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.  

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...