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.