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.

Fear Is a Liar

The lion is roaring. I hear him. I don't see him. He's getting closer. Goosebumps upon goosebumps. My heart races, the air is hot and thick. I am gasping for breath, not sure which direction to take, which path to run down. Should I flee? Won't he simply run faster? The tree is close. The river is farther. No one tells me what to do. My thoughts betray me. I'm at a loss as to how to survive or even what to do next. What is right, what is wrong? I am way out of my depth here. I'm not equipped for this. I want to lay down and die. I want to run and hide. The lion is too great. I am undone. I cannot see tomorrow, much less the end of today. 

I remember the words of my God. That He is my strong tower, my shield, my defender. That He is for me, not against me. He burns the chariots with fire. The earth heaves and melts. Nations rage, kingdoms totter. But I'm just a poor girl in a field. Who am I, who could have that kind of God defend her? I squirm in desperation, jaws set in anxious anticipation. I stand before the beast with nothing -- exposed, terrified, ruined. Fear overwhelms all logic as I am reduced to putty in his hands. He has won. He has only to sink his wicked teeth in my neck and I will prove all the things that he has so maliciously said. He spits, mocks my God, unfurls his mane to consume me.

"Be still and know that I am God." The words come in a whisper. Not in the wind. Or the earthquake or the fire. Be still. Know that I am God. I lay down my pitiful weapons and slip behind Him. I am demolished. His shield and His grace are the only hope I have. 

I see the lion exposed. He is a toothless liar, full of noise and dung. He wishes to drive me with his roars into the pits and dangers that loom behind me. But my Defender is courageous, where I am not. My Champion is good, where I am not. He has bought and paid for my freedom and goes before me where angels fear to tread. If it sounds grandiose, it's because it is. 

God help us to look beyond the obvious, to what is actually real.

The Leader of the Band

Our wind ensemble was scheduled today to play at a nursing home in Carrollton. I was tired. Last night's concert was the Big Hurrah of the year -- we had worked very hard, practicing, slugging through many months of difficult rehearsals and practices at home. I loved the choices our fearless leader, Terry Lowry, had made for this concert. It was an eclectic mix of music -- big band, swing, marches, Spanish music, even Beethoven. A large crowd showed up at the outdoor amphitheater in Carrollton and loved it. I believe it was our best concert yet. 

So after all that, and a fractious morning at home with a sick Papa Bear to the urgent care...I really didn't feel like driving all the way back over to play at a nursing home. I (ashamedly) felt like it wouldn't be appreciated. But I dragged myself to the car and headed south. Halfway there, a thunderstorm erupted and the bottom fell out. Cars were pulling over all around me, hazards blazing. I pulled over to a gas station and whipped around to the next road so I could catch the red light and go on back home. 

Suddenly I was hit with my selfish heart. I was really looking for an excuse to take the day off. We'd already missed church and eaten what we should not have for breakfast. I thought of Ken's grandparents and their last years. Years that were so terrible, lived out in a nursing home, chipped away and dying by inches. Tiny morsels of joy rare, sometimes non-existent. I thought of them and took the road to the nursing home. As we set up, I think we were all weary, tired, hot, sweaty, cranky. The sky threatened but didn't rain there. We finally got to our playing. It sounded beautiful, timeless. The old folks out on the porch smiled. Some napped. It was over in a flash. The word came that our leader's old band director was there at the home, bed-ridden and in a bad way. Terry had us carry our horns and music around the lawn, to an open window where the band director sat in his bed, surrounded by smiling nurses. We set up and began playing that rousing Sousa piece, "Stars and Stripes Forever," surely every high school band director's favorite march. The old man raised his hands and swayed with the music, tears rolling down his face. He laughed and clapped, so grateful for the moment. For that was what it was...just a few moments. A small piece of time, of thought. My heart was smote with how the cracks in the sidewalk, those places where sand can sift through...the dashes of moments that we give little credence to, those are where the riches, the goodies, of life can often be found.