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.