Fear Is A Liar

Fear 

We had three darling little boys at the time (a daughter arrived later)...I didn't know how passionately I would feel about these munchkins until they arrived. When the firstborn got here, I remember being scared to leave the hospital, because I was certain I would break him (all 10 pounds, 8 oz of him - red, screaming Viking-worthy screams). My days were full of feeding, cleaning, naps and lots and lots of walks, which seemed to quell the lusty howling. By the time number three got here, I was an expert. Any woman with three boys in rapid succession becomes a force to be reckoned with. That much testosterone makes for some resilience. The daughter was a walk in the park, after all that chaos. 

Something started happening to me, however. It started with stomach trouble, then what felt like heart attacks -- chest pain, back pain, even left arm pain. After way too many doctor visits and speculation, it was finally revealed that I had a bad gallbladder and it had to be removed. But the damage was already done, to my fear meter. I began to believe that God was telling me I was going to die soon. Not in an audible voice, but in quiet moments of prayer or reading, where the house was (finally) quiet and I had time to think and think some more. This fear began to creep in, slowly but surely. I didn't want to tell anyone, not even Ken, at first. It seemed ludicrous. I had had a sweet relationship with the Lord since I was a young child. He had always seemed to me like my Daddy -- loving, kind, benevolent. But I had also listened to many speakers over the years and one in particular talked about how God told him all sorts of things, things about the future and things concerning his health. I distinctly "knew" I was going to die soon. Ken's mother had died when he was just a toddler, and his brother was four months old. I saw how this affected him and was a little obsessed with the tragedy of it. He had no memory of his mother, and his family was of the mind that you didn't speak of the dead. He was not allowed to know her. I began to fear this same scenario. 

My days began to get worse. I would look at my rambunctious boys, so full of life. The morose thoughts would begin to crowd my mind and I could not enjoy or embrace the fullness of what was in front of me, because I was mourning what I thought was the truth: that I wouldn't be there to watch them grow up. 

I was brought up where true Christianity was walked out...my parents prayed about everything. They were far from perfect, full of themselves and their willful ideas. But they knew and lived in a way that was real -- sins were confessed, forgiveness was asked for and given, and dependence on God was a daily, breathing entity. There were no sacred cows, no frilly or fancy programs -- just the simple life of walking with God in faith, fellowshipping and learning at church each week, and living what they believed. Honest and genuine, a gift to us kids. 

Along the way, however, there were a good many teachers and philosophies of "hearing from God" apart from the Scriptures. Now this is going to be controversial, but it is what I have walked through, so I am compelled to tell it. The Bible is very clear that we are not to add to or detract from the Word. We believed that, but I found myself listening for the voice of God, in a mystical, ethereal way, apart from the scriptures. That would seem to be okay, until you wake up one day, paralyzed with fear and unable to function because you think God told you that you were about to die. It was as real to me as the air I breathed. I descended further into despair. I would look about me as I went along the way -- in shops or grocery stores, where I'd see people shopping and think, "What is it like to just shop, to not be afraid this was my last day?" 

I spoke to Ken and then tentatively to my sister about it. I would experience a few good days and then spiral again. Ken was working night shift and normally left around 10:30 in the evenings. There were many nights I begged him to stay home because I was so scared. I would guzzle Benadryl sometimes so I could sleep. No one knew how scared I really was. Often, I would not sleep all night, then would hear him arrive home in the morning and would fall immediately in the bed and get just a bit of rest until the kids woke up. Misery was growing.

This all came to a head one morning after I had not slept, again. It had been many months of this half-life. Ken walked in the door; I sat him down and said that I was going to either find some answers that day or he was going to have to put me in the loony bin. He asked me what I wanted him to do. I told him to go on to bed and that I'd wake him up if I needed him, but that we would not be having school that day or doing anything constructive except me finding answers. 

We didn't have Google or computers back then, just a phone book. I began calling counselors and clinics, to find someone who could help me with my predicament. I didn't want to talk to anyone I knew, because I sounded like I was losing my mind (maybe I was) and didn't want anyone that I knew knowing about it. I was desperate. I called many different places, to no avail. They all had appointments for weeks and weeks out. Eventually, I called a ministry in Tennessee and they referred me to an evangelical speaker in Atlanta...they said that he was a very discerning man and could help me. I didn't have any confidence in my own pastor at the time, and isn't that a shame? 

I called this man's office and reached his secretary. She said that he was leaving in 20 minutes for the airport and wouldn't be available for at least another week, but he agreed to talk to me. Once on the phone, he could hear the cacophony of my boisterous boys in the background. He told me to speak to them and tell them it was important for me to have some quiet time, then to lock my bedroom door. I set them up with some toys upstairs and came back to the phone. He listened carefully to my story and the difficulty I was having with fear. I told him I knew that God was telling me I was about to die.  

His response was nothing I was prepared for. He said, "I'm not discounting your fear, but do you understand that you are sinning?" He then outlined the fact that I was, actually, going to die sometime, but only God knew that day. When we got down to the roots of it, that I was so scared of leaving my children, he had me pray and aggressively give them to the Lord. He asked me, "What if you do die soon? Do you have the faith to trust God, that He knows better than you?" 

I knew all these things, in my head and in theory, but when the realities (and possibilities) of the ugly parts of life hit you between the eyes, we discover what we really believe. I found myself lacking. I would have said easily, "I trust God." But did I? Well, not really. Our basic self wants to control everything, if we are honest. To think that I couldn't manage my world cranked me right on up to high anxiety. "Easy believism" is the bane of the modern church -- we don't really know what we believe. Often, we make up a pretty, simple religion in our own heads that might have nothing to do with the Bible. It feels good to us and floats in the ether, not based on any real substance. 

This particular day in my life, when I faced the question of who I was really going to trust, the chains of fear fell off. My life since then has been different, sometimes more desert-like, but also sometimes more dessert-like.  Walking in clearer light changed everything. Soon after, we got pregnant again and had a darling girl, Viking-sized like the others. We named her Elizabeth Hope, which means "God is my oath" and "Hope" -- because, well, duh. 

I run across many people who live in secret, dreadful fear. They don't have to tell me -- I know it too well. "There is no fear in love, but perfect love casts out fear. For fear has to do with punishment and whoever fears has not been perfected in love." I John 4:18. I have found a perfect love, more amazing than anything of this world, and therein lies the answer.  

Green Is the Color of My Mind (with orange and purple hanging down to the ground. But I don't care, 'cause I'm colorblind!)

I've been highly involved with three arenas in my life (and well, dozens of others too, but will only talk about these three today).  I'm intrigued how differently these three areas sit in my brain and experience.    

#1 - Teaching. Way back when I was a teenager, I thought that I wanted to become either a journalist or a coach. My 16-year-old self wanted to be on TV, to be a weather lady or news reporter. I thought that I needed an English/journalism degree, so that was foremost in my mind. Secondly, I thought I'd love to be a coach, seeing as I loved the game of basketball as if it were my life's blood. But there was also that pesky part of being a coach = teaching. I would think to myself, "What if God wants me to go to Russia to be a missionary and teach math?" Both those possibilities made me sick at my stomach. Russia, at the time, seemed to be this cold, scary place. And I despised math. Plus, I'd have to teach people, ick! Then as adulthood came into view, I realized I was a weenie when it came to telling people what to do. I'd rather just do things myself and not have to be the commander. Funny how God sees our plans and laughs. I spent some 25 years or so teaching. Not math (I outsourced most of the high school stuff by bartering with my painting skills), but I taught my own children at home (we were considered insane by some in the 80s), then taught art and flute to other kids for many years.

Teaching is a unique window into the souls of children. You can see right through to them. I could detect a teachable heart or a stubborn heart, just because I was trying to show them something. You can ask any teacher about this and they will usually agree. It's an uncanny phenomenon. Most (not all) of the kids I taught, I could have told you how they'd turn out as adults. Teachers can see the future and have a massive responsibility. Hats off to all of you that are teaching (I ain't doing that anymore...) 

#2 - Art/Decorative Painting. Besides teaching basic art to my own children as well as a good many other kids, bartering with my paint skills for math classes led to an ever-widening net of opportunities. This and that person wanted my experience, so it opened up to a full-scale business. I had decorators and contractors contacting me for their needs...the 90s and 2000s were ripe for murals, hand-rendered logos and faux finishes. 

Artistry is a unique window into our own souls. When I hit the "flow" that is that right-brained song, there's nothing closer to heaven for me. I feel very close to the Lord because I know these things are nothing I've trained for....they just come out and announce themselves. He has gifted all of us for our own places in the world, some for organizing, some for driving, some for directing Fortune 500 companies and some for many other abilities. I know that there are things inexplicably beautiful in all people and those are hints of the divine. He left those to remind us of Him.

#3 - Real Estate. I got my license some 19 years ago. The downturn happened right as I got it, so my busiest season has been since 2014 or so. You'd think I would understand it by now. I've never advertised it in a traditional manner; it has happened by relationships and word of mouth. At least half of my business is dealing with estate sales, not for the faint of heart. People who are selling Mama's house are in the worst place -- they have lost a relative, they might be fighting with siblings over the estate, or they are really needing the money and have anticipated this for years. Usually the home is in a mess, because parents have aged and lost the ability to keep up home maintenance. There are piles of belongings and lots of repairs needed. Much crazy-making can happen when everybody has to get along or agree on what is going to occur. I have to be counselor, lawyer and realtor all wrapped up in one place. This is where it gets hard to communicate. No one wants bad news, and if there's no good news to be had, why would you tell it? It's all a part of the business, and then there's the left-brain parts that contort me into a pretzel. I shouldn't tell my weaknesses in public, but I've never been able to hide myself well. 

Real estate is a unique window into the souls of other people. Their best and worst sides come out and my part is to try to keep the circus in balance. I love to talk but I don't like to boss people around. Communication is key but people are sensitive, anxious and needy when it's time to sell their homes. In my experience, there are two kinds of salesmen: Sharks and Dolphins. And I ain't no Shark. 

Summary: Each phase of our lives brings challenges and blessings. I used to look at old people and thought their lives must be boring. And maybe some of them were. But more likely, they had a lot going on that I knew nothing of. I really do regret not picking the brains of my Grandmas more. Not that I'm saying I'm old. No, I am not. I shall stay 39, except for on my birthdays, where I turn 40 for one day and then revert back. Daddy taught me these principles, and I am believing him for that...  

Tilting at Windmills

Little foxes, little arguments. 

A tiny infraction on one side can open into a massive chasm that destroys relationships, even businesses, churches, nations. Unfortunately, these things seem to be on the rise. All the "sensitivity training" and reams of writing and counseling are teaching us all to stare longingly into our bellybuttons and have thinned our skin to a crinkly, fragile state. The traditions of pulling yourselves up by the bootstraps or enduring through the storm have been largely relegated to old books or tales from the past. We have forgotten how to endure. Or to truly love.

Dear friends who we considered family have jumped ship and abandoned all of us and even our church because of a tiff between two wives in our social group. What started as a smart-aleck slight quickly escalated to something I can't quite describe. Long-term friendships have been abandoned, and there is a wake behind this middle-school-worthy girl fight that makes my heart feel a bit like it has been through a-stompin'... and I'm not even remotely part of the skirmish. 

But the tongue has the power to crush, to malign, and to destroy. "How great a forest is set ablaze by such a small fire! And the tongue is a fire, a world of unrighteousness. The tongue is set among our members, staining the whole body, setting on fire the entire course of life, and set on fire by hell." (from James 3)    It is the nature of mankind to gossip, to spread information under the guise of concern, and I am counted among the guilty. The scriptures call these words "tasty morsels." How fun is it to have the newest "scoop" on something wrong or evil or distasteful? We throw these things out for others to hear, clutching our pearls, anxious to see the shock and awe of such injustice. Heaven forbid we look at the log in our own eyes. 

There are better ways of healing hurts. One is to simply "step over" it, as our elder stated yesterday in Sunday School. Let it go. Get over it. Forgive it. Love covers a multitude of sins, isn't that what the Good Book says? Squash that little bug of irritation and be free to walk in peace. Love each other back, even when there is hurt. I have a friend, 35 years or so in the making, where we had multiple hurts between us. Things involving our kids, situations, jealousies, gossip. One day in recent years I found myself languishing in a body of water with this friend. Our eyes both misted over as she said, "Can you believe we are still true friends, after the hurts, the trials and troubles that we have worked through?" And it is as she said... forgiveness, love and a resolve to not make mountains out of molehills saved our friendship over the years. We have both grown, matured, walked a few valleys of our own...and came out on the other side still friends. Deeper comrades, so when the real hell happened, we were there for each other. 

We do not have to always have our own "protections" as preeminent in our lives. There is space, and need, for overlooking each others warts and stupid responses. Grow some skin. Not meaning to sound trite, but truly, love can build a bridge.     

Campy, Cheesy Thoughts

I hate to be redundant, but I am, on the daily. It's often a question I ask others: "Have I told you this before?" Yes, the B-B's are falling out, because I have a whole lot of them and there's  not enough space in there. Rather to have lots than not enough. Why not suck the marrow out of life? God's world is vast and there's lots more people to know before we dip out. Sometimes I feel like I'm rushing to not miss anything. That's probably not the best... might need to slow down and go camping. 

The subject of camping seems to come up a lot with me, even though there was a massive gap without doing it between being a kid and an adult. But then there's the two years we camped on our land with four kids while we (literally) built our house. I want credit. We laid every block and 2x4 in that house, with help from friends and family. Two years of "home construction skills" added to our kids' homeschool arsenal. Who was I kidding? Math meant measuring wood and counting nails. English was, well, talking. I figured I was warping our children and that could be, but they turned out pretty awesome considering their warped parents. 

That camper was well-worn when we bought it. The refrigerator didn't work, so we used it for my and 5-year-old Elizabeth's closet. The heating system didn't work, so we wore out a dozen space heaters instead. Ken and his Dad built a shelter over the camper and put a porch in the mix. I bought an old fridge for $25 at a yard sale, so we became true rednecks and had a refrigerator on the porch. I hammered big nails in the 2x4s and we hung everybody's overalls and had their boots underneath. We wore those all week and I washed and dried them early Friday mornings at the laundromat. In the winter, we wrapped plastic around the whole business, to help keep the warmth in. It was insane, but I still talk about it like it was yesterday. I really should stop. It has been a very long time ago. We sold that monstrosity of a camper to some guy who had six kids (it only had two twin beds and a couch sofa). I was only 36 when we had moved into that thing. 36. That is a baby. But we already had our four babies (ages 12, 10, 8 and 5) and I thought I knew what life was. The mountains and the valleys were coming, though God got us through them. 

Years of life, then the boys' marriages, then a move to Villa Rica, then the grandbaby fest started, then eventually the baby girl married  (their own babyfest starting when they came home from their honeymoon pregnant). Now we measure our days like a snowstorm, flurries of things to do and family and church and friends to see, ridiculous time spent in doctors' offices trying to keep ahead of our own creaky bodies.

I bought an old camper in 2020, when the world was falling apart. It was ugly, brown and dated. With some paint and imagination, I painted it inside and out (did you know you can transform the outside of a camper with Kilz and Behr products, no problem?) I figured why not live, so I turned it into a retro Barbie camper. I hate Barbies (please don't lynch me) but love the colors and painted it turquoise, coral and cream. Had a new label printed for the outside, some fresh floor love from our sons, and installed stainless steel tiles on the backsplash of the kitchen area and made cute curtains for the windows. It looked like a 50s diner. Then we actually camped in it. With a full-size bed crammed against the corner, Ken and I had a hard time navigating these Viking bodies around, especially at night when it came time to visit the loo. After a few camping events, with Ken feeling like he was suffocating, he mentioned how nice it would be to have a bigger camper. The operative theme here is that he wanted another one. I couldn't believe my ears. 

Facebook marketplace has changed all of our lives, for the better (well, except for those murders, there is that). With the fancy upgrades to our camper and an FB ad, I woke up to three different people circling our city block, vying for their chance to buy the thing. I sold it for over twice what I bought it for, and started hunting another one. 

After some hapless wandering, our son Jon and I drove to Lawrenceville, me with a bucket of cash and my gun strapped to my hip, to see another used camper. This one was much bigger, had room for actual Viking people and even a slideout, all for only a bit more than what I had sold the last one for. I became a little concerned when the guy had an electric cash counter to count the money. He obviously was accustomed to such things. But any fool who would mess with Jon Norton, or any of my men, might be losing his marbles. 

We drove the thing home and have spent entirely too much money outfitting it between road trips. Just so you know, I'm done with Barbie projects for now. Ken's next project is to rip out the couch and put in recliners. Both my MawMaw and my Daddy died happy and content in their recliners. I don't plan on sitting there. I'll take the booth, thank you very much....

What's Next?

Where is the beach? I can imagine it, I can feel it, I remember the warm, soft breezes and the gorgeous sunsets there. Not sure if we are going this year, but I could sure use some right about now. We used to go a couple of times a year, when Laguna Beach Christian Cottages were dirt cheap and half the people we knew in the world also went. We had to bring our own linens and half the kitchen with us, as well as bring extra blankets and towels to cover the windows at night. Otherwise, you seemed like you were sleeping in the daylight. But it was worth it.  Our kids would run all over the place -- swimming, playing volleyball and basketball, running down the very-familiar path to the beach, hunting through the local "Beall's Outlet" for great deals. We'd save up all year for our night out at "Angelo's Steak Pit" and take pictures of the family with the big bull out front. 

Thinking of the water makes me think of my Daddy, the best Daddy that God ever made. He loved the beach and hanging out with his 21 grandkids. My Mama didn't care for all the heat and the sand, but she indulged him those trips. I'd saunter over to their cottage and drink coffee with him in the mornings. We'd find him in his big Panama Jack hat and Bermuda shorts, with socks and flip-flops to protect his feet. How I miss the very essence of him, this Father's Day. 

I remember that little girl, so loved by him. He thought I was the bomb.com and delighted in whatever I was up to, including our (later) four children and then grandchildren. He was always completely involved in their activities, be it sports or speeches or church choir performances. He retired early, not with great riches, but with better plans than clocking in every day. He fixed up campers and he and my Mama camped all the time, usually bringing a grandchild or two with them. They made the rounds to see all the family. He'd say, "I'm hungry to see some of them grandkids." And he was loved for it.

I know that getting old was hard for him. He was always a kid at heart, and when there were restrictions beginning to hinder his activities, he was not happy about it. The Lord was merciful to take him while he still had his boots on.  I'm glad he didn't die by inches, which is often the case. He mowed his grass, took a shower, ate a bite of popcorn and that was it. His last words to my Mama were "Thank you." His last words to me and my sister were two days before: "I'm so proud of you two." These were the usual things that came out of his mouth. 

The world has not been the same, for the eight years since he left it. But we dishonor our loved ones, if we let that keep us from living, from flying. They would be terribly grieved, if they saw us mired in our own grief. They want us to thrive, to prove out what they taught us, to carry the candle of their light to the next generations. Therefore, I cry today, missing him terribly, but then I dry my tears and look to those God has placed around me, to love them well, to tell them what they mean to me, to encourage them to fly and to soar. 

This is the circle of life.

Deep in the Valley

 Sometimes God makes the train stop, all at once. The world keeps going by, but you have no choice but to sit out the tornado. Be it a death, illness, natural disaster or your house burning down, much that seemed to matter before suddenly takes a back seat. Life gets boiled down to a crystallized, laser-focused bullseye on the Big Things. Could be simply surviving. Could be making amends. Could be the thought: "If I get through this, what will I do on the other side that will make a difference -- to me or others?" Then, if I do survive,  and things calm down and I get back to the "usual" -- did I remember what I said to myself? 

Life is short. Don't wait for a better time or circumstance to do the right thing.  

And one of the right things, for me, is to pause. I gotta learn this. I don't think I appear hyper, but my brain is, and I take on way more things than I have the real bandwidth to make happen sometimes, well, often. The major stuff will magically arrive, but if you look at the wake behind me, you can see a crashed house, neglected people, exhausted interior brains and emotions. 

My sister and I are now of a certain age. That age where I'm not going to say I'm old, because I'm not! Besides, I'm only 39, that's what Jack Benny (and my Daddy) said, right? Ken owns that "old" label but nope, he can have it. Melanie and I both recently had emergency hospital visits, after large and exhausting projects in our lives. Sitting there now, feeling quite sorry for myself, I told her we need to keep doing, keep moving, keep living -- but maybe we need to learn to pause, particularly after these seasons of expenditure that we inevitably take on (on purpose, mind you). To take a breath and ruminate a bit on what just conspired before we jump headlong into the next adventure. Otherwise, like the sound of the tree falling in the forest -- did it really happen?

I recently had an amazing week at a writer's conference where my dear friend Grace and I absorbed lectures, workshops and consults like sponges. That was three weeks ago and my brain is still feeling the fullness, yet I have not had the space or juice to sit down, read through my notes and books, chew on a plan that I feel the Lord gave me. And if I don't, if I just let that sit out in the ether, in a year it will still be there rusting in my brain, but losing traction. There's space. There's time. Then there's that juice. Apparently that comes in limited quantities.

Yesterday, when I had a weird infection crawling up my arm and didn't know if it was jungle fever or MRSA or a flesh-eating bacteria, I went all the way to the worst possible scenario. I mean, it was spreading fast and even with all manner of powerful intravenous antibiotics, nothing was changing. I was watching this happen in real time and it really was a perfect time to panic. The histrionics have probably given my people PTSD. If you think you're going to die, then you go all the way to the other side of the moon, grieving and thinking last thoughts. If somehow you make it around to the other side and then there's a possibility that you might indeed live to see another day, you wake up extremely grateful. Everything is wonderful after that, even the dry, mealy chicken and beans I got to eat for supper. A friend brought me organic blueberries, however, and I had to have insulin this morning for my debauchery (and I don't even take insulin). Lord have mercy. 

I still don't know what will happen to me. I might pull through, but there will be a day, sooner than I can imagine, that I won't make it past whatever stops this heart. Things seem better today, but I'm still in pain, seeing a hot, purpley-red arm, though it seems to have quit spreading. Either way, when I sat in the middle of yesterday, not sure of much, I was still sure of one thing. That in that valley, I was smack-dab in the middle of God's hand. I have not suffered much in my life, but I do know that He has been faithful to me all of my days. There's a song about that and I play it often, to remind myself. There are valleys, but He's in them with me. 

God, Protecting Fools and Children

Who can know the harms that we may have avoided along our daily paths? I often think of this, when I am late leaving for a trip and see a bad crash on the road where I might have been, if I had left on time. I have had countless narrow-misses in traffic, which could have been fatal or worse (there are worse things than dying, in my opinion). There are awful things that still happen, but I just have to wonder at how many angels have caused me to avoid even worse. These are things I ponder, but none as much as a day back in the mid-90s...

Our big, rambling house in Marietta was for sale. It was on a very busy road and we had three mangy boy creatures, all ages 10 and under, and a 5-year-old ballerina. They liked nothing more than exploring and getting into hazardous situations. Our boys had been retrieved and snatched from oncoming traffic more times than I want to remember. Liz usually stood on the side and watched the parade. We were aiming to buy land and move into a camper and build our own house, far off the road and full of other kinds of adventures for our children. Snakes, creeks, stray bullets...those kinds of things.  

We didn't ever list our homes with Realtors, no. Who needed a Realtor, when we could do it ourselves? The market was terribly slow, so when a man called that morning to see the house, I was willing to interrupt our school day (we were homeschooling) to accommodate him. He asked if he needed to bring a Realtor and I said no. Because he asked that question, I didn't feel anxious about showing to a stranger, though I thought it was an odd request. His appointment was slated for 1:00. 

We ate lunch and I sent the kids out to play while I finished cleaning up the kitchen. At about 12:45, I glimpsed a man, silent, brooding, angry, walking up behind me as I leaned over the dishwasher. He had come into the house, going through several rooms to get to the kitchen, without knocking or hailing me or making his presence known. He had walked probably 6-8 feet into the area without speaking before I noticed him. He was about four feet from me when my spidey-sense kicked in and I immediately wheeled around to face the man. His demeanor and spirit were pure evil. I broke out in goosebumps. My first inclination was to say something like, "I'm sorry, but something has come up and we have to leave." As I considered strategy, I feared that if I did that, he would attack me. Instead, I acted very bright and cheerful, said instant prayers to the Lord and tried to think about how to extricate myself and the children from this situation. I kept myself as far away as I could from him as we walked down the hall to see the living room. He kept furtively trying to get behind me, but I arranged myself so that I was facing him at all times. As we passed the laundry room, our gentle, quiet, "harmless" Golden Retriever, Gracie, suddenly growled, a deep and vicious snarl. She had never behaved like that, even when strangers came to the door. She jumped up and came to my side. I quickly tried to show him the house, all the while keeping myself facing him and trying not to trip over the dog, who was making circles around me as we made our way through. After a few minutes, a couple of the children also came into the house. My heart was pounding, as this man never looked at anything but me. He was not interested in the house at all -- his furious eyes never deviated from staring at me. It did not seem to be a lust-type-of-thing, but more of an extreme and fierce anger emanating from his person. I had never met or seen this man before. I knew that we were in danger and my only defense was to pray and be alert. 

And God sent Gracie. To this day, some thirty years later, I believe the dog might have caused this man to be restrained. That, and especially, the mercies of God. After I walked him out, still alert and keeping him from circling behind me, I rushed the other children into the house. His car was an old white vehicle, covered with mold and moss. The license tag on the front of the car was from another state, very far away, and was 25 years old. As he backed the car out, I observed that the rear tag was also 25 years old. I pondered where he'd been for that many years, with his car mouldering under a tree somewhere. One of the boys said to me, after he had left, "Mama, I thought he was going to kill us." 

We locked up the house tightly, called Daddy at work and told him what had happened. He told me to head to Grandpa and Grandma's house with the kids until he got home (if I remember correctly, after this, we spent several days heading to their house after breakfast). He searched the house thoroughly and called us to come back when he knew all was clear. We called a Realtor that day to list the house and never saw hide nor hair of the devil man again. The house was eventually sold and we headed for the country life. 

Now, our children are long grown, with many children of their own.  I got busy with real estate after I was through raising them. But you can bet your boots, if I'm real-estating, I'm packing heat. Jus' sayin'....