Heaven on Earth

When you get to my age, and it's your birthday, you either act like it's not happening or you just drag all the gusto you can, for as long as you can. I choose the latter. If I've got to admit I'm a year older, let's make a week-long party out of it. Ken asked me if my new flute could qualify as a birthday present, haha (see how I made that into a joke)! In actuality, it might qualify for a decade of birthdays, Christmases, Valentines and love-gifts, but don't tell him that. 

Phase I of the birthday-ing was spending the night with my sister. We stayed at the Marriott in downtown Carrollton (talk about a treat -- that place is gorgeous), ate dinner, shopped the Encore on the Square and mostly talked. And that was the best part. We have 15 children between us. Yes it's true. She has 11 and I have 4 (and our brother has 6). We also have 18 grandchildren between us, 9 each, neck and neck, with another one on the way for us. We are not Mormon or Catholic or mentally ill.  Passionate Protestants and we're taking over the world. There is no joy like she and I being able to simply talk for hours uninterrupted. 

Phase II was coming home and having most of our kids, their spouses, grands and my Mama over to grill out and hang around a bonfire in the backyard. The grandkids played and squealed, I got dozens of hugs and love, we ate, laughed and talked. My idea of heaven. 

Phase III was Ken pampering me all weekend with whatever I chose to do, ending with yummy steak at Brothers restaurant in Villa Rica. I took a nap Sunday, a little later than I should have, and woke to an empty house. Ken had gone on to church by himself while I rested. It was a good Sabbath day even though I skipped evening service.

With another year behind me, I look forward to whatever God has in store. He's creative and I never know what that might mean. I just know that He does all things well.  

Flutacious

So the flute lessons have been going pretty well, except for the fact that I don't know how to play now. My teacher is a toughie (which I need) and a librarian-type person, which means that she expects a lot and doesn't mind picking on me. After two weeks, I was ready to quit. A friend in our community band admonished me not to...to hang in there and keep trying. I feel like a youngster, back at school, getting smacked on the hand with a ruler. But all of this is good. She's having to de-construct all the bad habits that I didn't know I had. Since that's about 47 years of doing some things wrong, it's gonna take awhile. They say that playing an instrument helps keep your brain young and I believe it. But what about those cranky finger joints that want to freeze up and keep me from advancing? Only time will tell.

  One thing that has come to light, with all this noodling around, is that my poor old flute is tired. Thirty years ago, my family gave me money for my 30th birthday to get a new flute. I bought it through a precious, old, crusty instrument broker who allowed me to take home three or four at a time until I found the One. It was actually an old Artley Wilkins model, older than me at the time, that called my name. Solid silver, with a difficult-to-play headjoint that was bigger than Kansas. But it had a sweet warmth that made the extra effort worth it. It was also an in-line flute that was hard to wrap my fingers around. Now the flute is some 65 years old and I'm still a kid but my hands are hurting. I decided I was working too hard, both in my real estate career and in my flute practice, to not buy a new flute. Cue my teacher, who referred me to a broker (the company is called Flutacious, in California -- isn't that darling?!). She sent me four delightful instruments to try out, gloriously shining and new. I practically drooled as I was opening the container. Phone calls and clients irritated me all day before I got a chance to play them. The first one out of the box drew out the youngster (and maybe the Pan) inside me. Remember Christmas morning as a tot? The first time you fell in love? Or maybe when you first tasted the inside of a honeysuckle. The silky sweetness of the sound is filling up my house, new and fresh and springy. I'm still making up my mind about which one I'm going to buy.

 Good grief -- with this magnificent spring weather, the trees showing out with flowers and greenery, the sparkling blue sky and a new flute, I might just bust.   

Come On In, the Water's Fine

I had to open the doors tonight, even though the pollen is still flying as thick as an Oklahoma dust bowl. Ken and I passed like two ships in the night, but he left the pond splashing and the party lights on the porch all lit up. He knows how happy that makes me. Now, with the dark of the evening taking over, I threw open the big front door. The cool night air wafts around my feet as I play my flute to no audience. I'm a social person but sometimes it's nice to have the peace of aloneness, particularly when the days have been hectic as of late. The devices are off, there's no one to entertain. The thoughts spread out and twine around my brain like my jasmine bush that's starting to look for things to grab onto. Why do we fear the quiet, needing to fill every moment with noise and mental gyrations? I think sometimes I've forgotten the bliss of boredom. There is such a thing.  

I spent the early part of the day with one of my dear daughter-in-loves. She has lost three babies in the last nine months. There aren't enough words to fill that chasm. We walked in the spring air with her three very lively children, who were hangry and mourning in their own way, even though they don't even know about this last loss yet. Sometimes it's just too much. There is a finely-spun web of understanding that spins between women who have lost babies. I have three in heaven, myself. Once in awhile my thoughts will run to them, wondering what it would have been like, to have them here with us. Then I think of them with their kinfolk up there, never having  known disappointment, sin or even a bad day. But in the here and now, there is no ache like an empty womb. I have been young and now am not, and I know the abiding hope that comes from trusting God through the storms.  The layers are at once bittersweet and rich. The pages of life's diary are flipping faster all the time but if I stop and savor them, I find it's all very, very good.  

Oh Glorious Day

There could not have been a more perfect day than Easter Sunday this year, the year from Hades. The real themes of life, death, burial, resurrection, all are summed up in that glorious day of Christ's victory over the grave. 

We had a somber, quiet Good Friday service at our church. I always find it dry, to be honest. There's scripture readings and hymns and a short sermon. It should be dry...it's death. Dried up hearts, left hopeless. Is this all there is? What's the use? Saturday had me cleaning and preparing food. With a final flourish of the vacuum cleaner and placing the last chocolate egg in the last Easter basket, we were ready for Sunday's flurry. All night, I kept waking up in anticipation. 

As the light broke forth over the horizon and our stiff limbs began to stir, my husband said "He is risen!" He is risen indeed. We played an old favorite song from Don Francisco, "He is Alive!" Starting with its somewhat cheesy 70s vibe, it ends with chill bumps and tears from the glory of it. Then there was church, happy faces, lovely ladies and children decked out in new Easter finery. As I listened to the hymns and sermon, I recalled my childhood days and many joyous Easter mornings with little white gloves, hats, patent leather shoes. Then our family would travel over to MawMaw's house by the railroad tracks. There was a groaning table filled with ham, deviled eggs, potato salad, baked beans, scads of desserts. We ate, the old folks talked and we would play all afternoon with our dozens of cousins. These were some of the sweetest memories I cherish with that side of the family.

Fast forward to this year, this most difficult of times. I find myself ensconced on our front porch. There's ham and sundries in our bellies as we laugh and talk. We're the old folks now. Eight of the grandchildren scamper and play in the yard while dibs were being taken on turns for holding our week-old grandson. It was late afternoon before I got my chance. The air was fragrant and sweet, filled with sun and blossoms blowing. Everyone lingered at the day, not wanting it to end. My heart was about to burst with the joy of family, the joy of a resurrected Savior who saw fit to rescue us, starting way back with my folks and leading to a legacy of love, forgiveness, redemption. 

The dry bones leaped and sprang forth from the tomb, defeating the snake and death. He's right there, hands open to us. What we can see is not all there is...  "For as by one man came death, by one man has come also the resurrection of the dead. For as in Adam all die, so also in Christ shall all be made alive." I Cor. 15:21,22. It's a great mystery. I see it on this dear day, spread out before me in real time. Glory be.