The Days are Slow But the Years are Fast

 He took six days to make the universe. Then He rested on day seven. I mean, God. The maker of all things took a siesta. Was He depleted, tired or fed up? No. He was showing us the best of patterns to follow. Work six days, then rest. Stop and contemplate all that He made, look at the beauty all around, think about the other six days, but especially -- pause to worship the One who created it all and gives me air to breathe. In our busy, hustling world, we're supposed to stop for a day. Every week.

When I was a child, our family had a familiar rhythm on Sundays. Get up, a bit later than school days, put on our Sunday best, with Mama attempting to do something with my stick-straight hair. When us kids were ready, we were made to wait on the couch. Mama would turn on the TV and we'd hear Gospel Jubilee, a showcase of you guessed it, Gospel music. I still remember the words to the tune and all the mile-high hair on display with the gussied-up old ladies singing. If we were running late, a cartoon would come on -- "David and Goliath," a show about a boy and a dog. "A Mighty Fortress" would play in the intro....we'd be ushered to the car just as things got started. I did not understand how church could be better than this. But that changed... 

We went to an old Southern Baptist church, with stained windows that looked like clouds in blue sky. The ceilings were tall, the whole sanctuary dressed out in beautifully trimmed-out windows and doors. The pastor's chairs were lovely too -- regal, with red velvet. Our pastor, Preacher Bob, was very tall and lanky, broad-shouldered and with a head full of thick white hair. He had silver eyebrows that might have been mistaken for some miniature angel's wings, ready to take flight. His large person would have been intimidating, if it were not for his kind and loving eyes, a twinkle ever present. He was part Santa Claus and part God to me...really, all the good things that I understood at that stage of life, eclipsed only by my dear, wonderful Daddy. I could imagine both of those men up there with clouds and angels playing harps. That seemed like a pretty good place to me. Sitting still in church was terribly difficult. I doodled all over the bulletin. I'm still doodling. I listen better that way. He opened that big Bible and told us about how we were all sinners but that there was a Redeemer who paid for all those who would cry out to Him for mercy. As I grew, I spoke often to that Redeemer, feeling Him close, drawing me with tender truth. The stars, the moon, the puppy's breath, the tender grass and the tang of warm muscadines on a summer's day showed me and wooed me to their Creator. 

I was young, now am old(er) but am still pocketed in the warmth of an unconditional love that defies explanation. 

Sabbath days in my youth weren't much different than they are now. There's church, some sort of lunch -- be it on the way home or just grilled cheese at the house. Then everybody piles into bed, justifying any kind of napping possible. There's reading, maybe even pajamas for the afternoon until we go back for evening service, which is relaxed, cozy and family-feeling. I sometimes feel guilty for that indulgent rest, but it is precious, resetting, and makes a difference for all the next week.  All my decades of life, different stages -- as a child, a teenager, early years of marriage then years with children and more children, then the emptying, Ken and I with our rusty joints and depleted energy. The Sabbath of Winter, both in virtuality and in our season of life...the time to chew on both what is past and what is to come. 

It is well. It is well with my soul...  

Petticoat Junction (A Trip to the Choo Choo)

Last-minute trips might just be the best. Ken had a long weekend off from work, and he decided to add an additional day to it. Found a cheap-but-nice hotel deal, threw some things in a bag and hoofed it on up to Chattanooga. It's only a couple of hours from us and there's plenty to do there. Driving in, the glittering lights sprinkled all over the mountain look like a giant, permanent Christmas tree. Our goal: sleep, eat good, read, write, and reconnect. Those are becoming more and more like momentous feats these days. I've made a point of meeting new people along our way and have already had some conversations. You never know how many people are wonderful and interesting, until you poke yourself into their bubble. Those commercials with the adage of "becoming our parents" make me laugh -- because I am that person... but let me say, it has served me well. I know when to back up and leave someone alone, but most people love to talk about themselves and their lives. The fabric of humanity has many beautiful people, ugly people, mean and sweet ones. That grumpy Grandma in the next booth might be hurting and need some love. But watch out for that warning growl. They sometimes bite.  

I went to college north of Chattanooga (Dayton) and had both wondrous and terrible experiences those years. I thought I was the only idiot, but have now seen many, many moronic freshmen who go away to school from a strict family. Idiotic is probably a mild word for it. As we drove through the hills to our destination, I was drawn back to those young days. It literally seemed like last year instead of 45 years ago. My most embarrassing moments and choices happened back then, though thankfully the Lord held me at the edges of the cliffs I nearly went over. I saw my own children do similar things. Heaven help the 18-year-olds. I took Ken's hand, grateful for him and for the road less traveled. We were babies when we got married, but I highly recommend it, as long as you look to the Lord for wisdom and forgiveness through all the stupid things that we are all wont to do. 

It sometimes feels like we went to sleep in our twenties and woke up in our late sixties. How did this happen? Time and its slippery continuum leave us gaping as it rushes by. I've gone through so much busy-ness and not stopping to savor what is around me too many times.  There have been seasons where I didn't stop long enough to observe the people about, to do the thing of engaging. It's definitely not the cool thing but is also one of the secrets of slowing time down. 

I've always been in a rush of sorts. I'm taking art classes now, learning to oil paint, something that I never learned in all my years of painting murals and furniture. It has been humbling, scary and downright frustrating because it requires me to put myself in sloth mode. Slow down. Breathe. Listen. Look. Push through. Don't get impatient. My nature is to produce, hurry up, get 'er done! I am tripping over myself to get better and do more. This is making me reverse that, and I aim to keep at it. To be the turtle instead of the hare. I get nervous, just writing that. Most of our marital fights have been because Ken wants to slow down (turtle) and I think it's a perfect time to panic (hare). Strange thing, though, if you put that man in a vehicle, the Hyde (wicked) part of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde emerges like a wraith. I've been with this man for 44 years and have yet to discern the causes of this. He drives like a bat outa h---- and then takes 15 minutes to park. We keep the knives locked up, jus' sayin'.  But God...I love the stuffin' out of that man. 

  

Topsy-Turvy Winter in Georgia

Winter. We lay quiet and brooding, even in the days that feel like spring, where we cannot trust that the cold will not harken back to us like a cruel joke. Christmas has come and gone, brightness in the midst of the dreary. The grass has gone dormant, the ivy stilled. A brief burst of warmth, and the camellia bushes sprout their pink clusters to the sky. The jonquils poke spikes of green from their beds to see if the time is ripe, or not. Jack Frost visits overnight and shrivels the green to ground. We pull out coats, hats, gloves. There's a mad dash to the store, to find a fleece that we will wear only a handful of times before fashion deems it defunct. Ahhhh, such is the season in the Southland.

My Yankee mother never liked the summers here. Us Georgia-acclimated children lived life outdoors, oblivious to the climes of other places. Visits to our northern relatives were places of wonder, where Santa Claus surely came from. Happy memories emerge: banks of snow and toboggan races down white hills with dear cousins. They had this, but we had the beach, only a few hours away. Summers meant sprinklers in the front yard or a pit stop to splash in the creek running next to the road. 

We liked to hop onto the crazy, half-wild horses in the pasture behind us and take them into the lake, where we used them like moveable docks in the water. Then we would lay in the sagebrush and dry off in the sun. On the way home, we would search for ripe muscadines, the warm, sweet juice bursting on our tongues. There were whole-day forays into the fields around for blackberries. My sister and I would bring home buckets of them for Mama to make cobbler. Flour, sugar, butter, milk and blackberries, where we would burn our tongues before the thing could cool off.  This was summer, when we tolerated the heat, when we knew no different, when there were no phones except the one attached to the wall. 

I'll take the winter, I will. To slowly rise and think about the past, the present, the future. To read, contemplate the universe, clean out the closets.  Spring will be here before we know it, with honeybees and pollen all around. But there's still February, the month they had to invent a holiday for, so that we wouldn't go insane. That one that never truly goes like we imagine it will. 

Alas, there's vacuuming to be done...  

Well Wishes in 2026

Hello 2026! Who knew how fast a year could fly by? There's folks lining up like lemmings at the gym (not that I'm there, unfortunately, but maybe soon?) It's always funny to me, all the different perspectives at the turn of a new year. Some people disparage the use of goals and fresh takes for the turn of the calendar. Most of those markers never make it through February, but I still think they are a good idea. We've just been through insanely busy months of gift-hunting, parties, all kinds of obligations and last-minute retail therapy. It leaves one exhausted. I, for one, was tied up with much flute playing and shopping for those most-adorable-grandkids-in-the-world. At one point, when Ken was helping me wrap gifts, he started freaking out about the amount of products piling up under our tree. I told him I actually held back this year, always trying to keep the gifts equal in value for them. He hasn't noticed, because he usually isn't home to help. This year, he had 17 days off from work. Seventeen!   

This alone produced its own kind of problems. It took us about a week to acclimate to being together all the time. There were more than a couple tiffs, remembering who the other one was and figuring out how this was going to work. At some point I thought, "He is never retiring!" But then the gift of forgiveness began to flow throughout, combined with more communication and lots of hugs. Why do we wait until things are tense to do that? We did, however, and then I began dreading him going back to work. Last night, we hugged, foreheads bumping together and getting misty about it. This morning finds me a little blue. The holidays are over. The evidence of much-much is all around in the house, the dust bunnies starting to collect along with glitter and label-bits in the corners. 

I hired some guys to finish caulking our 12-foot living room ceiling and they are pushing scaffolding all over, doing the job that I should have done a long time ago but now prefer to pay someone else to do. I'm pretty sure my knees and sore elbows couldn't take it anyhow, since I never do those things anymore, particularly ceilings. I remember when I was up there painting the gargantuan crown moulding a few years ago...thinking, "I should really go ahead and caulk these ceiling tiles now." But as I am wont to do, I decided to think about it tomorra and tomorra never came. Liz and I had started that job many years ago, applying reproduction tiles to a horrid ceiling that had icky stains and drooping wallpaper on it. We started in the middle and the further we got out, the crookeder it got and then we gave up. Our son Daniel came to the rescue, pulled many of them down and finished the job. I cannot explain how much I love that ceiling. Many people think they are original to the house but they are made of some kind of fancy styrofoam. The things people can make these days! We never caulked around them, so every time I lay in my recliner or someone points the pretty things out, I cringe because they're not caulked. Today, there's a part of the stress in my brain that will be released forever. Hallelujah and pass the peas. 

We experienced the best Christmas and New Year season I have had in years. The sweet voices, warm hugs, singing, fireworks, church, family, kind strangers, and especially the knowledge of God's goodness to me in the land of the living made it extra special. I sit in the glow this morning and have to get back on my pony to get to work. May 2026 be the best of years. May we see God's hand and blessing in everything we do and may our eyes and hearts look closer to those around us and those whose paths we cross.