various said establishments. Grandma and Grandpa are there, somebody's holding a baby. Some order the super salad, drenched with full-fat blue cheese dressing, feeling superior because they are "dieting." The rest just cave in and order the fried green beans and onion rings. Even the grumpy  ones can't stay that way long. We pay our bills and stand outside the door, where the best of the love happens. Those last minutes and goodbyes. The train roars by, the toddlers jump up and down and point, the suckers we bought for them already making a mess down their shirts. 

I remember growing up, where my Yankee Mama had nothing to do with that mysterious smoked meat. We ate typical home-cooked food, but no barbeque. She was from midwestern roots, a small farming town in Illinois. She moved here as a woman-child of eighteen, strong and capable, no shrinking violet. She cooked good, healthy meals and raised us well. But there was no barbeque. This was not a Southern girl. Somewhere in my high school years, a Daddy of a friend of mine opened Wallace's in Powder Springs, where I grew up. Along the way, my folks started going there and the addiction started. As our family grew, the table got fuller. Before the internet and networking were buzzwords, we branched out and socialized from table to table as we ran into friends and colleagues on Friday nights. My siblings and our spouses began popping out babies every year. I think we'd have to rent out the whole restaurant to get us all in there now. 

So when I roll down Bankhead Highway now, passing Evans' in Villa Rica, moseying over to Jones' in Temple or trekking on down to Hudson's in Douglasville -- is it the barbeque calling or all the sweet memories? It really don't matter...I've done gone and made myself hungry.

Upside Down World

I was sitting in the pew, puffed up like an old toad. Madder than a wet hen, contemplating my strategy for speaking my mind. I was justified. I had had some proprietary information stolen from me by another real estate agent. The plan was to give her a piece of my mind after church. She had acted imperiously. Now it was my turn. Ken had deacon duties in the back, so I was all alone on my row with my thoughts. Normally I'm up front playing my flute, but it was in the shop that week...so I got the rare opportunity to sing along with the hymns. They were like cardboard in my mouth as I meditated on my game plan. The pastor's prayers seemed far away. I was marking time, waiting on justice.

Pastor opened the Book and announced his first point: "Do Not Take Revenge." He then opined about how revenge belongs to the Lord, how God is our shield and our grace, and how we are to look to Him for justice. If that weren't bad enough, point two was this: "Do Good to Those Who Mistreat You." Don't return evil for evil. Do good to your enemies. 

How did that man get into my journal?

I've heard these truths since childhood. I've seen and known the reality of them. I've experienced the goodness of God where I deserved hell. Sure, I know stuff. We all know what is supposed to be right. It's a whole 'nother thing to get slapped in the face with it. I was reminded about Jesus, how He was tortured and put on a cross by folks who thought they could make the truth go away, the hard things they didn't want to hear. He was speaking love, grace, forgiveness, but they weren't listening. They only heard the parts that made them uncomfortable. Repent. Turn. Believe. Bend the knee. Turn the cheek. His ways are not our ways. As I laid down my pride right there, my heart cried and then was free. Afterward, I laughed and told our pastor how he was meddlin'. He encouraged me to remember that the Lord was my shield and my grace. 

Ken and I mosied on over to lunch, where my phone rang as soon as I sat down. It was the imperious agent who had taken over the listing and stolen my intellectual property. She was desperate, in despair, almost crying. Someone had come in and robbed the house, taking the valuables left there. The owners were livid, trying to find someone to blame. It was terrible....two people had come in with an agent, one stealing the deadbolt key out of the back door while the other one distracted the realtor. 

My only job at that point was to comfort the gal. I had just sat through a life lesson that I will never forget. I love nothing more than a good Bruce Willis movie where the bad guys lose and justice gets served, but God doesn't do it in our order. There are lots of bad things that happen on this earth, far worse than anything I've yet to experience. God doesn't miss a one. We may not see it in our lifetime, but He will make all things right in the end. Not a sparrow falls without His notice.