Cats in the Belfry

I've got two big, hairy cats, old and very set in their ways. Since Ken is allergic (that's what he keeps saying), they live outdoors. They're quirky, as all cats are. First, there's Peter. He's yellow, half crazy and thinks he's the King of the neighborhood. He saunters across the street, hoping for snacks, stopping traffic and beating off bullies. Matilda is tortoiseshell-colored, genteel and loves to be petted. She drools when she gets to purring. But she doesn't like children or other cats.

For the life of me, I can't figure out why these two animals can't get along. They growl and fight. They spend their lives avoiding each other and wrestling time over the cat bowl. When it's chilly, they could be cuddling. When it's hot, they could be grooming each other. But no. Everything's all spittin' and howling, when they could be having a party. Everybody's got to prove something. Meanwhile, they're missing life. 

Just like people. We get miffed about some dumb thing and quit hanging out. He said/she said and then pride jumps in the middle. She stepped over the line. He didn't do what he was supposed to do. They're just snooty. They're just trash. But at the center of every person's chest, there's a heart beating. A heart that might be poisoned by anger or hurt by devilish people. Everyone's got a story. Some will soften when they are heard. Some won't ever. 

There are a lot of good and bad days in a life, but I have to say that some of the best ones are the ones where I stopped my rushing to sit down, invited someone in, spoke a word, heard a word. I can see a harvest of those times hanging in my mind, way back over the years and up to now... where maybe a crusty old geezer cracked open his armor for a minute. A timid teenager sought refuge. A bullyish woman put down her sword to finally laugh. We're all irregular people, if you really get down to it. We've got warts, fangs, messes and skeletons in the closet. There's a lot of strong opinions all over the map in this country now, polarizing us to Outer Mongolia from each other. I'm pondering Atticus' words to Scout in "To Kill A Mockingbird:"  "If you can learn a simple trick, Scout, you'll get along a lot better with all kinds of folks. You never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view, until you climb inside of his skin and walk around in it." That goes for cats, too.

Warm Fuzzies

Tomorrow's another day.  So many fun things to think about: It's the day I was born. My daughter takes on a new job. One of my granddaughters shares my birthday (she'll be five). I'm going to a sketchy house showing in the morning where I will be armed with my new gun and Flashbang holster. My husband is a few weeks into a new career. It's storming outside so all our new plants are getting watered. Went to a movie with my daughter last night that scared the fool out of us (The Quiet Place), so I'm imagining what the Apocalypse might be like. I'm working very quietly, so as not to alert anything to my presence. And then I'm thinking about the day...

My kids (except the North Georgia ones) surprised me yesterday by showing up to the hamburger joint we went to for lunch after church. There were flowers, balloons, cake, gifts, lots of grandkids and joy. I'm still feeling the warmth of their love and thoughtfulness. The ever-widening circle of life is a mystery to me. When it came Ken and I's time to start a family, I entered the arena with fear and trepidation. How could we do half as good a job as our parents? I'm nothing like my Mama -- how am I going to do this? It took me many years to understand that God didn't make my Mama for my kids, He made me for them. Even with all my flaws. I guess they had to learn a lot about grace, since they'd be asking for extra with me around. 

Today didn't go at all like I planned. An appointment got cancelled, another popped up, then I had to make tracks concerning a real estate concern. After all that, I ended up going to the Georgia Aquarium with one of my sons and his family. Five-year-old Annabelle and I got in free since it was both our birthdays. It was a crazy menagerie, with six-month-old twins in tow. Annabelle and I lounged at the big tank for an hour while her Mama fed the babies, with A shuttling covert messages from the fish to me. One of them, a giant guitarfish, kept trying to kiss her through the glass. She was horrified but laughing. We went to the other side of the planet to the American Girl doll shop, then got blazingly spicy Chinese for dinner. By the time we drove for what seemed hours back to their house, the babies were hollering and tuckered out. And so was Yaya. We ran around getting everyone ready for bed and I turned to go home, when my son brought out beverages and cigars for a porch talk. Even though it was later than I wanted to admit, and I had double-work for tomorrow, how could I resist? We talked and rambled nostalgic for a spell out in the misty, chilly night. The call of duty was put on pause, the tyranny of the urgent squelched for a bit. The most precious of times always seem to come unexpectedly, unplanned and unbidden. You can't manufacture those. But it's those moments that are the richest, the marrow of life. I love God for that.

Crooked Crowns

On the fringes I sat for a moment, staring in. The joy, the merriment, the chaos -- we celebrated our youngest son's surprise thirtieth birthday. His jolly eyes and bucktoothed grin are still there, just older. The four of them, my babies grown, adding our three daughters-in-love to the mix, jostling each other, laughing, the center of the universe. I kept knowing I should mingle with others at the party but kept being drawn back to the rarity of reunion. We connect often, but once upon a time there was a day when we all shuffled semi-comatose to the kitchen together, propped each other up during family devotions, snored through movies, trekked long hours to wrestling matches and ballgames, pored over studies, had terrible fights, awesome laugh-fests and shoveled mountains of food into bottomless pits. You think those days will never end, but they do. The nestlings fly and make their own nests. This is what we want. This is what we made them for. Some days it is hard to trust it, to know that this is a good thing. I want to reverse time, bring back the raw life, the push of necessities, the tumble of my kids down the tunnel of life. I miss their baby days, their toddler steps, their pre-pubescent and innocent eyes, their fumbling talks in the middle of the night, their moments of triumph and defeat as they struggled forward into adulthood. Each stage was precious and unique.  I have guilt because I'm not responsible for them anymore. I do.

Thank God they're gifting us with plenty of grandbabies. So many (eight of them, aged 5 and under), I really need to quit my day job just to keep up the visits. Soft baby cheeks. Cackles of laughter. Hands raised to meet us. I look about and see the tired Mamas trying to keep up, the Daddys working a blue streak, houses, yards, baby food, nursing, doctor visits, and lots of bad diapers. I recall my turn, being so profoundly exhausted that I would dream about checking into a hotel room by myself so I could sleep until the fog wore off. I even did it one time. It freaked me out so bad, I came home before dawn the next morning. Ah, my selective memory! All the old ladies said, "Thank God, He gives you babies when you're young." I remember thinking that was a silly saying, because I was young but sure was worn out. What did young have to do with it? I'm not old yet, but am trying to get there, and I think those old ladies knew what they were talking about.  Proverbs 17:6 says "Children's children are the crown of old men; and the glory of children are their fathers." There's probably not a sweeter verse to me than that. Papa and I can attest to the fact that those grandbabies are our pride and joy. And wearing a crown is a heap easier than raising a baby. I'll take it. 

Some Thanksgiving in the Spring

Who has blessed me? Who has died to themselves to benefit my life? My mother -- who nourished me in her womb and then raised me right as a baby, toddler, teenager. She gave up her life, in many ways, to tend to mine. My father -- who strapped his boots on every day to go to a job he did not necessarily enjoy, but he sure did delight in us and the pride of taking care of his family. My grandmothers -- who stopped what they were doing to sit down and ask me about my life, to listen and love unconditionally. My in-laws -- who truly taught me and filled in so many gaps in my life. My teachers -- who showed care and trained me to read, write, and cipher and how to shoulder the hard things when the going got rough. My coaches (including my Daddy) -- who pushed me beyond what I thought I could do. My two siblings -- who gave me grace when I didn't deserve it, who let me vent and laugh and rest in their acceptance. My friends -- who have been there even when time slipped away and I took them for granted. My pastors -- who have stayed true, noble, steadfast. My husband -- who gets the worst of my sass yet loves me tender. My children and daughters-in-love -- who gave me the greatest purpose of all and now bless me with their good hearts and their babies. My colleagues and clients -- who trusted me with their projects and put food on our table. My neighbors -- who have been salt-of-the-earth decent. 

So many blessings, people who have showered us when we married, had babies, were sick, had deaths. It would take volumes to write down all that we have received from myriads of folk, without expectation of a return. The goodness of God in the land of the living. It's easy to forget those parts, for some reason. Shame on me. 

Evil Easter Bunnies

Easter's all done for, but there are still remnants of chocolate and jelly beans all over my house. After three days of Cadbury-egg-related debauchery, ice cream, toddlers and lots of noise, I knew I had to behave today. The blood sugar monitor told me to get with the program. I limped through the day, with numerous appointments and realtor business, bemoaning my candy-less plight. I made it past donuts at the office, every kind of food joy imaginable at Gabe's, then malted milk eggs offered to me by an adorable almost-five-year-old. At day's end, I plopped down into my easy chair at home, exhausted. I wisely snacked on deviled eggs (they're low carb, you know) and a diet drink, then indulged myself in a 15-minute nap. When my eyes opened, there was an Easter basket that had miraculously appeared during my slumber. I resisted for 3 seconds, then scarfed down 4 little chocolate eggs, a handful of jelly beans and the head of a hapless rabbit. And I had been doing so well. It didn't even taste that good, well, except for those Jolly Rancher jelly beans. The ones that ruin your pancreas. 

Somewhere, somehow, there's got to be a miracle cure for fatness. I do know people who eat these things and never gain a pound. I don't hate them. I really don't. Well, maybe I do.