Reaping Where We Have Not Sown

While sitting here, bloated from the Christmas feasting, though I'm not sure I feasted. I had no sugar, flour or wheat and turned down the immense temptation to order a pecan waffle at Waffle House. But I did have popcorn (non-GMO, of course) a few times and some amazing (real) french fries at Hudsons BBQ. At our family Christmas dinner, complete with roast beast (Jon's smoked brisket) and everything but the kitchen sink, sweet little ginger Addison piped up: "Yaya can't have sugar because she's already had too much!" I love the astute observations of children. We should all hark back to our youths and be so honest. That got me to thinking about the subject of sowing and reaping. There are so many things written and spoken about it, but I've never been so aware of the ramifications of it until my bones began to ache like the dickens in recent months. The doctor says it's rheumatoid arthritis, although my bloodwork doesn't tell that tale; the naturopath says it's from all the years of toxins that got released when I lost a bucketload of weight. It's the latter opinion that made me think about the sowing...

We all sow things, good or bad, especially in our youth. Some are noble causes, but often, we leap to sow to our spring-fed flesh. There are a lot of roads to go down when we're young, and we usually don't realize it's a road until it's too late. You can't really back up, because time doesn't behave like that. You can full-stop and reverse, but you're actually going to take a different road, not traverse from the original one. This can, in truth, be a very good thing. The mistakes and sins I've made often and usually inform my future choices. The broken road can light our path to the right one. Without regret, I can see that God leads us when we lay down in the dust of repentance, usually when we've fallen deep into the wagon wheel ruts of life. 

I love the Scriptures where they talk about Joseph. Remember him? He's the guy who was sold into slavery by his delightful brothers, then went from bad to worse, from rich to poor, then back again. He ended up ruling right under Pharoah in Egypt, eventually saving his bratty brothers who'd been lying about his supposed death to their distraught father for decades. What did he say to his family, who crouched in fear when the truth was revealed? "What Satan meant for evil, God meant for good."  That is the grace of God, where what appears to be the worst is actually His purposes moving forward. A prime example of when evil was sown to the wind, and God redeemed a people anyway. He does that. I'm really grateful that I don't actually get what I deserve...

Meanwhile, the new year yawns before us. After the two behind us, we're really ready to shed some roads. When the gym opens after January 1, it will be full of new converts. The diet plans and programs will make enough in a month or two to scoot by until the next year. I've tried all those resolutions - sometimes they work and mostly they don't. What I actually can do is walk better: By laying down my devices more; Stop and listen, instead of waiting for the other person to quit talking. Wake up and say, "God, I can't do this, but You can." Especially, do the next thing. My Daddy had a little sign on his workbench, and because I have his DNA deeply imprinted on my soul (which includes ADOS - "Attention Deficit, Ooooh Shiny!"), I should heed the same admonition. It says, and this was before Nike: "Just Do It." As I rise to get the dog out the door for her walk, I say, "Yes, Lord."  

The Fun Parts of Influencing

When our grandchildren come for a visit (usually because their beleaguered parents need a date night or a doctor visit), I do what I like to do: we either paint or play instruments. Of course, sometimes there's a meal (and a fluffy, mindless movie, if Yaya needs a quick nap on the couch). I'm not really crafty, but painting and playing music are my happy places, and I so want to impart that love to our little folks. When we paint, they all have their own pint-sized aprons and sets of watercolors. There are no rules or directions about what to create...they just have at it. Sometimes the colors are stormy and gray, sometimes drippy rainbows. I don't ask them "what is it?" -- rather, I ask them to "tell me about your picture." They always have a story. God knows we all need to take some time to listen to the stories of children, before we forget the wonder of seeing the world afresh. When they all get a little older, I'll start teaching them about perspective and lines and mixing colors, but for now I want them to learn to be comfortable with throwing any and everything onto the paper. 

Sometimes I need to practice my flute while the young 'uns are here, so we make our own little orchestra. Some of them play the piano (no banging!), some sing, some toot on the tin whistles I have laying around. Occasionally one of them will make something into a drum, and my flute cleaning tool becomes the conductor's wand. These are all brief forays into music land, but loads of fun and maybe, just maybe, will be small doors into the areas these children are inclined towards later. 

Whatever path God has put us on, be it the creative places or cooking or proficiency with a calculator, there are others, both small and great, that can learn or be blessed by those paths. To contort myself into subjects that bring great pain to me might be needful at times, but when it comes to my grandkids, we're going to go where the fun is. God made us all different, glory be. We also all have our compelling thoughts and agendas that dominate our lives. I figure there are greater reasons for these, maybe eternal ones, that I don't understand, but I want to be an influence where it's possible. Lord help me to not be an influence where I wane in my weaknesses, though there's beauty to be found from ashes. I know for a fact that this is true. 

And happy late Christmas shopping to all, as I am right there with you!  

So. Much. Human.

One evening, during our fall family beach trip, two of our gargantuan sons leaped up after their team scored in a rousing game of Catch Phrase. They were fist bumping, then dancing, then belly-bumping. We were roaring with laughter when our third son jumped in with them and yelled: "So much human!" And while I'm sitting here, still chuckling about the image and hilarity of that night, I'm also thinking about how overwhelming is the weight of our humanness. Maybe it's the panoply of the last two years or the reality of the effects of gravity on my last few decades, but some days it seems like too much. In the naivete of my youth, I thought I'd get better and better, and that old age would just be a resting phase before glory. Little did I know that the real (and in truth, noble) challenges would come when strength ebbed and the burgeoning weight of reality became plainer. It was easier to muster through when muscles were thick and spry, when waking up wasn't a marathon unto itself. I know now that trusting God is harder when you've seen the dark side of hardships on every side. 

I believe that this is the way it's supposed to be. This life is not all there is. And for those who believe that it is, I do not see how they can have hope in their old age or through difficulties. The manifest picture of the new + old testaments is that we need saving, that we are not adequate in and of ourselves, and that there is a Redeemer who pays the price for that redemption. This last Sunday, the heart of the sermon in our church was about when the Israelites were slaves under the thumb of a wicked Pharoah. It's a long story, so I'd highly recommend reading it yourself, even if you know it. After many trials, the final solution that leads to their escape was the death of a lamb, with its blood applied to the doorposts and lintel of each house. The angel of death passed over each home that was under the covering of that blood, leading to their salvation and subsequent exodus out of Egypt. It's a gruesome history, full of death, blood, and grisly details. But it's also a picture of what Christ, the ultimate sacrifice, accomplished in His death and resurrection. It's a beautiful truth, weaving in and out of the scriptures, beginning in the garden with Adam and Eve and ending with the great revelation. 

And here it's Christmastime, with all the insanity and rushing about. Here's to an orange and some brazil nuts in the stockings, because we've gone way overboard (me especially). Last week, when I was melting down over all the overcommitting I have done, I laid my head on my desk and asked God what in the world. Why do we have to fill up every minute? And why do we make more of Christmas than of Easter? And why is it so hard to make the notes work on my flute? I have two concert commitments in the next week, and I keep thinking, "After that, I'll stop and breathe." Life gets like that, where we're just hankering for the next thing to be over, so we can get back to "normal." Truth is, there is no normal, there is no stopping the life train from happening. There is always the next hill. If I only keep hoping for the hill to be done with, I'm never going to find serenity in the here and now. How many folks have we seen, who keep saying that "when I retire..." and then they drop dead in six months, or become terribly ill and never get to enjoy it? No. I'm not going to wait until next week, next year, to relax and drink in what is right in front of me. I'm not going to listen to the siren song of the urgent today. I'm going to noodle on my flute with some joy (not despairing of the notes I apparently am incapable of hitting); I'm going to dandle my new grandbaby on my lap; I'm going to blow raspberries on another grandbaby's cheeks when he gets here in an hour; I'm going to squeeze my grandson and granddaughter who just moved in with us (along with their parents, thank God); I'm going to FaceTime the other three grandchildren who I'm missing terribly; and I'm going to kiss my husband full on the mouth when he walks in, just for fun. No more ba humbug!   

An Ocean of Music

The first time I got to experience an orchestra, I was in elementary school, not sure which year. We all lined up for the bus ride, first thing in the morning, and trundled to the big city of Atlanta. I was already familiar with Atlanta, as our Daddy worked downtown at the central Post Office, where he would often take us to visit his coworkers. The icing on the cake at Christmas was when we'd go there to see the Lighting of the Great Tree at Rich's department store (which was right next door to the post office). We'd ride the Pink Pig and buy gifts for our parents and siblings at Rich's Santa's Secret Shop. It was the biggest night of our lives back then. He'd also take us to the Varsity for chili dogs, onion rings and a fried peach pie. Much later, when I dated a boy in college and took him to the Varsity, he lost my heart forever when he said that the Varsity was a horrible, greasy place (contrast that to my Sugar Honey Ken who says, "I need some grease in my life!") That and the fact that he was a Yankee sealed his fate. Even though Mama's a Yankee too, and I was born "up there" (though six months was long enough for Daddy to haul us back to God's country) -- she didn't cotton to the idea that I might marry one and leave the warmth of my Southern roots. But I digress...

I remember the day I first heard the Symphony. After our long bus ride, then all the fal-de-ral of getting everyone in their places, a stillness came over the hall. The musicians began to drift onto the stage, picking up their instruments and beginning to warm up, noodling scales and pieces of songs. A tall, elegant lady with a long black dress glided to the giant harp. I was mesmerized by the magic of that instrument, thinking about how young David soothed mean ole' King Saul's demons long ago with a harp. The sound became a cacophony as more instruments joined in. What started as a buzz became a whirling dervish of a beehive, loud and confusing, dissonant and with no resolution. Suddenly, the sound stopped as the conductor strode to his podium. He called up a note and they tuned to it, one section at a time. Finally unified, they played the tone together. He raised his arms, then boom! Beautiful, gorgeous music ensued. An hour, a day, a week... I lost track of time as the universe opened up for me, a virtual ocean that I had no former knowledge of. It was like a Milky Way that had been hiding in the cupboard. I am no longer a youngster, but I still often feel this way when the music begins. I haven't heard it all yet. And I'm certain that heaven is filled with it.

I play flute (or attempt to) with the Carrollton Wind Ensemble. We have our upcoming Christmas concert at the Carrollton Arts Center on December 14th (tickets at https://cprcad.myboxoffice.us/program/wind-ensemble-christmas-concert-1635). Terry Lowry is our faithful conductor and the Ensemble is a community outreach of the Carrollton Symphony. How blessed we are to have great music right here at our back door! They have other music events scheduled at the Carrollton Arts Center, so check them out too. While I'm at it, the Villa Rica Tour of Homes is this Saturday from 2:00-9:00 (self-guided walking/driving tour). It is being sponsored by the VR Historical Society and starts at 212 W Wilson Street, Villa Rica 30180. Proceeds go to help restore the old Wicks Tavern (which is where the tour begins). Let's all support these events and have a really joyous Christmas season this year!    

Cold, Lovely Thanksgiving

It's bleeding cold this morning, in my bleary, foggy and tortured state. I hate that it takes me near half the day to feel normal, though that's not new to me. I've always looked askance at morning people. I don't trust their fresh perkiness at 5:00 a.m. (enter my husband). If he sees that I am awake, the happy sunrise squirrel that he is, I should always listen carefully. This is when all his words pile out like so many gems. But by the time the sun dips below the horizon in the evening, the man has gone back into his cave, no squirrel to be found. How God can make two people more opposite, I will never know. 

Camping is usually done in the warmer times of the year. That's what sane people do. They don't wait until November, when the floor feels like an ice cube and it's so cold that the water heater won't work. But that's what we did....hauled our cute little Love Shack up to Hiawassee last weekend, with one of our sons and his family. I love my little camper. It was ugly and brown when I bought it last year, but I dolled it up with cream, turquoise and coral pink paint, even painted the wheel hubs pink. People keep trying to buy it off me, but I also keep resisting. It's just so adorable. Then again, it's teeny-tiny, and Ken and I are built more like Vikings who've had a bit too many potatoes. After this last trip to icicle land, I'm tempted to cash in and buy another camper, bigger and probably uglier, so that we don't have to squeeze into it like stiff old sardines. I'll have to start over on all the cutesy stuff, but that's okay. I'm not busy enough as it is, so I'll have to add a project to my life. I wish that were true. My project list is about to topple what's left of my sanity.

So here we are, another crazy year, another crazy season. Everyone's standing on the rooftops yelling about the Apocalypse. We're all hoarding something, worrying about how we're going to have Christmas and biting each other over our political preferences. Mind you, I think we have humongous things at stake right now and we all need to be on our knees. And maybe that's just it... it's Thanksgiving. Just in time. Can we all stop for a day, or a week, or a month....can we stop and look outside ourselves? Thank your Mama, your Daddy, even if it's just that you somehow arrived here breathing. Thank your mailman, the Amazon guy, the lady who waits your table. Think of the people in your life who have blessed you, who have stopped along their way to make sure you were taught, were fed, were helped. We all have them, somewhere along that path. And then, ultimately, thank the Creator God who made this beautiful earth and sky, who made your DNA so uniquely that there's no one just like you. Stand in your yard or on your front stoop or in the street and look to the hills, from whence cometh our help. Bless God. Bless others. Let's love someone today.  

The Orbiting Seasons of Life

 A lady from my past reached across Facebook Messenger tonight. We used to play duets at church, gossamer pieces of music. I was the flute, she the pianist. I was not worthy of her gifts. She is one who has that uncanny ability to embellish anything on the score. She puts the liquid in between the pieces, so it all flows and fills the room with joy. I asked her how she came to be so fluent. She said it was sheer necessity, in a small church where they needed a pianist. With no real experience, she was thrown into a situation where it was sink or swim. So swimming was the order of the day. Over time, and with more and more confidence, she learned how to innovate and add chords to the simple hymns. There are people who technically know how to play the piano, who thrill with their immense skill. Then there are those who have it deep in their soul, going way beyond skill or training. Alice was, is, such a player. Any of us whose ears were graced with her gift will never forget her.

In this day of social media overkill, there are some good parts...where we get to cross paths with old friends. To consider the days, the folks that have meant much to us. 

But the bad part: I think our brains are filling up with too much easily-gained information, so we're forgetting how to actually think. Our wires and synapses are getting shortened artificially because we don't take the time to process, to wander into a library, smell the old books, sit down and read something that isn't on a glowing piece of glass. It has been said that we have a capacity for just-so-many B-B's in our brains, and that when the bowl gets full they start falling out...and that there's no accounting for which ones escape the hatch. We laugh, but I'm afraid it's true. And now we're putting a whole lot of really tiny B-B's in there and they're starting an avalanche.

I recall days, not so very long ago, when I wasn't compelled to check my phone 200 times, when I wasn't worried about missing a call (and therefore missing a client). Survival was simpler, though maybe harsher. We had less, but that was okay. We didn't really know we had less and it didn't matter. Afternoons with a friend, with a dozen kids climbing all over, coffee and Kool-Aid, sticky walls and puppy hair everywhere. We thought it'd never end, and some days you looked blissfully to the day that it would, thinking it would be so much easier then. It never is, and there's always a trade-off. 

Downy heads and tired, sleepy eyes...how did God know how much we'd need grandchildren? They're ours, body and soul; we read, sing, play, feed them, then they go back home, just in time. The moon rises and I remember it again... 

Get 'Er Done

Somewhere along the way, someone told me about a theory called The Second Law of Thermodynamics. On further thought, it's not a theory, it's a law. As in, naw, there's no guessing about it....it's just the truth. And in this humble, uneducated and simplistic brain, this is what it means: if you don't do something about stuff, it crusts up, gets dirty, breaks down. Any house that contains children, heck, not even children, just people, will tell you that if you don't constantly pick it up, polish it, clean it, buff it, wipe it down -- it will degrade into chaos. Like my house right this minute. I've had two grandchildren under the age of 8 for two days. We've gone to church, had numerous meals together, ran an errand for a neighbor, answered phone calls and emails for real estate deals threatening to unravel, had naps, cleanups and scraped dog poop off of shoes. The house looks literally like a bomb went off in here. And it's just Monday. The Villa Rica Christmas Tour of Homes is in 3-1/2 weeks and there's not a Christmas ornament to be seen. Everything's still packed up tight as a clam in the barn. I promised myself I'd decorate the week after Halloween (whatever) and that I'd turn down everything humanly possible. Meanwhile, Thanksgiving's looming like a bad vulture and they're saying we're not having Christmas this year anyway (whoever said that doesn't understand the meaning of Christmas). 

The grandkids asked if they could jump in one of Papa's piles of leaves and I said why not. I've continued to insist on them not watching any TV or shows while they're here. And even though I caved on them having any snacks and did a U-turn on 278 to get them a chocolate-on-chocolate doughnut (and I got a giant iced coffee that really helped me out, a lot), I've stuck to the no-TV thing and they've had a lot of old-fashioned fun getting filthy dirty, even if it did mean dealing with dog offal and scratchy skin. While they jumped, I stopped long enough to actually look at the sky today. It's that periwinkle-kind-of-blue that lays pretty on the fall leaves. It smells like smoke and dusky leaves out here, and even a few minutes of it restored my faith in the wonder of childhood. 

They'll be going home in the morning. Somehow I'll get this mess cleaned up and somehow I'll once again pull a rabbit out of a hat for the Tour of Homes (it's December 3, if you're asking. Tickets can be found on Facebook on the Villa Rica Christmas Tour of Homes 2021 page). I've often said that (unfortunately) I'm kind of like a old geyser -- it has to back up real bad and then I explode and get busy. Here's hoping I don't hurt anybody on the way out...  

Pilgrimage

I see a house, where love dried up. It was never a passionate love, but I witnessed it there, I thought. The leaves are falling on it now; it looks forlorn and unkempt. It will soon just as well be burned to the ground. What will come, after the tornado washes through? Ruined lives, with nowhere to go. Silly dreams, not based on truth, will scatter like powder. Grasping, grasping, ever grasping, we people are. Listening to a god who isn't real, though he sounds like one. Acts like one, gleams light like one. Until he doesn't. Then it's too late and you're wrecked.

I see another house, where love dried up. It was on the verge of death, when somehow the light of God shone through the murky morning. Where there were once stark walls, color grew and bloomed. Where there had been angry noise, came a soft answer, a kind hand. Where bitterness grew like a snake root in the earth, mercy poured forth and cut down the hell tree. People who don't believe in God, in miracles, in the divine, line up and I will tell you. I, pilgrim of the tainted heart, witness of things beyond what can be explained. He is alive, I tell you. There is a redeemer...    

Savoring the Days

I don't like it when the days get short. As a youngster, I didn't think much about when the sun went down...I just knew I loved summers, when the days were long and hot. We played and played in the evenings until the dew began to fall on the ground and the fireflies came out to dance. When we came inside, Mama sent us immediately to take a bath (always baths, never showers, not sure why!). We then went to bed, where it was prudent to be not completely dried off....so the tiny bit of summer breeze from the open windows would keep us cool long enough to fall asleep. Summer was a hazy dream, then came September and the Fall, where school and basketball took over. I think of steamy gymnasiums and the bleary skies when winter reigned. Christmas was the star, and then it was a hop, skip and jump to Spring. 

When we married and I had our first son, it was prudent for me to take that loud, curious boy for a walk every day. I found that he was happiest when the outdoors were involved and he was moving. We soon knew most of the old folks in our small neighborhood that backed up to the train tracks in Mableton. I was never so aware of the changes in the seasons. When the fall time change occurred, I was so sad. Ken worked evening shift at the plant, and baby Jon's nap time was in the afternoon, so when the dark winter took over it seemed cruel and mean to me. I'd lay the baby down for the night, usually by 7:30 or so. Daddy wouldn't be home for hours, so the house was still and quiet. What at first was difficult became my happy place. I had a good four hours to create, paint, draw, sew, or just catch up on housework. There was no internet and I'm not a big TV watcher. I went to the library and got books (remember them?) on how to do new things. It laid a foundation for so many layers of life experience that also affected my husband, children, other people, and even helped us as we made choices along our unorthodox and interesting paths. No college or traditional trajectory could have taught me what I learned in those quiet, dark evenings alone with my babies. I will ever be grateful for those serene, simple years where I was able to focus on what may have appeared to others as trivial, but was actually what mattered the most: God, my family, ministering to others, learning, reading, praying...plain walks in a humble neighborhood, fixing up our tiny abode to be a little warm place to come home to. 

Last night, while my husband had a meeting, I took a walk with the dog. Sundown took me by surprise. I forgot that it's getting dark earlier. The night smells of trees starting to give up their leaves; I heard the murmurs from houses where supper was being served, laughter across the way. Cars rush by, hurrying to their destinations. I paid attention to the sidewalk... nobody needs me having a fall. That bit of dewy chill hit me and I thought about long days ago, walking my newborn babies on such days. The days are long and the years are quick. How I love them and the people found there.  

Soli deo Gloria

  Our faithful conductor (of the Carrollton Wind Ensemble) always kicks us in the fanny every fall with musical pieces that are beyond our reach. We have a very short time to pull it together...I believe we had only six weeks this season to practice before our big Fall concert. Every year, I moan and complain about it, with my favorite saying, "I guess I'll have to quit my day job to get this up to speed." I don't actually quit my day job, and then I torture my husband, family and neighbors with scales, squeaks and trills from my flute, eschewing responsibilities and events to try to make the Maestro happy. Alas, I never get any of it perfect, as much as I try. I bemoan my youth, where I had the agility and energy to learn this blasted instrument but really didn't. So now, in my Fall years, I try valiantly and with commitment, getting half the results with twice the effort. But I'm not going to quit trying. They say it's good for our brains and our hands to keep playing as long as we can. I played basketball, softball and ran track in my youth. Not doing that now, but I can still sing and play my flute until I die, hopefully. It seems silly, to practice my flute, even at the beach, but I can't let up or it might slip away. I have to admit, it sounds like a lot of work, but I love that sweet, silky sound when a melody hits the right spot. And I so enjoy joining with other humans with different instruments, to find a way to play something together. It's beautiful, where people can get along and harmonize. Sorta like heaven, maybe.

I acted like a diva last week, stressed and self-important about my solo with the harpist. I tried to clear my calendar and practice more, took a couple of flute lessons, stayed home, lost a client or two. I was as skittish as a cat the last few days before the concert. The night of, my heart was beating like a drum and I wondered if I might have an arrythmia and die right there like my MawMaw and Daddy did, though there wasn't a recliner involved so I felt fairly safe. Emma (the harpist) and I grabbed each other's ice-cold hands and prayed for mercy. We all warmed up, then suddenly it was over. We made mistakes, the Mozart was too loud, the Jupiter piece sounded like a train wreck, but the audience clapped and made over us all when it was over. As I sat in the restaurant after, where we gathered to laugh and eat, I thought about how life is....how we work and play and stress about so much that really doesn't matter. We hugged and went our separate ways. I slept like a kitten and haven't practiced at all for nigh on a week now. 

At the end of it, I simply thought, "Whether you eat or drink, or whatever you do, do all to the glory of God." (I Cor. 10:31) That goes for even a silly diva lady playing her flute... 

Cinnamon Spice, Everything Nice...

I used to take my kids and two dozen more up to North Georgia for a field trip to an apple orchard, where they'd charge us an arm and a leg for a wagon ride and then we would buy ridiculous amounts of apples (I was thinking "Oh, I'll can some of these!" Which, in truth, never, ever happened. I still don't know how to can anything.) I would freeze extra food, which often sat in the freezer-locker (as Ken insists on calling it...there's no lock on that thing) and then watch it turn brown over the months (and years, if I'm honest) and get covered with frost until I added them to the landfill. At least they might possibly make it back to the earth and do something beneficial there. Despite that, much of our frozen food got eaten, so my conscience can rest somewhat. I so wanted to be Suzie Farmer, with gleaming cans of produce and stores for years in my pantry. There came a day when I recognized the truth: that I was artistic and distracted, with lots of jollity to be had. A steady, consistent farmer's wife I was not. Dear Lord, that sounds like the grasshopper in Aesop's Fables. Didn't he starve or something? Somehow, my children done got raised and they seem pretty hale and hearty to me, even with my haphazard ways of doing things.

Last Friday, I went with a girlfriend up to the mountains for a day-long trip. She is very crunchy (that means she does everything natural and healthy, unlike me, her hedonistic friend who tries but often fails). Those kinds of friends are always trying to reform and bless me with their wisdom. I am grateful for them and have truly benefitted, but the rebel still comes out at times. We drove up there and had quite the day: stops at the health food store, the chiropractor (apparently from heaven), a fantastic BBQ restaurant (now we're talkin'), an art gallery, a knife shop and then finally dinner at an old, dear friend's home (they're not old, just the friendship). I couldn't afford the time to be doing that, while properties are being snapped up all around and I'm just hob-nobbing around the mountains. Truth is, I could afford it. Each thing we did was a blessing, even just the hours of conversation to and fro. It is good to set aside the urgent, to breathe in the moments. This seems to be a theme that I write about often, but don't heed nearly enough. 

My advice: head up to the Georgia mountains as soon as you can! The trees will be turning, the apples are crunchy and ripe, and there's shops and restaurants galore. As the summer gives way to fall, and the sad winter follows, store up these days for those back parts of your brain that need a sweet place to savor for later.  

Window and Door Summit

They say it's fall and that summer has flown. But has it? Ken and I wrestle with the temperature of our house like we've just started housekeeping or something. I walk by the thermostat and see that he's got the heat on, just when I'm ready to fling all the doors and windows open. Our house is very old and needs to be aired out properly. It smells like an old Granny's attic, especially when we get back from the beach and it's been shut up all week. The only windows that work in this house are the "modern" ones, so I have to be content to open them and all the doors, making us more susceptible to strangers walking right in and making off with the furniture and such. A few years back, I hired some people to paint the trim on the exterior of the house, something that grieved my personal pride. I've always been the one to paint any and everything we own. Alas, I conceded that I did not feel like climbing up twenty feet to paint the extensive eaves on our Victorian dollhouse, so I bit the bullet and hired them. On the day they put all the storm windows back on, I was not home. That cruel mistake will probably haunt me the rest of my life. They not only didn't clean the inside of the storm windows or the old original ones, they also painted shut every single window on our house. I start getting claustrophobic if I ponder it for very long. Before the big error, I used to take sawed-off closet poles to prop up most of them on balmy spring or fall days. Now I am caged up in here until the day we decide to take them down (by unscrewing about two hundred screws), clean all the windows and the storms, get dangerous tools and cut through all the painted-shut areas, then screw everything back on. I'm exhausted, just sitting here thinking about it. 

So I have to be content with opening up what I can. The other day, the heat had been on all night. I woke up covered in sweat, only to catch my husband turning on the air conditioning before he was leaving for work. I shrieked something about opening up the windows, since it was 52 degrees outside, rather than turning on the dollar bill machine. We had a heated discussion about how I'm prone to opening windows, even when the A/C or heat is running. I have to admit that it's true. And there's a serious problem with him needing four blankets and me needing just one (which gets heaved off after two hours anyway). I want the house at 65 degrees in the summer and pretty much 65 degrees in the winter. I think he's good with 80, just like his Grandmama Goldman was. These are not questions I asked, at what would have been the appropriate time. Now that all the kids are gone, these kinds of things surface just like an old shipwreck. 

When all's said and done, maybe I might have to actually communicate (and negotiate) better. And since he's a good old bird, maybe I'll just have to keep him.   

The Last Song of Summer

Our annual beach trip was loud, funny and not nearly long enough. Red Tide kept us pinned to the pool until Wednesday, where we drew three extended days out on the beach. The ocean has its own personality, or should I say personalities...because she is moody. One day shy and coquettish, another loud and brassy. The salt water was warm, the sun hot but the wind was chilly. We enjoyed the fool out of those days, then retreated to the house with showers, food and naps. Then there was more food, kids to bed, and the adults rounded up for talks, questions, games and laughs. We all laughed so hard one night, I think I might have broken a rib. Laughter is surely the best medicine.  

 God has gifted us with nine grandchildren so far, with number 10 on the way. But our first three were gifts from all three sons, within seven months of each other. Each son bragged in turn that his was a boy, but alas, all three of them were girls, each pretty as a picture, sweet as sugar and sassy as a jaybird. Our last day at the beach, I took a little walk with two of them. We had great fun on our turns around the sand. I told them both that I was glad I've lost fat and that I could move more easily now. Annabelle looked at me, puzzled, and said "Yaya, I didn't think you were fat." Then Eden said, "I didn't think you were, either." That's a funny thing, because our third granddaughter, Madelyn, said something similar recently as well. It was one of the sweetest and purest things they could have said to me. These beautiful children didn't see me as an object or as simply the frame that I wear. They just know me as their Yaya. What a precious gift. But then Eden said, "Yaya, I know that it must be hard for you not to eat the things we get to eat, but I'm so glad you eat right, because now you are so much more energetic!" Now if that isn't an incentive to keep on the straight and narrow, I don't know what is. 

How I bless God for these gifts of His. Time is short, life is fleeting. He sent these ten souls to us and He has kept several for Himself. There's work, sleep, stress, joy, downturns and paydays. Blessed be the name of the Lord. 

 

Contemplation Despite a Red Tide

It was one of those perfect moments. We only get a few of those, you know. You can't plan for those and you can't force them to happen. Our annual family beach trip usually produces a few, but not always. I'm always overwhelmed by the amount of planning and preparation that is involved in getting this many people to one location and one space of time. Within minutes of arrival, the sheer volume of toys, food and equipment could probably feed a third world country, though none of us would be considered wealthy. We wanted a large family and God gave it to us. There were only four children but now they're producing. We're taking over...

Last night, we waited for what seemed like hours to get a seat at the restaurant. The host asked how many and I said: "10 adults, 9 children." He said, "Are you sure?" I said yes I'm sure. Why? He said, "Well, kids actually take up a good bit of space too" while he had an extreme snarky look on his face. I wasn't sure why he did the snark, but I sensed that the subject of "children" was unpleasant to him. I wanted to slap him but restrained myself. Suffer the little children...

Finally, we had eaten, everyone had taken a potty break and we headed back to our cars. The Red Tide has taken over the Gulf, so we've had to avoid the beach. Just being in close proximity made us all start coughing. But after supper, the damp air must have tamped down the Tide, and we all walked in the sweet night air. Our cars were many paces away. Ken and I were last, trailing behind the others. There were our three sons and their wives, our daughter and her husband, and nine grandchildren aged 8 and under...all the personalities and quirks spread out in front of us. The sun had just gone down, the sky a miracle of pink and gray, massive clouds and fire. What surely was Jupiter was hanging out like a sparkling diamond. I was exulting in the amazing grace of God to give us all these good gifts, gifts of people and sun and sky. As I turned around, the moon glowed impossibly large, wrapped with mysterious gossamer threads. It was one of those moments where time seemed to stand still. There are the twin conundrums of loss and blessing, right before us. Bright, happy toddlers; sassy and savvy 8-year-old girls who are smarter than us; boys full of snakes, snails and puppy dog tails; our new grandson, not even walking yet; another boy, we are celebrating his due date in December; and then one of our daughters-in-law, suffering palpably (and we all suffer too) with the loss of Theo, who was lost at her 18-week pregnancy. This is also the time of year when we lost my Daddy, three years ago. Each beach trip we've ever taken is a time where I take time to reflect on our journey. Mercy and blessing, grace and loss. All of it a part of the circles of life. Our great challenge is to not be swallowed in the hardship, to see the greater picture and to embrace all, whether difficult or wonderful. 

  

Four Wheelin' Into Town

We have a golf cart. No one in this house plays golf. I bought it as a surprise for Ken when they started saying we could use them around town. It really gives me a kick to do these things. I've bought him a truck, a camper and this golf cart, all unbeknownst to him until he pulls up to find it in the yard. The cart is old, sold to me by a sketchy guy on a back street of Peachtree City. I got it home and the charger didn't work. With much persuasion and the threat of a bad review, the guy got me a new one. He didn't speak English, but somehow we communicated. It still had issues, but we got that mostly fixed by the fella in town who does that. 

Ken named her "Maggie." That's for Magnolia Street. He names everything with "Mag" in it. If we had another baby, I'm sure I know her name already. When our grandchildren come to visit, that's the first thing out of their mouths: "Can we take Maggie to town?!" I gladly back her out of the garage and we take off, wheeling our way on the back streets and always making it somehow to Kenny's Kreams for ice cream (not me, just them. I've had my quota). I've heard their lease is not going to be renewed. That makes my heart (and my grandchildren's hearts) sad.

There's nothing quite like a small town. I've never lived in one until these last nine years. It is nice to have neighbors who are reliable and watching out for you. I enjoy the many small shops and businesses that we have here. I try to buy my gifts from those places, rather than so much Amazon or Walmart. There's a lot of craziness around these days, and we all need to pitch in and help these folks keep their businesses afloat. I never understood the need for that, when I was younger. Now I know the value of loyalty and hard work. There's pride in crafting and building your own place and finding a niche in your community that will thrive. It's the old way. Maybe that's how we will end up...the ancient paths leading us back to sanity and the things that matter. I certainly hope so. 

There's Gotta Be Horses In Heaven

There was only one thing that I ever really wanted as a child: a horse. I didn't care about exotic trips, fancy clothes or the latest fads. I dreamt only of a gorgeous gelding, with me flying beside the car or down our road on its shiny back. The color never mattered, though black would've been nice. I ripped right through all of the Black Stallion novels like they were brownies after Sunday dinner. Then I discovered James Herriot's wonderful books, a veterinarian telling stories of his adventures, many equine, in the English countryside. Every book about horses that could be found in the public or school libraries was checked out and read voraciously by me. I drew scads of pictures of them, made lists of names for them, and circled the bridles and saddles I wanted that were in the Sears Roebuck catalog (yes, they used to have those in there). Daddy always bought the latest Atlanta Advertiser, yesterday's Craigslist in print form. You could buy anything from cars to gerbils. And horses. I would covertly sneak into the back bedroom of my folks' home, where the second telephone was located. At 10 or 12 years old, in my "adult" voice, I would call the different ads for horses and ask questions about them. I would write the details down and then casually mention it to Daddy. I know he thought I was kidding around when I would ask if we could buy one.  But I was dead serious. Every birthday and Christmas, I had one thing on my list (except for that year I put a Crissy doll, right after "horse"...).

There came a day when I was at the place that I could finally consider buying one on my own. I was living at home, working and going to college at night. One night, with great fear and trepidation, I called Mr. Zotti, our neighbor who lived next door and owned a lake and 200 acres. He was Italian and scared me to death. I asked him if I could put a horse on his land. He said yes. So I started buying Atlanta Advertisers and calling horse sellers again, this time not having to fake my adult voice. I met up with strangers in strange barns and fields, looking for the right one. I was thwarted at every turn. There were lots of misfits, most of them too small or too old for an athletic 20-year old gal with a dream. After many frustrated dead-ends, my Daddy pulled me aside one morning. He said, "Rose, I don't think this is the time for you to get a horse. I believe the Lord has something big in store for you and you might just miss it if you are tied up dealing with a horse." I was sad, but felt in my soul that he was right. I got busy with work and life, and before I knew it, Ken exploded onto my horizon and that was that. I left my childhood dream behind with no regrets. We lived for years on acreage where we could have had horses, but I was fulfilled with my good husband, our four rangy children, lots of dogs, chickens, cats and happy times. Ken would've given me one, but I never asked.

Once in awhile, I'll remember how I ached for my own horse, how I would lay awake nights with the windows open and hear the nickers of the horses next door. It brings a smile to my face, thinking of that intensely-lit torch I carried for so long. I thought I might just die if I never got a horse. But I never did, and it's sweet to know that life got along just swimmingly without one. There's got to be a lesson in there somewhere...  

Fickle Headlines

I am not a big news-watcher. I have been fussed at for not watching the news. In truth, I think that most of the things I see on TV, news or not, is a big waste of my life. Ken and I have done our share of guilt-ridden binge-watching...where it comes to the end of a series and I realize, "I could've been reading." Or talking to a real human. Or sitting on my porch pondering the Christ of the universe. Either way, when I saw my first news blip about the Taliban taking over Afghanistan, I froze. I recalled a day, 20 years ago, when our extended family and friends were enjoying our annual beach trip, where we all rented cabins and our kids frolicked in the water and played together for days. On this day, my Mama burst into our cabin and said, "Turn on the news. A plane just crashed into a big building in New York City." That moment melted into one of the worst disasters of our lives, followed by financial instability and brokenness. 

So when I heard the words Taliban, Afghanistan, Middle East...I instantly turned to fear, as many of us are experiencing even as I write this. My brain always drifts out to the worst possible scenario...it's a problem I have. Our family is right now in the middle of a terrible loss: our youngest son and his wife just lost their dear baby. She was 18 weeks pregnant when unborn Theodore Slate Norton died in utero. We've all been in a mute state of grief, feeling like we are moving in slow motion underwater. The exhaustion of mourning is indescribable. Somehow you have to get up and get going, but why? I spent a couple of days with them, where I was useless except for a few loads of dishes and laundry. My daughter and her husband gave me a ride back home last night. This morning I woke up feeling like a boulder had been rolled over onto me as I slept. 

These are the days of our lives.

The author of Ecclesiastes talks about the seasons of our days. They include the whole gamut of emotions, from giddy joy to deepest grief. What is certain is that life is uncertain. Our default is to want things to always be pleasant and for us to always land on our feet. On this side of heaven, however, there are no guarantees. We live in a cracked paradise, where only God knows the outcome. 

This misty, drippy morning, "I lift up my eyes to the hills. From where does my help com? My help comes from the Lord, who made heaven and earth. He will not let your foot be moved; he who keeps you will not slumber. Behold, he who keeps Israel will neither slumber nor sleep. The Lord is your keeper; the Lord is your shade on your right hand. The sun shall not strike you by day, nor the moon by night. The Lord will keep you from all evil; he will keep your life. The Lord will keep your going out and your coming in from this time forth and forevermore." Psalm 121 

As I read these promises, I realize that these are eternal truths for His people, not temporal ones. Forevermore is a lot wider and deeper than today's headlines. My heart is at rest...

5 

 

Starry, Starry Night

I spent the day with two carloads of femininity. My Mama, my sister, her four girls and three of her daughter-in-laws. My sister has eleven children, so that was just a small fraction of that part of the family. We made our way to Atlanta town, for the Van Gogh exhibit going on there. When we arrived, we rushed the door and got hollered at, both for rushing the door and not having masks on. The cranky lady who did the hollering didn't have a mask on either and I asked her where hers was. My Mama probably didn't spank me enough. When we realized our mistake, we sheepishly backed away from the entrance and gave the others hanging around a better chance at rushing the doors. We got some miffed looks and I hope they found it in their hearts to forgive us. We were just a tad excited. We're not city folk and don't get to do these fancy things very often. 

I looked at our passel of gals, all of them beautiful, of all shapes and sizes...each one interesting in her own way. Thinkers, not just people who sashay through life. They all have agendas, noble ones. It was the nicest group of people to spend a day with, even if I didn't feel a hundred percent. The exhibition was truly wonderful. We went through the first section, which was more of a museum. I thought we were done, but then we turned a corner into a giant room where the "immersive" experience happened. It defies explanation...but it was a beautiful, moving display of Van Gogh's works on 20-foot walls, with more beauty spilling onto the floor. I simply will have to go back. Then we went into the next room, where they had paper and crayons where we could do our own little Van Gogh imitation. 

I think about that poor, mad man. Beautifully gifted by God, with so many emotions tearing him limb from limb. Seems to me, many of us artistic types are plumb crazy. Artists, musicians, poets, writers, actors, all the lot, are people who sense the world deeply, who feel and wrestle with every nuance of life. It can make you crazy or it can drive you to God, that One who makes a way in the wilderness.  Standing on the precipices of life, where the highs are so giddily awe-inspiring, to the lows where rich, dark earth can spread its depths through the soul, even if it hurts. 

I hear the rain thudding on the roof. The world is heading to sleep now, the gray mist rolling in. It's quiet here, no chatter of little ones; the husband will be very late coming in from work. I know that in my basest nature, I would be a twisted and morose spirit...that the darkness would overwhelm me with all the twinings of an art-filled soul. But no, I found out a long time ago, when He pursued me with His relentless love, that I am safe no matter where I go or what happens. I sleep sweet, in the arms of Jesus.  

Oh Say Can You See?

 My simple, carefree, sweet childhood included lots and lots of library forays. Our mother made sure we were always in the "Summer Reading Club" at the Powder Springs Public Library. The kind librarian there was always helpful and knew us all by name. But from a young age, I was known to get in trouble in the library. I'm too extroverted to be quiet for long, and the excitement (that I still feel) when surrounded by lots of books has often caused me to turn up my volume. What I especially remember, during my elementary years, was a group of biographies geared towards children. They were bound in orange or yellowish covers. I read about all manner of historic figures, from presidents to Indian chiefs. By proxy, I gained a respect and admiration for the people who laid foundations for our country...folks who had grit, determination, fire and character. 

We recited the pledge of allegiance every morning, with a flag in every classroom. During music hour, we sang songs about sheaves of wheat and all things American. Our class was a melting pot of all kinds of people, but I caught that we were one nation, under God, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all. We prayed for the "boys in Vietnam." We prayed for the President. We prayed for peace. Those were no-brainers. So when we decided, many years ago now, to homeschool our four children, our haphazard days began with prayer, the pledge of allegiance and rousing renditions of the Star Spangled Banner on our front porch. We Nortons are not known for our singing voices, but no one can deny our enthusiasm. We also frequented the local library, where I still tended towards rebellion and mayhem with all that talking and giggling, not to mention my problem with bringing books in late. I have never understood why librarians have gotten so mad at me for having books out a few days after their due-date. I have paid many fines in my lifetime. Fines help keep libraries in the black. What's wrong with this plan?

When I think of America, I see the flag, a hand over a heart, a library, a song, fields of waving wheat, children singing, a church on a Sunday morning. I see people, red and yellow, black and white....all them precious in His sight. I roll the word "freedom" around in my mind and wonder how far things go before you lose it. Is it like boiling a frog -- where the water gets gradually warm, so slowly and cozy that there are no alarms when the first bubbles begin to rise...and then as the death knell rings it is too late to jump out? 

We are comfortable, in our cooled and heated houses (and cars, even). In the span of my life, I've known the joy of a sprinkler on a 100-degree day (as a child) to the delight of a fully-functional HVAC system in literally every building I visit (as an adult). Technology and many years of bounty in our country have left us all fat, luxuriant and entertained (but are we?) I speak for myself when I say we are spoiled. Our world of unbelievable opportunities and conveniences, we take for granted. Even the poorest among us is rich, compared to a couple of generations ago or compared to most of the world. 

Will I let my comfort, or my fear of the loss of it, hijack the heart of the message that is freedom? Wake up, oh sleeper.  

On The Road Again

Last year, I bought a sad, depressed little camper. Hauled it with my Ford Explorer all the way from North Georgia. Seven-year-old Annabelle was with me, gasping every time we went swaying around a curve. She was certain we weren't going to make it home, admonishing me to call her Daddy to come get us. Somehow, we finally pulled into the parking lot, all by ourselves, in front of Los Cowboys, where we were meeting Papa for supper. He had no inkling that I would pull up with this appendage trailing behind me. He was shocked and grinning from ear to ear. This is the Holiday Inn dude that I married, so I was taking quite a risk in buying the thing. But I had a vision and Ken was in the story, whether he liked it or not.

My big idea was to take this frumpy, brown trailer and make it look like a 50s diner, all Barbie-ish and decked out in cream, turquoise and coral pink. I primed and painted the whole interior, from stem to stern. I bought black and white checked flooring, the kind you just peel and stick. Before I could put down the floor, we camped a few times. Ken jumped right into the project, fixing things and buying accessories to make it work better. He even bought a big TV for it, which I promptly broke with an errant elbow. Before I could blink, he'd bought another one. I thought, "We might just do this thing." I found baskets and cute little retro dishes to outfit it. Then winter and rusty joints took over. I couldn't muster up the strength or the will to put that pesky floor down.

Then came summer and a son that needed some work. I persuaded him to help me finish the thing. Daniel diligently fussed over the floor, then informed me it was just going to peel right back up if we used this kind of material. He ended up putting down that waterproof vinyl stuff that looks fantastic (it's even called luxury vinyl). Where was that back in the 80s when we were putting down tacky plastic flooring that made your house sound like a hundred Chihuahuas running around the kitchen? Then he fixed the steps, put down new shoe moulding, and painted the outside with gorgeous turquoise. I thought we were done, until he popped back over and pin-striped the outside with black paint.  I finally sewed curtains out of the fabric I've had for a year, put them up and made the bed. I've got my Barbie Dream Camper (the Retro Edition) and we're ready for the road. 

A great project for a dreary, worrisome year. I thought about selling it and making some money, but nah, I think we'll keep her. We all need a little sunshine now and then.  

Lucky in Love

 I took a late-night stroll tonight. The grass was wet from an unexpected shower. The night air thick and fragrant, wrapped around my head as I breathed in the sweet, earthy smells. Signs of life emanated in the quiet - muted sounds of people laughing, talking, even singing. I put up cheery party lights a couple years ago on my front porch, and now they're strung up all along my path home. I lived most of my adult life in the country, without neighbors, but now in our golden years we are right in the middle of this small town, where folks notice if you ramble around your house naked. I am so happy we live here. I thank God most every day for the joy of getting to wake up in this old, sweet house. Its walls are peaceful, its windows full of light and wavy goodness. Can a house have a soul? This one seems a culmination of all the other places we've lived, the furniture from all kinds of odd places nestling in like an old worn shoe. 

I'm in a lot of pain now, wrestling with doctor and naturopath appointments to figure out why. This week, my husband gave me a puppy my sister was trying to rehome, for the simple reason that he saw it was giving me comfort. I was lingering a little long with my fingers in her curly, soft coat. She was wrapping herself around my leg and making me smile. Puppies poop, chew things up, and have to be taken out multiple times a day. Ken loves order, clocks and Franklin planners. But I guess he loves me better. As I walked my now-two-dogs tonight, with them getting tangled in each others' leashes and checking out every bush and leaf along our path...I pondered the gift of love. I remember our early days and years, where the heat of youth and ambition kept our fires going. Then came the gift of four beautiful children, where grand purposes overcame the exhaustion of child-rearing. Next were really difficult years, when it became hard to find two pennies to rub together and to find ways to keep our heads and our childrens' above water. Then there was the empty nest, where all the aspirations and priorities become mashed into an unrecognizable lump. The stillness, deafening, as we tried to remember who we were, who we are. 

I'm suffering. Giant, warm, kind hands reach out to help me up, to help me dress, to hold me when I cry from the frustration and pain. I know those hands as well as I know my own. Many a road has been traveled with mine swallowed up in his. I never counted on not being able to do every single thing I wanted to do. I've always been strong, resourceful, capable. Asking for help is hard. I can do it myself. Until I can't.

In this difficult trial, I have no clue about what the road ahead looks like. I don't know if there are answers to my questions. But I do know this...that I am loved. Despite my oft-difficult and complicated self, despite the ravages of the years and the wrinkles and pitted character, despite the craziness of our irregular paths and diametrically-opposed personalities, the Lord had mercy on us and locked us up in love. It's not natural, and it looks nothing like the romance novels. To that I say, thank God. 

Dogs From Heaven

After my dear Zoe died suddenly, I thought they might have to just bury me too. She was the first dog that I didn't have to share. All the dogs in my life had been the "family dog," going back to childhood. The many canines that we've owned in my adult years also belonged to our children. Zoe was a Christmas gift from my husband, the most perfect puppy God ever made, in my opinion. She came here house-trained, never chewed up my furniture, looked to me for all her cues, obeyed us implicitly and looked like a living doll. She was the definition of faithful. She was taken far too early. Her digestive system shut down and would not wake up. My daughter and our future son-in-law helped me bury her in the front yard. It's been two years and I still can't pass that spot without my heart weeping.

My grief wouldn't be assuaged. My sister let me borrow one of her old, retired show dogs for a week. I fell in love with her kind, humble heart. She was related to Zoe and it was obvious. Even though she was an outdoor dog and old, she house-trained immediately. My sister gave her to me, after Ken fell in love with her too. Her name was Misty, but I renamed her Sadie. Everyone said I couldn't do that with an old dog. I told them, watch me. She is my constant companion, attentive and sweet. I don't know how I've gotten lucky enough to have two dogs this good. 

This week, my sister asked me to keep Sadie's granddaughter, an adorable mop of a dog, an Aussie Doodle. They called her Kitty, but then her new owner named her Piper. The new owner turned up allergic to the dog, so my sister is trying to rehome her. When she got here Saturday, she wouldn't come to either name. Ken took her for a trip around the yard and had her with him while he worked on a project. By the time they got in the house, he had named her "Chewy" -- he thinks she looks like Chewbacca from the Star Wars movies. Bless Pat, that dog already thinks that's her name. I don't know if she's destined to stay with us but I dare say she might end up confused about all those names. 

There's nothing in the world like a good dog. The unconditional love that they radiate is something akin to God. I believe He molded them in the garden, one of those undeserved gifts that go above our heads. We take them for granted, but they still love us. We have much to learn from them.   

Our Firsts

I'll never forget the day Ken and I bought our first house. It was a darling, tiny little hovel, full of mice, filth and literally thousands of roaches and water bugs (a nice term for monster-sized roaches). During our renovation of it, our good friend exterminator treated it seven times before we could move in, the worst infestation he had ever seen. To this day, I can abide a mouse way more than I can a roach. They are plumb evil, and I'm convinced they are part of the curse on Adam's original sin. Ugly, oily reminders that we need Jesus. 

What wasn't ugly was the sweet cottage waiting to be revealed under all the unsightly mess. We didn't have a clue how to fix that house up, but my Dad and a host of Ken's buddies helped us. We lived with my folks while we toiled over it. I was newly pregnant with our first child. The stress of remodeling a house, living with my parents out of a suitcase and being newly pregnant stretched our wits to their very end. I had been a compliant, easy-going wife up until then. Ken didn't quite know what to do with this half-crazy, hormonal woman who emerged from the chaos. 

Several hair-raising months later, we finally moved in. The house was as cute as a daisy -- light yellow with green shutters and white trim, cherry red cabinets in the kitchen gleaming (a cobbled-together repurposing of various mismatched finds which came together delightfully when I applied paint and new porcelain knobs), charming wallpaper with red cherries and yellow lines, fresh paint everywhere and a newly-trimmed yard by KenLawn. He's good. We were exhausted and so grateful for all the help and new knowledge. The day we moved in, we plopped on the couch with a collective sigh and counted the days until our baby arrived.

I loved our yard. We had a little garden and beautiful green grass. Our property backed right up to the railroad tracks. We would sit in our swing and watch all the unusual trains go by. It took us maybe a week to get used to the whistles, and then we simply took them for granted. The months passed and my tummy grew to extraordinary proportions. I knew in my heart that he was a boy and that he was huge. I would sit in the swing when Ken was at work, trying to imagine how our world would change when our little big man came. I would talk to him, patting my tummy, dreaming about what he would look like, what he would sound like, trying to imagine how I could love him any more than I already did.

He finally arrived, two weeks late and big as a lumberjack. 10 pounds, 8 ounces, wailing like a Banshee. The day we took him home, my heart trembled in fear. This Jon-boy was my dream, but I despaired of how to raise him, how to do all the things that he needed. I wanted to repeat the good things that my parents did in raising us, but felt poorly equipped to do that. One morning, soon after coming home, he was crying and I was crying. I was holding that man-child in the rocker, trying to figure out what to do to soothe him. It seemed like the long road in front of me was fraught with failure and despair. Then I looked deep into those sweet, bunny-blue eyes and began to sing a lullaby to him. "Jesus Loves Me" and then "Tell Me Why." He stopped crying and snuggled right up onto the crook of my neck.  Our little shelter, full of love and humanness, was ready to hold us, just as I clung tightly to my dear baby. It was all going to be okay. 

Hikes into the Unknown

 My childhood held no Disney, skiing or trips that involved an airplane. Those things are not required, when the earthy world around you is grounded by true love and imagination. I was oblivious to the simplicity of the trappings of our lifestyle, because within it was the bounty of a secure, happy home. As children, we were required to work hard, but there were also the gossamer wings of play and freedom that my folks understood were necessary to a healthy childhood. Fancy hotels and exotic trips were never a possibility, but the humble crackle of a campfire and the buzz of a Coleman lamp were luxuries of the most exquisite nature. Bacon popping in a skillet, burnt marshmallows on the ends of sticks, midnight trips to the comfort station...spelled heaven to us kids. I know that my Mama, who loves all things clean and tidy, must surely have loved us to the moon and back. She endured the chaos of camping -- planned, prepared and executed -- because she truly loved us. There was a similar theme when it came to animals. We had a menagerie of mammals that paraded through my childhood. She fed them and let us always have them, simply because she loved us. There could be no other reason. Animals were not her idea of fun or delight, whereas I could not live without them. So she made sure I didn't.

One of my favorite camping stories was when we had gone to some state park in north Georgia. We had always tent-camped, but my folks had snatched up a pop-up camper on the side of the road for $25. It was a mess. They painted it, put a new plywood floor down, then used a piece of leftover linoleum from our kitchen to dress it out. Mama sewed a new cover for it, using the old, ratty one as a pattern. Then she sprayed it with something to make it waterproof. This trip was our first outing with the dolled-up camper. There was no bathroom, but we were in high cotton, no longer relegated to the ground when we slept. 

I met a new friend at the campground. She was adventurous and more sophisticated than I. We hiked and climbed up a sheer rock wall, her showing me how to navigate with just my hands and feet. We were there a few days and tramped all around the expansive woods. One day, we had hiked a long way and came across a beautiful, shallow creek. There was a natural waterslide, where the creek sluiced invitingly through what appeared to be acres of shale. We debated jumping into that creek and sliding to wherever it led us. Then we debated some more. We talked about different scenarios and how we would deal with them, if there were danger involved. It was a very shallow creek. Surely it would be okay. We paused at the edge, daring each other to do it. This went on for some time, and then suddenly, inexplicably we decided against it. As we hiked around the mountain, the sun was getting low in the sky. It was a beautiful evening, purple and orange streaks near the horizon. The air was fresh, balmy, sweet. We explored the terrain as it curved  around the hills, going back down rather up now. There was a new smell in the air, akin to the earth after a storm. After a sharp bend in the trail, we came into a large clearing, where the creek we had observed earlier came into focus...spilling hundreds of feet into a massive crater. Chills went down our spines as we realized where we would have ended up, had we taken our carefree, natural waterslide ride. God protects children and fools. We might have been both.

There are times that I recall that day, the magic of it and then the decision that probably saved our lives. We make choices all the time -- choices to turn this way or that, decisions to take that road or this one. You could make yourself crazy, worrying about what is right or wrong. We could decide to just stay in our houses for a year or two, just in case. I have pondered these kinds of things all of my life. I have been young and now am not so old, but I do know this: "If the Lord wills, we will do this or that" (James 4)....and every bend of the road is fraught with adventure, danger and even, yes, boredom. Pray for protection. Pray for wisdom. Trust God to guide you, then go ahead and live. 

Greater than Gold

I've heard about the joys of grandparenting all my life. I thought my parents had had an invasion of the body snatchers when they started acquiring those little people. When my siblings and I were growing up, there was no snacking between meals and definitely no candy around the house. All of a sudden, my parents had a candy jar. It was enormous. In the early years of grandparenting, they'd dole out 2 or 3 pieces at a time, but it relaxed along the way until there were things said like, "You can only have 10 pieces!" We were checking their pulses to see if there was anything wrong with these aliens who had taken over our parents' bodies. 

But then we got grandchildren...a passel of them. We have 9 grandchildren ages 8 and under, with 2 on the way. Today, I saw a family picture that was about 10 years old. There were no babies, none on the way, everyone looking young and tight and rested. Then the tsunami of life hit and we're bustin' out at the seams, oh so sweetly. I don't have a candy jar, because I'm a sugar addict and I'd like to live to see them grow up...but I do have Juicy Fruit gum (the essential ingredient for all Grandmas) in my purse and they know all about how to get it. 

I got a visit from some of them today. We languished on the porch with them in our laps, looking at pictures and talking a mile a minute. They are all growing up so fast it's scary. I was struck this morning, especially when it was time for them to go and you get those last squeezes out...how medicinal children are to your soul. I've been feeling sorta sorry for myself these last few days, post-surgery and with joints hurting like nothing I've ever experienced. Those kids show up and it is literally like a balm on my soul and body. The joy and wellspring of life that gushes out of them, making time stand still for a bit and causing you to remember why you started this whole thing so long ago. There are no greater treasures than a human soul. If you get to claim one (or eleven) for your own, that's even better.   

Sweet Surrender

I surrendered up my womb this week. That's probably more information than I need to exclaim publicly, but I know from decades of experience that women anywhere, anytime, will gladly share their own tales of both woe and delight concerning that most mysterious of organs. It's really amazing, the cradles of life where we were all seeded, grew and were expelled from. When the doctor gently spoke to me and said mine needed to go, I cried as I thought about the four blessings that had been nurtured there, leading to currently 11 more little grandchildren souls that wouldn't be here if God hadn't worked His miracles. So far, there are 15 people walking around that are the fruit, direct or indirect, of that now-frazzled equipment.  People thought I was silly to mourn. Its job was obviously finished and our nest emptied out a year ago (finally!). Ken and I are enjoying a new chapter of getting to know each other and learning how quiet can be a very sweet thing. But my heart had to process the release of something precious to me, not just a physical structure but a season of fulfilling purpose and joy that gets very little press in this day of empowered women. We've always been empowered, though we might not have known it. The hand that rocks the cradle rules the world.

Father's Day is now a bittersweet holiday, where I can't tell my Daddy that I love him to his precious face. I can't harrumph as I remember that I forgot to get him a present or complain about the myriads of holidays that require one more gift. He was the best of Daddies. And as I lay quietly in a hospital bed this week, deliberating the loss of body parts, I couldn't help but contemplate the God who makes beauty from ashes. My parents both survived extreme family dysfunction to come together and build a legacy, not so much from grit and determination (though there was plenty of that) but from the spirit of forgiveness and surrender, which is a gift from God. We can't just conjure that up ourselves. 

As the anesthesiologist patted my hand and kindly explained that it was time to sleep, I rubbed my tummy and gave it all to God. Who knows if you're going to wake up this time? Best to be ready, just in case. A tear rolled down my cheek as I smiled at the future. I can do that, because I know the One who holds it all in His hands.   

Angels, Mermaids and Devil Machines

A dear friend died last week. She went down with her boots on, suddenly, with the smell of angel dust on her. Some folks die and it is sad or tragic. Others die and you have this feeling that the heavens just opened up something special-like. Nothing will ever be the same without them, but they also changed the world and then jumped on up to glory, like a flash. That was her. And my Daddy. The hole in the fabric of the universe might never heal, but we know they had to go. They were too good for this world. The devil loves to mess with peoples' minds, after a loved one dies. Every possible scenario of regret floats right on in and ruins everything. "If only..." Truth is, our loved ones with Jesus do not care now about this or that. They've done healed and are over it. Only we care, and we torture ourselves with what we can't change. We all need to stop doing that, and look around and fix what we can fix right now. 

I spent the weekend with my sister and some of her girls in Savannah. It was hot, muggy and rained a good bit, but we parked ourselves at Tybee Island Beach on Saturday. My joints were killing me, so my sister found me a ledge in a tidal pool to sit in. I settled my hinder parts in there and called it the Mermaid Chair. Hours passed and we all talked, laughed, soaked in the sun until we were pruney.  Women need that stuff. Our word boxes emptied out like lava from a slow volcano. Time stood still for a little while, one of those rare and beautiful days. We ate a delicious supper; the girls headed off to a ghost tour while Melanie and I opted for a movie. It wasn't horror, but it was mighty scary. I felt like we were little girls again, pulling our feet up into our seats to escape the monster aliens. Packing up Sunday morning was bittersweet; we had thoroughly enjoyed our time of uninterrupted sisterhood. It's so hard to get that anymore. We have 15 children and 18 grandkids between us, and life only gets more complicated the older we get. 

No one told me that an MRI would be the most painful procedure I've ever been subjected to, but it pert-near was. This morning, they made me lay on my tummy, never a fun affair, and place my already very-sore arms above my head. Then they threaded my poor wrist in some kind of cage and told me not to move for twenty minutes. The technician said, "And by the way, this is actually the worst MRI that we do. Everybody's shoulders end up killing them in the end." Within minutes, the pain was searing and there was no end in sight. Add to that, the technician forgot to play my requested Mozart....(ole Amadeus would have at least distracted me a little). I breathed, did all those kooky relaxation tricks (thinking of beaches, mountains, waterfalls) and none of it worked. I remembered the births of my four children, how that at least the contractions came every few minutes instead of locking down like a vice-grip. I began imagining the pain of car wrecks and trains and planes. Then I thought about Jesus and began to understand why crucifixion is one of the worst deaths: it's because of those shoulders. Just when I thought I couldn't last one more second, all the crazy noise of that machine stopped and everything slid out of the tube. I boohooed like a baby. The sweet girl helped me up and out as I blubbered and ruined my makeup. Ken met me at the door, me a shredded mess. He quickly got me a drink out of the vending machine and made me take a pain pill. I am now ashamed of my wimpiness, but upon remembering birthing several 11-pound babies without drugs, I have to own that this was some more kind of unnatural torture. Either way, after having the shakes most of the day, I'm now in a perpetual state of thankfulness. Thank you, God, I'm out of that machine.  

The World of Waffle House

Some years ago, I met up with an old friend. She had gone all bourgeoisie (boujee, for you young folk) on me...losing like 200 pounds, getting a sassy haircut and having plastic surgery done. Hey, with that kind of dedication I think she deserved it. We ate lunch together and then looked for a place to have coffee. I mentioned there was a Waffle House nearby. I don't recommend the coffee but man, those pecan waffles! She said to me, in plain English: "I take pride in the fact that I have never been inside a Waffle House." My heart broke as I realized she was no longer one of my people. For my people are those of the deepest earth, where dust and sweat and blood all mingle. There's no upturned noses, because there's no time for that. We know we are here for a minute and you better not waste one of those thinking you're better than anyone else. Not having that...

The finely-tuned machine that is your typical Waffle House is a feat of human engineering and wonder. A short-order cook handles the food with little pans and a great big griddle, while the crew deftly serves, cleans and smooths the waters seamlessly. It's more like a family than a workplace.  The laughter and jokes pass easily. There are politics and rivalries in the room, but the team spirit rises above it and they make it work. The jukebox makes me want to get up and dance. I hear "Tennessee Whiskey" for a slow turn, then romantic "At Last" comes on, followed by a funky breakdown by Michael Jackson. Who needs the symphony? 

Ken and I will not be retiring. The craziness of 9/11 wrecked his 22-year stint with a large company, leaving us without a 401K or pension. Then the crash of 2008 devastated what was left, financially. All of that is okay. We apparently haven't missed a meal and the Lord has graciously lifted our boats so that we are not drowning. Meanwhile, the nest emptied out and there are no teenage lumberjacks eating up all the profits anymore. So Papa and I love the little things: his days when his shift works evenings and I get him in the morning when he is a mad squirrel and feels like running around (my favorite thing to do); sometimes I have my evenings all to myself and I get to plunge into my right brain, where music and art intersect; on those kinds of days, where Pa doesn't have to be at work until after lunch, we often indulge and head to the local Waffle House. We get the same, exact thing every time, since my diet is pretty strict and Ken just loves doing the same routine thousands of times. I bring an apple, to round out my meal. The cook sees us coming in the door and throws our food on the grill -- she knows what's what. Our favorite server whips out a black coffee for me along with two glasses of Diet Coke for Ken. He sucks those down like a guy in a desert and she's got the next one poured already. He's going to regret those chemicals someday. 

I love and respect the humble, hardworking folk that help me have a sweet few moments...I'm not having to cook, I get to hold hands and pray with my honey, there's fun and music and entertaining personalities all around. God bless the people who show up, day after day, honest and persevering. Thank you for helping lift my load.   

The Trees of the Field Will Clap Their Hands

It started with a sore thumb, making crackling noises and swelling up like I remember my old MawMaw's thumb. Every morning when I wake up, free of makeup and sloggy from sleep, I more and more see her face (and my dear Daddy's) in the mirror. We are three peas in a pod, both in appearance and personality. I am horrified at the marionette wrinkles around my mouth, but then I smile because I loved those two people like there's no tomorrow. They're both up in heaven having a party with Jesus and I have to warm at the thought of their sweet plight. 

Meanwhile, the thumb pain spread to my wrists and hands, making me believe it was carpal tunnel syndrome. With all the typing and flute-playing I do, I shrieked in desperation with the trial of it. I ain't got time for that! I sought answers: research, passles of doctors, a massage therapist, physical therapy, medication, chiropractors, a naturopath, then in despondency I submitted to practitioners surely dabbling in voodoo. Nothing worked. Sleep was impossible. It only got worse, until one morning I woke up and couldn't get dressed by myself. With humble tears, as my dear husband gently pulled on my clothes, I wondered about how many people endure these things every day, all of their lives. 

Late last night, as I walked the dog in the darkness, I looked at the sky. The icy moon was large enough to pinch. It sat, springy and crisp on an inky, indigo ocean. Above it hung Jupiter, sparking white fire. My hands raised to the heavens in thanksgiving. The pain is real. I don't know when and if it will subside. If blessings were quantifiable, I've already had way more than my quota. And if I got what I deserved, the earth might just swallow me up. I've known heartache, sorrow, unspeakable joy and a ridiculously blessed life, but the unearned grace of God that lights my soul will carry me one day to His mountain. You think about those things when the world turns sideways. When my flesh and heart fail me, the redemption that I normally take for granted becomes precious, crystal-clear. I'm glad this ain't all there is... 

The Sky's the Limit

Given that we live in this ancient house, I can't help but muse once again about the projects that have transpired. Thankfully, the bones of it were sound -- a good roof, the original trim and doors intact, and none of the floors were falling in. If you venture to crawl around under the house, there are all many of crazy things holding it up. Stacks of bricks, stones, jacks -- a testament to the many advances in technology over the years. Don't roll a marble across the dining room floor...it goes wonky. But that's okay and part of the charm.  

What wasn't charming, besides the challenging bathrooms, was the living room. I adored the 100-year-old crackly wallpaper (though my mother-in-law thought I'd lost my mind), but the trim was cracked and peeling (with all that wonderful lead-based paint), the ceiling was wallpapered with fragile-looking paper and covered with all manner of mysterious stains. Then there were the old stained glass windows surrounding the front door....two of the panels were threatening to implode at any moment. Every child and adult that passed by them just had to reach over and touch them, too. I never understood that. I couldn't just let them fail, so I sold a house and put the proceeds towards restoring those windows. I will never regret that one. But that ceiling... 

There are gorgeous reproduction ceiling tiles to be had on the internet. What did we do before we had all these instant solutions? After much mental wrangling, I decided on a design and ordered enough to fix the blight above our heads. Liz and I again started one of our grand projects. Two of my sons got up in the ceiling and popped chalk lines so we would have something to go by. She and I laid them out and then started applying them. In very short order, I saw the results of my directionally-challenged brain. North was now slightly northwest and the river was meandering. We kept going, but before long the cracks between tiles got wider and my heart began to sink with the truth that this just wasn't going to work. We got off the scaffolding and took a nap. Weeks later, after beating myself up and despairing of ever fixing it, my son Daniel agreed to help. He has an artist's eye and is a skilled trim carpenter, thank the Lord. And he loves his Mama. He peeled off the bad seed, worked like a Trojan to undo the havoc and before I knew it, our gigantic living room had a new crown. I caulked all the woodwork and Liz set to painting the nasty trim. Now it looks like the King and Queen live here.

I still haven't gotten around to caulking between all of those individual tiles. Every time I think about getting up on that scaffolding up there in the stratosphere, I get shaky knees. I'm going to have to do it someday soon, 'cause everyone's sick of me whining about it every time I stretch out in my recliner.