Let's Live!

Ken and I were getting ready to leave for our church's Christmas Eve service, followed by a little trip to Dallas for the Slate side of things at my Mama's house. Everybody crowds into her garden-sized place, taking no heed to all the warnings...eating, talking, laughing, living. My Mama ain't scared. She said if she goes now, she'll be with Daddy and it's a shortcut to glory. I might not be as free as all that, but we're winging it and doing what we can.

I got dressed then walked the dog. It was North-Pole-cold and sleeting. I checked the weather app and it showed it was only going to get colder, and it was already feeling like somebody switched us for North Dakota. Because of the sleet, we abruptly decided to stay home. That meant no Christmas Eve service, no going to Mama's house, no Slate visit...just a Grinchy, lonely Christmas Eve. I burst into tears. Ken wanted to know why he wasn't enough. That just made it worse. I said "Now it's not Christmas!"

These last few years, we have a tradition of going to Waffle House on Christmas morning, then the grown kids and grands all come over for brunch-at-lunch. Everybody brings breakfast foods and dessert and we have what Samwise Gamgee would call Second Breakfast. So at noon, they started piling in. Each group of grandkids bounced into the house until we had all eight (all nine if you count the one in the oven). There is nothing like the delight of children at Christmastime...and there's nothing better than being with all your cousins at the same event. The decibels got louder and louder, the squeals and physical gyrations got more dramatic. The kids were running all over the house, with the dog herding right behind them. As each family came into the house and I got hugged over and over, the stress and worry of the previous day just fell off.  There were messes, food, spills, lots of wrapping paper, jokes and laughter, warmth and joy. Our annual family portrait was definitely the worst ever, with everyone in their mismatched pajamas and looking less-than coiffed. 

Things eventually began to wind down and old Grandaddy Norton rose to leave. We lost Grandmama this year to cancer and this was his first Christmas without her. With much difficulty, he gave us a sweet charge...to love one another, to keep our eyes on the Lord and to keep keeping on. Then he prayed, blessing us all. He spoke of the Lord's mercy on us and how we must never take that for granted. In just those few moments, those nuggets of love and wisdom summed up what all the hoopla was about.

Once again, the page turns and we face a new year. Uncertainty, weariness, worry, and the unknown stand before us. That's no different than any year. We all have our bends in the road on any given day or decade. There are storms to battle, trees to fell, paths to take...all which could go well or turn into seeming disaster. For me and my house, we're not going to cower in fear, waiting for the unrevealed to happen. There's life to be lived, death is always waiting and we should always be ready. Seize the day. 

Noel in the Flurries

I believe every house on Magnolia Street is decorated this year. It's infectious, the greenery and jolly lights. It has spread good cheer all around and my husband is even turning on our fountains most every day, for good measure. Heaven knows we need a little Christmas now. I pulled our unwrapped gifts out of an old chiffarobe that I store them in...that's always an adventure because there's someone or something I've forgotten and that means a mad dash to the store before it's too late. 

I was ambitious this chilly Monday and headed to town to gather up groceries and those last minute gifts. This last week has been testy...I've been yelled at by a shop manager and a mean guy at the gym. Covid stress is buckling us down. There's been an ensemble concert (Carroll Community Wind Ensemble), caroling, craft day with the grands and all my gals, church twice, an ongoing art project, real estate closings to arrange, weights to lift, bicycles to ride, doctor appointments, lots of folks to chat with, a husband to see to, Mama to check on, food to prepare and then my Bible to read. Guess what got neglected? Yes, the dust was thick on that good book as I did my daily about-town dashes. I glanced at it as I hurried by, laid out on my dining table. My intentions were to serenely read it and seek His heart every morning, but literally every turn of the sun I got distracted or waylaid, usually by things that really weren't that important, if you look at it in the grand scheme of things. By week's end, my brain was swirling. Any time we sat down for a show or book, I was busy picking out pecans. Gobs of them. Then I salted and toasted them gently in the oven. Pecans are truly one of the best things God ever made. But on my diet plan, I am not allowed to have nuts. So I was gifting them to my friends and family, making pecan pies and little bags to bless people with. By Friday evening, I was tired and hungry, and my addiction to all things delicious reared its ugly head. I found myself alone in the kitchen, heady with the delectable smell of roasted pecans. One bite turned into countless bites and I went to bed guilty, like a squirrel with its cheeks bulging. I vowed to tell my sponsor or the Pope or somebody, but then one day turned into two. Tonight I finally came clean with her, after writing down lots of reasons why I let up my guard. This might seem very strange to some (to be obsessing about pecans and a few wayward bites), but I had nearly eaten myself into an early grave until God intervened last year. I view a breach in the dam of my program as life-threatening. I don't want to go back down that road, even if it is Christmas. Naw, I've already had more than my quota. 

But this evening, as my sponsor and I talked and her wisdom of years flowed over me, I thought of the Christ Child. He came for me, to lay down His life for all of my wayward ways, both great and even as small as a pecan obsession. I cannot do the things, cannot be the things that I need to be, in my own power. I don't care what the current sayings are, however well-intentioned...I am not enough. That is exactly why I need God. The principle of redemption sings through the Old and the New Testaments, where a Lamb is slain and takes away the sin of the world. That lowly manger, that King in the straw... Wise Men came from far away to worship Him. Wise men and women seek Him still. Merry Christmas. 

Yielded Hands

 At the heart that beats slightly off-center of my body, I am an artist. God made me that way, I didn't train for it. I inherently see the world in its magnificent coat of many colors. I am tortured by the minutiae of things "not put right" that I see along my paths -- pictures of old barns without proper perspective, cheesy Bob Ross renditions (even if they're under the guise of Thomas Kinkade), icky modern paintings that are simply ugly at the least but more often simply ridiculous in their pomposity, and yes, Christmas trees who've been sorely neglected. In an unfallen world, before Eve ate that doomed fruit, these things would not exist. 

The tyranny of the urgent and the need for groceries makes it necessary that I work outside of my art studio. The last 6 years of frantic real estate markets have overtaken the remnants of my right brain, so that I have had to operate out of that often hard, cold land: my left brain. I've had to contort myself into positions difficult and unnatural for me at times, dealing with numbers and loans and shark-like people. The thankful part involves the many folks that I can find a way to help and minister to along the way. God has a sense of humor, and He wedges us into places where we have to rely on Him rather than our own strength. I surrender myself daily to the things that make me squirm, yet know that it's still all for my good.

I asked God to send me art jobs, things that come naturally to me as a duck to water. So He sent one, an impossible project where I have to restore an antique light fixture. I resisted it, quoted a large price for the job, then took a long time to gather information and materials. Today I pushed all the tchotchkes and flowers to the side of my massive dining table, making room for the unachievable. That's always the way it is. I've found myself sandwiched in peculiar places, painting things I'm not capable of painting. God insists on doing it this way. I think maybe He wants to prove that He's God and I am not. When it's all done, I can look and see that I did not do that. I'm not capable of. But I know He is, and I've seen Him do really cool things through my hands and through the hands of others. 

I've also seen miracles in other areas of my life, where I am not strong-willed or gifted enough to muster up enough of what it might take. I've gone 15 months without flour, sugar or wheat -- losing 90+ pounds. The only superpower I've had is this: a surrender, a kneeling of my pride to say, "God I can't do this. But you can. Please do this through me." As I whip out my paintbrushes to attempt this new, unknown feat, I say the same prayer. He's sending another Bethlehem star on December 21, and He made that crazy amazing sky. He formed me in my mother's womb, despite myriad obstacles. I guess I can trust Him to use these gnarly hands one more time.

Beast (well Maybe Kitty-Cat) Mode

That evil man. I woke up early, the day after Thanksgiving. I heard him slipping quietly into the bathroom, changing into his workout clothes. He is a morning squirrel...usually waking at 3:00 a.m. and starting his daily routine of working out at the gym, showering and then reading the Scriptures before heading off to work. My morning routine consists of... well, whatever happy or urgent whim hits me at any given moment. 

But this day, a holiday, at 6:00 a.m., I agreed to go with him to the gym. Don't ask me why. I've been paying on that thing for years and have rarely accessed it, though heaven knows I need to. Ken had already sent a basic workout program to my phone. Can I kill him yet? He patiently walked me around to each machine, kindly showing me proper form and timing. Doesn't he know that I already know this stuff? I reminded him that I was a college athlete and all that, to no avail. He insisted that I start small, with very light weights so as not to injure my poor muscles after all these years of atrophy. I was shocked at how weak I was. For years, until real estate took over my life, I worked up on ladders and scaffolding with my art and paint businesses. I prided myself on being strong and capable. But here I was, kitten-like and humbled by my years of wimpiness. The next day, he was already up and at his errands, but I managed to peel myself out of that comfy-cozy-warm bed and trudge over to the gym for a second session. A Christmas miracle, for sure.

Now it's going on two weeks and I've managed to raise the mummy more mornings than not. There is a beauty to just hauling yourself straight out of slumber, with no makeup and bed-head hair, and not caring one whit about what the macho folks think about you at the gym. I've worn my crazy cat lady clothes and old shoes, put air buds in my ears, prepping a good podcast and stumbling in there with one goal in mind: get it done and get the heck back home. There's no socializing, no chit-chat, no commentary. When it comes time to get on the bike or treadmill, I program in HGTV and zone out. Everybody else there is on the same mission. It's going to take me a minute to get out of the wimpy stratosphere, but I'm praying for endurance and patience to get stronger and better equipped for the future. Meanwhile, new things head across my brain waves, like, I don't understand bruiser men with chests as big as Greek gods but who skip leg day. I think I'm invisible when I'm there, so hopefully I won't have to hear their critique on floppy mice like me. 

It's not even New Years yet, so thankfully this has nothing to do with a resolution or anything. Last year's word for me was Surrender. Maybe I'll give that one another year to sink in. 

Clear Sailing

The house was a literal wreck, this time last week. I was tempted to hire someone just to clean it, but I knew I'd have to move everything off the horizontal surfaces first, in order to reach the dust and grime. Plus, there were boxes and those big totes everywhere, full of Christmas ghosts past and present. So why not just get to it? It wasn't even Thanksgiving yet, but I was under the gun to get it all finished before we carved up that turkey. 2020 has made us all a trifle crazy, and we need a little Christmas, right this very minute. My husband promised to help, but his idea of help is to go out in the garage and change the oil. He has always had the strangest priorities when it comes to company coming over. One time, with the house stacked to the gills with clutter, he took it upon himself to touch up the walls all over the house. It wound up looking insane, because he didn't notice that the old paint cans had rust on the rims and all the colors were just a bit off. We had strange-colored spots all over the house and I ended up having to paint pretty much everything within the next few months, to cover up all the off-color patches. But we made a memory!

This time, however, he was my champion. He stated, very early in the day, that he was going to help me but that I was not to give him any instructions. I smiled and took what I could get. He started in one room, organizing and straightening...and then closing each door when a room was finished. While I did alchemy in the kitchen (first time, ever in 38 years, I made pecan pies and did the dressing. My dearly-departed mother-in-law would have been proud, as I used her recipes), Ken waved his magic wand. By mid-afternoon, the house was neat, dusted and decorated. It was definitely a Christmas miracle. 

The kids and grands and Grandma Judy all came in, festive and happy. We ate, told stories, laughed and then laughed some more. Our son Jesse came up with a game that had me crying and holding my tummy with hilarity. Newlyweds Marcus and Liz hang around a little longer (no baby yet, there's that coming), and we mused with that muzzy, comfy, full feeling that you get after big holidays with people you love and actually like. Ken and I snuggled into bed like two kittens in a cocoon and enjoyed the warmth of food, cozy blankets and love. You don't get days like that all the time. We've learned to really treasure them.

The next day, without even killing each other, we cleaned out our workshop...something we've put off for many months. We hauled truckloads of junk to the curb and folks picked it up, keeping it out of the landfill for another day. The rest went to the trailer to be carted off, and the truck was filled with goodies for our kids. You can now walk in the building without risking death. That only took four hours. What were we thinking?! So many things in life are not done because we simply dread facing them. With a little focus and spit, we hunkered down and got it done. The cobwebs in my mind are beginning to clear. Maybe I'll start with the pantry next...  

Turning the Page

One of my sweet grandsons was snuggled warmly into my lap. We had a big blanket tucked all around us, as the trolley swayed on the road, filled with festive friends and family...we were seeing the Christmas lights at Callaway Gardens. It was colder than it ought to be for a Georgia Thanksgiving. Some years, we're running around in shorts at that time. The smell of hot cocoa, s'mores and coffee wafted around on the air, with everyone bundled to the eyeballs. It was grand fun, and our group was full of merry. We're all happy these days when we get to do what we used to take for granted.

There's a big lake there, and our path meandered around it as we viewed the delightful lights and heard the crisp, happy music. As we turned a corner, I saw a lagoon on the right side of the road. All of a sudden, I had a massive flashback to when I was a kid and had gone swimming in that very body of water. Our youth group at church had gone for the day, one hot summer those many years ago. At 13, I was painfully shy about boys. Our music minister's son paid me two seconds of attention, so I was giddy all day and self-conscious about my awkward, lanky body in a bathing suit. Then my thoughts turned to a later summer at the same spot, when I was just getting comfortable in our singles group at a new church. There was a big, hunky guy that was on this trip and also made me feel oafish with his jokes and flirting. Pan to the present, some 40 years later, and here I sit with that big guy's sons and grandchildren squeezed up next to me. My blood all mingled with his, making these wonderful people. Who could have believed it? Not my klutzy self back then. 

In the passage of time, survival and many, many meals, we can forget where we came from. We can become complacent about the gifts we've been given. That fella's quirky, OCD ways irritate me and I drive him crazy with my inconsistencies. Pettiness can ruin pretty much everything, if we let it. And our belly-button gazing and preoccupation with our silly devices threatens to steal all our actual life. 

I didn't say much last night, a rarity for me. I rather enjoyed just holding those tiny hands, watching the energy of children racing about, seeing Christmas again through younger eyes. I can't understand half of what 3-year-olds say, but I marveled at their unfolding insight on the world at large. By the time we were through, we were half-frozen and ready to jump into the warm cars. The kaleidoscope of life and time took me on a trip around the lake, all with people that I love and cherish. What a merry Christmas indeed.

Slaying the Giants

The annual foray into our workshop to haul out the Christmas decorations is always an adventure. There's usually evidence of animal nesting, along with their offal. This year, after bumping through the boxes at midnight to get to the kitchen, joy of joys, I noticed the delightful aroma of cat spray on one of the totes. In a year of epic absurdity, now my house smells like feral cats. Maybe I'll put on an extra sweater and become That Lady. 

Last year, I was working a blue streak and decided to only do one small tree, compared to my usual 3-4. We did it, nobody perished from the shock, and Christmas was still Christmas. This year, however, even if it takes me 'til Christmas Eve, I'm defying the spirit of 2020 and we're pulling out the stops. Then we're not taking it down until Epiphany, at least. I'll put up my quirky teddy bear tree, gussy up the countertops and mantels, and the Big Tree is taking up its bodacious residence in the living room (the thing takes four hours to get all its branches on, not counting the lights or the decorations). I might have some micro-mini holiday parties and soirees, jus' sayin. We gotta have tangible reasons for all this folderol. I actually heard several women talking the other day about how they couldn't wait for Christmas music to come on the radio. It's been many years since I've heard such sentiments. In Narnia, when it was all frozen up, Mr. Tumnus said, "It is winter in Narnia  and has been for ever so long...always winter, but never Christmas." Aslan, the great Lion, overpowered the Witch with his supreme sacrifice and freed the frozen tundra and its inhabitants. Christmas came in with its glory, and good triumphed over evil, just like all the best stories. 

I'm making a list of all the unpleasant things that I don't want to do or deal with. Some of it is just the laundry, but other issues are much more complicated. I'm going to trundle through, as I'm decorating the house, facing those little giants that I don't like to face. I will slay them one by one, by God's grace. So with my vanquished list, a festive house, and the internet to help with shopping, maybe we'll get a nice, Narnia Christmas this year. Sounds good to me.

A Mad Dash For the Hills

 We were just trying to get out of town... you'd think it wasn't that hard to do. It was our first official camping trip in our partially-renovated travel trailer. I've painted, Ken's tricked it all out with hoses and parts...we had made reservations two months ago to a sweet spot right smack-dab next door to a river near Tallulah Gorge (why didn't I name my girl-child Tallulah Elizabeth?) I still have a lot of things to do to get this baby finished, but we weren't going to wait until then to try her out. Christmas is coming and I've got other things to do. We were attempting to pull out by 2:30 on Friday, so we'd not have to be setting up camp in the dark. Stuff happens, but 3:30 wasn't too bad. We'd have a little daylight to work by. I was grumpy as an old bear -- with a weird infection in my mouth and a subsequent stomach reaction to the antibiotic. I was praying for a peaceful weekend, but my tummy was saying otherwise. I messaged my doctor, without any real hope of getting any resolution to my trials before next week.

But hope springs eternal, as the doc emailed me a note saying that she had changed my prescription and added something else that would help my poor, tortured mouth. By then, Ken and I were making great time up I-85, about to pass through Gwinnett. I tentatively asked if we could stop and pick up the prescription at an exit close to us. He agreed and quickly pulled off, knowing that this would put us past darktime when we got to the mountains. Of course, that "quick" detour turned into an hour. As we pulled out, the lights on the dash of our truck started turning dim. Ken ascertained that our battery or the alternator was dying. We keyed in the coordinates for the closest auto parts store and prayed. As we swung into the parking lot, the truck died with a shudder. If we hadn't made the drugstore stop, we'd have been stranded in no-mans-land up toward the hills. God looks after fools and children.

I was sucking down Pepto-Bismol while Ken tore up his hands taking off truck parts. Just as he finished installing both a new alternator and a new battery, our eldest son and his family pulled into the parking lot. They had driven all the way through Atlanta traffic to help us. And help us they did. There's nothing like grandchildren to make you remember that life can be a bowl of cherries. Their laughter and squeals took all the tension out of the air as we let go of our moaning and groaning. God obviously had plans for us that night, all twisted up and patently absurd. You just have to smile. We finally headed on our way, set up simple-like in the dark by the sound of rushing water. By midnight we crashed into our little bed and slept like warm puppies in a box. Saturday was the best of days: breakfast in a darling little cafe, shopping at the MackDaddy of Ace Hardware stores, then hours of languishing by the river with music playing and books in our hands. The next day was full of packing it all in and heading home, but the goody between the mayhem on both ends was extra special. If the "goody" was all that we lived for, we might be in trouble. God seems to like to wrangle a lot of worms in the bucket before we get any fish. And sometimes there aren't any fish. Sometimes, we push our way through the storm, pain from the front and pain from the rear. We grab each others' hands and pray that the wind don't kill us. Then spend the next days smiling at the humor He enjoys at our expense. If you want to hear God laugh, tell Him your plans...

Come By Here, My Lord

Just when I thought 2020 couldn't get any stranger, a hurricane blows all the way up from the gulf and plants a tree in my kitchen window. I remember another year, where a hurricane chased us home from our annual Gulf vacation...we saw sharks as big as boats right there at the dock in Panama City. No sea creatures this time, just a tired tree trying to push in my 118-year-old wall. About the time my daughter-in-law and I began to hear creaks and groans at the window (and herded the kids to another room), my son Jon lassoed that tree and wrestled it to the ground with his monster truck. We bought a generator, saved all my Covid-hoarded food and I moped through two nights of guilt as it lit up the neighborhood with its loud whining. Meanwhile, to either side of us, two different neighbors passed the weekend in the hospital. My son and husband labored like lumberjacks to clear the driveway. I wandered, cold, around the house, until I decided to paint the camper. There's millions of pecans waiting for me in the yard, but I have my priorities. 

I thought about the year 1902, when our house was built. There are five coal-burning fireplaces inside it, but that's not happening now. As the evening light faded and the candles were extinguished, the peace and quiet of the night and of the street struck me. We have exchanged a lot of things -- hard work for conveniences, quiet for never-ending noise, and peace for the flood of knowledge crowding our brains 24/7. I don't know if I'd want to go back to where we actually had to work for our food...it seems that your whole life would be preoccupied with simple survival (and a short life at that). But I could sure do with some peace from all the storms that  are swirling around us today. 

There's an election today...I just left the polls seeing worried faces everywhere, from both sides of the aisle. I have my convictions and concerns, but so do they. I say we turn off the news, grab our neighbors' hands, and sing Kum-bah-yah tonight. How about it?!

A Life of Distraction

We had three of the grandchildren here for the weekend -- seven-year old Annabelle and three-year-old twins Addison and Bennett. Annabelle is the quintessential, curious firstborn, where all the rules are black and white, and everything's a party. Her Mama says that A often bemoans the fact that they are eating "alone" -- just because it's only the five of them. She never stops talking and is eager for the next social encounter, whatever kind that might be. Addison is an adorable ginger-haired sassy gal, hamming it up at every turn. She might just be smarter than us. Bennett regales in his boy-ness, enjoying nothing better than aggravating his sisters with his latest weapon from his arsenal. But then he is the snuggliest of sugar bears. We had a ball with them.

When it came to Sunday night and they went home to their parents, Ken turned to me and said, "How did we ever do all that?!" It might have had something to do with being 25 years younger and the fact that they don't come in litters. You start out with one at a time (usually) and work up from there. It's been a long time since we've had three at once. But I was definitely stunned by the amount of food, drink and diapers that it takes to keep the world turning. And with twins, they do all those things, all at the same time. Including getting into trouble. 

My takeaway from the weekend, besides the fact that having grandchildren is the most wonderful thing ever, is that I simply have to get my house under control. Everywhere you look, there's boxes of junk, piles of things I have no idea what to do with, projects half-finished and reams of random papers growing on every horizontal surface. The problem with a creative brain is that it likes to hop around. Ken says I'm a tent dweller and it's true. More than a day or two on an activity and I'm ready for the next wind to come along. I'm a great starter and he's a great finisher. But he doesn't want to mess with my particular projects, so he becomes the cattle prod to my wayward ways. It's a miracle we haven't killed each other. 

So where to begin? Everywhere I look are meaningful piles and undiscovered adventures, all waiting to be plumbed. My brain is a bit fuzzy and in the middle of it all, I still have to work at my day job. Who's got time to divert that much?! I've spent enough money on organization books to choke a horse, and nobody wants to call the maid (she's an amazing figment of my imagination). I've had numerous offers from folks to help me, but I might be too proud to take them up on it. 

We're going camping in a couple of weeks, but I need to paint all the doors I've taken off and find some baskets to put all our supplies in. Then somebody needs to call the cavalry in and have them reupholster all those dining room chairs I took apart last week. There's nowhere to eat around here except the recliners. And you know what happens when you plop down in one of those. The glowing light calls your name as you eat your supper. The joints settle in and then you'll find Pa and I sawing logs through yet another episode of Silent Witness. Marie Kondo, I'm going to burn your books...

Which Path Do I Take?

Someone posited a question in that great bastion of wisdom, Facebook: "What is more important: truth or kindness?" There were dozens of responses, and they all said that kindness was more important than truth. What have we come to? I suppose it's better to lie than to be unkind? It's better to be sweet than to uphold justice? I'm afeared for this generation. 

Maybe these are just some really nice people who don't want to hurt anyone's feelings. Maybe our current culture has made folks step back and reevaluate their tone. I'm afraid that we've lost the foundations that make a society able to stand, when things become difficult. Because if truth matters less than kindness, there's no path to follow...it all becomes relative to any given situation. 

I looked up the words "truth" and "mercy" in the scriptures. They are used together over and over, inseparable from one another. In Psalm 85, it even says "Mercy and truth are met together; righteousness and peace have kissed each other." So it's not that we should choose one or the other. It's that both are necessary. Truth without kindness or love is a hollow master. Kindness without truth is a gradual slouch towards meaninglessness. "Speak the truth in love" is another scripture whose application requires thought and wisdom. 

The truth can hurt, and not everything has to be said, just because it's true. The signposts of truth are what lead one to repentance. Then it's mercy that gives hope and light for life. We need them both, especially now.

Wake Up and Smell the Joy

After a fitful half-night of sleep, I stumbled onto the cool wood floor, blurry and unsure of what planet I had landed on. I'm still recovering from major abdominal surgery, with drain lines snaking out of my body and a big compression garment contorting my insides. There's no real sleep happening, every which way I turn hurts, but time and work march on and I'm trying to not be a wimp. My dear husband has been an angel, listening to my whining and tucking me gently in every night. 

As I wobbled out the door to let the dog do her business, my bare feet hit the mushy, cold, wet grass. Mud squished up between my toes as I regretted not putting on my neon pink Crocs. She took her time, sniffing and wandering all over the yard for just the right spot. This dog is insecure and wants me right next to her before she eats, sleeps or eliminates. She kept looking to me, to follow her through the miserable grass until her Highness discovered the best pile of leaves to go in. My grumpy self barked at her, "Hurry up! I wanna go back to bed!" I was half-dressed, cold, and pondering my silly first-world problems when I looked up to the sky. Periwinkle blue melted over to the east, where coral pink and yellow spilled all over the tops of the trees. The light and air fairly glowed with golden dew. The birds were having a music festival, three chipmunks tittered and ran in front of me, and the dog started rolling gleefully in the moss (we don't have grass, it's apparently not possible). I decided to go ahead and take a little walk. The whole earth was welcoming the day with something akin to a symphony and I needed to get in on it.

Just a brief stroll around the corner, and my heart lifted with the simple beauty of God's creation. The leaves are just about to turn, the animals are storing up, the sky is clear as a bell and I can smell folks making breakfast. There's mud and mess and mayhem in the news. But the front page right here is a lung-ful of sweet air, my good neighbors all around living life, all my children tucked in with their spouses and babies, husband already at work, and a new day dawning. Happy day.

Happy Campers

 I'll never forget that early fall morning, the first cool Saturday Ken and I had had since we married the spring before. I was driving down a street in Mableton, where we lived, when I saw a nice pop-up camper for sale in a neighbor's yard. I grew up tent camping on Lake Allatoona with my family. When we graduated to a decrepit pop-up camper that my folks bought and renovated back to mint condition, we thought we'd won the lottery.   Back then, we didn't have cellphones, so I used the owner's house phone to call him. "Hey honey, I just found a pop-up camper here around the corner for sale. It's in great condition and they're only asking $125! Can I buy it?!" A long pause, then he said, "Does it have a bathroom?" I retorted: "Of course not, it's a POP-UP camper. They don't have bathrooms. But it's way better than a tent and it's awesome." He said, "Naw, I'm not camping in anything that doesn't have a bathroom. I'm really a Holiday-Inn-kind-of guy." Somewhere along the line, even though I'd played football, basketball, tennis and every kind of competitive board game with my husband, I had failed to ask about his views on the subject of camping. But heck, he wore lots of flannel and looked for all the world like a lumberjack. Surely this was not a problem. In my list of must-haves, I wanted a guy who loved Jesus, wanted a house full of kids, could chop some wood, but especially that I didn't sense in any way that I might could beat up. I was a college athlete and grew up playing ball with my Daddy and sister in the front yard. Any serious dating relationship of mine at some point included at least an arm-wrestling match. When I teased at wrestling Ken one day and he pinned me faster than a duck on a June bug, that box was happily checked. This new knowledge took me aback, but I didn't believe in divorce. Somehow we were going to have to make it work.

So we did, without camping. Until I managed to persuade the man to move us and four kids into an old camper onto our land, where we lived for two years and built a house. We sold the thing after we moved in the house and figured that would be the end of that. Until this summer...one of our sons and his wife bought a camper and renovated it. He started talking about us getting one. In recent years, I have enjoyed surprising Ken with various "toys" (used, of course) on birthdays and holidays. I've gotten him a truck and a golf cart, to his great surprise. So one night, our son teased Ken about a camper on Facebook marketplace and made him think that I'd gone and bought it. I went along with the joke, and when the kids left, Ken turned to me and said, "I can't believe you bought that!" I told him it was all a joke and that we were pulling his leg. His crestfallen face surprised me. He was disappointed! So of course I started looking for a used camper in earnest, eventually buying one and pulling it up to Los Cowboys one evening and surprising him at dinner. We've been on a quest these last few weeks, to figure out how it works, where we're gonna camp soon, and buying supplies for the thing. I'm going to paint it all vintage colors and doll it up. I've got all the supplies, but now recuperating from surgery so I have to wait a few weeks to get painting. Meanwhile, I'm fit to be tied. Papa finally wants to go camping! But then again, it does have a bathroom...

Live or Die

Planes and Surgery....those two events always prompt me to assess my life in grave and serious ways. 

I really hate heights, much less hurtling through space in a little metal tube. Everybody around me looks cool and collected, bored even. They don't want me chatting them up, I've found. My kids have informed me that it is simply not done these days. I beg to differ. My whole life has been interesting because of all the wonderful, intriguing strangers I've met, who've been happy to tell me their life stories and birth experiences. Even if they are reluctant to talk at first, they usually end up spilling the beans on their innermost secrets. Occasionally, however, you just can't crack open those tough ones and I'm relegated to silence and my own thoughts of how I'm soon going to die in a fiery plane crash. And then there's trying to squeeze my abundant frame into the smallest possible space, trying not to lop over onto the other passengers. By the time I arrive at my destination, I have heartburn and muscle spasms. This is not fun.

And then there's the subject of surgery. I had a major one this last week, with a very large incision from hip to hip. I spent the days and weeks before it, pondering life and death and the end of civilization as we know it. I have found the best way to go under the knife is to be ready to die. Go ahead and go there. Make peace with all, spend time in the scriptures, pray a lot, confess my sins, have a clear view of my place with God, and then surrender to that anesthesia. I'm always surprised when I wake up. Then comes the pain and I wonder what in the heck I did this for. I was planning on death, not misery and suffering and learning how to go to the bathroom again. I have no right to complain -- my dear husband is the best nurse in the world and he took off a week to care for me. He's a much better physical caregiver than I. He thinks about things like a cool washcloth on the forehead, a fresh cup of icewater, putting meds on an actual schedule (rather than my random plan of waiting until I'm screaming in pain to take something). It's been a sweet week of spending time with him, though closings and real estate wait for no one, so he's helped me with that too.

Planes and surgeries, things looming at the edge of the universe. In truth, every day is a gazing at the precipice of eternity, 'cause we never know when our time's up. Our choices: we can live in cowering, perpetual fear of the unknown or we can just go ahead and really live and suck the marrow out of the day. Here's to life!

Sally Forth...

 With the sweet, cool air that wafted in right behind Hurricane Sally this week, I felt my heart go calm at the same time. It wasn't the weather, though I'll take it. I had a day from the underworld, where I was driving like mad all over Atlanta, multi-tasking, calling, voice-texting and more, to catch up with my post-vacation workload and lots of personal things that needed dealing with. Before and aft, I was throwing up prayers, asking God to help me, for Him to do the things that it would take for it all to work. I felt a little like I was in the Red Sea, with the waves parting just in time to give me safe passage, and then them crashing behind me while I sped down a nice, dry path in the middle. Either side of me threatened to murder me, the best thing to do being to keep my eyes on the Lord. The entire day was like the running of a gauntlet, and God kept right on ushering me through. One of those times when you can hear Him whisper, see Him move the chess pieces. He doesn't always do it that way, but I started out like a squalling baby so I guess He decided I needed a break.

Sometime during the maelstrom of my personal hurricane, I felt the calm at the eye of it. I had an epiphany...it's been two years since my darling Daddy died suddenly, and for the first time, I was able to accept that he is where he is supposed to be. Literally in the middle of this hellish day, I at once knew that he was okay, and that it was okay for me to accept that. Death brings many things, but often guilt or regret. Or it raises up the places where we haven't dealt with our relationships. Thankfully, I have few regrets or guilt when it comes to my Pa, but the wake of his passing sucked my heart to the depths, trying to figure out this hole in the universe that shouldn't be there. There I was, stuck on 285 with a thousand cars whizzing by, crying, singing and raising my hands in surrender (one at a time, ya'll). I think I will forever remember that moment, its sweetness and peace.

Funny how storms come in and wreck everything, then we have to tear down what's left and then rebuild. Better make sure that foundation's not made of sand...

Recovering From Vacation

 We rolled back into Georgia, salty, sandy and exhausted. Pa drove like a bat outa you-know-where, just trying to make it home before sleep overtook him. We had been napping all week at the beach and mid-afternoon called like a siren. Somehow, we made it back in one piece. My daughter and new son-in-love squeezed out from the mountain of luggage and headed back to their house. I'm always amazed at all the trees and greenery that greet us after our annual beach trip. Visitors to our fine state always comment on our leafy habitat. I don't think about it much until I come back from other places, then am in awe at the lush bounty awaiting. 

The old house is musty as we come in. It forgets that people live here, when we go away. It takes it a couple of days to let go of the ancient dust. I light candles and diffuse essential oils, bringing it back to life. I guess I'll open the place up, even though Hurricane Sally is bringing the Gulf right on up here to rain on us. I also always forget how beautiful my house is, then walk from room to room looking at the amazing wood on the floors and the wavy stained glass beaming at me. I'm always glad that somehow it didn't burn down while we were gone. Nothing is forever, but I'd like it to last another century.

Monday comes and I hit the floor running. There's a lot on my plate, too much to bear sometimes, and there's nothing like a nice, long vacation to make you forget all that. There should be a law that we get a second week to do nothing, after we get back home. Either way, the work doesn't sleep and I'm hoofing it to get back some sort of equilibrium. Pa and I bought a camper that I'm going to overhaul. It's sitting out in the driveway, waiting for me to kiss it with vintage-colored paints and fabrics. I've bought supplies and they're piled up in the carport, but there's property to be sold and folks to be helped. I'll think about it tomorrow. But you know I'd rather be painting.

Vacation Thoughts...

We are spending the week at the beach with our grown children and (not grown) grandchildren. The grands are about to overtake us -- there's 8 of them and 2 on the way. Next year, that means there will be 10 adults and 10 kiddos. Meanwhile, it's the sweetest time of the year when we get to hang out, all 18 of us, all at the same house. We've done this for many years, since they decided to grow up. 

It's all different now. I remember the days of years past, when we had days filled with sandcastles and sunburn at the beach. Now, I see my grown family all occupied with their littles, existing from one meal to the next, diapers and equipment galore, but each year bringing everyone bigger, funnier and more complicated. I enjoy every minute, taking in all the nuances of life that I know will pass oh too quickly. Tomorrow they'll be grown and starting the next cycle. 

This year, we have those two babies baking in their proverbial ovens. It will all change next year. Funny how life revolves...how the earth turns and brings a new wave with it. My children are, thankfully, awesome and as funny as comedians. Sarcasm is our family language, right along with deep, thoughtful theology and the walk and talk of real, raw Christianity. There are saints here, but none of them saintly. The apples don't fall far from the trees. I always end the week feeling not rested, not relaxed, but full to the brim with life and ribs hurting from laughing. 

The empty nest is simply a conundrum. The pressure is off, so many memories in the rear-view mirror. There are so many angles to take -- living sad for what is now gone, living frantic in trying to make a new path, or living with wings while enjoying what was and what will be. The energy emanating from these young folk can be overwhelming, but also energizing. God knew what He was doing when He gave children to the young. Children are a blessing from the Lord, the most wonderful of treasures. And in these crazy times, so are the simple pleasures of a communal meal, a patch of beach, a flotilla of kids in a pool. I reach across to Papa Bear and touch his big paw, a moment passing between us of sheer, blissful thankfulness. God is good.

Merrily, Merrily

 I wax sentimental quite often about my good, happy childhood. I was reminded today of one of the bad parts of that time, when someone on Facebook was asking if anyone would pony up some money to put her and her Mama in a hotel, because their air conditioning was out, and it's really hot. I laughed, but then I remembered a couple of years ago, when our A/C went out for a week or two. We took showers right before bed, turned every fan we owned towards our semi-moist bodies, threw any covers off and laid still and quiet, praying to fall asleep before we started sweating.

And that's also the way I grew up...Mama and Daddy had a little air conditioner unit in their bedroom window, and they'd shutter themselves up at night. Us kids laid with windows wide open, sprawled like old dogs across the beds. I wasn't bitter, really. Their room seemed like a refrigerator to me. Because our room was open to the outdoors, you could hear the crickets and frogs carrying on like a symphony. That'd put us to sleep pretty quick if we let it. I still love that sound. The night of our daughter's wedding, in our backyard, I heard that and it made me so happy. Sounds of home.

My sister and I never went to sleep fast, though. We'd talk and giggle as long as possible, until Mama yelled for us to hush. I couldn't bear to be apart from her. She is two years younger and was my constant companion. We had bunkbeds, until Mama just gave up and bought us a full size, because we'd end up together anyway. We got engaged at almost the same time, and got married 6 weeks apart. We started having babies every other year, five boys in a row and then the girls started getting sprinkled in there. Ken and I stopped at four, well, the Lord stopped us at four. Melanie and her husband have 11 children. She is what they call a force of nature. People ask her if she knows what causes that. She says that she finally figured out she shouldn't wash her underwear with her husband's. There's a lot more where that comes from. We also have a brother. He and his wife have six children. We're not Mormon or Catholic, just passionate Protestants. And we're taking over.

Melanie and I have a lot of people in between us, with husbands, daughter-in-loves, son-in-loves, oodles of grandbabies (17 between us right now and a couple on the way), and a lot of things going on. So our talking times are limited to chats on the phone, text messages and the occasional half-day marathons when we get to hang out. But on warm, balmy summer nights when I walk my dog under the stars, I often am taken back to those carefree days when she and I would talk and dream about our futures. God's done filled both of our arms with a lot of good stuff, along with the challenges that threaten to undo us. My heart is still linked with hers, as distant as we may find ourselves sometimes. There's a whole lot of flurrying about on both sides, but I thank God for how He seems to always bring us to peace when we are able to bring our boats alongside each other. Row, row, row your boat, gently down the stream...

Winds and Waves

Today was the most alone day I have had since our nest emptied out in June, when our Elizabeth got married. Ken left early to help his Dad move into his new apartment and I went the other way, to church and then to show a house. I came home to an empty house, took my requisite Sunday nap and then piddled away the rest of the day. I watched a gloomy movie by myself, then walked the dog in the sticky, wet yard, spooked by anything that moved. So here I am, the night is getting late and Pa is still not home. His Dad is under great duress. There are many things that stress us, but losing your wife and then having to move, all within the space of a month, should be enough to unnerve him. My heart breaks for his pain.

Sitting here in my too-quiet study, I think of my Ken and how much I take him for granted. Some days are fun, some are exciting, but the steady beat of life is often like oatmeal, nutritious and sustaining, but plain. I happen to like oatmeal, especially with cinnamon and blueberries. It's comforting and healing, just like a good marriage. We have our fine days and our bad, two sinners depending on the grace of God. I have my jurisdictions and he has his. We've been together so long, sometimes I forget we are two people. The face I see the most isn't my own. It's his. I reach over during the night to touch his big, bear-like hands. They are warm, rough, strong. If I reach up and touch his lips, he always kisses my fingers, even if he's asleep. I stop and remember what I'm thankful for. If I'm smart, I tell him. He needs respect, affirmation. I more need love, back massages. We've been lucky in love, even on our worst days and in our hard seasons. I've found that true love is more like an ocean...there are tides, storms, sunshine and shadows, then days that are like a dream, with the wind gently blowing and the sea like a lake. The sand shifts with the whims of nature, but the sun still comes up, even if it's obscured by clouds. 

We have been blessed to see love lived out in our parents, both sides...abiding grace that doesn't shift with the current. What may appear like oatmeal on the surface is actually made of bedrock, smoothed and polished by the winds of adversity and time. No small feat. No small God.

Musings on an August Day

 I woke up to a rare, cool August morning. I stumbled in the dark to let the dog out. She's extra, and won't go the bathroom (or even eat) if I'm not right there with her. She's an old, retired Aussie show dog and has lived several years with my sister, outside with a pile of other dogs. When she came to live with us, I had to potty train her and adapt her to indoor living. Since she's very intelligent and saw her big chance to live in comfort, she learned quickly what the rules are. But now, she thinks she's a princess and I'm afraid she's got me trained too. She's like Velcro -- always by my side. I can't do anything without her right there with me. I happen to like that, except that it's guilt-inducing when she won't even eat unless I stay close by to let her finish. Our little forays into the yard are always accompanied by Matilda the cat. She's also apparently from royalty. They groom each other and talk about the weather. Pets are one of God's wonderful gifts.

As I stepped onto our delicious front porch, it was sweet to drink in the crisp air this morning. It made me remember that it won't always be August. Way back when we homeschooled our kids, back when folks thought we were criminals for doing it, I'd start school the first of August because it was too hot to play outside anyhow. We got more done between then and Thanksgiving than the rest of the year. By April, our brains were buzzing out the window and Pa would declare school's out. We did that for 19 years, another lifetime away. I feel for all these families that are being forced to do it now. Only God could compel me, back in the day, but I'm mighty glad we did it. Our children, now grown, are independent, Biblical thinkers and also intelligent, hard workers. And anybody that worries about socialization should examine my kids...they can mix with everybody from old folks to babies. In fact, they're actually more social because they're comfortable with people not even in their own peer group. God's grace, again. I'm not that wonderful, being impatient and flighty, prone to change and distraction. But God's a whole lot bigger than us. 

With the chaotic, swirling times we are in currently, it's easy to descend into worry and fear. It seems to invite both frenzy and lethargy at the same time. I'm trying to get my eyes off of me, get into the Word every morning... even if it's just one thorough chapter, and keep throwing my cares on Christ. Drag myself away from social media, don't get stuck watching the news, find at least one person to bless each day. We're going to get through this, no matter if it's in a pine box. It's just the truth. I'm choosing to live, not cower. As Teddy Roosevelt so aptly put it: "We are face to face with our destiny and we must meet it with a high and resolute performance of duty; let us live in the harness, striving mightily; let us rather run the risk of wearing out than rusting out." Preach.

Seize the Paint!

I've sat here like a lump on a log. Really, for months. Technically, I've worked like a Trojan, but only when I had to. All those beautiful projects that live in my mind have sat like an island for nigh half a year. Why, when for a time, I had all the time in the world? All around me were raw materials, just waiting for inspiration and a rainy afternoon. Even when my daughter found out, just three weeks before her wedding date, that we could not use her original venue, we binge-watched on Netflix and lolly-gagged on the porch for at least a week before we let the clutch out. Then it was Katy-bar-the-door to get everything done in time. 

Now that real estate is as hot as a firecracker and I'm covered up with work, I've been pulling out my crafty projects. Go figure. First there was the ancient, musty old rocking chair that's been mouldering in the barn. I slapped a fresh batch of chalk paint on the frame, yanked off all the decrepit fabric, found a jolly-looking remnant at the store, stapled it all back together and then hot-glued trim to it. It looks like a toddler's happy place now. I was so energized, I found old curtains from a yard sale, cut them in half, attached some zingy pom-pom trim and hung them in the nursery. I think somebody needs to crank up the grandkid machine again. I've got eight very cute yard apes, but no babies now and Yaya's ready to rock.

It's easy to get carried away, especially when you've been living in a desert, creatively, for five months. Today, it all started with my dining room rug. Tragically, I bought that thing with good money a couple of years ago. I thought it might bring some whimsy into my formal Victorian ethos. But it's not whimsical and it's not happy. It looks like a bad paint accident and my feet have to touch it numerous times in a day. It's at the very heart of my dear, sweet home. How could I do that to her? There's century-old gold-ish and ivory wallpaper in the next room that I refuse to paint over, even though my Mama does not understand my undying love for it. It is elegant, classic and timeless. Who cares if it has a few age spots and crinkles in it? It's precious and will remain. So anything I do in this dining room has to also respect the old grand paper. I looked at the hapless rug (which will soon succumb to Facebook marketplace) and thought about the future. Then I made the mistake of calling my dear friend Frank, the decorator who invented Excess and happens to live next door. The 90s were Frank's oyster and his work is simply glorious. One time, he walked into another of my houses and in 15 minutes told me what to do to my living room. What was a colorless, awkward box became a delicious, warm haven that we hated to ever leave. When he tells me something, even with my years of houses and decorating under my belt, I listen.

We started commiserating about that room. He asked me to remind him about the colors in the stained glass, the fireplace tiles, the light fixture over the table. I'm pretty sure I heard the gears turning in his head. Before I could blink, I was clicking on Pinterest ideas and thinking about jewel tones and the wisdom of the fact that we only live once (Frank might have said something about that). Sherwin Williams' Whole Wheat ain't gonna cut it...when I mentioned that color, he said, "Chicken." He sent his wife Karen over here with one of her blouses, in the color he wants me to use. So this wimp waited until Pa went to bed (let's just say Pa's a really intense morning person and I am not), then tore off to Home Depot to gather paint samples. Please don't tell him I shopped there, but they don't have a Lowe's in Villa Rica and desperate times call for desperate measures, especially when you've only got 40 minutes before the store closes. That poor room has already been painted three times in the last eight years, but this is me. Oh yeah, and then there's Frank, Mr. Excess. There will be no half measures. Carpe diem.

Mayberry on a Friday

There's lots of things to be said for walking, rather than driving, to town... that is, if you live close. It's so much faster to whip in and out of errands when you drive, obviously. But it's a great activity for children, old ones and young ones. Friday, I had three of my young grandchildren with me for the day. After breakfast and one small round of cartoons, I figured we'd brave the steaming blanket of humidity to explore Villa Rica. 7-year-old Eden was not keen on this idea, but her two brothers and Sadie the dog were game so she was outnumbered. I tucked a $20 bill in my shirt and we headed out. The boys were hoping to spy a train that morning.

We discovered flowers, grasses, dog poo and a quirky fairy tree along the way. They each took a turn running and touching the train rails (no worries, I was vigilant). We waved at strangers like we were in a parade, then used that special path for walkers that crosses the tracks. There had been a great deal of meandering, so by this time they were thirsty and begging for lunch. I forgot how amazing little kids' metabolisms can be. We saw that Chat n' Choo was open, hurrah, but we had the wee problem of the dog. I didn't dare leave her tethered outside, so the nice waitress seated them right at the window while Sadie and I watched outside. I whipped out my $20 and said give them brownies. It's lunchtime and I'm their Yaya. Yayas do that stuff. They thought they were so big, with their red velvet brownies on a plate, silverware and all. They took their time eating, and walked out with an extra one. They knew Yaya doesn't eat brownies, so they instructed me that we could give it to their Daddy when he picked them up...they also said that he would never eat it all himself, but that he would share it with their Mama (he always shares with Mama, Yaya!) That is exactly what he did when he got to my house. Sweet that they knew it would go down that way. 

As we took our time down the street, we happened upon an ice cream shop (Kenny's Kremes). Their eyes lit up. We still had $8 and some change left, so I figured why not? They're only kids for a little while. The lady serving them was very patient and kind, letting them try several kinds before they settled on their choices, which they slurped down with gusto. We then took a few minutes to stop into the real estate company I work with (Southern Homes and Land), where they were oooohed and aaaahed over by my broker and our secretary. A few more detours and discoveries on the way home, and we finally arrived back, full of sugar and talk. Eden decided that it was the best day ever, after all.

It made me proud, the humans that we came across that day. There were happy waves, kind shopowners, friendly folks on the sidewalk and in the cars that drove by. We live here in a small town, not far from a big city, but there are people working hard, making a go of difficult times. If you listen to the media, there's nothing but hell and mayhem. I say turn off the news, take a deep breath, then take yourself on a long walk.

Blowin' In The Wind

I plunked my way through several years of piano lessons. My dear teacher, Elsie McDow, had to be the patron saint of piano students. She was patient and tolerant of my distracted childhood. I had the initial necessities: a musical soul and good hand-eye coordination, but my lack of discipline and ever-evolving string of new interests kept me from advancing to where I could have gone. My parents were wise in their teaching us to stick to things, even when the going got rough. So I stuck to it for six years. I still love the piano and occasionally whip out my classical favorites on dreamy afternoons. Between my 8th and 9th grade year, I begged for a flute. My folks rented one from Ken Stanton for $5 a month. They told me I had a year to work at it on my own or they'd send it back. With a standard band book and an old hymnal, I worked hard to learn it that summer. Basic flute playing isn't hard, especially if you can already read music. I loved sitting out in the open and playing the lovely hymns. When school started back, I joined the band. I had never played with a group before. Being as I am a social creature, that seemed like a lot of fun, if I could stop talking long enough to play. I remember the first day of class, when the director held up his hands for quiet, and then had us play those warm-up notes. It was magic. A hundred other people, all playing together. As time marched on and we learned to work as one orchestra, I recall the inexplicable buzz that all the harmonies coming together gave me. I had played many times on athletic teams, understanding how we had to cooperate in order to make things happen. But there is simply nothing like a clan of musicians combining their songs into a whole. Music is of heaven, where angels sing and praise rises. No wonder there are titles like "American Idol" -- because music is intimately acquainted with worship. 

I've continued to play my flute all these years, teaching lessons to young players to help buy extras, when our budget was tight. I've also always played at church, enjoying that hymnal and the accompanying voices of exuberant Christian brethren. When we first moved to Villa Rica in 2012, I joined up with the Carroll Community Wind Ensemble, headed by Terry Lowry (Conductor for the Carroll Symphony Orchestra). It was blissful to be back playing with a band and at the same time torturous because the music was so difficult I had to practice every day. I played with gusto with them for years, until 2018, when my Daddy suddenly died. I was overrun with grief, health issues and still had to find a way to work. I cut everything out of my life that was non-essential. I thought I'd take a semester hiatus, but it turned into two years that went by like a blink.

Come to find out, music is essential. It prompts, surrounds, fills and oozes out of some of us. My guilty pleasure has become my necessary medicine. I'm going back tonight, humble and sheepish. I've been playing at church all this time, but nothing that requires practice. I'm up for the challenge now, leaner and wiser, even with the virus scaring us all to death. Some things are worth making time for, even if they appear to be frivolous. Sing on, old heart...

Cool, Clean Water

It's so hot and muggy, all I can think about is water. I don't want to think about sickness, riots or global warming. I would love to submerge myself in a cool, clean body of water and float for a few hours, or days. 

When I was a child, I was deathly afraid of the water. We lived a half mile from Sun Valley Beach in Powder Springs, which was really an overgrown pond that somebody had concreted in years before. I played in the shallow end, but shrieked at anyone who tried to make me get deeper. My Daddy tried and tried to get me to learn to swim but I was terrified. One very hot summer, when some of our Yankee family was visiting and there was no air conditioning, our dear uncle bought us a 3-foot pool and installed it in the backyard. I remembering him sweating bullets while he worked on it. We thought we'd died and gone to heaven. My sister and I basically lived in it for the rest of that summer and several more after that. Daddy eventually bought us a fancy 4-foot pool and attached it to the deck right outside the house, so we could jump in without getting grass all over our feet and in the pool. Somewhere in there, I learned to swim and I learned to love the water.

When I was twelve years old, I started working at Sun Valley, teaching swimming lessons. Eventually I got my Senior Lifesaving and became a lifeguard. I lived for that 15-minute break each hour, where I could swim to my heart's content. I recall crazy near-drownings: A set of twins that were drowning right by their Mama in three feet of water. That was easy -- I just picked them both up. Their Mama acted mad at me. I guess she thought I was overreacting, or maybe she was just embarrassed. I found that to be a common reaction, when I rescued a young 'un when their parents were close by. It happened several times in my years as a lifeguard. The weirdest rescue was when some highly intelligent teenager tied one of the Tarzan ropes around his leg and then attempted to reach the next rope, but failed. That left him hanging plumb upside down, with his head under the water. Actually, before I could get to him, two girls pushed him up far enough and he was able to get loose. He had a nasty whelp on his leg and a really bad attitude when he walked by my chair. Pride goeth before the fall.

The most epic rescue happened one afternoon when I wasn't on duty but was picking up my check. I was at the concession stand when I heard a commotion at the water. The owner was running pell-mell across the sand, leapt into the water, swam like mad and then dove down into the deep. He surfaced, dragging some poor fellow. He got him up on the sand, then gave him mouth-to-mouth. Before the ambulance arrived, he had revived the guy and everybody was cheering and clapping. As the ambulance left and he turned to walk back, he looked up and saw our head lifeguard sitting on his stand, rubbing lotion on his feet. The lifeguard had not seen any of it, so preoccupied with those toes was he. The owner yanked him out of his chair and we never saw him again. Rumor has it he's buried out back somewhere.

A few years ago, they shut Sun Valley down like a Ghost Town. Weeds grew up, the slides rusted and you could barely see the sand. I read today that they've sold it and are going to put 56 single-family homes there. I think I'll ride by and see it one last time. It was a sweet, sentimental part of my childhood that I'll never forget. 

Light as a Feather

I call it the Mother-In-Law dance. It's those awkward gyrations that occur when two cultures collide in a thing called marriage. There are jokes and Greek tragedies based upon it, and it's one of the great mysteries on this planet that will never truly be solved. There's that old saying, "A son's a son until he takes a wife, but a daughter's a daughter all her life." As the mother of three faithful sons and a newly married daughter, I'm not sure it's that extreme, but there is some truth to that adage.  It's my belief that in most marriages, the culture of the wife is what makes the soul of a home. Like it or not, she is the one who is the liquid between the spaces...the one who connects the dots and brings her own special mix that grows into a new little universe. It is the mystery of womanhood, that in my observance (apologies to my detractors), God made to help root families together. Right smack in the middle of this is the mother-in-law. The new wife wants to please her, but at the same time wants to show her....to prove to her that she is worthy and capable of handling her new role. 

When I married Ken, some 38 years ago, I knew nothing about cooking. I could chop down a tree, clean anything, mow grass, work hard and handle a basketball, but I barely knew how to boil water. The kitchen was my Mama's domain and the only thing about it that was familiar to me was the suds and scrubbing. I was good at that part. It was strange to me, when we married, that Ken didn't care that much about a scoured pot as much as if he was going to get to actually eat. The men in that day were not as savvy as my sons have become with cooking. The grill was a possibility, but it was rare to see any man inside at the cooktop. He was and is a chauvinist in this area. If I am busy or dieting with food he can't muster, he gladly stops off at the Sonic. But is that actually food? I think it reminds him of his childhood and eating at Fat Boy in Smyrna, around the corner from his folks' home. I'm concerned about what might be collecting on the inside of his arteries. 

Ken's Mama (Annette) was Paula Deen, before Paula Deen came onto our radar. She made the best biscuits I've ever eaten...light, fluffy, but crispy around the edges. She used to make two giant pans of them, just to feed Ken, his brother and their baby sister. I did not know pecan pie, until I ate hers. At Thanksgiving and Christmas, she made masses of dressing for the turkey, always stating, "I'm sorry. It's not fit to eat." We all would feel like the holiday did not happen, if we did not get some of her scrumptious dressing. Recently, one of my daughter-in-laws wisely, patiently took down her instructions on how to make it. The legend will live on. I told Annette that one of my big regrets was not sitting at her feet when we first married and learn to cook from her. But no, I was proud. I didn't ask anybody for help. I got a big red-and-white Better Homes and Gardens cookbook as a wedding gift. All these years later, it's greasy and dog-eared. I did learn to cook, raising four giant lumberjack people to prove it. But my journey would have been better and smarter if I had eaten a little humble pie and let her teach me. 

She suffered immensely these last two months, with an aggressive cancer diagnosis. The COVID mess kept us all away, though at the very end she was able to have a little time with her husband and Ken and her daughter, Melissa. She died peacefully, in her sleep, holding Melissa's hand early on Sunday morning. In my mind's eye, I see her floating gently on up, light as a butterfly, with the warm scent of buttermilk biscuits filling up heaven. She and I often had an awkward dance and I know I must have aggravated her a lot with my lack of decorum and social filters. I am almost half-Yankee, there's that, and she was all gracious and Southern. But there are parts of me that she made and raised, that I will ever be grateful for. I will see you again, sweet Mother-in-Love.

Essential Oil

There's a passage in the Bible, where God tells Elijah He's about to pass by. A terrible wind comes, tearing the mountains and shattering the rocks. But God's not in the wind. Then there's an earthquake, but He's not there either. A vicious fire comes raging through but the Almighty isn't in it. Then comes a gentle whisper, a still, small voice. And that's where He is. 

As I sit here tonight in my very quiet, very still house, my brain slows down like the last gasp of a wind tunnel. Most of the folk that would pull at me are now asleep or at least occupied. My phone is on Do Not Disturb, unless you're my Mama or my kids. There's not enough time to really sleep good before it cranks up again. 

How much I have neglected the higher thoughts, the noble ones that God calls us with...where we put ourselves off the throne and listen, just listen. The whisper. It's so profound, you can't hear it unless you stop. Stop whining, stop worrying, stop marching to the tyranny of the urgent. There's always so many things we should be doing, so many things we are not. The cacophony of the rat race is making us deaf. Even with months of solitude, we're face-planted and mired in the next bit of shallow hoopla served up by our phones and TVs.

The air is sweet, heavy and cool tonight. The dew is thick on the grass and the night creatures are humming. I envy my dog's complete abandon to the floor at my feet. But then, there's His still, small voice. At once both a calling and a surrender. It's what's at the end of things, a sort-of parting of the waters. What happens when we allow ourselves to go there, to bypass the other voices, to lay them down, to just be at peace? This world of chaos wants to stir, to agitate, to ignite. But the ways of God bid us to be still, to ponder, to call upon "whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is commendable, if there is any excellence, if there is anything worthy of praise. Think on these things." (Philippians 4:8)

My heart's gone a little rusty and needs some old-fashioned Holy Ghost anointing. Think on these things...

Cleaning Out the Chaos

"Where does all this stuff come from?!" I exclaimed as I was cleaning out our newly-married daughter's room this week. Our old Victorian is short on closets, but high on ceilings -- most of them are 12' at the peak. It's amazing what you can amass over the years. I'm pretty sure there's a giant truck backing up to the carport in the quiet of night, with some kind of elves loading junk into my house. There can be no other explanation why I can't ever seem to come to equilibrium with the clutter. 

While I was at it, we yanked everything out of our nursery and I painted the old wood floor (again). I think it's on its fourth color since we moved here eight years ago. The initial hue was light purple. I've painted it plum, cream, light green and now Renwick Olive. Maybe we won't have to insulate under the floors, the paint is so thick. I threw a second coat on there last night. Here's hoping it all dries good. I can't abide a sticky paint job. My grandkids were bemoaning the fact that they couldn't play in there, and began quizzing me about their toys. "Are you going to throw them away, Yaya?" Tempting, when I see the nice, clean expanse of floor yawning before me. But no, we'll have to jumble it all up again. Some things are worth saving.

We have a massive squirrel problem. Despite my Annie Oakley efforts on the back porch, the "Wildlife Busters" guy said that our attic is basically a giant squirrel's nest. To get rid of them, you have to get in the attic. To get in the attic, you have to purchase a new ladder that actually holds people who weigh more than a hundred pounds. Then you have to chase out or dispose of the squirrels. Then you have to plug up the gazillion holes those varmints have chewed in the soffits and fascia. Then you have to install a fortress of metal around the perimeter of the house. That just ate up two of my recent real estate closings, and the tax man ain't gonna hold back just because we've got critter issues. There are people that hate me because I sit on the back porch and hunt squirrels. Please don't hate me. It's for the greater good.

I alternate days, with my new empty nest. One day, I cry as I remember my babies and all the years of happy dances with them. The next, I laugh because they are now all beautifully asleep with their good spouses. Pa and I can run around however we want without worrying what time they're gonna get home, or if they're going to up and marry some idiot. Then the next day, I'm all misty with my thoughts again. I'm sure somewhere along the way it will begin to balance out. All I have to do is think on those amazing grandbabies and it begins to make a lot of sense. I'm way too tired to be raising kids again, but grandchildren are the sugar-sweet, bodacious reward of the silver-haired. I'll take it.

Our Covid-Perfect Wedding, part 2

As the day grew closer for our daughter's Coronavirus-fraught-wedding in our backyard, it seemed like there was no way it was going to turn out well. Besides being able to invite a fraction of our original list, there were many difficulties to overcome: How to keep folks separated from each other but still have a party? How to serve our simple menu of cake and more cake, along with drinks, without us getting our germs all over each other? How to navigate the hurt feelings of those who weren't invited...How to do a DIY wedding when you're slap worn out...and especially, how to remember that this is my last baby, my only daughter, the true empty nest, without completely crumbling (even if you do love her fiance). And if the 'Rona wasn't bad enough, the riots started and we were all feeling like the world must be coming to an end.

I was walking the dog out in the cool night, a few days before the event...I talked to God and asked Him why all this was happening, and why did all the worst of things seem to be coming true right now, just when our daughter was about to get married? Not only was the chaos devastating, but they also are an interracial couple. My fears of culture clash, the difficulties they could face in the future...all seemed to be about to fall in on their heads. But in just the next breath, the Lord comforted my heart. Already, in our family and with friends, we had seen God change hearts and minds about Liz marrying someone of a different race. People were seeing Marcus as a person, a Godly man, an individual, some rethinking their unrighteous attitudes. Their love, purity and relationship was speaking to all of us, driving us to God's Word about the truths of these things. Our two families were coming together as one to bless their union, trusting God to direct their path. 



The big day came. It was supposed to be very hot and raining -- even thunderstorms were predicted. We rented a tent, set it up to the side, and our army of family and friends descended to transform the back of our yard. There were twinkle lights draped impossibly high from the pecan trees, japanese lanterns, flowers and more flowers, creamy lanterns and candles, beautifully arranged tables and a jam-up dance floor in the middle. A friend helped me make an aisle with shepherd's hooks, hydrangeas and tulle, leading up to an arbor built by one of our sons, dripping with gorgeous flowers. The lights were lit, the drinks were chilling, the young women stunning in their multiple shades of blush pink, the young men resplendent in their black tuxes. 

In any wedding, there comes that aha moment where it's finally time to walk the aisle. We were all lined up outside the door of our house, everyone beaming and thrilled to be a part of it. The music was divine, the six children who were a part of it were too adorable, but behaved perfectly. The bridal party made their way down. The groom was handsome, waiting with the pastor. Then came the bride, more beautiful and radiant than I can explain. A Christian wedding is supposed to be a picture of Christ and the Church, a sacred union of all that is good and holy. God held off the rain, and we saw the sweetest of examples of how He meant it to be. After it was over, after the amazing kiss, the jumping of the broom, the dancing to celebrate and the sparkler send-off, I kept hearing the words from the guests: "perfect. magical. divine." That pretty much sums it up.  I think that, in some amazing way, it turned out better than if we had not been in the middle of a cultural Dante's inferno. We all felt like God was winking at us, because only He could have pulled that off.