The Spring of a Grateful Heart

Yesterday I heard an explanation of that old image of seeing a glass either "half empty or half full." I often catch myself looking at things as -- "Oh no! I've only got ____ much time or resources" - or - "I'm gonna miss out!" That is a bad way to look at the world, because there's never enough of anything to fill up what is unknown. And isn't that the way the world works? We can work, plan, dream, achieve, get all the things and still never be content if we see the glass half empty. There's the same amount of goody, whether the glass is half empty or half full. The exact amount. Think about that. Being "hungry" does motivate us to work and reach, but it can become the monster that is never satisfied. 

This past Friday, we (meaning the Carrollton Wind Ensemble) had our spring concert. Most of the pieces were written by local composers, some of them actually playing in our group. We played these compositions, some just so-so but then some amazing. Beethoven didn't always write a winner, you know. Our conductor, Terry Lowry, introduced each composer after their piece. It took way longer than usual, to complete the concert. But it was beautiful, in the idea of it and in the courage of each of these people. Life is not always about the best and shiniest...and actually only rarely is it that. There was a gratefulness that flowed through all of the performance, from the instrumentalists to the audience. There's always a huge weight off our shoulders after so much work, but this one felt different. Hats off to the brave. 

Gratefulness is a gift to yourself and to all the "others" that you bless with it. When I am grateful, I see the world with different eyes. Early in our 44 years of marriage, my husband had what I thought was a stunted idea of romantic gifts. Birthdays, Christmas, anniversaries, he would inevitably come up with something practical that I had little appreciation for. Now, with the lens of time, I see that his thoughtfulness was huge. One year, there was a white, metal basket for our anniversary. I was ticked. Then he told me that he searched and searched for it -- that it fit perfectly between the seats in our big van. It also had handles, so I could pick it up and take my purse and books and things easily out to wherever our adventures took us (we were homeschooling four children at the time). Another time, I opened a package to find an empty flute case! He had, again, searched for a new case to replace my old one that was literally falling apart. Another epic gift -- he was terribly excited about Christmas and tried to get me to open my gift early. I always refuse that, because I like the anticipation. Whatever was in that box had to be just incredible, with the way he was going on about it. Christmas Eve, I finally opened it to find a brand-new, leather-bound Franklin Planner. He was giddy. I was distraught. 

My sixty-something self now understands how much thought and love he put into those and other gifts. I am sad that I did not appreciate them more at the time, and am trying to make up for it now by putting my brain into his brain, to see what he sees. Also, heavy hints from me have helped immensely (as I jingle the Brighton jewelry he bought me over every holiday this past year). He's retiring next year (Lord willing), so I'm gonna hang on to these precious items and not assume this is a future trend. I told him he can write me love notes next year and he said, "Well, I sent you a text for your birthday." To which I wrinkled my nose and suggested pen and paper. Silly girl, but I might lose those texts and that would be tragic. 

As I was toying with these thoughts, I began to think on that man, who I have been both a blessing and a curse to all these years. Him, getting up very early to put on his boots, read his Bible before he leaves, follow the same patterns for now-decades, and walk millions of miles on unforgiving factory or retail floors when his knees (and hips) are getting mighty cranky. All the while, never complaining. There were years I was home with our little ones, then our big ones (they didn't get on the bus, ya'll), then years of health issues for me where he covered it with a second job. Yes, I have always worked, whether it was taking care of babies, homeschooling, painting houses or murals, selling real estate or artwork. All women work, if they are worth their salt. It might not be in a factory or business. I was allowed to have my dream of staying home and making a home with our children, with all the creative endeavors along the way. He was with me, in that dream and it was done together, as a team. But without gratefulness, it could go sour pretty quickly. He's not perfect, and I definitely am not. A long time ago, I started trying to think of one thing a day that I was thankful for, in his person. Because sometimes, we just don't like each other. If I neglect to think on what is good about him, it starts going south. Gratefulness buoys us and gives us hope. 

I think on a baby that we lost a couple of decades ago. It was when our youngest child was eleven years old. We thought I couldn't have any more, so were surprised when I found out we had a nine-week-old baby in my womb. I was mid-fourties but thrilled to pieces. We named him Ethan and got busy planning. At fourteen weeks gestation, I miscarried and had to bury our little baby. I thought my daughter was going to have to be buried along with him, she was so overwrought with the death. I, too, felt so despairing and hopeless. Some might think we were crazy for actually wanting a baby in our fourties, but our whole family was deeply sad. Days and weeks went by and I could not find much to be happy about. My younger brother, our pastor at the time, prayed for me and gently read scripture to me about being thankful in all circumstances. I couldn't see how that applied to this situation. 

One night, however, I woke up and padded to the bathroom. There was a little octagonal window in there, and the moon was shining like a beacon. As I looked at the inky night, the stars and the moon sparkling, I began to thank God for the beauty of it, the consistency of seeing those things over my whole life. For what a glory they are, a reminder that life goes on, that the earth still rotates, that the moon still shines. 

Many have endured much worse things, but this was my "thing"' at that time. I thanked God, for taking my baby, for keeping him safe for me up there, for possibly sparing him (or us) from something unimaginable. We just don't know all the facts. My heart broke open as I thanked Him. The tears came, the release palpable. 

When we find gratefulness of any kind, our heart softens, the bitter roots begin to die, and hope springs eternal. Look for that nugget...  

Delicious Wallpaper

When we had four children still at home, you'd think it would be harder to keep the house tidy and clean. But you'd think wrong... The first time I had an event at my house when they'd all moved out, I was mentally scrambling, wondering who was going to help me get this mess sorted. The empty nest is a whole challenge on its own, but when your helpers disappear, a new paradigm forms. The idea of actually keeping up with things as I go becomes important. I tend to operate on a floating mentality, where I bounce from one thing to the other until an event or shower or the pressing issue of company arriving causes me to focus and get everything done at the last minute. There's sweat, heart palpitations, stress, some yelling, and then anger at myself for not paying attention to these things on the daily. I just had another birthday, and it's pretty late to be figuring it out. But I need to, if we're going to keep doing important stuff and making our home a haven for friends, family and wayward souls. Wayward is a pretty good definition for my homemaking skills. I love all the beautiful things, but they indeed need dusting. I don't think minimalism is going to catch on over here any time soon. They say that Maximalism is back, and if so, I'm a rock star...

We recently had several events at our home -- there's Easter (my absolute favorite) with the family, then 30+ women over for popcorn and a movie (ladies' night for the church folks), and then our shepherding group (Ken's a deacon) which turned out over 40 people for soup night last Friday. We spread them all over the house and I'm still marveling at the lack of "mess." Everybody did their part and cleaned up, thank heaven. As Ken and I plopped into our recliners when the night was over, he said, "no more socializing for awhile, okay?" We should have left for Tijuana or something, but the Sunday nap was pretty epic. 

I typically use these "events" to put pressure on myself concerning something that needs doing in the house. Ken works on the yard while I paint something or finish a project. This time, after Easter, I decided to finish the kitchen. It has been evolving for a couple of years. The cabinets are amazing; the former owner did us good with that, but the floors were ick. I bought tile and now they are in a herringbone brick pattern with a creamy colored brick tile. The countertops were next... I searched and searched and of course landed on the most expensive one, Taj Mahal, a pinky-creamy quartzite that I plan on staring at forever. Then we had to re-do the backsplash (If You Give A Mouse A Cookie...), so that became a Victorian pattern in a creamy white on white. It is an east-facing room, with morning light. I didn't understand what that means, decoratively, until after I had painted the thing four times. Mind you, we've only lived here 14 years. An east-facing room needs warmth. It always felt cold, each time I painted. This last, fifth, time, I just painted the top part "Sherwin Williams Antique White" and the beadboard trim was "SW Alabaster." That was really just a holding pattern until I figured out a color. This white stuff just ain't for Yaya, I have to say. 

Elizabeth, my daughter, showed me a lovely picture of a wallpaper in a kitchen similar to mine. I swore off wallpaper a few years ago, because I'd put miles of it up and then removed hundreds of miles of it over the decades. Never, I said. Once again, however, I began gathering samples from every website known to mankind. I found a yummy one with flowers galore, but still wrestled with the fact that it looked strikingly familiar to my last kitchen -- a literal bouquet of bodacious cabbage roses that took over my 90s house (my sister still has the leftovers plastered in the foyer of her house!) Never let it be said that I repeated anything in my life. I must pivot on every project. I spent a ridiculous amount of money amassing said samples and finally, finally settled on the perfect one. It was a funky,  different pattern with an Old World feel. It reminded me of a cover of a book that I read and kept in my bathroom basket for a long time, just because I loved the art (The Lost City of Z, by David Grann). There were monkeys, cheetahs, snakes, a jungle, an emu-looking creature and lots of flowers. I ordered a kit to help with peel-and-stick paper application and started dreaming but ended up calling Anatolli, a gifted Ukrainian dude who spoke very little English but did magic on those kitchen walls. I go in there every day and put my hands and face on that paper and thank God for the perfection of it and that I didn't have to do it myself. Of course, the beadboard required a new color. Next week's project is to glaze it with a rich, dark espresso color. I don't eat cookies, but I'm all about the next thing. Thankfully, yummy is not just about food...  

Spring and the Sounds of Little People

There is nothing like camping in the spring. Seems like we usually end up camping in the fall and winter, who knows why. This year, instead of Pigeon Forge (please don't hate me for not liking it) we went to Hiawassee. The traffic and mayhem in PF surely make those gorgeous mountains in the distance cry. When we are stuck, with thousands of cars all around, I look to the hills and wonder what they must be like. and what it would feel like to breathe in some fresh air. But in Hiawassee, the crystal clear sky and mountain views are in and through everywhere we are. The lakes, creeks, old farmhouses...they all beckon in their ancient stillness. No matter what place you are on earth, where there is nature close by, it is good for the body and the soul.  

Children who are raised with lots of outdoor time, less screens, no phones -- are the blessed ones these days. We had a week with a clutch of such kids. They speak to adults, laugh and play, and are content with what they're given. All week, they made great fun out of the old-timey things: swings, slides, bikes, putt-putt and that original invention - other kids. It was refreshing. We had campfires every night with Smores and plenty of smoke, including some fine cigars. Stories were told, laughing and seriousness were had, and all agreed that this was the best time ever.

The last day of our trip, we headed up to a place called Bell Mountain. I kept thinking someone was mistaking "Bell" for "Bald" -- and in my ignorance thought we were driving to Brasstown Bald, the highest point in Georgia. Ken loves to torture me with views of very high places in our truck. He seems to veer closely to edges and takes great glee in whipping around corners of mountains. All for the purpose of me protesting and freaking like a little girl. On this particular drive, I refused to look out the windows until we got to the destination. Then I broke my rule as we were basically riding on two wheels around a curve. There, spread out in panoramic vision, was a whole valley of mountains (if that makes sense)...the sky was azure blue, with wisps of clouds. I gasped and might have accidentally cussed. I don't know if it was the beauty or the danger that overtook me. Cussing might be a sin, well, of course it is. Ken never, ever does it and I am grateful for that. I, however, have been known to sin, when the world is about to end or I am severely shocked. Or kids have hidden a stinking mountain of clothes under their beds. These are just some of the reasons I need Jesus.  

When we got to the top, there was a parking lot, a mile of stairs and lots of rocks with graffiti everywhere. We hauled ourselves to the top, some of the grands clinging to us, dizzy in the thin air and slightly carsick. It was magnificent. We were overwhelmed with the wonder, marveling that we'd never seen such. Thank you, Aunt Melissa and Uncle Jeff, for telling us about it. Overwhelming is the glory of God's creation.

This morning, I am sad. We are packing up, about to pull the camper back to Villa Rica. There's much to do when we get back, which makes it extra sad. My calendar is already overfull for the rest of the week. I don't want to leave. Can't we wait until the trees are completely unfurled? It will be difficult to get up in the mornings, knowing that there are no grandkids waiting to throw themselves into my arms or ask for gum. Ken goes back to work in the morning and I start hitting appointments. There is quiet. There is work. There are cats (I wish I could take them camping) and plants to water and feed.

 Thank you, God, for the means to do all these things and the joy of living.  

Kernels of Wisdom

I have no idea who decided to throw hard corn kernels in a pan and pop them, but I am eternally grateful.  

Popcorn is the stuff of heaven. It's cheap, easily made, and you can hear angels sing when it's done right. I grew up in a frugal home with modest surroundings. Popcorn was the snack of choice. Hot, buttery, crunchy, salty. Dangerous. Then there was ice cream, the perfect counterpoint to it. Cold, creamy, silky, sweet. Our growing up years were cycles of salty to sweet. Our Daddy who was tall and willowy, with arms long enough to reach all the way around people, a snack-eating enigma. He loved to eat, should have weighed 500 pounds considering the amounts, but didn't. He worked hard but never "worked out" that I remember. He kept our big yard, dug a garden most years, would play ball with us kids, and walked and lifted a lot of heavy packages at his job at the Postal Service. But I never saw anything approximating a barbell in our home. He loved popcorn, ice cream, pickles, cottage cheese and peaches, fried pecans, chips and garlic cream cheese dip and oh yeah, Stuckey's pecan rolls. He'd switch from savory to sweet and back again. But the winner-winner-chicken-dinner was the popcorn. The day he died, he asked Mama for some. She made a batch in the kitchen, handed him his bowl (he said "thank you"), stepped to the kitchen to get hers...when she turned back to him, he had already gone to Jesus. With some popcorn kernels on his lips! He figured he'd just head on up after all that goodness. 

I came to marriage with opinions about the stuff. I didn't know how to cook anything useful, but I knew how to make a proper batch of popcorn (as well as rightly fell a large tree). I remember boxing out people when they tried to mess with the salting and buttering of it. Basketball definitely interfered with my domestic training. Ken and I's first "fight" was over some popcorn. We were very good friends, not dating yet, but were sharing a bowl at one of our singles gatherings after church. It was especially good, with lots of butter and Old Maids at the bottom. For those who don't know what Old Maids are...they are the half-popped, kinda burnt kernels that you find at the bottom of the bowl. They are the Goody. There are also Old Maids who are young ladies who are almost not young anymore and who are not married.  But I don't think they're called that anymore...they're just called Successful Career Women? I am not sure and will cease talking about it. I tend to get in trouble when talking about women for some reason, even though I am one. I thought I was almost an Old Maid when I got married at 21. Now we call a woman that young a baby or teenager or something. But I digress... Ken and I got to the lowest dregs of the bowl and started digging for Old Maids. He slapped my hand and told me that I had to wait until all the popped kernels were eaten. I grabbed the bowl and said watch me. We did some wrestling and I think some of the bounty was lost in the melee. Who makes up rules about popcorn, anyway? Little did we know that this was a pretty good harbinger of our future fights. Not the physical part, but the nature of it. That might have been put down to some kind of underlying tension, but I'm not sure. The temperature definitely went up in any room I found myself in with Ken Norton, but don't tell him that.

Our decades of popcorn love included us and everyone who visited and then our progeny who followed. I have perfected the making of it. For a few years, we bought that chemical-filled product you throw in a microwave. But why? When I found out about how toxic that stuff is as well as the dangers of GMO foods, I chased down some regular ole popcorn, raised on Amish farms and without hybridized genes, hormone-disrupting chemicals or alien DNA. It was heavenly, crunchy, coma-inducing. And then I discovered the real, real butter. Irish butter, that requires you to sell your first-born child to buy. I only use that particular kind on special occasions, which happens, well, maybe weekly. You get a big Dutch oven, heat up a mess of coconut oil til scalding hot. Then pour in these precious nuggets, keeping the pan moving until everything seems popped (please don't remove the lid until done). Then pour it into a gigantic farm bowl, if you have any integrity. Melt a hunk of Irish butter in same pan, then pour it over the corn, stirring it all around. Then salt, not too much, not too little. This is more art than science and I can't help you until you experiment for at least a decade or two. Bring bowls and several bar towels to the living room, along with your beverages of choice. Don't wait. It's still hot and needs to be consumed and now. We are known, however, for leaving leftover popcorn on the kitchen counter with a towel over it, and will commence to snacking on that until it's gone. Heaven forbid you would ever throw any of it away.

Tonight, I'm having a big pile of ladies from church over for movie and game night (we invited all of them) and my contribution is as much popcorn as I can muster up (til the butter runs out). They don't know what's about to go down. I can see Daddy with a grin and a thumbs up. Like I said, that's some heaven right there. And also maybe a 12-step program... 

Alleluia and Pass the Ham

In the haze of clouds of pollen last week, I kept noticing the bodacious azaleas by our front porch. They show off just once a year, but wow, the show. Here we go again....  I thought of our first home (there were azaleas...). We had rented a couple of other houses before we finally bought our first dollhouse. It was situated right by the railroad tracks in downtown Mableton in a little neighborhood of similar tiny bungalows, all under 1000 square feet. The yard was loaded with all sorts of random plantings and the house was the very definition of fixer-upper, maybe even a dump, before we even called them that. We paid $32,900 and thought we had won the lottery. My parents graciously allowed us to move in with them while we worked on it. We were pregnant with our first child, naive and full of can-do spirit. How little we knew...

We dove in with hammers and screwdrivers. By the time demo was done, you could see straight through to the other end of the house. As sick sheetrock and trim was pulled down, there were mountains of dead roaches and their leavings in the piles. It's a wonder we didn't swell up and die from all the toxins. Ken had never really done any type of construction, but he learned beside Daddy as we dug in. Ken was on evening shift at the plant, so he would work on the house in the morning and then head to his real job in the afternoon. When Daddy would get home from his day job, he and I and Mama would head to the fixer and work til late hours. Saturdays were marathons. 

We yanked all the nasty cupboards out and laid them on the back patio, where I cleaned and sanded them. One day, Daddy and I were headed back to their home when he spied some cabinets laying in some random person's yard. He slammed on the brakes and wheeled into their driveway. The guy gave us a kitchen's worth of those (also) nasty cabinets. We added them to the arsenal. These were even worse. Mama and I scrubbed, bleached and dried them, then set to sanding off the past. Ken and Daddy assembled them into our old-new home, leaving us with double the original amount of storage. I painted them a shiny cherry red and put on white porcelain knobs. There was an old, rusty light fixture in there that looked for all the world like a farm lantern. I scrubbed (scrub and sand being the dominant theme in this renovation) and sanded it, painted the inside of it snow white and the outside the same red. I found some cheap wallpaper, white with yellow lines and red cherries. A friend gave me some red and white gingham checked curtains for the window. We put in laminate counters that looked like butcher block, and vinyl floors. The kitchen was smack-dab in the  middle of the house and looked like a cottage belonging to Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs.  We had to completely re-do the bathroom, using the cheapest materials we could find and using the original sink, tub and toilet. I wallpapered the hall and the main bedroom because the walls were so boogered up there was nothing else to be done. There were two tiny closets in the whole house, ancient carpets that we couldn't afford to replace so we just cleaned them, and old pine paneling in the den that we degreased and shined. I painted the tiny nursery baby blue and painted lambs on the wall with scripture twining between them. 

It was a mess. But it was our mess. With the help of family and friends (because there was no money), we scrubbed up this little place and made an adorable home for us and our upcoming baby. I had quit my job before we started, well before we got pregnant. There were people who criticized us for that. But I learned untold amounts of skills before that first baby came...things that benefit us to this day and that can't have a price put on them. Mama helped me learn to sew during those same days. I proudly put on my first maternity dress, made from my own hands. Painting, stripping furniture and cabinets, scrubbing, wallpapering, gardening, feeding my people...these are golden skills that have blessed my family and many others over my life.

I remember the weeks after we moved in, and everything was done, clean, serene, ready. The church and family gave me a huge shower and we settled in to wait. I would spend warm mornings with my Bible in the backyard, in the swing that Ken's Pop had given us, the same swing that Ken played on when he was a child. I would put my hands around my burgeoning belly that contained an apparent Lamb of Great Size. I would talk to him, knowing he was a him even though we didn't get sonograms back then. I sang to him, wondering what and who he would be. I saw in my mind's eye a man of God, strong and willful, a light in the darkness. We named him Jonathan (gift of God) Uriah (the fire of the Lord) -- because that's what he was going to be (and is). Those sweet early days, misty and ethereal in my mind, difficult and yet simple. Happy, happy, unworthy and blessed beyond anything I could have imagined. People were often thinking we were crazy because we took roads less traveled. 

Then there was yesterday, Resurrection Day, where I sat in the middle of the years of progeny that have come behind us. My favorite holiday, where church was rife with love and victory, then home with the grandchildren all around like flowers and bees and honey all buzzing. Noise, food, laughter, green grass, pollen, and dirty little feet everywhere. 

While we were getting ready, we (finally) hung the two plates I was given at Christmas -- one with our family tree on it, growing outward like a great oak. The other, a picture of our darling but big Victorian bungalow that we ended up with all these years later. It says: "For indeed, a house is a little church." The older I get, the more humbled I am as I realize that I get so much more than what I actually deserve. The God whom I love and loves me is merciful to His children. Simple dreams. A simple yet complicated life. Easter blessings. Open hands. And a God who is greater than all our sin...   

Promises of Spring

I'm not sure when Easter became my favorite holiday, but it brings sweet, endearing memories as I scan back on my years. It all started at Orange Hill Baptist Church in Austell, where those early years included getting dressed up for Sunday church. Daddy and Mama would usually take a picture of us in the front yard. There were egg hunts with dozens of cousins, special lunches with MawMaw and Daddy's family after church, music and the joy experienced at the services. I was too little to understand all the hype, but just loved it. It was the time when dogwoods were blooming everywhere, bees buzzing, pollen flying, and all of nature bursting with flowers and mint-green foliage. Life! Abundantly...  

As Ken and I started our family, we also took pictures in the front yard with our little ones before Sunday church. The lunches were with both our sets of parents. The passing of the guard, with its sadness, leads to the new guard, bright with promise. The pictures now need the panoramic view on our cameras. 

Now we are the old(er) ones, how can it be?! As I see our grandchildren in the weeks before Easter, each one of them mentions that they can't wait for candy and the egg hunt at our house. The pressure is on. 

Last Saturday, I dashed to one of the grands' soccer games, only to arrive and see that I missed it. I had the wrong time. Ken was off, bush-hogging one of our sons' properties, so I took the opportunity to hit up Aldi's. They always have cheap Easter candy and lots of goodies. I was a little panicked, as I thought Easter was in one week. While there, I texted all the family, asking what they were planning to bring. I was informed that Easter was on April 5 this year. I said, "Yes, I know that. It's next week." Folks, it's not because I'm losing my marbles (well.....) but just had it wrongly in my head that April 5 was next week. Mind you, I check my calendar every day in my phone. Ken Norton works on a strict policy that we have to put everything in the calendar and it has served me well. But in order to use it, it helps to actually notice the dates, not just the events. 

Anyway, I'm breathing easier because that means I have an extra week to go chocolate hunting. One of our sons, who might have a healthier attitude (he, of course, is the one who subsisted on gummy worms during four years of college and ruined his teeth), suggested I put quarters and dollar bills in the eggs for hunting. I'll think about it, but maybe not... 

I am beginning to run into a conundrum with my adult children. These people would never say that they are spoiled. I raised them tough -- spanking and neglecting them just enough to make them great (I am laughing, ya'll). That also included loving the stuffing out of them. But Easter baskets have continued for all these years, for everyone -- all the grown adults and their spouses as well as Ken. What is wrong with me? This year, we acquired two more of the most scrumptious grandbabies on the planet, making fourteen in total, all 13-years-old and under. They are right to expect Easter baskets from their Yaya. But 30 and 40-year-olds, oh yeah, and the 68-year-old? I am trying to figure out where all that is coming from. I might need to sell a house in the next day or to, to finance all this frivolous purchasing. 

In the end, for all of us, is that it really isn't about the eggs, the chocolate, the pretty dresses. All of that is fun and beautiful and joyful, without the pressure of Christmas gifts and so many events hanging over us. What makes this the best holiday ever is what it represents. This week, I heard one of our granddaughters singing in that sweet, lithe voice of the young, a bird-like melody speaking of the wonder of the resurrection of Christ and what that means to believers. I couldn't help but tear up. For I have been redeemed.

Easter is hope, the springing-forth of new life, and the promise of life after death. This same week, I read a terrible, scathing post about the evils of Christianity on a cousin's post. There are evil people, there are evil deeds, there is sin in the world. There are those who claim to be Christian but are not, truly. There are also all of us hypocrites who still wrestle with our own sin. This is why we need Christ. We, meaning me, need life and a new heart. Easter, where He triumphed over sin and death, to give me a new heart. Yes, I am proselytizing, because I have been given and tasted what it means to truly be free and to have a Savior who bore my sin and gave me new life. 

There is one who doesn't want us to know this. Resist, and draw nigh to God. He will not turn you out.  

Cruising Through Life

 She calls me her "Grief Cruise Buddy." Odd title, but it is just that. The first cruise we embarked on was a year after her 30-year-old son died tragically; the next one was immediately after the death of her husband of 45 years (who suffered nearly 10 years of strokes and terrible illness). 

We have the recipe.

 You get on a boat for a cheap and short cruise, with your friend that you've known for several decades. You've raised your kids, you've had drama, lots of life with buckets of good, bad, the ugly and the wonderful. You throw on your best bathing suit and float for days, laughing, crying, thinking, musing over all the parts of what was before with that loved one, starting with the beginning. Then you eat and drink well, float some more, cry again, laugh again, listen to both excellent and sorry music, order a divinely-inspired coffee, sleep like a Queen and then do it over the next day. There were a couple thousand people (on this last boat) and between the two of us (we are both obnoxious extroverts) we met pretty much everyone. On the island, we danced along with the native shop owners and bought cheap junk for our grandkids. 

But in the in-between, there is that gossamer but mighty thread of grace that ties us together and runs through both of us's (not a word, but it fits) bones. She has faced down the devil with the still, small voice of her savior, her heart prostrate on the floor, calling to Him for the things that are unfaceable, impossible. Where some crumble and never rise again, she has lived palms up and trusting. I saw her love her husband well all these icky last years, growing stronger in her devotion than before, when things were easier. This is the love they don't know about in the movies, because it is actually true, actually gritty. 

The horizon before her is different, unknowable. Grown children and grandchildren live in the wake, busy, budding. Her world just did a sea-change. I'm thankful we've both had the privileges of life, of grief, of faith in the true Christ.

I pray that He will give her gentle waves in these days, sweet breezes, more life and many more adventures to come.  

Cruising Through Life

She calls me her "Grief Cruise Buddy." Odd title, but it is just that. The first cruise we embarked on was a year after her 30-year-old son died tragically; the next one was immediately after the death of her husband of 45 years (who suffered nearly 10 years of strokes and terrible illness). We have the recipe. You get on a boat for a cheap and short cruise, with your friend that you've known for several decades. You've raised your kids, you've had drama, lots of life with buckets of good, bad and wonderful. You throw on your best bathing suit and float for days, laughing, crying, thinking, musing over all the parts of what was before with that loved one, starting with the beginning. Then you eat and drink well, float some more, cry again, laugh again, listen to both excellent and sorry music, order a divinely-inspired coffee, sleep like a Queen and then do it over the next day. There were a couple thousand people (on this last boat) and between the two of us (we are both obnoxious extroverts) we met pretty much everyone. On the island, we danced along with the native shop owners and bought cheap junk for our grandkids. 

But in the in-between, there is that gossamer but mighty thread of grace that ties us together and runs through both of us's (not a word, but it fits) bones. She has faced down the devil with the still, small voice of her savior, her heart prostrate on the floor, calling to Him for the things that are unfaceable, impossible. Where some crumble and never rise again, she has lived palms up and trusting. I saw her love her husband well all these icky last years, growing stronger in her devotion than before, when things were easier. This is the love they don't know about in the movies, because it is actually true, actually gritty. 

The horizon before her is different, unknowable. Grown children and grandchildren live in the wake, busy, budding. Her world just did a sea-change. I'm thankful we've both had the privileges of life, of grief, of faith in the true Christ.

I pray that He will give her gentle waves in these days, sweet breezes, more life and more adventures to come.  

Rainin' Good

Ken asked me, "When we first got married, where did we get our furniture?"  

Around February, when the earth is colder and the sky is muzzy, I think about our early days of marriage (44 years this February). I think it's good to glance at the past, but not to stay there. There are important things we should remember -- people, events, choices -- that impact us now and inform our very future. Socrates said, "The unexamined life is not worth living." When Ken asked this question, it took me through the roundabout of years, arriving like a flash to our past. 

We were young (he 24, me 21) and bright-eyed. Both of our families belonged to the same church, so they were all invited to the wedding, along with our massive, compiled families (his Daddy and mine both had seven siblings each, plus all the other parts of the family). It was packed. Back then, we did very simple receptions, at least for us normal middle-income people. There were a giant cake, nuts, mints, sausage balls and red punch (think Valentines). The wedding party was dressed in red, white and black, and my Mama sewed the taffeta skirts for the bridesmaids (mind you, she made pencil skirts in order to spare fabric) and they all bought white blouses at JCPenney. Everything was done as frugally as possible, but it was the happiest day of my life up to that point. I remember the time standing still, with my handsome groom in front of me and our friends and family all around us. We did traditional vows and also wrote our own sentiments that we read to each other. Happy, happy day. There have been plenty of not-so-happy days and seasons since then, along with blissful ones, and then there's the oatmeal ones. The regular, truthful ones, where we walk the steady path and love indeed does mean having to say you are sorry. Whoever made up that line ("Love means never having to say you're sorry") has got to be hurtin' by now.  

Then I remembered the furniture. We rented a tiny bungalow in old-town Mableton, near the railroad tracks. It was a 2-bedroom, 1 bath house, with little screened porches on either side. Everybody and their brother gave us second-hand furniture and lamps and the kitchen sink. As we hauled things back and forth to get ready, it began to take shape. Ken's Grandma Norton gave us a couch and matching chair for the living room. Mama gave us a small coffee table and matching side tables. Ken's Grandmama Goldman (Babe) gave us his birth Mama's bedroom suit, along with a red and white quilt she made for it. There were two recliners and a twin bed from his Mom and then two nice lamps for the living room. These things, along with the bounty of the showers we were given by family and our church, filled up that sweet little place. The kitchen was equipped, walls had art, and there were rugs and all the accoutrements of a life, all provided for us. 

Such sweet memories and happy days, as we were given a proper send-off to start our life together. I recall the old ladies being a large part of this, as they reminesced about their own marriages. 

Showers of blessings, that still bless us all these years later.   

Merry-Go-Round

The 1990s were the epitome of excess. As DIYers early-on, this was no problem. If I wanted or needed something, I'd just barter for it. We were homeschooling our four (very) active children and I was always wrestling with my butterfly brain as I took on these projects, but somehow the progeny made it to productive adulthood despite my deviations. One such segue makes me grit my teeth. How I ended up painting two big rooms and wallpapering three rooms, just to barter for three used rugs, I'll never know. The wiser, older me would have said yes to just one of those areas. And this was a doctor, who could have afforded to not take advantage of my charity. Either way, after all was done, I had three rugs laid out in our 20x20 foot living room. That room was originally a garage, but the builder decided to convert it to conditioned space. One trend of the 90s was stenciling on walls and I had become an expert. I would ply that skill to lots of bartering as well, but in our cavernous box of a living room, I had stenciled folksy houses and birds above the chair rail and at the ceiling. The bottom part of the wall was slate blue, the top was cream. I loved it, until I didn't. When these rugs arrived, nothing seemed to work. They were also slate blue, with creams and rusty colors twined in there. 

I had slaved over several projects for a decorator friend, without payment. He would get me all excited about some project he was working on, and I would jump in and paint things, stencil things, and paint some more. He definitely owed me. I asked him about my wonky living room. One afternoon, while we were having school, he called and said he was 10 minutes from our house. He wanted to look at the room and give me counsel about where to put my rugs.

I will call him Vincent. He was very short and very round, sort of like a barrel. Heavy as lead but light on his feet, full of drama. I would label him a Grandiose Narcissist, now that I've heard of that, but he was insanely gifted and just a mess. Difficult to deal with but then delightful in the same breath. He had four children and was on his second marriage. He wound up with three wives and three divorces in his lifetime, but none of that made sense to me because he was like one of the girls. One time, Ken brought me the phone and whispered, "Hey honey, it's your girlfriend." When I picked up, it was Vincent and I instinctively said, "Hey girl!" Well, because...

Back to the rug saga... He looked quickly around the room and started bossing the boys about where to move the furniture. He moved some tchotskes around, told me to buy two large ficus trees and where to put them. He said to paint the whole room a rich, warm cinnamon color, above and below the chair rail. The rugs and furniture were all angled and oriented toward the big fireplace. Fifteen minutes of ideas, then he dashed out of there. I threw the kids in the van and headed to Home Depot for paint. These are the reasons there are gaps in my childrens' educations. But they can build you a house, pull down a tree or save your life in case of emergency.  

I got all the tasks done that Vincent suggested, including the ficus trees. The furniture and rugs were placed where he told us, everything cleaned up and finished. We lit a fire in the fireplace and I curled up on the couch with the kids and read them a book. From that moment on, where the room had felt like a sterile box, it became a warm, welcoming oasis for our days. Winter mornings, we curled up with books and our studies. When we didn't have firewood, I would buy those little logs that come in a package at the grocery store -- you could just light them and have four hours of magic (and probably toxins, but who's noticing that?) Evenings when Ken was working, I would put the children to bed upstairs, then have quiet time in a yummy chair by the fireplace. The room became my favorite place. When it was time to sell the house, I grieved losing that the most. Sweet memories of us around the room filled my mind, and I determined to do the same thing at the next house (though it ended up being a rich red -- yes, the excess was still rampant). 

Time has gone by and we've seen many cycles of decor run through -- from the excess of the 90s to the modernization of the 2000s, then there was the Gray Period, then the Joanna Gaines Farmhouse period that included everything black and white, and now maybe we're moving to the Cottage-y scrumptiousness that I love and have never really left behind. My delicious Victorian house is full of layers of living and experience, too much, even. The children are having their own children, but I still curl up with my books and a cup of coffee by the (unworking) old fireplaces in this house. When the grands visit, laps and books are mandatory. 

What goes around, comes around, but I've snatched the parts that I love and kept them (my poor kids, when it's time to dispense of all this). And I understand that yes, wallpaper is back. I've had decades of applying and then removing so much wallpaper, it's criminal. I promised myself I'd never do it again. 

But there is that toile that would look darling in my kitchen...  

Loaded Questions

"Do it now" said the sign on my Daddy's workshop table. Nike has a logo that says "Just Do It!" One of my favorite writers/speakers, Elisabeth Elliot, had a memorable saying: "Do the next right thing" (referring to the ever-asked - What am I supposed to do?) All of this sage wisdom came to the top of my mind when Ken and I asked our annual question, usually pondered during our anniversary trip (somewhere in the Southeastern USA, once a year, could take place any time from late January to March). The question is: "If you had the power to change one thing about me, what would it be?" That is a loaded missive, having the potential to ruin a romantic weekend.  But one that we all need to sincerely ask each other and be willing to take the truth of it. Ken's answer to me, for many years, has been the same: "I wish you could handle stress better." He has said that so many times, I told him he had to come up with a new one this year. I've been on a long mission to change my freak-out ways, but it might just be that I'll have to be dead before that happens. As Ken would say, "It is what it is." Since I've boxed that one up and put it on the shelf, though still having the label facing towards me, he came up with another one: "I wish you would finish what you start." A slight humming began to take over my ears and the tinnitus returned. Because this one truly hits where it hurts.  

I love a new project. The vision, the dreaming, the fact-gathering, then the supply-gathering. What stings is the prep for anything worth doing. It might mean moving furniture, killing the dust bunnies lurking there, washing down walls, taping things up, pulling out a ladder or twelve. Then there's the euphoric first brush strokes or  the new patterns emerging. It's going to be gorgeous! I'm in the zone, working like a Trojan. Then the phone rings. I put in my ear buds and get back at it. When the battery fails, I have to plug all manner of things in, and meanwhile I remember I haven't eaten in 10 hours. You would not know by looking at me that I ever forget to eat, but yes I do. And then I overeat because I'm starving. So there's the meal, putting up my sore feet for a bit, stopping for the new episode of Hometown, then my mojo stalls and Ken arrives from work with a messed-up house and a sleeping wife. He, the Marine-worthy guy who gladly does the same routine 500 days in a row, just to keep things on an even keel. Then God gives him the Queen of Chaos. I like chaos. The juggling is what makes the world go around. Or is it the Marines? Inquiring minds want to know.

In thinking about Ken's great wish for me, I remembered my DNA. His Mama, he and I were crafted from the same mold. MawMaw's house was ever in a state of half-finished jobs. Two-day-old dishwater in the sink, a washing machine with clothes molding from who-knows-how-long ago, and planting pots half-filled with soil and strewn through the house. She went to plant something in the garden and the phone rang. Then Jim and Tammy Faye came on the TV so she devolved into a nap. Her kitchen floor was always partially mopped and you could see where she stopped because the mop was still there. My own Mama is nothing like this. Don't tell me God doesn't have a sense of humor.

These kinds of people generally marry Marine-kind of people. At first, the Marine thinks the Scattered Ones are delightful. They are interesting, fun and passionate. The Scattered Ones think the Marines lack on the creative side, but they feel secure and begin to contemplate that maybe there is hope in the world instead of sheer mayhem all the time. Time goes by and the Marine's plans are constantly getting thwarted or ignored. The Scattered feels stifled. There's capacity for lots of conflict and then there is war. Many marriages don't make their way past this. I recall a few dishes flung and even a fist through a wall in our early years, all of them by me, not the Marine. Who'd have thunk? I have to say, if that hunk of beef starting throwing things and putting holes through walls, I'd have been calling his Daddy and mine too, while I swiftly departed the driveway. He's too big and hairy to not take seriously. 

So even with all that, we made it through. I've learned to restrain my temper and do the talking early, before it escalates to stupidity. And he has learned how to show me love and to admit his own weaknesses. It's still a work in progress, with lots of God-grace showered all around. 

Back to the sign: "Do It Now" -- I wrote that mantra on my calendar board in the office this morning. These are my word(s) of 2026. Daddy learned to do that pretty well. His yard and home were beautiful, along with Mama Marine's housekeeping skills. He had a long, successful real estate career after he retired from the Postal Service. I think it's because he reminded himself on the daily (and maybe hourly) to Do It Now. Plus, he truly cared about his clients and people, and that rarity made Doing It Now worth doing. May I be like Daddy...   

And as for Ken asking me that loaded question, he didn't, but I told him anyhow. It had something to do with his qualifying round at NASCAR (in my 2018 Ford Explorer). Please tell me there's hope... 

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.