Be Still and Know

We had nearly a week of spring in December and wore sandals and shorts on Christmas day, with a flurry of wrapping paper and squeals from all the grandchildren. I feel overwhelmed with the bountiful overflow of blessings we are experiencing with them. The unspoken goody between a grandparent and grandchild is unconditional love. When I look in their eyes, I try to not just tell them what I think of them, but for them to know in their hearts how much I love them. I remember my own grandmother, with her green cat eyes, looking deep into my soul, almost making me uncomfortable at times because I indeed felt she was probing the inner sanctum of my heart. Grandmas know things that other people don't know, and that is good. God-sent and unique.

How I have enjoyed these last few days of Christmas-ing. Ken has had almost three weeks off and my real estate business is  dormant with all the other festivities going on. I'm floating around, sleeping long and luxuriantly every night and taking a nap every afternoon, taking drives with Ken over the countryside and ingesting healthy meals, taking time to actually enjoy them. I wrestle with feeling sorry for myself when I am on the straight-and-narrow with my eating. I need to feel sorry for everyone else, because they're not going to be as healthy as me, haha! 

My darling retro-red refrigerator in the laundry room died, a sad, sad occurrence. I bought that thing a few years ago, marked down, for $75.00 at Home Depot. When I looked it up yesterday, thinking to replace my old one, the current price was $600.00. Rather than go that route, we bought one somewhere in the middle, this one a minty vintage green. Rare it is that I do the same thing twice anyway. We could have got one on sale at Lowe's, saving us about a hundred dollars more than we spent...but alas, it was far too modern looking for our 123-year-old house. Besides, I'm repainting the laundry room and kitchen soon and it will help me to make a decision about the new color. Yes, it's true, this will be the sixth time I've painted my kitchen in 13 years. I love to paint and I love change. What can I say?

Looking back on the last few weeks and the things we got to do, see and hear, my favorite part was our annual Christmas lessons and carols night at church. There were readings from the scriptures concerning the birth of Christ, and then hymns and carols coinciding with each. There is nothing as beautiful as the clear voices of children raised in song, then a gifted adult choir twining together like the holly and ivy. There was a stillness to the night, a pausing to remember the significance of the Lamb who came to redeem His people from their sins and to give life, lived joyfully. Singers, instruments, children, the festive colors, the hearts bowed in prayer... I hear the still, small voice that beckons me to remember, to be, and to look forward. Soli deo Gloria.   

Silent Night

 There are two iconic things that ring in the Christmas season for me: The Nutcracker and Handel's Messiah.

In elementary school, we had a field trip to Atlanta to see the Nutcracker. The beautiful ballerinas floated on air. The music completely embodied the story of it, a trip to a land come to life with toy soldiers, dancers, huge wild rats and fairy dust. When I got home, I began to pretend I was a ballerina...my gangly, tall self flying across the kitchen while I washed the supper dishes. I imagined myself with my own little girl and the ballet classes to come.  Many years later, I married and had three beefy boys, and then a tall but very graceful toddler girl. From the time she could walk, she was dancing about the house. When she turned three and begged to go, we put her into a ballet school in a fanciful little house with large windows and wooden floor in the center of Vinings. She had the sweetest teacher, a lithe and dreamy slip of a girl. Liz danced for nine or so years, becoming proficient and skilled, the little primadonna of her school. When her body began to change, during adolescence, she began to feel conspicuous wearing tights and dancing across stages in front of people. Thankfully, she survived that and navigated into adulthood and retained her love of music and dance. She and I have had many a dance party in the kitchens of our homes, and now she enjoys ramping up the music and cavorting with her three children in her own house.  

When I saw that Ballet Magnificat was coming to Carrollton this season, I just had to get tickets for her and her 3-year-old daughter. We had seen this same troupe when Liz was a wee thing. When the curtains opened and the music started, tears sprung to her eyes. We both cried as we thought of those special years and the magic of a ballerina at Christmastime. Her daughter, London, was enraptured. 

They say that Tchaikovsky was less-than-happy about The Nutcracker. He felt it uninspiring and dull. His sister died midway through his composition, and he never lived to see the full impact of his work. Imagine what he would now think, where it is one of the quintessential parts of the Christmas season, selling out audiences wherever it is performed. It also has been the introduction of many a child to the beginnings of a ballet career. I used to take my children every year, much to the chagrin of our boys. The older they got, the more they grumbled. I had to get them a bit of culture some way, and I have to believe that somewhere in there they saw the magic. 

I love all kinds of music, from all kinds of musicians -- from hymns to bluegrass, classical to rock, folk to pop, you name it. But my favorite compilation of work is Handel's Messiah. Nothing short of brilliant, it is appropriate at any time of year though we usually hear it at Christmas and Easter. The words are straight from scripture, mostly the Old Testament, and the music is straight from heaven. He wrote it in 24 days in August of 1741. I have heard that he holed up in his room and wrote feverishly, completely in the grip of inspiration. Everyone loves the "Hallelujah" chorus, but my very favorite part is the long and drawn-out "Worthy is the Lamb and the Amen" at the end. It is simply gorgeous, goose-bump inducing and glorious.  When a chorus bursts out with the "Worthy" portion, I have to stop what I'm doing and contemplate the glory of all that is. 

The holiday season gets packed to the gills with much running about and oft-unnecessary mayhem. It is also often the hardest of times for many people, for many reasons: the loss of loved ones, the pain of regret, the feelings of "not enough," the reminiscence of things lost or undone. May we all look around and minister kindness to those in our paths, call up an old friend or neglected family member, pick up the slack where it's needed, and show gratefulness for the ones who work hard to make our world better. Or the ones that don't -- the Grinches or the downtrodden along the way who might need a little hope to go on another day. I'm preachin' to myself here; it's sometimes hard to think of others or to stop what I'm doing to look around. Humble was the manger that brought hope to the world...

Winter Remembrance and Planning

These chilly winter days remind me of the few winters before we had children. We were living in a small rental in Mableton when Ken landed a coveted job at the plant where he worked. It included a pay raise and another 20% on top as a shift differential. What that meant was: he would be on second shift, leaving in the afternoon while I was still at work, and getting home late when I was already asleep. We would see each other in our dreams and on weekends. Ken and I knew we wanted plenty of babies and had discussed at length that we wanted me to stay at home with them. My secret dream was to raise his babies and be a homemaker, making beautiful and creative things. I knew how to fell trees, mow and trim a yard and kill it from the free-throw line, but I knew nothing about cooking when we got married. I was raised to work hard -- us kids cleaned and helped with whatever needed doing, but my Mama edged us out of the kitchen (except to do dishes) and even insisted on her high standards of laundry...which meant, us kids did not do laundry. So when I got married, there were gaps in my homemaking education, though I had seen that in action from my babyhood. 

We decided that I would quit my job and stay home, even though we didn't have any babies on the way yet. When I put in my notice, I did everything but jump up and down (that was what I wanted to do). The girls in my office thought I had lost my marbles. Most of them had children, and while I worked out those last two weeks, every one of them told me that I'd be back...that staying home with a baby isn't what it's cracked up to be. They also told me that they were only truly making enough money to pay for daycare and their car payments, that they just didn't want to stay home. That is not always true for women who work. There are many reasons women want and/or have to work outside the home. My heart breaks for those who don't have a choice. We had to sacrifice greatly, to make it happen. Ken was a plant worker, not an executive. We lived from paycheck to paycheck all those years. I budgeted, cooked from scratch, shopped at three stores for bargains and made our homemade Christmas gifts. That first tree was decorated with popcorn and cranberry strings and homemade ornaments. I'm exhausted already, but I was young and strong then. And extremely happy through the muddling of it. During that season where I had no children but wasn't working a normal job, I learned all manner of skills that have served me and my family. I really did learn to cook (though I try not to, now that I'm not feeding an army), learned how to make crafts and art worthy of selling, read books on all manner of gardening and homemaking, learned to paint houses (I did a long, profitable stint of residential painting when my children were grown), and learned the fun challenge of stretching a dollar (creativity grows in that environment). Following Dave Ramsey principles, even though we went through some extremely difficult years, we got out of debt.  

That was long ago, and I wouldn't change a thing. Little did I know how quickly four children would grow up and fly from the nest. There has been time to do all the "other" things, anything I could imagine. I've moved through different seasons of career and making money, some of it even bartering for things we needed or wanted. The thing that is harder, since they are gone, is missing them and also missing the hunkered-down necessity of certain things. I'm a free-floating chick who needs grounding. I don't like to be tied down but I still need guideposts, else I fritter away the universe. Take my art, for example. The last year or two, I realized I wasn't painting anymore, because no one was paying me to do it (real estate definitely got in the way). So I signed up for painting classes and am doing oils (which I have never done). It's hard to squeeze out the time but I have obligations to it now. If I miss class, I still have to pay. And when I get there, it is three hours of pure bliss and aggravation, but mostly bliss. I'm having to learn a new skill that is very different from my known acrylics and pencils. I am extremely grateful to be able to do it. And apparently, anything I want to do in future has to involve such tethers, but that's all good.

"Christmas is coming, the goose is getting fat...please to put a penny in an old man's hat." Presents still to buy and wrap, under my very plain and beautiful tree. Turn Handel's Messiah on and think about the words before you. Grace and truth.

Thanks-living

Each bend of the road brings surprises and challenges. I hope to never weary of all the changes and seasons that rise up to meet us. But this past year and a half has been especially challenging, mostly with me feeling like a weak, aching lump of humankind. I wasn't expecting to not be able to jump up and do Herculean feats at the drop of a hat, although I should have gotten a clue when that Ibuprofen bottle emptied out more easily these last few years. We are all getting older, even if we're a toddler. 

Our beautiful grandchildren are looking to the future, especially the three 12-year-old granddaughters. I see them changing rapidly, becoming women instead of girls. They are interesting to talk to -- their brains as sharp as newly-honed tools, their bodies awkward and akimbo like young colts, as the advent of womanhood encroaches. I'm looking forward to seeing all fourteen of our grandchildren (and their parents, of course) this week, for Thanksgiving. It's the most mayhem you can imagine, but also the sweetest. They love each other madly, running all over and about the house and yards. I might as well not vacuum until everything is said and done. 

We decided to do smoked brisket and ham this year instead of turkey. I lugged a giant hunk of beef home from Sam's and promptly delivered it to my son-in-law who wanted to smoke the thing. I don't even know how that works. There's four birthdays coming up and a closing that requires three gifts, so I might be hitting Sam's again today. And none of that has anything to do with Christmas. I'll think about it tomorra...

Some of this year's sadness has stemmed from conflict at church. We had just joined late last year, leaving our sweet, beloved Grace Prez (PCA) after twenty years. Ken had lost his Dad and we were thinking heavily about the brevity of life. We joined a kindred-minded church down the road, where one of our sons is an elder and we have five of our grandkids in our laps every Sunday (would that we had all fourteen of them there). It has been bittersweet to make such a big change -- super sweet with the grands and then bitter to leave old friends, and in particular when the head pastor of our new church ended up being ousted for absurd, betraying-sorts of behavior. People often say, "I don't go to church because it's full of hypocrites." To that I say, "And I am one." We're all sinners and that's exactly why we need redemption. The Church will never be perfect on this side of life and neither will any of us. What started as grievous things, though, is morphing into sweet, warm fellowship. We are surrounded by young families and singles, hungry for God's presence and Word. They are Berean-like, asking questions, raising their families to be old-fashioned seekers of the good things that have been lost. Ken and I are enjoying the energy and earnestness of these folks. God sees and knows all, and is bringing His people to Zion. The scriptures say, "Satan meant it for evil, but God means it for good." Mysteries...

Thanksgiving, for our many blessings, our good fortune, and even our pitfalls. There is so much to be thankful for today.  

Golden Days of Fall

Making meaningful time with old-but-gold friends is sheer bliss for me. My daughter, Elizabeth, arranged for some of these to come to my house and have a paint night. We all contributed yummy snacks to the table -- cheese, nuts, crackers, fresh veggies, chocolate and all sorts of beverages. I behaved, mostly, but had one small square of $16 chocolate and I just had to know if I was missing something in this life. I wasn't. It tasted like wax to me, and I blew my diet for that?! It's okay, I didn't go off the rails or anything and learned a lesson. 

These friends go way back, to around 1998 when we had just finished a two-year adventure in a camper on our land. They were also doing the craziness, living in an ancient house and doubling the size of it while homeschooling their kids. We helped each other with our projects, while our daughter became besties with two of their girls. We did a lot of life with their family over many years, so when one of our sons starting dating their daughter it was a natural sequence. A long stretch, many bumps in the road and they eventually broke up, leaving everyone a bit devastated. But God...   2025 finds all our kids on their various paths, some not where we thought they would be. Lots of grandbabies and goodness, tears, glories and triumphs in the rain. This is where we found ourselves Saturday night: the two daughters and their Mama, my daughter and me.  Laughing, noshing, painting, musing together over our messy lives. The pictures that emerged were amazing: a wonky dog with a bicycle flying over his head, a tiny colorful sardine, a sassy reindeer complete with red bow, a quirky and lovely group of flowers in a vase, a Christmas tree replete with gifts, and a tiny, mysterious seaside scene. The personalities of each person came through as well as some latent talent discovered. We promised to do it again, as we hugged our goodbyes. The threads of our hearts drew close and then we were back to our individual paths. I hold all of these women dear. Time can't erase that. 

Ending the weekend of much traveling back and forth: a closing, a shooting class with church ladies (so much fun!), to my niece and nephew's musical recital, to the night with the gals, then Sunday church, I am tired and ready for some quiet. I cancelled two events today so I could just meander through my morning, a luxury I probably shouldn't have done. But I did, and am enjoying the golden leaves right outside my window and a talk with my Mama. Life is good. Don't forget to stop and smell all of it...  

Eating Close to the Earth

There's a firehose on the news, social media and the bookshelves. It's all about the subject of health. I have an old-but-gold friend who has always said, "Just eat food that's close to how God made it." That's exactly what she has always done. Her house is full of fresh produce and fruit, no sugar or processed junk. I'd stop at the gas station and buy Little Debbies or a Chick-Fil-A Ice Dream (with chocolate syrup) on my way home from her house, because, well because I'm an addict. And sugar is delicious. I'd rather eat such things, sugary and chocolaty, than real food. It's an addiction, as bad as alcoholism. I have had bouts of victory interspersed with years of defeat. People always say, "You just need to be moderate. Eat in moderation!" To that I say you must not know me well, because I came from a long line of hedonists and we don't know what moderation means. For some of my people, that might mean smoking themselves to death or pickling their liver. But for me, one bite of sugary devilment, and I'm off to the races. I watched a sweet friend just last week eating an oatmeal cream pie. She ate half, then folded the plastic around it and said she'd eat that later. What planet is she from?! 

So for this body, I have to abstain from both sugar and bread, if I'm going to have health. Apparently, sugar is almost as bad for your liver as vodka (or at least my liver). Don't feel sorry for me. I've had more than my quota. I've been on the straight and narrow for seven weeks and I am already starting to feel better. Maintaining is key, and I'm placing helps all around, along with plenty of prayer.  

While we're on the subject of "natural eating," who knew that cats, in nature, kill and eat other animals? I thought that cat food only came in giant Walmart bags full of nasty kibble made of who-knows-what. I've had cats my whole life of all shapes and sizes. When our dear dog, Sadie, died this year, I thought adding a second cat would help fill that spot. Matilda, our old 17-year-old cat, loved dogs and humans but despised other cats. So it was not fun around here until she and the newby, Jillie the Jabberwocky, learned to at least tolerate one another. Sadly, Matilda died because of an accident caused by her deafness and blindness. I could not bear it (this is a theme) and got another Pixiebob to pair with Jillie. Enter Atticus, a cream-colored bobtailed lynx-point Pixiebob, shy and sweeter than honey. They fell in love pretty quickly and now I have these two zooming all over the house and sleeping together like a pair of fuzzy mittens. I tell Ken all the time that he should be happy, because even though he hates cats, they sure make his wife happy. 

Back to food... these kittens came to me on a raw diet. Raw. That means recently killed and not cooked. It's a whole day of work for me when I make a giant batch of it. I grind up pounds and pounds of chicken thighs, bones and all, and put organ meats, egg yolks, salmon oil and some supplements in it, then dish it out onto waxed paper in patties and freeze it in ziplock bags. When we put old Matilda on it, she was in heaven. Her terrible shedding ground to an almost-halt and the litter box doesn't smell like a sewer anymore. Who would believe that feeding them what God meant for them to eat would make everything better (except the one day every couple of months that I become a blood-covered butcher)? I'm rolling up my sleeves now, about to embark on said deed. 

My sugar cravings have calmed down, I'm starting to breathe a little better, the cats are salivating, the laundry is done, and Thanksgiving is coming soon. Putting up the tree this week, Lord willing, and thinking about what I'm thankful for. I was mobbed by a pile of grandkids last night at church and thought, wow, everybody told me this would be great. And it is.  

Sowing Love

Back when we were young, early to marriage, I heard a counselor say that it was prudent to deal with issues as they crop up, because those issues become seeds that grow and then sprout and bloom twenty, thirty, fourty years later. In other words, pull up the bad weeds as soon as they poke their heads up. That is easier said than done, but especially when you don't heed the sage advice and the roots grow deep and twisted over time. I am currently helping a divorced couple that we have known for decades to sell their home. They had a pile of kids, a beautiful house, a full life...but the early weeds were never pulled up. Now it's a mess and a tragedy in their "golden years." When the commotion of raising children begins to calm down and the thicket gets mown down, the bad roots show themselves. Can they navigate the rest of their lives, now that everything seems done for?  

I am in the empty nest myself. It was finally, fully manifested about six years ago. It didn't happen overnight...the three sons married 17, 14 and 14 years ago (yes, two of our sons married four weeks apart. FOUR!). Then our daughter married 5 years ago. All through our 43+ years, Ken has always made it a priority for us to date, so I was acquainted with the man, but nothing prepares you for the day that last one leaves and there's a lot of space between you and him. And the differences between us, the opposite-ness, the things that drew us towards one another back in the dewy days of youth, suddenly become irritating. There are wars of no small nature occurring: The Thermostat Wars, The War of The Minutia, The Battle of The Extrovert vs. The Introvert, The Crusades of Redistributing Housework, and The Who-Has-The-Most-Aches-and-Pains Skirmish. Trivialities can kill a marriage. If we let our world become too small, the lint in the bellybutton can ignite a roaring fire.

Giving thanks is one of the golden keys to staying married. I tell young women who ask me for advice that if they will do this one thing, it can start a transformation in their marriage: as you go about your day, find one thing to praise your husband for. Not a list, just one single, honest thing. It has to be truthful. Then tell him that evening. If I put that one item in my head early in my day, by the time Ken gets home, my attitude has bloomed to glowing. It is human nature to forget the things that put us together, to not remember the better parts of our partner. I keep a picture of my 24-year-old hottie husband taped to the computer on my desk. I remember him, with palpitations. But what matters more are the mountains and storms we have traversed over these years, the ways that we forgive each other along the way (because we are both excellent sinners), the places we have grown, and what we have to be thankful for. The wrinkles, the gray hairs, the chubby parts, the grumpy parts, the difficult years, these are not the things of Hallmark movies...but they are the marks of life ongoing. And love can walk through fire without blinking.