Travel Without the Hassle

I love books. They're all over my house, piles of them. I try to keep one at every landing spot I have: The kitchen, along with the cookbooks; By the recliner; Another pile at my big chair in the living room; By the bed; One or a dozen in each bathroom. If I'm sitting still, there's a good book nearby. Ken bought me my third Kindle for Christmas and gave it to me early (this one lights up so you can read it at the beach!). He thought I might need it while recovering from surgery. 

Way back when I started school, only rich people's kids went to kindergarten. I remember my first day of first grade at Powder Springs Elementary. We had reading circle and there was a boy who could already read. I didn't think he seemed all that much smarter than me, so I made it my quest to figure this thing out. In short order, I was done with those Dick and Jane books and picking up reads from the library. A whole world of adventures opened up as the delicious stacks loomed before me. I was always getting in trouble for sneaking my real books inside our "readers." When third grade came around, our teacher took us through a speed-reading curriculum. I couldn't believe my luck. 

I am thankful for all the libraries that exist -- school, public, church, and even the little library two doors down from us now. It's easy to pick up a $1.00 masterpiece at the Goodwill store, and now that Amazon is king, I'm ashamed of the amount of money I spend clicking on that little banner. Sometimes it's hard to find a book without gratuitous sex (really, don't these folks have their own sex lives?!) -- I've asked many a librarian to point me to a clean book, only to find it's just another trashy novel when you get to page 10. I really don't understand that. Just as in great comedy, the best and smartest work is what takes brains and plot, not resorting to the lowest common denominator.

Meanwhile, there are so many good books left to read, not enough time. I'm plumbing the depths right now, learning new things about training puppies. My Christmas present, Jack the Australian Shepherd Puppy, is coming next week and I'm doing a refresher, even though I've had more puppies in my life than is fair to the rest of the world. What is wonderful about literature is that you can immerse yourself into any subject, learn it from different angles, and see the whole world from another's eyes. I have several books in me, but I don't know if I can hunker down long enough to write one out myself. Books are our stories, our lives. How lucky we are to have them. There are too many great ones out there to stop and read one twice, except the Bible. And that is a mystery to me. I have no interest in reading a novel two times, but when I open that Good Book, it is a treasure trove (I like the ESV and the NKJV translations). It's like looking at a multi-faceted gem, where when you look from a different angle it takes on a whole other meaning. Different decades, different circumstances and you'll find little notes in my margins, telling of what God did. The facet of the Word turns and a new light is shed on today's disaster or triumph. It's a living book, sprung from the heart and mind of our Creator and different than any other. History, adventure, wisdom, and lots of mayhem, along with the way back to center. What could be better?

Christmas in Town

Some years, Christmas comes thundering in like a freight train. The stress of it can make one go mad. Atlanta traffic goes haywire as soon as Halloween is over, there are gifts to buy, parties to attend (many of them obligatory), and everything to decorate. I go out into my musty workshop and pull out grubby bins to see if the mice have left all my pretties alone. I have found that if I will decorate and shop sooner rather than later, there will come a serene moment where I can sit still for a spell and remember what Christmas is anyway. That moment came this morning...

We have the impossible blessing of living in this Victorian gem of a house. Since we moved here, 7-1/2 years ago, I have increasingly been aware that nothing is really ours...we are just passing through. I see the past marks of ownership...scrapes on the beautiful floors, chips on the (five!) fireplaces, loose tiles, mouldings worn about the edges from so much life happening over 118-or-so years. We're putting our own marks on it -- new layers of paint, sometimes peeling back unfortunate history (read: 80s wallpaper), puppy piddles on the varnished floors, bumps from furniture and grandchildren. Every change that we make, we try to respect the house and its history. No modern open-concept or fresh sheetrock here. How is it historic if you've ripped everything away? Eventually this home will pass on to someone else and they can put their own spin on it. I don't believe in ghosts, but I'll come back and haunt it if they don't do her proud. 

I bought a new living room rug, tired of the old burgundy ones. It was horrid, looked nothing like the pictures online, and there was nothing to do but send it back. As I agonized over first-world-problems, I finally found the perfect one. Ken didn't believe me, because it always takes one or two tries before it's right...but suffice it to say, it arrived and our son Daniel descended to help Papa Bear move that massive thing around until it was right in the space. Papa insisted that I Scotchguard it, so last night I sprayed it with six cans of some kind of carcinogenic stuff. When I woke up this morning, he had put all the furniture back and the room thrummed with new life. The 90-year-old wallpaper, the couches, the wood, and the stunning stained-glass-windows were at peace with the rug and all was finally well in Rose World. 

I have Guilt, about pretty much everything. It seemed to come on strong after we started having babies. It seems there's always something extra that should or shouldn't be done. I'm learning to rest though, rest in God's plans for my life, learning to rest in Christ's work on the cross. 'Bout time. When I look at His blessings, it's easy to feel guilty. But that's just the devil talking. This morning, as I sat in my lovely dining room and looked at the tree, the garland, the gifts piled up, the gorgeous windows, and yes, the sweet rug, my heart tugged at God's bounty. Not just the physical parts. I've lived like this and I've lived in an old, leaky camper (where we had a foot-high tree and enjoyed it just as much). Like Paul said in the Scriptures: "for I have learned in whatever situation I am to be content. I know how to be brought low, and I know how to abound. In any and every circumstance, I have learned the secret of facing plenty and hunger, abundance and need. I can do all things through him who strengthens me." - Phil. 4:11-13. I'm not as practiced at it as Paul, but I get it.

I feel like we are always trying to imitate God's creation. There's something in us that pulls towards all things beautiful. We subconsciously wish to bring the majesty of all He has made inside, into our trinkets and playthings. My Daddy used to say that we are born wanting to grasp heaven, and that's why ice cream tasted so good.  There's a vacuum of sorts inside us, sometimes roaring loudly, demanding to be filled. This morning, taking in the light that spilled gauzily on the confections of my house...where you can see at every juncture finely crafted windows, fireplaces, floors, mouldings, ceilings, I think about all the folks that it must have taken to build this place and how it would cost a fortune to replace it. They really don't make them like this anymore. I think art is our subconscious attempt to imitate God. I look through the leaded glass, pulled to the periwinkle winter sky where a bird trills like it thinks it's spring or something. Look harder and see the glorious, bodacious hand of Him everywhere, including the creative works of men in the music I'm hearing, the architecture of an amazing building, the thick velvet curtains falling to the floor. Yes, we are a cracked people, but marked out in the image of God. 

A Handel piece comes on. I wonder if I've died and gone to heaven. For Unto Us A Child Is Born. Paradise lost and regained. Stop and ponder it this Christmas.

Papa Bear Hits One Out of the Park

I think instead of letting me grieve to death (from losing our precious Zoe recently), my dear husband decided to let me have another puppy. There will never be another Zoe. She was as perfect a dog and companion as I could ever have had the luck to experience. But our hearts are so down, every time we open the door to our empty house. The yard feels wrong, without our special dog circling and rolling around in it. I blow a kiss to her grave each time I pass it; the sheer emptiness brings me to tears most days. I know that a puppy can't replace her, but Merry Christmas from Papa Bear and I am on pins and needles until this one gets here.

I said I'd never have a boy dog, but when the litter had two (already claimed) girls and seven boys, my mind began to wander and weaken. They named the boys from my favorite musical: Seven Brides for Seven Brothers! Adam, Ben, Caleb, Daniel, Ephraim, Frank (short for Frankincense) and Gideon.  These puppies are related to my Zoe by blood (their grandma is Zoe's sister)... The Aussie-vixen-lady sent me pictures of the cute, bear-cub-looking boys, talked about their personalities and their natures. But I wasn't getting a boy, so I don't know what she thought she was doing. There was one of them, very big, with a boxy head, Daniel. Did she know I'm a sucker for Nordic-looking men? She's never even seen Ken. He was super cute but I couldn't pick that one. I already have a son named Daniel. My other kids would think I was playing favorites. I stared and stared at the pictures and then another name popped into my head. I could rename him Jack! Then I was in trouble, because all I could think of was a cute Australian Shepherd that looked like a baby bear and his name was Jack. Who in the world could resist that?

So the breeder (greatoaksaussies.com) told me they were having open house, where we could visit the pups. My Mama wanted to go, and then 6-year old Annabelle jumped on the bandwagon too. Liz drove us two hours to Homer, Georgia, which is like heaven on earth, up to this old, renovated farmhouse with all the darling outbuildings and fences, plus a pile of lovey-dovey Aussies and that litter of puppies. We snuggled and cooed with that baby, then had to force ourselves to leave. Later that night, Annabelle kept saying, "Yaya, I just can't stop thinking about the puppy! Why can't you bring him home now?!" No kidding...

He can't come home until after Christmas, but here's to my ultimate childhood dream revisiting me at pert near 60 years old. Hurry up Santa!

Barrel Racing

They'd already been robbed three times. Once, someone busted in a window at their house and took guitars, TVs and such. Second time, it was tools from the garage. This last time, it was my son's big honkin' truck, stolen straight out of the driveway while they slept. The law was called, inventory taken. Then Jon had to head south for a job, so my daughter-in-love and grandbaby were there by themselves.

That evening, just before the sun tipped low in the sky, she called and asked if I could spend the night with them. I packed a small bag and headed there, packing my Taurus 9mm, of course. When I pulled into their driveway, I saw what I will never forget. The baby and her Mama were on the wide front porch. The baby was playing happily, babbling to herself. Mama was sitting in a rocking chair, with a huge shotgun in her lap. She said, "Listen! He's coming back around again. There's a guy in a truck who keeps circling and driving by." Sure enough, I heard ridiculously loud tailpipes coming up the road from a half mile away. I said, "_____ no! Get a bag packed. We are NOT staying here tonight." She really didn't want to leave, because she figured he was trawling for another haul, but I wasn't leaving them there to fend for themselves and I certainly wasn't hanging around to wait for him to do something stupid. We moseyed to Villa Rica town and spent the night at my house. And yes, the creep robbed them again.

When my son married this precious woman, we really didn't know her well, though they had dated a long time. She was quiet, demure, never self-seeking. We knew she was a very good woman, God-fearing and calm. What we didn't know was how she was going to handle our bronco-busting son who was as strong-willed as a bull and over-opinionated about everything. There came a conversation with her spit-fired Grandmama who sidled up to me one day and said, "You ever seen that girl ride a horse?" I said no. "She's the best barrel racer I've ever seen," winking at me. I've seen how that goes -- a fearless, wild woman who whips her horse into a lather and tears around those barrels. I was glad Grandmama cleared that up, because a few things began to make sense. Not that I think it's a woman's job to tame a man, but that boy needed a (loving) hell-cat for a wife. That's what happens when love gets in the picture. In the best loves, both people give way. They die to themselves, they do things they never dreamed they would or could. They just passed their eleventh anniversary, with plenty of mad-dash-rodeos in between. I've seen them go to the edges and back again, but I think they're gonna make it. He loves her something fierce and she loves and respects him back again. She's the good kind, the kind that makes a man better. He's done growed into a real man. I'm his Mama and I'm proud, but I don't know if the results would have been the same if he'd have married a lesser woman. Let that be a lesson to you young fellas. A good man can't ever pull a bad woman up, but a good woman can pull up a fair-to-middling man and make him remarkable. It's old wisdom, passed on to me by folks older and wiser than me. 

Oh The Tangled Web We Weave

The doc says this 30+ year old hernia has to go. I worked hard for that appendage, with my four behemoth babies that I carried around both inside and outside for about a decade. Many a 50-pound sack of dog food or chicken feed has been hauled. Countless ladders have been climbed. My body has been twisted into tortuous angles to reach my paintbrush into the vague corners of extensive cabinetry in more houses than I can count. They tell me that I can't put it off anymore, because it's starting to persecute me with excruciating pain on occasion. Well, more like every other day now. Since I don't want to become a prescription drug addict or end up with this thing twisted around my head...I guess I'm going. Next week, the day before Thanksgiving. Yes, it's true. I figured it was a better time than the week before Christmas. 

So instead of spring cleaning, I thought I'd clean out all those places in the house that nobody sees. Somehow I thought that would make me feel better about having to go under the knife. You know what your Mama says about wearing clean underwear (in case you have an accident)? This felt sort-of like that, don't ask me why. It is amazing what grows inside all these trunks and cabinets and closets. I send out bags and boxes every two weeks to charities, but there's some kind of breeding program going on inside those chester drawers (I know it's supposed to be chest-of-drawers, but that ain't how we say it down here). I went through every room with a trash can and a box for giveaways. They're gonna call the PC police on me for loading up the landfill. I really do feel bad about that. Why is there so much trash? After it was all said and done, I ended up having the last couple of days completely at home. So in between real estate negotiations (which actually involves considerable amounts of prayer time) and meals, I finished up the last drawers and did about 500 loads of laundry. Then I vacuumed, the crowning glory of housekeeping. I sit here tonight, with a tangled contract now untangled, a house humming because it's all clean, and the quiet rumble of the train running by. I'm loaded for bear. 

When I told my dear pastor Sunday that I was scared, he gave me words of wisdom. I told him that it sure seems to me that I don't do a real good job of trusting the Lord, even this far down the line. He said, "Rose, it's not that you don't trust the Lord. It's just that He keeps sending you new mountains to climb." He knows I prefer the beach to the mountains, but then again, the beach has the undertow. And sharks. So we're good.

My Classy Roots

My Daddy had five sisters and two brothers, a compilation of the most interesting and conflicted folk you could imagine. They grew up in a home where their mother slaved herself to the bone and their father never worked and drank everything away. It's unfathomable why she stayed with him, since she was the only one keeping the boat afloat. He died when I was a youngster, mean and ornery to the end, in a car crash caused by his drunkenness. He wasn't even driving, but had persuaded a 14-year-old neighbor kid to drive him over the river to get more liquor, since Cobb County was dry at the time. They were evading police when PawPaw reached over and stomped the gas, driving the car into a tree. Thankfully the boy lived, though I recall all my aunts talking about how he lost a bunch of teeth. PawPaw wasn't so lucky.

One time, as a teenager, I asked MawMaw why she stayed with him. She said, "I know he was a bad man, but I loved him. We'd go walking in a field and you could just feel the love all around. But sometimes I dream that he's still alive and that the cops are beating at the door. Then I wake up and I'm so happy he's dead." At her funeral, all I could think about when I saw her gentle face was that she had to be having a party up in heaven. She'd lived through the roughest edges of life, but now she was at peace. Her love for the Lord was real, ragged and simple. I bet she's got the biggest garden up there. 

Daddy's folks would do random picnics on Dog River. He nor my Mama drank alcohol, but there would always be a lot of drinking going on at any given family event, though I never actually saw even one can of beer. They were covert about it. When we'd go up north to my Mama's people, they would drink right out in the open and had fully-stocked bars in their basements. But it was my Southern relatives that tended more towards alcoholism. It's in my blood. I'd be in a gutter if it weren't for Jesus. 

Even so, those were halcyon days, spreading out lunch on warm rocks and then running barefoot in the mud with about two or three dozen cousins. As a child, I was oblivious to the problems that many of them faced. I just knew we had a whole lot of fun when we were together. Cousin bonds are the best. My Daddy was always the ham in the family. There used to be a commercial on TV that said that a Volkswagen would float. So he and one of his brothers tried to float our Beetle in Dog River. Now that I'm grown and know that Dog River is really just a glorified, rocky creek, I can't even imagine why they thought it was deep enough. Nonetheless, they apparently found a spot and drove in. How can I say it -- it didn't float. I don't remember the end of things except that everybody was laughing, even Daddy. Maybe not my Mama though...

Mr Sandman, Make Me a Dream

Used to be, when someone said they couldn't sleep, I frankly thought they needed their head examined. Just lay down and go to sleep, for heaven's sake. My sleeping's always been rather like a bear in hibernation (except when babies were involved, where somehow I became the Mama Ninja. I could hear a baby sneeze at 50 paces). Then something happened to me. I'm not sure what, but maybe it's got something to do with hormones and stress, too much barbecue, or too many work scenarios to fit in during the day. I could go to sleep for a little while, then 3:00 a.m. would come and my brain would wake up like the rooster had just crowed. I'd lay there and kick around the covers, but finally would just get up so as not to wake Papa Bear. We love each other, but are definitely from two different planets. He's from the one where you wake up like a jack-in-the-box. He said that showers are like caffeine, and if I happen to come across him during that period of time, he's full of questions, comments and kisses. Insanity. Because I'd just as soon dig a hole and crawl down into the deep, dark earth with the moles right about then. On my planet, we start really living about 10:00 p.m. and that's a perfect time to clean, paint the house or draw a masterpiece. 

I digress. I started not being able to sleep. And nobody wants to hear you walking around the house or painting things in the middle of the night. I got a lot of computer work done, pondered the fate of the universe, prayed for people, but even the dog looked at me like I had lost my mind. Something had to be done. 

I started acquiring sleep aids. There's all kinds of gadgets for that. It began with the sheets. A dear client asked me if I had ever heard of Peacock Alley. I said I think that's around the corner from me, but no, that might be Chicken Alley. She said my life was about to change, and bought me a set of sheets from those folks...bamboo sheets that cost an ungodly amount of money. She said they'd keep me cool. While Ken was helping me put them on the bed, he commented that we were in trouble. I asked why and he surmised that these things were nothing like our Walmart sheets and we were going to have to go ahead and buy another set, so we'd never have to be without them. So, in pursuit of scientific solutions, I bought another set, along with their special blanket and pillowcases. When that didn't help enough, I bought this humongously ridiculous pillow that was shaped like a big wedge, and had a hole in it for your arm so it wouldn't go numb. It also had a big body pillow so you could keep your hips aligned. It was wonderfully comfy, but still no cigar. What followed were more additions to these expensive sleep aids: a weighted blanket (blissful), CBD oil (don't tell my Mama), a king-sized bed with all the trappings (where did my husband go in all that acreage?), a new mattress, and finally, a sleep study and honkin' CPAP machine (okay, now we're broke). Cha-ching. The cherry on top of all that was a sermon. Yes, a sermon. My pastor preached about Christ's first miracle, turning water into wine. He spoke about big ole' cisterns full of water and how He turned them into the best wine and they were like bustin' out with it. Running over. How Jesus' love for me is like that...way more than you can imagine. 

So here is how it goes, after a couple of years and much travail: I curl up in my warm nest, blessed and thankful (extra thanks for the props, Lord), and I think about that love overflowing to my heart. I'm sleeping like a baby now. All those gadgets are wonderful and helpful, but I'm pretty sure it's the cisterns that take the day. Or rather, the night.

The Sound of Silence

We live with perpetual noise. TVs, devices, traffic, the computer humming beside me, talk - on the phone or in person. Where we live, the train bores through town a few times a day (and night), though I find its sentimental wail a comfort (unless the conductor is apparently hen-pecked at home and has to take it out on us poor townies.) I'm glad that at least I live in the U.S., where we still have some wide-open spaces. I can't imagine living in a crowd, where you become anonymous and the noise must be deafening. 

I was struck by the silence in our home tonight. Time change just happened, so we're all ready for bed way too early. The TV off, everyone's talked out. The heat just kicked on, a comfort that I try to never take for granted. I remember a few times where the stone-coldness of a storm took over and we've slept under ancient quilts. It's only October and I'm already thinking about spring. Are we never satisfied? 

As I think on silence this eve, I am overcome with the vacuum holes in my world. The people, my Daddy, that I have lost. The dear dog that I just said goodbye to. Until recent times, I haven't understood what it means to hear those kinds of silences. No matter how many times you turn to greet them, to pick up the phone to tell them some tidbit...it brings shocks to your heart. Over time, folks tell me, it gets easier. It seems silly to say, "They're just not here." But they're not. They won't answer me back. I want to explain that to them, to ask why aren't you here? I get no answer. I hear no tick of doggie nails on the floor, no response to my queries. It's a strange thing, for someone to be gone. It's not natural, no matter what people say.

I think I get mad at God sometimes, because He doesn't write messages up on the wall. He does what He wants, when He wants. There is a tapestry underneath it all. Sometimes I get a good glimpse, but often and mostly not. Our planet keeps spinning. The stars keep shining. We are picked off, one by one, sometimes early, sometimes late. Yet the world doesn't stop, even when we pause for memorial. The sticks fall to the ground, but we have to pick them back up and put one foot in front of the other. Our time is coming, only God knows when. We try not to think of that. We try to pretend we will live forever, but it's really just a minute 'til it's our turn. 

These things drive my heart to the bottom, where everything seems done for and there's only the bits to be scraped up with the gravy. I look to the hills from whence cometh my help and my help is from the Lord. There is order and design in each molecule of this body, in the luscious tree outside my window, in the sweet eyes of the cat who's mewing for my attention. The deep surrender that is faith, the laying down of my will to a God that is bigger and stranger and more wonderful than all the universes combined...this is peace. When I dig into His book, I find the gold amongst the thorns. And I remember once more, this ain't all there is.

Critters Building That City

This was a very rough week, which I won't detail here...but am thanking God that He held off the real estate demons for a few days. It seemed like my work was suspended in time, just when it needed to be. My house was quiet, the weather was rainy and cool. Hard decisions had to be made, so we did some praying, some crying and some laughing. Then the squirrels started up...

I noticed that we've actually got some pecans this year. We put a new roof on a few weeks ago, and I figured it might shake those critters up a little, but naw. It was all peaceful-like one morning...everybody gone to work except me. I heard what sounded like gnawing up in the dining room ceiling. Then scampering. Then nuts being dropped. I told my husband, our sons, a few neighbors, and God about it. Nobody seems to want to deal with this problem. There ain't no way I'm going up in that attic. We have 12-foot ceilings in this old Victorian house, and our attic ladder doesn't even reach the ground. You have to put a bench on the floor, then pull the ladder down to it. It's very sketchy. Even my limber, athletic offspring take issue with climbing up it. The only ghost that lives here is the Holy Ghost, but there might be a few that try to flit through that attic once in awhile. I hear strange noises emanating and smell an occasional whiff of tobacco. They're all up there, dressed up with party hats and cute little tails, rodents masquerading as squirrels. But nobody's fooling me. I used to like those types of animals. I would even swerve my car to avoid them in the street, but no more. They're chewing up my house and eating our pecans. It's on.

Did you know that the law doesn't allow you to trap and re-home squirrels? We're also not allowed to shoot 22s in town, but we can shoot with a pellet gun. Two of my dear neighbors also like to keep their pecans, so we form a trifecta of squirrel hunters between our houses. You might see us all stalking about our yards trying to round them up. The hawks are waiting with bated breath, way up in the trees. I don't understand why they don't come on down here and do it themselves, circle of life and all that. But they get their share after the sun goes down. I never see any leftovers in the morning. And there's still plenty of them dang squirrels running around, at any given time. They must breed like rabbits. Apparently, cats breed like rabbits too, but we get ours fixed so they can't. I have a story about that for another day...

I hope all this helps reduce the attic residents. I'm sure not going up there with a pellet gun and Papa apparently isn't either. They say that they'll chew up your wiring and make beds in the insulation. Somebody's definitely working on a mansion up there and we can only hope it's squirrels and not the possums that keep coming after the cat food on the front porch. We used to have these problems when we lived in the country. I never imagined us making possum stew after we moved to town, and I'm not planning on it any time soon. But we sure could, if we wanted to...

A Good Dog

She came to me as a 10-week old puppy. Bouncing, beautiful Australian Shepherd. Seriously the most perfect dog I've ever known. She's too smart for the rest of us...she knows what it means when we spell "Chicken"- "Snack" - "Potty" and even "Bath." When folks visit, they leave the house and believe that Zoe loves them the most. I had a friend who is intensely afraid of dogs come calling one day. She asked me to put her up in the laundry room, but I didn't. By the time she left, she had decided that if I ever needed a home for Zoe, she wanted her to come live with her. Zoe has one flaw...she is jealous of the grandkids, enjoys licking their faces and also loves to steal their food. This has caused some drama around here but hey, she never poops in the house.

She came down sick last week, ending up at the vet for days and then exploratory surgery this morning. We have no answers at the moment, and only time and the will of God will tell us if she's going to make it. I've had some good dogs in my life, some great ones...but she takes the cake. She is as devoted as a soldier on duty. When I leave the house, I'm told she waits by the door for me. Leaving her at that place without being able to fully explain to her why, is breaking my heart.  I went up there today for a bit, just to see her and try to tell her, a dog, that I love her and that I'm praying for her. She kept going to the clinic door and looking back, wanting to go home. How can we bear it?

There is nothing like the heart of a good dog. Their unconditional love and steadfast presence are things that man has depended on since he lived in caves. They protect us, provide companionship, get us outside of ourselves, even. We raised our children surrounded by them, teaching them early a bit about what it means to be a parent, to be responsible for taking care of a weaker animal. We've all waxed sentimental about puppy breath and all the great dogs we've been privileged to have. But there's none like Zoe. If God only means for me to have her these seven years, I will thank Him for all of those days that we had. Then I imagine I will grieve for her the rest of mine. But just maybe, He'll give me (and us) a few more. Praying tonight for that, with a boatload of tears.

Love Birds

Getting people hitched can be a mighty big deal. Our three sons all did it. Their weddings were beautiful, meaningful and exhausting. My niece got hitched this last weekend. It's been awhile since I decorated one, but suffice it to say, now I need about a week of naps to catch up. My daughter and I gussied up the church. My precious niece was there with her fiance, all butterflying around. The next day, we decorated the big venue for the reception. We had an army of young people, swarming like so many bees to get it all done. Our family doesn't know the meaning of paying other people to do things...we DIY the fool out of everything, including weddings. In the end, it looks like a million bucks. We're only out a fraction of the typical soiree, although we're all knotted up and pert-near crippled when we get done. All that work, for a 20-minute ceremony and then a few hours of eating and dancing. At one of our weddings, a rich uncle, who didn't know any better, stated, "Man, somebody's put out some jack for this event!" I think they're prettier than the fancy, paid-for weddings anyway, even if we have to lose a pound of flesh to get there. Our baby daughter is the last of my children at home. I'm hoping we can all hold out long enough to do her proud someday when it's her turn.

There's always got to be drama of one kind or the other, or maybe lots of it. This one was no different, but with an extra dose. Without dragging in details, we had some scrambling and rearranging to do at the last minute. The bride was a shredded mess the day before, but still kind and patient. I worried her pretty new eyelashes might wilt before the wedding, there was so much weighing on her (though not from her fiance-- he was a perfect Southern gentleman, tenderly caring for her. I didn't know him before, but I really liked him after that). By Friday evening, we were spent. I wondered how the bride could re-find her wings, after the emotional torrent of the day. She looked deflated. I prayed for the next morning to find her ready and refreshed.

Saturday: wedding day! The bridal party lined up at the front, the bridesmaids a plethora of autumn leaves all done up in chiffon, each one different and lovely. Then came the stunning bride, a veiled vision in lace with a train that trailed for days. Her hair was impossibly beautiful, braided and skillfully coiled around her glowing face. No trace of trouble. No trace of fear. Just joy for the day and eyes for her groom. The Good Book says that a wedding is a picture of Christ coming for His bride, the Church. I love that. Love and respect are at the heart of a good marriage. Half of them end in divorce. I prayed this one will flourish and grow, an example to a weary world. 

A long day and much eating and dancing ensued as we wound down at the reception. There were candles enough to burn down the barn and twinkle lights strung across the lawn, enough to light up a football field. The old folks watched, the young folks and babies danced, then the luminaries and sparklers were lit. The happy couple made their way through the gauntlet of light....the groom swept her up and kissed her midway through, amid much hoopin' and hollerin'. Then they were off, with a squeal of wheels and more noise. We turned to laugh and breathe a sigh of relief. We talked of how we're not going to do it this big next time, how we've got to find a way to make this simpler...none of us believing it. The army of young folks starting the cleanup. Papa said I had to go home, that they could manage without me this time. So we sauntered down two blocks back to our car, holding hands and breathing in the sweet night air. The moon looked like a bucket of cream. I looked at my dear groom, recalling our wedding those many years ago and all the blissful ignorance of youth. I thanked God for blessing me with a good man like him. I remembered those first, flushed feelings of how lucky I was, how I got exactly the one I wanted. I sometimes forget that, in all our shuffling to stay ahead. But there he is, my knight man, steady and strong of heart. And here I am, still lucky.

Pumpkin Spice Thoughts...

Little Addison and Bennett came running in the door, jabbering my name and throwing themselves at me for hugs. They are two-year-old twins, smart and adorable. All of our eight grandchildren are simply the cutest and most wonderful children that God ever made. Ken says they are products of fine breeding and that we are not biased at all. 

I heard a Tony Robbins talk on YouTube the other day. I'd never heard him speak before. He looks like a cyborg, huge and other-worldly, handsome and with a gigantic voice. I wondered what all the hype was about. Maybe he actually is an alien. He spoke about breaking down what really matters in this life.... and how to tease out what we've done well and what has met up with our expectations. So I listened for awhile and thought about what my expectations have been for my life. He asked what was important to his audience: career, family, fitness, etc., and suggested that we all think about where we came from, what kind of dreams and plans mattered to us, and where we are now. And then he said to focus on what has gone well in our lives. Look at that, ponder that, lay aside the other things for now. 

There have been things I've done that I was proud of, things that somehow I accomplished or pulled off. There's been money made, paintings painted, houses fixed up and sold, people helped. But all that stuff burns off quickly when I think of the souls (four children, three daughter-in-laws, eight grandchildren) that the Lord gave us to be "ours" for a time in this life. That is eternal treasure that keeps on moving forward, priceless.

There are folks out here that don't have children or grandchildren, but their true treasures still get back around to the investment of life into souls, no matter how that translates. In a career, as a neighbor, through the written or spoken word, an act of kindness or generosity. The quiet plowing or the loud bullhorn, we all affect someone. When I think of the myriads of people who have influenced and shaped my life, I stand amazed. Sometimes just getting out of the building after church is like running through a gauntlet of rose petals. We are lucky to be in a place where gossip and condemnation are overtaken by Jesus in earthsuits. I've never seen such.

The weather cooled off ten degrees and I've done gone soft. There is truly a mercy when the weather lets up and we start to come out from under the haze of a convoluted and protracted summer. Fall makes you feel jubilant. Everything's dying but somehow it smells like hope. I've taken to getting on my knees every morning (no small task), telling God that nope I can't do it, but You can and I need ya to. Surrender is a sweet thing. Try it sometime.

A Wrinkle in Time

The thing I didn't understand about getting mileage on these bones was that it wasn't about not having enough time, it was about not having enough juice. I have been on a veritable Ferris wheel of doctor visits lately, checkups and what-not. They tell me I have a bad tooth that's not gonna make it (and it doesn't even have a cavity in it....I brushed,  honest), an ancient hernia that needs surgery, I'm diabetic and oh yeah, I'm too fat. As if I didn't notice that. Funny thing that you pay these guys to insult you. Then you say thank you on the way out. I kinda didn't think these parts would wear out so quick. I was hoping for a few more decades before they started doing that. 

Maybe I talk about my old folks too much, but they're my heritage and I am bound to remember and honor them. I recall them complaining about their crumblin' joints and rheumatism. I remember Pop (Ken's Grandaddy) saying he didn't know why in the world God didn't take him on out. He died by inches but blessed God until the end. My MawMaw, gripping her back as she sat down, though she never quit mowing her grass or tending her garden til the day she died. But then there was Grandma Betty, my Mama's Chicago Mama...she said she didn't want to grow old, so she kinda didn't. She lived life to the gills and then went out like a rocket in her 60s. (60 is the new 30, don't you know?)

When we get to the end of our days, when all is humbled through illness or infirmity, it may look like despair or retreat. We live in a cracked, sinful world that in the end whispers words like "Useless. Done for. Pitiful. What a shame." We run and don't look back, praying that the ravages of time won't catch up to us. Youth is deified and old age is abhorred. Now that I am on the cusp of those years, looking at that formidable hill in front of me (they always say "over the hill" but I'm seeing that nobody's actually coasting), I believe us middlers-and-over are lucky. We have layers and layers of life experience and perspective. When I stop and ask a few questions of the folks I meet, I am always amazed at what's under the surface. There's all this buzz these days about "authenticity." Etsy is world-famous because the items are supposed to be hand-made. Small batches are all the rage (I've been doing small batches in my kitchen for 37 years, by the way). Makers and Creatives! The young folks want to be relevant and radical for Jesus. Everything that was old is new again. 

Take the time this week to talk to your Grandma, if you still have her. Look around and stop your running to pause and notice the folks that are in your path. Strike up a conversation with an old person. Peel back the layers of time to see what's under the obvious. They might be wrinkled or fat or on the way there, but hey, those are life dents and there's always a great story lurking. 

October on the Horizon

The trees are just plumb weary out in my yard. The green leaves are hanging on for all they're worth, some of them yellowing and falling already. They want to believe it's still summer, but us humans are begging for fall. I simply love the days where I can open up my doors and windows, with just our big screen door between me and the porch. Ken rescued it from the barn -- over a hundred years old -- and fixed it up real nice for the house. I can't tell you how much I love that thing, especially when a grandchild bangs it on the way in or out. Once in a while, I can barely hear the drums playing at the football field from across town. There will be just a tiny lowering of temperatures and we're all throwing open our bins of fall decorations. I have a whole closet of scarves that I look at every year, beautiful warm colors that would go fabulously on that outfit. I look, but don't actually use them. When there finally is a cold snap, I forget to throw one on. I end up in front of Sassy Ladies boutique, freezing, wondering how Yankees do this stuff.

Please don't hate me if you are a Yankee. It's not your fault. I'm half Yankee too, bless my heart. 

Our little town, with the high school band playing, the new cute shops popping up all over, a craft brewery coming on in, the yummy restaurants, the kind people, the occasional cobblestone revealed...it's a sweet place to live. I think we can fit everybody - the old folks, the young ones, heck, even the hipsters. I actually know my neighbors in our borough. I'm a realtor and I try to get all my buyers to move here. Why wouldn't they? October is a-coming, the best thing on the calendar since Easter. I'm thinking of all the iconic things -- cider, Indian corn, pumpkins, football games, myriads of leaves falling. And this year, I believe we've got a bumper crop of pecans. That means I'll have to go into retirement for a month to get them all picked up. Sit a spell and get crackin'. I never knew what that meant until we inherited two of the biggest pecan trees known to man. 

Next month is everything good in the world. It's when several of our grands were born, two of our sons were married, my Grandma's birthday, the month we got engaged, and the month that Jesus rescued me. Now if He would send some rain and cooler temperatures right on down, it'd be perfect.

Intentional Parenting

Bullies have always been around us, ever since Cain and Abel were in the Garden. They scope out the crowd, looking for someone they can pick on. Something in their psyche demands that they lord their "strength" over another person. They have uncanny ways of figuring out what pushes somebody's buttons. Maybe it's that they feel inferior, or maybe it's that they really have no conscience and believe they are superior. Either way, they've been around since the fall of man.  When I was a kid, my Daddy (a gentle, merciful soul) told me a strange thing. He said that if someone ever hit me at school, I was supposed to turn around and whale the stuffin' out of them. I said, "They'll expel me from school!" He said, "No worries. I've got your back." In the next sentence he said, "But you are never to hit or hurt another person unless it's out of self-defense." Heaven help me if I'd have done that. Now all of that sounds very violent. I don't want to offend anyone's sensitivities, but we have lost boundaries in our culture that are allowing people to bully one another. There are reasons I was not bullied as a child. I was taught both things: to stand my ground and to be compassionate and kind. Standing strong meant respecting yourself and others, but also not encroaching on the rights of others. There seems to be a prohibition these days of defending ourselves when necessary. I especially believe that parents, even under the most stressful of situations, have to be vigilant about talking, shepherding and loving their children. It's only a minute and they are grown. We only have a bit of time to influence and teach them before peers and the world rush in to steal their hearts. There's no more important job than raising our children (if you have children. If you don't, please do what you can to help!) Computers, video games, social media, TV, phones -- all these and more have come in like a tsunami to plunder all of our attention. It's a challenge to be intentional about relationships now, because we're following the glow of our devices rather than talking and connecting to each other.  I'm not a spring chicken, but even as we were raising our four children, I saw how even the TV interrupts our relationships. As a teen, I wondered at the fact that a thirty-minute sitcom showed weeks or months of peoples' "lives" -- and how boring real life could seem in comparison to that. When our kids were at home, we limited access to our tiny black-and-white TV (I got a lot of flak for that). I shooed them outside when they got bored. They explored, played and got filthy, old-school-like.  Maybe our air conditioning is really our problem. Nobody wants to go outside anymore and there are such interesting things on those screens. Our kids are grown, but I still have to fight my own proclivities to sit and stare. It's just so much easier than working at connecting with a human. God help us all.   ReplyForward

Floating

I was sitting in this very spot in my study a year ago when the call came. It was my brother-in-law, telling me that Daddy had collapsed and they were taking him to the hospital. My Pa was the original drama king. We always said that we'd never know if it was truly the end, because he had a hypochondriac way of making everything huge...he lived large with a full range of emotions on every occasion. He loved and was loved by virtually everyone who knew him. Only an evil person could have resisted his loving, fun personality. But when this call came, I knew it was the last one. I dropped everything and ran out the door. We had three days of travail, because they technically revived him and got his heart beating again. I still don't know if his spirit had already gone to Jesus, because it seemed like it at times. When we let him go, it was heaven on earth. Our entire humongous family crowded into his room and sang him home. 

It's funny how the circles of life ebb and flow around us. I've had a year of freefall, in some sense, not tending to my health as I ought. Who wants to be tough when there's a beautiful brownie in your future? Life is short. Eat up. Ken and I got the delightful opportunity to really vacate this last week -- to the crystal waters of Seagrove Beach, where we ate and slept, read books, floated around and thought about everything and nothing. Ken loves the ocean, but that doesn't involve actually getting in the water. I would live in it, if I could. Our 38-year-old habit is that he sets up base camp on the sand, I sit until I can't stand the heat another minute, then I throw myself in the water. When the water gets about waist-high, the ahhhhhhhhs start to happen. There's simply nothing like looking at God's magnificent creation and getting to float right there in it. I can still feel it. My Daddy loved the beach too. We would saunter out into the water and talk, sometimes for hours. He was blessed that his funny, goofy inner child never left him and that he died with his boots on (he mowed his grass the day he arrested!) If we could all be so lucky. 

The last day of our trip, on my last foray into the blissful water, I started floating back to shore. I had just spent a few minutes thinking of Daddy, crying and then thanking God for blessing me with a Pa like that. I was not 50 feet from shore, when a man arrested and died in front of us. Kind people worked to revive him, but he met his Maker right there on the white sand. Suddenly there were people, strangers, praying, comforting one another, crying, waiting...a surreal day that I will never forget. When all was said and done, I stood still, alone, and gazed out to the sky and the water and asked the Lord to help the family, to help the little 7-year old boy Aidan who saw it all and didn't understand, to help all of us to see that our days are numbered and how to have peace with that and with Him...I thought of His word saying, "I lift up my eyes to the hills. From where does my help come? My help comes from the Lord, who made heaven and earth." Ps. 121
The Keeper of souls and the maker of the universe...may you rest in Him. 

Labor Day Lazy

Here we are again, at the Redneck Riviera. It's not so redneck anymore. I wonder if it even remembers who it was. There are craft-beer-swilling hipsters walking around everywhere with big fuzzy beards but smooth, uncalloused hands. I don't see anybody carrying their lunch in a paper bag or any tomato sandwiches. Me and Ken are lounging like two pigs in a mudhole, but they're jogging and biking all around us. I keep wondering where they're headed. We're not worthy.

Trying to put a pause on all the busy running of our lives doesn't come cheap, even if you find a reasonable place to stay (thanks VRBO). I was only going to book 4 or 5 nights then at the last minute said baloney, we're going for broke. That means we might really go broke. Someone asked me what we could find to do for ten days. I said are you serious? You could put us on a desert island (as long as there was a food source) and would not be bored. Actually we wouldn't need a food source, just some clean water. I think we've got enough fat stores to keep us 'til winter. I've got something kin to a TV set running in my head at all times with plenty to think about. Could this be characterized as a mental illness? I honestly could hole up for a month and get these cobwebs cleared clean on outa here. The ocean air, the sand, the delicious breeze that wafts by the door....these things are healing. Who can be stressed when the waves are lapping around your feet? I'm grateful we are able to do this again. I'm breathing better already and we're only two days in. After I shed one more real estate must-do, I'm leaving it all to my broker friend and colleague who insisted on helping me vacate. Treasure.

I think there's a lot to process from this last year. Here we are, Labor Day weekend...the 38th anniversary of Ken and I's first real date. For years we'd go somewhere, usually with his family, to enjoy the mountains. And we also spent time at the beach with my folks in September. It's always been a kind-of reset time for us, marking a new school year and remembering the past. Nineteen years of schooling my kids are long gone, but I fondly recall the sweet (and exhausting) years of them being home, our world all a-tumble with their energy and antics. I see them and our grands often, but I miss them sorely. There was so much to do and so much going on, who would believe it would ever end? I can't think too long on the ends of things or I'll never quit crying. Remember. Kiss the past and my loved ones. Smile at the future.

Love is a Many Splendored Thing

What a day the husband and I had today. We hit the floor running, from one appointment to the next. Thankfully he went with me to Duluth, driving while I hammered out contracts, answered emails and made real estate calls (the wonders of technology today). I would look up occasionally and gasp, thinking we were surely about to die in Atlanta traffic. We hoofed it back home then criss-crossed our ways to more appointments. By the time I plopped in my recliner back home, I had no mojo left to even think about throwing together that healthy salad that was lying unassembled in my refrigerator. But I did have enough juice left to cobble together sandwiches and popcorn. We marshalled that down and then Pa said, "Let's go out to the porch." He turned off the TV and we sauntered out there, too pooped to pop. 

Our porch is of legendary status, the stuff of Southern Living dreams. The animals curled around our feet while we listened to the fountains splashing in the cool air (finally -- it's been fired up something hellish lately). Eventually, the sun went down and the crickets began to burr. The frogs joined them, along with the cicadas. A gentle rain was falling. Our daughter eventually got home and awwwwwwed her way on down into a rocking chair. She had the yack-yacks and then quieted down like us. There's not too much you can say, after you've expended the day's work, talked out your major problems and then found a good porch to set down to. There were things I needed to tend to, things that had worried at my mind all day. A file here, a download there, another email to send. I laid them far back in the yonder land of my mind, as I mentally excused each one. That one can wait 'til tomorrow. I'll do that one tonight. I'm canceling that silly morning meeting. It's a perfect night, my people are right here on this porch, and how many of those do we get these days, really?

Finally Pa moseyed on to bed, daughter padded back to her room, then the phone rang. It was fireman son Daniel, ready to talk. We mused on for at least an hour, something we very rarely get to do. He's either working at the fire department, up on a roof sweating day labor or playing with his kids. I enjoyed his fine humor and dear heart for a spell then headed to bed myself. I thought about all the things that we have to do to make a living, all the running that this modern world seems to require. But the gold that's there is still in the simple things. A quiet, serene night on the porch. Plain talk and laughter about everything and nothing. Crickets, frogs and love, warm as a blanket on a fall night. Blessed.

Starting Over Hurts Like the Dickens

When we moved here to our little slice of paradise in Villa Rica seven years ago, we had a moderate-sized fig bush growing beside the house. It was leggy and had a lot of old wood on it. That first summer, I noshed on sugary figs so sweet, I about went into a coma. There is nothing on earth so wonderful as home-grown fruits or vegetables. The warm sunshine on them, the fullness of true ripeness that you just can't get in the supermarket. Just watch out for those bird droppings. I grew up at the edge of the country, where we never thought to wash anything off. Why would we? Nobody had sprayed anything weird on things and it was too much trouble to go into the house to wait to take a bite. Tomatoes bursting from their skins, tender green beans, even sweet corn on the cob was often nibbled on before it made it into the kitchen. Pure nectar.

I'm ashamed to say that I have not raised one vegetable since we moved here, but God blessed us with that fig tree and two monster-sized pecan trees in the backyard. The fig was looking poorly, so I asked my neighbor Jodi (the Queen of all Gardeners, as far as I am concerned) what I should do for it. She recommended pruning it back in the dead of winter. So I did. A lot. It looked rather pitiful. Spring came and I began to assume the tree was dead. It looked tiny and sad. Then I forgot about it, until one day there it was, little but looking all minty green and fresh. New leaves all over. It even produced a few figs that year. Three or four years have gone by, and this summer it has grown into the Paul Bunyon version of fig trees. It's threatening to take over the house. My neighbors are despondent because they can't see us when we're out on the porch now. It sounded like a party out there, what with the squirrels and birds going haywire over those figs. There was a big hawk who was taking every opportunity to pluck his dinner out of it (not figs, but birds and who knows what else). Who needs a TV when there's a riot going on right outside your window?

Today I noticed the tree is suffering from the heat, getting a little too big for its britches. I guess I'll have to wait for winter and chop it back down to size again. It's sort-of like us. We get all puffed up and proud, then God has to prune us back a little (or a lot). The Good Book says that He prunes the ones He loves. It's painful, but it makes us grow and gets rid of that old dead wood. Bring on the hedge clippers.

Frazzled Fridays and Freakazoid Fruit Loops

Last week, I must have driven two thousand miles, all within the tangled suburbs of Atlanta. There was blistering heat, narrow city streets, gallons of diet Chick Fil-A lemonade, convoluted Google mapping, and that pounding-headache-sensation of "I just wanna get home!" Over and over. And over. The weekend was a blur. When the sun cranked up this morning and I found myself blurry and padding through a pile of dog hair in the bathroom, I just wanted to go back to the dark. I tried to get moving, but couldn't muster it. I smushed myself into the sofa with the dog at my feet. When I woke an hour later, I didn't feel any better. Papa Bear and I went to Chick Fil-A and were treated like royalty. There was plenty of coffee involved, but it still didn't help. We got back home, I tried to work. When I spilled a whole tankard of diet orange drink on my desk, I cracked. Papa said, "Go. Get a nap." But I already did! "Do it again, please." So I did, feeling a little better. Got up and dashed away to do homage to a dear friend's suddenly-and-unexpectedly-departed relative. Then went to see my Mama. 

Being a woman is a unique thing, I don't care what anybody tries to say. There's a twisted part of my brain that I believe is uniquely female. It's not the logical or the smart part. It's a nest of wires that get very knotted up when hormones, hunger and emotions all try to get on the same highway. I called Papa about 5 times and he wasn't answering. In between calls, I was calling our daughter and asking her to tell him to pick up. I was cranky, hangry and feeling sorry for myself. When we finally connected, I wanted to know why he didn't answer. Had he eaten? Yes, of course he had. But why? Why didn't they have deacon meeting tonight? Why did he go ahead and eat? I wanted to know. I could've come home. I didn't know he was there. My tummy hurt. My sugar was low. I'm supposed to be dieting but there's a Dairy Whup on the way home. I already passed up kale salad, and there's a Brownie Extreme Blizzard coming up real soon, right by the highway. It's the last fast food place before home and heavens-to-Murgatroyd you know I'm not passing by home to get a salad.

While I'm busy having my nervous breakdown (still on the road) and hammering my dear husband for no good reason, my precious, level-headed daughter calls and gently pokes the crazy bear woman, talking her off the cliff like the cooing of a dove. There's no full explanation for the state I had gotten myself into by the time I fell into my man's arms when I arrived home. There's no excuse for eating comfort food and chocolate extreme brownie Blizzards when my sugar's already too high. But I do know this... there's a thing called grace that circumvents everything logical and illogical. Grace that is greater than all my sin. God's grace. And then people grace that He chooses to let me enjoy along the fruity, freaked-out highway.