Blood, sweat, tears and a good teacher

Della T. Pearson. I will never forget her name or her face. She was my fifth grade teacher. Back then, you had one teacher for all your subjects. She was tough and strong, with a quick wit and a killer throwing arm. This was 1970 and the world was changing. She was a stout black woman in a nearly all-white elementary school in the suburbs of Atlanta.

The first day of school that year was epic. As we sat in our assigned seats, she told us that she would not be calling us by our first names, but by our last names. So for that year, my name was "Slate." She barely smiled that first few weeks and laid out the rules and what she expected from us. I was a little scared. I also noticed that the worst boys from my grade were in this class. The big, bad, tall ones that made everybody nervous. For some reason, she had them all sitting near the back. Apparently she wasn't afraid of them. There was a huge, long paddle resting on her desk, with holes drilled into it, and a hefty red rubber ball next to it. She also had a staple gun, something I had never seen before. Curious.

We all quickly learned that in Mrs. Pearson's class, you were expected to behave and you would behave or face the consequences. The incorrigible boys tried a few things, a few times, but her unorthodox discipline methods immediately earned their respect. I feel certain that she was always inheriting the lost kids. She was quick with the paddle, leaving the door slightly ajar when she took a wayward child into the hall to spank. She did not have to do it often....we all decided it was better to cooperate. I remember when my friend, Susan, who was a spoiled only-child and had a mouth like a sieve, smarted off at her with her nose in the air and a chunky hand on her hip. Mrs. Pearson was on her like a panther. With our mouths agape, we watched as she marched that sassy gal into the hall and gave her a new badge of humility. The first time one of the bad boys disrespected her from the back of the room, I felt the wind from that red rubber ball as it whizzed past my face straight to the head of the wayward boy. I am laughing now, remembering the shock and awe from the whole classroom. I wonder what today's parents would do with her brazen disregard for all those poor little childrens' psyches? 

What I haven't told yet is the fact that this woman profoundly altered our lives. She, looking down at you with her half-glasses and enough spunk to wither a volcano, had a heart of gold. She truly cared about her students, enough to take them down a rough and rocky road and then to teach them to soar to the heights. She was a math genius. She passed out big, fat, red notebooks (red was her favorite) during our first math class. She taught us Algebra in the fifth grade. She told us to keep our red notebooks and never throw them away. As we toiled away that year, filling those accursed pages with all of her magic tricks, we had a resource that helped us even into high school. 

She taught us poetry, both how to read it and how to write it. Shakespeare. She made us read "To Kill A Mockingbird." In the fifth grade. She took us to the Atlanta Symphony, which changed me forever. We did artwork. Science. Studied the Renaissance. We had to learn "To Dream the Impossible Dream" -- a song from The Man of LaMancha - and sing it for the whole school. She drilled us like she was a military sergeant and then taught us the finer things of life, leading us to the edges of what is beautiful and cultured in this world.

I feared and revered her, but I especially loved her. 

She pulled stuff out of me I didn't know was in there and expected me to rise to greater places. She taught me to take pride in doing things myself, without whining or expecting someone else to help. I was in the fifth grade, ten years old...that time before the hormones start to confuse the world.  There is an innocence that you never quite find again after that. This was the zenith of my life before the onslaught of that hellish place in life: middle school. She built on the foundations I had been blessed to have been raised with, but she didn't presume upon them. She called all of us to dig deep and find a way to press out more than we thought we could. 

It's a place of strength and beauty that I hark back to, that year with Mrs. Pearson. She made me understand that I could do way more than I imagined. That the road to doing something well was usually and often paved with pain and difficulty, but was also worth it. And that to dream the impossible dream was just the beginning...

Hug Em While You Can

When my husband and I married, a few dozen years ago, we had numerous sets of grandparents still alive. The real problem with that began hitting the fan when the holidays rolled around. On a typical Thanksgiving or Christmas, we had 3-4 feasts that we were expected to participate in. I didn't (and still don't) have a clue what the word "no" means, or "let's take turns." We would drive 2-1/2 hours to Lincolnton and Thomson, Georgia, have two Thanksgivings there, then drive home and have another one at Ken's parents....and then have another one the next day at my folks' house. Somewhere in there we would visit his other grandparents in Marietta. Then Christmas came and it was even more complicated, particularly when we started popping out progeny. I remember one epic Thanksgiving. Ken's Grandmama Babe fed our firstborn son about two boxes, not joking, of Vanilla Wafers, behind my back. In the space of four hours. I didn't realize how many of those things a human can eat, until we experienced something akin to a lava flow, a golden brown one, in the back seat on our way back home to our third Thanksgiving dinner. This from a child who had never eaten anything with sugar in it, at least not from his Mama's hand. I had a lot to learn.

There's never so much fussing as a great-grandmother does over a child. They are way too far removed from child-rearing to be giving advice, at least when it comes to food. But they also don't care what anybody thinks anymore, so you get the full brunt of it. As a new parent, your insides are still quivering about all the decisions and responsibilities. You want to prove that you can do it all, though you're pretty sure you're messing it up. But nobody better tell you that. I remember my guts being in turmoil any time I had to parade my culinary prowess and parenting skills in the same visit. Which was pretty much any visit. The baby was always too cold, too hot, chugged up, crying too much, I wasn't feeding him enough or I was feeding him too much. I didn't bring what I was supposed to bring to the soiree or I forgot or I didn't ask the right question and just brought what I fixed. Or brought what was easy. There was no way to win this Wonder Woman event.

Now that I am a Yaya, time has mostly erased the hard parts of being a young Mama. It's easy to stand back on the hill and remember with fogged-over eyes how much I loved my babies, how I fed them right and disciplined them so well. I mean, look at those babies now - they're full grown, responsible adults starting to raise their own children. They're strong, healthy and even potty-trained. So with that fuzzy memory of what was difficult about it, I'm also thinking of how I miss those grandparents that I fussed about back then. How I'd give anything to ask their advice, to quiz them about things that I never bothered to find out. I assumed they'd always be here, because for all I knew, they arrived before the dawn of time. But this must be the way of it, that God doesn't inform us about what the future is, to know what we know now. The rhythm of time and the seasons turn over the earth of our souls. What was then is simply hard to believe. How did we do it? Where did that girl go? How did I forget her? 

She's wrapped up, like so many threads in a garment. A tapestry garment, with crazy-quilt squares and garish knots. It can get ugly. As the world turns, there are fresh crops of expectations from all sides. I thought that somewhere in there, I'd get a free guilt pass. But no. And then it dawned on me. That is exactly why all the Grandmamas, Grandmas, great-Grandmamas, Nanas, Mimis and Yayas love their grandchildren so passionately, even when they can't do everything they'd like to do for them. They realize that all the casseroles, turkeys, gumdrops, money and everybody's silly presumptions and opinions are a bunch of hooey when it comes to that baby. There's a whole lot that just gets thrown out the window. Yaya (or whatever she gets called) looks deep in those sweet bunny eyes and says its me and you kid against the world. And that baby knows it.

There's nothing like Grandmama love, when you know she loves you even if you commit a felony. In fact, it might be why you don't.

Learning Dis-tract-abilities

After many years of wrestling with a brain that both likes to dream and think about lots of things but then misfires and forgets the most mundane of specifics...I discovered that I have a condition called ADOS. Attention Deficit Oooohhh Shiny. This is a real condition, where the brain never fully leaves behind certain behaviors from childhood. It manifests in rabbit-trail conversations, where one can be discussing the mystery of Luther's leaving the Catholic faith to start the Reformation and marry a nun, then jumps the track completely to admiring the exquisite handmade necklace my neighbor has on. Many nights, I wake up with myriads of thoughts churning in my head and then can't get back to hibernating. They say that your brain works on sussing out solutions to your thoughts and problems while you are asleep. I wish I could go back to the netherworlds of dark, sweet slumber and just dream and figure everything out without having to actually be conscious of it. Life is a maze of puzzles, connections, people, problems, solutions, and then, not. They say that without a plan, things are just happening TO you. And you're not making change in the world. I don't know if that's true. I think it may be more like we're in a big boat, traveling the seas of this life. We're trying to navigate ...we've got a map, a rudder, sails, a crew...but the weather keeps changing and the waves tend to swamp our silly plans. Which reminds me of one of my favorite passages in Mark that talks about Jesus sleeping through the storm, then stopping it dead in its tracks and him telling the disciples they don't have enough faith. I love that.  It's his humanness and his God-ness in one fell swoop.

I like storms, but only when I'm safe and dry and warm. The idea and thrill of it is exciting. But not when you're out there soaked to the skin and anticipating lightning bolts any moment. I guess what I'm doing here is summing up my last three weeks of writing and thoughts... We can try to make our lives snug, buttoned-up and free of danger, particularly people-danger. It's our nature to want it to be that way. The difficulties of relationships, confrontation and actually walking through problems rather than walking around them can be more perilous than any thunderstorm. There are so many distractions right there at our fingertips: work, a bottle, entertainment, the internet and its images, gadgets, games, a bowl of cookie dough. All that stuff can be more comforting than actual living and working it out. I've been navigating marriage with the same (very patient) dude for nigh thirty-four years and still have days that I don't know how to ask for what I need without starting a hell-cat-fight.

I'm very much the freakout queen, always shrieking about the tornadoes swirling around me. I embrace life like a wide-eyed child but in the next breath I fear death. Then I remember his words to that ghastly storm. I think about him sleeping on that pillow and I can't help but laugh, thinking about those disciples flipping out. They must be my relatives. God says a lot about being still, a whole lot of times. I want to avoid that, substitute for that, distract for that. ADOS. But it's in the still, small voice that is on the other side of the wind that I finally find peace.

I Am NOT Competitive!

Sco-crares. That's what our son, Daniel, used to call scarecrows when he was little. He also would call anything resembling a skeleton a "serious man." Why do you call them that, Daniel? Well Mama, have you ever seen one?! So with him in mind, I endeavored to make a scarecrow for Villa Rica's annual contest, for the company I work with, Southern Homes and Land Realty. But what does a real estate agent scarecrow look like? I imagined her holding a phone to her ear, a briefcase in one hand, wearing her professional duds and lookin' spiffy. That just seemed boring. Then I mused about a country real estate girl dressed in overalls. But every scarecrow looks like that. Then it hit me....

Some of my favorite phrases are:
"I'll think about it tomorrow." "After all, tomorrow is another day." "Well fiddle-dee-dee." "Rhett, the Yankees are comin'!" "Whateva shall I do?!" And then I thought about Miss Scarlett and her love of the land (which incidentally, I love too, along with the smell of sawdust and fresh sheetrock)....and her Daddy's admonishment: "Land. It's the only thing that lasts." So that led to remembering about when Scarlett conspired to trick Rhett into paying the taxes on Tara. The Yankees had taken everything valuable from the house....except those gorgeous green drapes hanging in the parlor. Which led to....remembering when Carol Burnett did a Gone With the Wind spoof. She tore down the curtains, ran up the stairs and then descended with them transformed into a dress, complete with a curtain rod sticking out from her shoulders and tassels in her hair. It's one of the times in my life where I nearly got sick from laughing so hard. Hence, my inspiration....

I haunted the thrift stores in Villa Rica and dug through piles of fabric, curtains and bedspreads. I was able to find tassels, green fabric, curtain rods and a black wig to make a semblance of ole' Scarlett. I reincarnated her into a real estate agent, with a big honkin' curtain rod and the proclamation, "Buy land, it's the only thing that lasts!" I had the bright idea to use a pumpkin for her head. Painted it creamy white and put big crazy green eyes on it. With a twist of genius, I plopped it on top of a headless mannequin, dressed her and proceeded to put her in my van. But I forgot about the gravity. The head met the pavement with a sickening splat. I put the whole thing up anyway outside our office: Scarlett O'Scary with the cracked head. I left for Home Depot and bought another pumpkin. Rewind, with no mishaps this time, but her eyes were definitely bigger. We left that day and were gone for a week. We got back and drove by Southern Homes and Land. There in all her glory was Scarlett the Headless. No head, just a body and a wig. While we were away she apparently breezed through another role: Scarlett the Zombie (With the Rotted Head). I surrendered and bought a styrofoam head from the craft store. Painted her up once again (third time's a charm and her eyes are enormous now) and snuck up there after hours with my husband to help me. We rigged her up with enough pins and wire to ground a lightning rod. I got insanely busy these last two weeks and didn't pay any attention to her until I noticed her listing to the east, with her head lolling onto her shoulder.  I told Ken I was done with trying to make that dumb scarecrow work and that they already did the contest judging anyway so why in the sam hill would I care if her head fell clean off at this point?

But then. I read that the contest judging was tomorrow morning. I had already worked and eaten myself into a 10:00 television-watching-stupor when I realized this fact. Ken said to just get up with the sunrise and fix her. I cannot tell you how evil that man can be about the crack of dawn. He jumps up like a squirrel on steroids. Every. Single. Day. Not me. I knew that if I waited 'til morning, it would never happen. So I put on my tackiest pink Crocs and started sloshing out the door. Ken grabbed his hat and said I'm coming too. With a spool of wire, a fistful of hat pins and some twine, we tethered and pinned her poor head back to her body and double-jacked her to the lamp post. 

I never saw my life going this way. Tacky, clandestine, dark-ops missions to downtown Villa Rica in the middle of the night. Weird preoccupations with winning gaudy ribbons. Dreaming about all the different ways I can decorate a mannequin. I'm tellin' ya, I thank God I got a fella that jumps right in the pond with me. But I dang sure better win that contest...

Dangerous Creatures and Thirsty People

My son, the traveling one, read my last article and had lots of questions: "Mom, what do you mean? All the stuff about Disney? You need to write another article explaining yourself." He has always had a quadrillion questions about everything. His first sentence was: "What's that?!" He would pester us until he was satisfied with an answer. God's sense of humor came back around on him, with a 2-year old darling daughter whose first sentence and persistent curiosity are identical to his. So, thanks Jon, for making me think again...

Disney, Disney, Disney. Is my diatribe against them, really? No, I don't hate Disney. Yes, I'll admit I hate a lot of their political agendas and their insistence on making their princesses out of airbrushed Playboy bunnies and how that (now) most of the men in their stories are bumbling idiots or bad guys (I guess they're just mirroring the current attitudes about men in TV and advertising). A normal, healthy family can't be found in their stories and usually parents are as stupid as those leading men. Think about it. I guess I have to admit that's a diatribe. And that would make me a curmudgeon. 

Do I hate Mickey and the Magic Kingdom? No. But it's like so many things in our culture... I think you can enjoy things, like a cute cartoon or a movie or a comic book. We can laugh at something funny or read a fluffy book just for entertainment. What I think is wrong, however, is letting these things lead us. Or define us. That we don't ponder the deeper things in life, that we don't question the message behind the fluff. Are there subtle things that are undermining our basic ideals and morals? Do we care?

We need to be living mindfully, not just moseying along life's river, oblivious to the alligators lurking under the surface. Because they are there. And they have eaten many of us and many of our children. And there's that other creature: lemmings. In my earlier article, I referred to lemmings....little rodents. They occasionally do a strange thing -- they will gather in large groups and then begin running, faster and faster. They move as one, picking up other lemmings along the way. When they are confronted with a cliff or a body of water, they pay no heed and scamper, pell-mell, right off the cliff or into the water, to their deaths. This is what I see happening to our young people. So many of them are running life's races being led by their peers, not by their parents. Our culture is saturated with messages that parents, and men in particular, are weak and stupid and not worth listening to. So where are they getting their wisdom? God? Themselves? Their parents? Their teachers? With the advent of so much technology, media and instant gratification, we are getting farther and farther away from the serenity that comes from the simple act of thinking. We don't even have to reason anymore....our answers are only a few keystrokes away. 

So my beef isn't with Disney, per se. Disney is a corporation made up of some very savvy business people and a boatload of amazingly creative mortals. They've made a whole universe of fantasy that takes us away from reality for awhile and entertains the masses. But even as creative and beautiful a world as they have constructed, there are walls to it. I was sitting on a bench at Disney Downtown (basically a giant outdoor mall with 10,000 reasons to buy overpriced cute stuff and food) in front of a shop that had decorative things for your house. Yes, you can buy Disney things for the kitchen. I was amazed at the lack of creativity in that particular store. Of all places, this should be over the top. Even with all their creativity, it was constrained by the brand and the trademark. 

Now I sound like a gripey old lady who doesn't want to have fun. Quite the contrary. We live in an amazing world, in a basically still-free country, where the possibilities are endless. God made us, and intended us to enjoy and delight in this world. Technology is changing, expanding at an exponential rate, and keeping up with it is challenging. But with all this, there comes a price. It takes us being intentional to move beyond the fireworks and sparkles, to keep our humanness and relationships meaningful. I have recently gone to events where most of the people were immersed in their phones, not talking or reaching out to one another, and certainly not talking to the strangers. Tragic. Because I have found, in my inquisitive years, that everyone has a story, a life, and something they care about. Each individual matters. But if our eyes and minds are immersed in our phones and locked onto only our canned little worlds and peers, we will miss the one passing us by. Or sitting beside us on the bus. Or dying next door.

It really gets down to God. It's becoming fashionable to be an atheist or an agnostic. If there's no God, hey, nothing matters anyway. We're just bags of chemicals trying to survive and get us some. We're so smart, thinking ourselves to be God, we are becoming fools. In the spin I'm hearing all around, it often gets said that no one can prove the existence of God and there's no way to know if he is real. Have you looked at the intricate wings on a ladybug, the sweet eyes of a baby staring back at you, the wind and rain, the moon lining up at just the right gravitational juncture to keep the tides at bay, the exquisite dance of man, beast and nature that keeps the circles of life circling? I can hold up a simple, empty Coca-Cola bottle and no one would ever believe that it just made itself. How much more do the untold fathoms of details and designs that make up this insanely complex world prove that it was planned and that it has a grand purpose? God is here. Our sin is here. We need redemption and He sent it in Christ. Our cracked selves and imperfect world need a Savior. There's no amount of technology and entertainment that can fix that. But there's a Well in the wilderness who can. Cry out to Him while it is still day.

Fairy Dust and Fireflies

We got the luxurious opportunity to visit our son and his wife and baby this last week. He is making the rounds, traveling and doing construction jobs all over the country. This one landed them in Orlando, the land of all things Disney. We had a wonderful time at SeaWorld and strolling through the shops. But I couldn't help but wonder...

Do I dare step in this pile?

I grew up in the 60s and 70s. Disney for our family was that few moments on Sunday night when we saw the show coming on TV. Us kids were hoping Mama and Daddy wouldn't notice that it was time to leave for church and maybe we might get to actually watch it. But alas, usually we headed out the door. I loved to see Tinkerbell waving her wand over the castle and all that fairy dust going everywhere. Our family didn't have the means to actually visit Disney or even see all the movies. Our vacations were more in the mode of visiting relatives and tent camping on Lake Allatoona. 

You might think I would be sad. Or bitter. I never got to visit Mickey. But I'm not. Maybe it was the fact that we saw very little of those Disney shows on Sunday nights. Or that it wasn't advertised as heavily back then. Most probably, it was because we had a relationally-rich childhood full of heavenly-scented, newly-mown grass to run in, fireflies all around in damp, heady romps in the woods, the bittersweet bite of wild, ripe muscadines, truckloads of books from library trips in the summer, trips to Grandmas who thought you hung the moon, and sticky days running barefoot with siblings and cousins. Who needed Disney? Life was simpler, cheaper, with less expectations and more fulfillment. Instant gratification was limited to getting that one little drop of goodie out of a honeysuckle blossom. I'm not (that) old yet, and this wasn't that long ago. I'm afraid our fantastic bouquet of technology is making us into zombies (read: walking dead). 

Our oldest child is 31 years old. When we birthed our four babies, I was already seeing the writing on the wall -- that outside stimulation and technology was beginning to overtake us. What I always hated about even the simplest TV was that hoards of people could all sit in the same room and stare at it, not talking, eating mindlessly, living vicariously through silly sitcoms that were way more exciting than actual life. In one show, you can cram days and weeks into one concentrated 20-minute episode. Real life can seem mighty sluggish in comparison. There have been studies done on what happens to our brains when a TV is on. Basically: nothing. We are entertained and don't have to think or process much. No wonder it's so easy to get hooked on it. And so hard to let go of it. I am just as guilty as anyone. In my dreams, though, I wish we could throw the things away and start over. 

I tried valiantly, however, with my kids. I limited their TV time to when their Dad was home and watching sports or special movies. We didn't buy them video games or high tech toys. I remember being scolded by people because we didn't have a computer or cellphones for many years. We moved out to the country and I shooed them out the door for entertainment. They grew up in the trees and woods, a world similar to my childhood. We homeschooled them, because I wanted them to think for themselves and not be led by their peers like lemmings over the cliff. Did this yield perfect adults or Mayberry in Douglasville? I'd like to think so, but naw....we're all still perfectly cracked humans. Still, I'm thankful that we resisted the onslaught and that they had an old-school upbringing.

There's always ominous reports, no matter what universe you live in, controversies and dire predictions that threaten to destroy the world. Sometimes horrible things happen. Countries get bombed, droughts and plagues and tsunamis hit. We could have an EMP attack (a deliberate burst of energy that could disrupt the electrical grid and cripple NORAD's ability to defend the nation). There are whole websites and fantastic movies dedicated to the notion, where we could be thrown back into the Stone Ages instantly. Fireflies and muscadines wouldn't look so romantic then. Some people say "Prepare!" and others say "Baloney!" 

I think I'm too tired to prepare, so I'd just have to go out with the first wave. 

Either way, better to have lived, really lived, than to exist in a Disney bubble, no matter how cute, fun and entertaining it might be. Please don't hate me.

Halloween and the Zombie in the Basement

I am a big, fluffy gal, and if you didn’t know me well, you might not know that I can whup anybody at painting.  I love paint fumes and the soothing flow of a paint roller.  There is just something about a fresh coat of paint that clears your mind and renews your soul.  I’ve always wondered why it is that many of the painters I run across, both residential and artistic, seem to be alcoholics as well as very “soulish” people.  We gather at the contractor’s desk at Sherwin Williams and ruminate about colors and painting techniques.  Old crusty guys with vaporous breath seem to have a kinship with me.  It must have something to do with the soul of an artist and inhaling deeply. I've been able to avoid the substance abuse, but maybe I'm compensating with food...

An age ago, we lived in a camper (not a trailer) for two years and built a home (ourselves, with our own hands...don't you forget it) on five acres in Douglas County. When it came time to waterproof the basement, I was the gal for the job.  When inspiration hit me, it also happened to be a school day (for normally-schooled children) and Halloween. Waterproofing a basement is no normal paint job. It's sticky tar applied down deep in the bowels of the earth onto the basement walls before you fill in the hole around the foundation. It gets everywhere. I believe it took me a week to recover the notion of clean skin and hair after doing that job. In order for me to get down to the remote parts of the exposed basement, I had to be let down with a rope.  We had a nice sturdy one and I had four kids who got a free pass to play that day, except for the times that Mom had to be hauled up out of the hole.  When I needed a break or to move to another area, I'd holler and the kids would attach the rope to something and pull me up out of purgatory. 

Of course I happened to be in the deepest section of the outside of the basement as well as completely covered in black tar (not to mention the state of my hair or face) when I heard wheels crunching on the gravel driveway.  I was in too deep to see anything or to help myself get out.  The kids started yelling, “It’s a policeman, Mama!”  I was yelling back for them to haul me up, but no, too late….I could hear them all running away to check out the cop.  I also heard them talking to him; meanwhile I’m pulling and yanking myself up the dirt wall to try to get out.  Just about the time I got my carcass to the top (and wrenched my back really bad), he’s pulling slowly back up the driveway.  If he had looked back I am certain that our lives would have taken a drastically different turn.  I was covered in tar, my hair and body had red crusted dirt all over, and by this time I’m a little wild-eyed.  I don’t know why I considered letting that man see me at all.  Thankfully, he didn’t. 

When I asked the children about what had conspired, they said that he told them he was out checking around since it was Halloween. Praise God, he didn't see the zombie painting the basement. For some reason, he also didn’t ask these truant children where their parents were and just told them to be careful.  That night, when we were regaling the story to Ken, he was concerned.  He told me to make sure that everything was buttoned up tight the next day….that we were to have “normal” (whatever) school in the camper and to not let the kids out for any reason, in case DFACS was sent over or something.  I hadn’t thought of that. 

So we were pressed and dressed the next day, camper clean and kids studying and warned not to go outside unless Mom did reconnaissance first.  Mid-morning, I heard gravel crunching again outside.  I walked outside and saw to my horror a white government car crawling down the 400-foot driveway.  The emotions that went through my heart that day were indescribable.  I imagined my kids being hauled away, Fox5news helicopters flying over, me in handcuffs and chains and wailing loudly.  Next, a woman with a clipboard got out of the car and started writing.  It was obvious she did not want to talk to me.  She nodded in my direction and with tight lips continued writing and checking off things on her little list.  She stepped around the house and even talked on her walkie-talkie.  I think this was the day I started having heart palpitations (well, except for that day when I first saw Ken, that).  After quite some time and waiting awkwardly for her to acknowledge me, she walked towards me.  I must have looked like an ashen ghost.  I nearly fainted when she stuck out her hand and said, “I’m _________ from the Tax Assessor’s Office.”  I can't stand taxes or the idea of the government coming onto our land and assessing our property, but all of a sudden she was my new best friend.  We started talking and I found in her a kindred spirit. All the fear and trepidation washed away as she told me about her family, three beautiful kids and a husband that had left her. They had been separated for a time, but he had recently become a Christian and they reconciled and were back together.  By the time she left, we were friends. We hugged and prayed together in the driveway, with tears rolling down our faces. Unbelievable.

God definitely has a sense of humor.  I shudder to think about the peril that we would have been in had someone decided to call the authorities about us living like crazy hippies in a camper and homeschooling our four kids.  People used to live in one-room cabins and mud huts in America, but nowadays that would be considered cruel treatment to children.  I happen to think it was the best thing we ever did for them. All four of them are thinkers and survivors and know how to adapt to lots of situations. Nowadays, whenever we are able to get together around our big round table, one thing's for sure -- there's going to be laughter. Their parents are pretty cracked, but we are really grateful for the mercies of God!