I Love My Kids, I Do....

There are times in your life, well, maybe just in mine, where you realize that you might have been on the verge of insanity. I was never a "wild" child...I didn't experiment in the 60s and 70s. Caveat: there were those rollicking nights that I pretended to be smoking pot with my girlfriends in the dorm at our very-conservative Christian college...we'd act real stupid, play loud music, roll tea leaves up in the rice paper I had for art class, and blow smoke while we walked around in our underwear. Scandalous.

My actual insane moments were more bizarre than that and certainly more hazardous. Here's one example...

It might have all started with the fact that we were living in a small camper with four kids, building our home with literally our own hands. I refer to this season of life often, because I'm still counting on the street cred and it might have left part of my brain slightly warped...so it has affected everything since.  

We had moved the camper onto our land (after living in a campground for a few months) when we got the call that Ken's beloved maternal grandparents, Pop and Babe, were in crisis, living in Lincolnton, Georgia. She had advanced Alzheimer's disease  and Pop was declining. He had been taken to the hospital with a stress-induced heart attack. Although we regularly made the drive to their home and helped with maintenance and checked on them, he always bluffed his way through how difficult things had actually become. Over the years, as she became increasingly difficult, we did not realize the day-to-day problems. She would greet us happily, with her hands thrown wide to hug everyone. Pop often told us how bad things were, but when we visited, she was so light and bright, we thought he was surely exaggerating. He would call, frustrated and helpless, but then when we arrived and things seemed fine, he would reverse his ideas about moving them into a better situation. Until his own body said "enough." 

Ken was saddled with his job, so I drove there with our four children to relieve Babe's sister in her care. What met us was nothing I had ever imagined. Until you have experienced a real person, in real time and in real care with this terrible disease, it is impossible to know how horrible it can be. Not everyone who has dementia will be as difficult as Babe was, but she took the proverbial cake.

I experienced the hell that was Alzheimers for just two weeks in their tiny home (Pop had been taking care of her for years, without batting an eye. That is some kind of love). Babe never slept more than 15 to 20 minutes at a time, day or night, and became terribly scared and agitated as the evening encroached. It's called "Sundowners," if you want to look it up. In order for the children to sleep, I had them lock themselves into the extra bedroom at night. I tried every scenario imaginable to get her to settle down, but nothing worked. Her sister recommended I double the sleep medication, but it seemed to make it worse. Days were filled with her confusion and extreme anger, like a giant, frustrated toddler. Even the fussiest infant will at least sleep. Babe would punch and scold me, making me laugh. My Amazonian self looked like a giant next to her as her little fists bounced off my body. But it all broke my heart. I know that she, the one who was all things hospitable and good before the disease arrived, would have been mortified to see herself in this state.

There were many things that happened in those two weeks, but suffice it to say, I was operating on tiny sleep breaks, maybe a total of 2-3 hours a day. She was so delusional, sometimes she thought my boys were Ken and Kirk (her grandsons) and she would cry at night to be taken to her Mama. I was getting so sleep-deprived, I also began to wonder if maybe I was someone else -- maybe I was really an 89-year-old woman in a nursing home and these people were taking care of me. 

I and our children desperately needed to get back home. 

Our eldest, Jon, had already figured out how to make money while we were there... he was mowing grass for neighbors and padding his bank account, working very hard. He was born smarter than the rest of us and persuasive, and therein lies the rest of the story...

Babe's sister had agreed to come back and take care of her while we went home and figured out some arrangements for our folks. We were squashed into that camper with six people, no end in sight. It would take almost two years to finish our house, but there was no waiting around for their situation to fix itself. It was a dire mess. Meanwhile, with delusion and extreme sleep deprivation, I had to try to get us home...

We had a large Ford conversion van, fitted out with carpeted walls and swiveling Captain's chairs in the front. Ken liked to call it the "Pimpmobile." It was a dream come true for us, as our very large Viking children were beginning to grow into man-sized bodies even before adolescence. We left Babe with her sister, Rachael, and headed down I-20 East for the almost-3-hour trip ahead. 

Right out the gate, I struggled to stay awake. Back then, that section of I-20 was rural and very quiet, particularly on a weekday morning. Thirty minutes down the road, I pulled off to the side. I threatened bodily harm to any kid who unlocked or opened a door, or even made a peep while I took a little nap. Twenty minutes later, I woke refreshed and ready to drive. But another thirty minutes of driving found me weaving and drooling, not especially helpful. I managed a second nap and started over. Back then, we didn't have cellphones so we were on our own. 

Very shortly, I was again overcome with exhaustion. The highway was still barren. Quiet. Downright boring. Maybe that contributed to my inability to stay awake in my already-comatose state. Maybe it was the coolness of the day. Maybe it was my brain that had been irascibly tested and exhausted for two weeks by an insane asylum (apologies to all those who have managed to do this for weeks, months, years).  I announced to my children that I was going to stop again. That's when the Eldest of my progeny, the whip-smart Persuader of All Things Impossible, began to use his backwards logic on his poor mother's psyche...  

His brilliant idea was this: "Mom, I know what... how about you put the van on cruise control? Lean your chair back a little and go ahead and take your nap. I'll reach over and drive from my side. If cars start appearing or anything happens, I'll wake you up real quick." 

The only reasons that I am able to share this ridiculous story are: 

1) It's too insane not to.

2) My good friend, author-extraordinaire Grace, told me to.

3) All my children are grown and DFACS cannot take them away from me now.

Because, yes, it is true, Virginia. I let my 12-year-old son drive my van. From his side of the vehicle. While I napped in the driver's side of said jalopy. This actually worked very well, for a time and we somehow lived to tell the tale. I have no clue about how long I blissfully floated into Sleepy Town, but what woke me up was my son's head falling, asleep, into my lap.  

You can't make these things up. Just please don't tell my in-laws, or DFACS, for that matter. They might, and rightfully so, dissolve me of my ability to ever keep our grandkids without adult supervision. Or maybe at all, forever and ever. Amen.

A Heart Like A Truck

"Not that I am speaking of being in need, 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 of hunger, abundance and need. I can do all things through Him who strengthens me." Phil. 4:11-13 ESV version   

We have seen both hunger and plenty. After 9/11 (not sure if it has anything to do with this, but it seemed like a very volatile time and was certainly a crumbly economy in reaction)... Ken lost his job of 22 years. Up til then, we had been blessed with dependable income and amazing benefits. It's amazing how you take such things for granted when you're young. We were not rich, had no savings and lived from paycheck to paycheck. Our only debt was our modest home, our plain and simple vehicles were bought with cash and much wrangling. Four active, always-hungry kids and a mortgage.  

Ken needed a vehicle with good gas mileage and my uncle's tiny brown truck came available.  Ken was so grateful and the price was right. I sometimes wondered how his massive shoulders were able to squeeze into that thing, but they did. It had no air conditioning, manual transmission and was as humble a truck God ever let anyone make. He drove the wheels off of it and kept it spit-shined and oiled-up. I remember the day that it perished...we were living in a camper on our land and had begun framing our house (ourselves, mind you) when he came rolling down the long driveway. I heard a couple of ka-pows! as the baby truck gave up the ghost. Black smoke was pouring from the exhaust and Ken was barely able to pull it to the side of the gravel. I was dying inside because a new car or truck was the last thing we needed to have to buy, seeing as we were limping along with building our house while stuffing four large children and ourselves into a camper each night. But that scene of the smoke billowing and the sounds emanating from the expired truck made something snap in me. I began to laugh, then howl, as he stepped out. I said, "Just roll it on over to the house and we'll use it as backfill!" Somewhere in there, I knew it was going to be okay but on paper it made no sense.

We've had a succession of transportation types since that day...  ancient trucks, vans, a well-worn station wagon, and several things that were rescued from the landfill. One particular season, when the downturn of 2008 like-to-have killed us, Ken had a company truck that broke down after the company went defunct and we were left with the payment and the burgeoning insurance. We were flat-broke, but fellows at church and some kind deacons worked to get it running just long enough for us to sell it. Meanwhile, my trusty Ford Explorer (that had 220,000 miles on it and ticking nicely) was wrecked by an uninsured driver. We limped for seven months, borrowing Daddy's truck, until the insurance finally paid out. Eventually, our dear elder, Bubba, gave Ken his son's old beater car...a Ford Fiesta...not the sedan, the really, extremely tiny version. Again, my husband had the heart of a saint -- humble, excited, thankful. If I thought that original mini-truck was small, this one had him folding himself into a puzzle before he could get into it. He eventually gave that little thing to a friend, when we were able to get something else. But he has that date marked on our yearly calender -- the day that Bubba gave him that car. Makes me weep every time it comes around.

Many years have gone by now. We were able to sell our dream home and get out of debt. The economy relaxed, the kids got married and started their own stories. I sold a home and secretly bought him an older red truck for his birthday (one that he didn't have to fold himself into). We put a big bow on it and had it sitting in the driveway. That one eventually had to be sold and he was able to buy another (older) red truck. This one was bigger and uglier and had a funky smell. I didn't like it, but he was his typical self -- thankful, loyal, steady. 

Then we started camping with our old but new-to-us camper. On our first mountain trip, his truck strained on the hills and finally broke down along the way. When we finally got home, Jon (our eldest son) and I started conspiring. Ken used to despise the idea of camping but had really, finally bought into it. I'd send Jon different trucks and he'd send me trucks on FB Marketplace. We took a secret trip to Alabama, foraging for a larger truck that we could afford. Ken knew nothing of these goings-on, but I realllllly wanted to bless him, after all his years of putting on his boots and steadily being the humble, grateful heart of our home. 

I saw a used, pretty, white Ford F250 on FB while we were headed home from Alabama. I didn't look closely, just forwarded it on to Jon. By morning, he had made his way to the dealership and called me: "Mom!!! This is it! It's a cream-puff, beautiful and so well-taken-care of." Jon knows cars (trucks too) and I trusted him implicitly and wired the funds. Jon invited Ken to their house; we drove there together as Jon pulled in behind us with the thing. I thought we were buying a truck. This was some sort of Man-Beast, with all the bells and whistles. Ken didn't know what hit him. He was confused about what that massive thing was doing behind us.

As the realization hit and the little boy part of him saw an old dream coming true, he was speechless with tears and hands on his face. Everywhere we go now, he has to say (as he is smiling like a Cheshire cat): "I didn't buy this truck! I wouldn't have bought a truck this fancy. My son and wife did this behind my back!" It hauls that old camper like a champ, and he keeps it spit-shined and oiled-up, just like all the others he has taken care of all these years, even if they were ready for the landfill. I really like that about him...

Golden Girls

There is nothing like being young. Your thyroid usually still works and all those ligaments and muscles are smooth and flexible. You are young and the world is before you. Enter the old ladies... 

I waited for a couple of years on a list, to take oil painting lessons from a lady. I had seen the results of her teaching on a friend's art and was astonished. Plus, my young niece blossomed under her tutelage. I knew how to paint, to draw, heck, I had my own decorative painting business for twenty years and had taught hundreds of children in art classes when the call came for a spot in HER class. I had never dabbled in oils, and my painterly side was suffering because I had become too busy with a couple zillion other things. I know myself... I do best with accountability. 

I decided to be my humblest self (pride, thou art the devil of me). I went into class, acting as if I knew nothing. I was determined to truly learn from this amazing woman. She stood about a foot shorter than me, a good bit older, eyes sparkling like diamonds. She is Nikki, the epitome of everything joyous and beautiful in the world. Smarter than the rest of us, talented, full of energy and opinions. She's tough, with the heart of an angel. The perfect kind of teacher. 

The studio was filled with women, most of them also older than me and sassier, to boot. They looked me up and down and said "well maybe you've inherited some of your niece's talent." I buttoned up and got to work. Nikki took me through the basics of drawing and then we quickly got to work with the oils. It was then that the truth of my pride rose up, ugly and mean, in my heart. These paints were nothing like the acrylics that I had applied on walls in houses and businesses over the metro Atlanta area. They didn't behave. They didn't dry! Nikki kept telling me to blend, when all I wanted to do was tack on another layer. The colors mixed differently, were difficult to wash off, and they got everywhere. I almost gave up. I have plenty of other things to do that I'm good at and this is an expensive hobby...

I decided that I must continue to plod on. It does a body good to do the things that don't come easy to us. We atrophy, because we do less and less of the things that challenge our minds, our bodies. The comfy chair is the enemy of the aged. Not that I'm old. I refuse it. 

Time marched on. Months and months went by as I wrestled with the canvas, the paint, the humility. The ladies around me began to be kind, to care, to help. I found in them the most interesting of people -- intelligent, funny, flawed, richly deep. We have our Wednesday mornings together for about four hours. Sometimes we laugh, gripe, but always oooooh and aaaah over one another's paintings. There have been deaths of loved ones, surgeries, illnesses, children's foibles and the love of grandchildren shared as we ply our pigments. I'm always left with the lovely impression that age is actually beautiful,  not to be feared. Their laugh lines, crinkly hands and wry wit, learned from layers of real life, are simply golden. I've found patience, humility and the underneath parts of art from their precious selves. How lucky is that?   

The Broken Heart

We talk, muse, sing about the beautiful, the lovely pieces of the past, the transcendent. Sitting in church this morning, we heard sweet music, good and sound words, hopeful and true. But even as we ponder the higher, nobler things, we all know heartbreak.

The first love that breaks our soul into pieces, making the world the most unlovely place...the feeling that we will never, ever love again or that life is not worth living anymore. That feeling, right there in our youth, repeats itself all along the way... 

The death of a marriage.

The death of a child.

The disease that destroys a loved one.

The betrayal of a dear friend.

A job that disintegrates into thin air.

Money that takes wings into the night.

The child who jumps ship.

The daughter who lies and won't stop.

The body who loses its strength and cannot get it back.

The ravaging of time that refuses to slow down.

One in the pew experiences unbelievable loss, yet seems resilient. Another has had someone barely slight them, yet it reams out their soul. Some are sensitive, some are stalwart, and then there are those who seem strong but are dying inside with unbearable pain that we cannot see. We all come with our varying temperaments, unique in design and rife with both fatal flaws and promise.

But today, I viscerally felt the heartbreak of so many, the depths of pain that we all encounter somewhere along our way. We all suffer, somewhere, sometime, none spared but not all the same. Today, in my Sunday quiet musing, the hearts breaking and the twin sound of freedom were ringing in my mind. We are bowed down by our imperfections, our mistakes and sins, our resistance to what we ought to do, and the truth of limitations (whatever they might be). 

I am currently reading a book about the wrestling match that is unique to a creative person. This author is laying out the problem of resistance that even the non-creative soul encounters. We all fight gravity, in all its forms. The siren call of the temptation to laze, to wait, to put off, is in everyone. But this writer also talks a lot about freedom, of how to find it by overcoming resistance. His answers to that are nothing that I have found to be true. He believes that to be free, we must outstrip any connection to any form of God. He says that God or obeisance to a Creator makes us slaves and hinders our creativeness. He only sees darkly... for the truth is that the Creative One, who masterminded this exquisite universe, is the One who frees the imperfect ones with perfect love. 

Maybe you can't know that unless you've walked in it, been truly freed by it. The vacuum in the broken heart with an unfillable hole in it, is finally filled.

Look Around. It's Happening Right Now.

Last day of an extended, much-needed beach stay... I languished in the bed, dreading the end of it. Four-year-old grandson Knox wailed at breakfast "I don't want to leave!" I wailed inside. There are always those feelings, at least for me, when the "last" of anything happens. 

I remember the eve of my thirteenth birthday, being terribly distressed about growing up. I know, I know...most kids can't wait to grow up. I thought childhood was the most delightful of fairy gardens and I feared losing the wonder of it. Little did I know of the coming gift of my own children, who would bring the magic of discovery around every corner. Then came the grandchildren, like twinkles in the eye of God.

On the tail of adolescence came my senior year of high school. I could have graduated after fall quarter, but there was no way I'd miss basketball. Or track. Or all the lasts along the way. The last of  football, basketball, homecoming, prom, what-have-you. Senioritis is a bad problem for young people. It's a listless, strange season of life where you really don't know where you've been or where you are going. You're standing on the cusp of something. You're probably going to have some sort of fall but you should pray for God to help. And remember what your Mama tole ya... Some make it over, some don't. 

Thankfully that isn't generally your swan song, though tenth year class reunions might make you feel like it. 

So today, with all the lasts of this particular vacation, I tried to remember that tomorrow we will leave this pause, this brief siesta (though siesta never truly describes anything involving children).

 Life is literally like sand running through your hands. I looked at the face of my thirteen-year-old granddaughter and suddenly had the thought of her someday-wedding-day. I remember the first time I held her, like, yesterday. So those nuptials could be next week, the way things are trending. 

Tonight, the four oldest hugged and kissed us goodnight while their Mama tucked the baby into bed. These are precious days, days not to be taken for granted. There will come a time when they are impossibly busy, preoccupied with the hurry that overtakes us all. I see lots of young folks talking about intentionality, slowing down, being in the moment. Maybe that will become the new trend, and we will all figure out we better be present while we can. 

It's never good to wait until the "last" to savor what is in front of us. I have to work at not living in the past, because the past is easier, it's fuzzier, and it's often not exactly true. 

 Once again, to quote an old phrase... Carpe diem. Seize the day. 

Dolphins and Not A Few Sparrows

The sea, it calls me. Isn't that a line from a recent Disney movie? What a universal thought. It is easy to take for granted the majesty and wonder of all the magnificent glory that surrounds us. 

I remember the first time I saw the ocean. Our family drove our little VW bug down to Daytona, sometime in the mid-to-late 1960s.  We stayed in a campground, in a swampy tent. Air conditioning was rare and optional back then. When you grow up without it, you don't know that it matters. (Is this why we are fat? Is the air conditioning killing our metabolisms?) Us kids were too busy running around having grand adventures to worry about the heat. The adventures were generally just nature combined with imagination, no trinkets necessary (unless they were found objects along the paths). 

Trudging to the beach is always the hardest part of such a trip. Everyone is loaded down with gear - the scene opens before us, the salty, thick air full of possibilities. The slog of the sand has always been difficult, whether I was young or old. The blissful touch of the water seems so far away, until you're up in it. 

I recall stepping into the surf for the first time. I didn't anticipate not being able to stand up, as the sand sifted quickly out from under my feet. I fell face-forward, inhaling a mouth full of sand and briny sea. I attempted to stand, then was hit with another wave. This was misery. No one had told me the struggle. All I had heard was that the beach was glorious. 

Eventually, after many tries, I began to feel the rhythm of the water, anticipating the ebbs and swells. Instead of fighting, I began to receive it, to flow with it. Decades later, while snow or water skiing, I should have applied the same principles. Alas, I didn't. It was either that or the Slate clumsiness. 

In the water, however, I learned that I could be a ballerina or a dolphin. The possibilities were endless, though it definitely didn't start out that way.  I've had my face scrubbed onto the bottom of the ocean, been tumbled by endless waves that almost drowned me, and dragged out helplessly by evil undertows (one time accompanied by five little boys on a raft). I eventually loved the water so much, I  became a lifeguard and taught scads of children to swim. 

In a typical extended summer, we will make at least a couple of trips to the beach. Our children never had any vacation wishes except to go with our extended family to a old beat-up camp by the sea. The cottages were cheap. You had to bring your own linens and pots and pans, but it was like heaven to all of us. We'd swing on our front porch,  chatting and drinking coffee with every person who walked by. Sometimes we'd have 15 to 20 families there at the same time, renting the little places and making a party of it with family, church folk and other friends. We'd go for two weeks in May and often two weeks in September, for pennies on the dollar. The boys would stack up chairs by the pool and have contests of diving over them. How my children are alive is pretty much a mystery to anyone who knew them. 

This year, there's been no beaching. Everyone was so busy, we did not do our usual family trip. There's grandchildren, jobs, obligations, that have made it much more difficult. I also had a wrist surgery gone very wrong that made it impossible for me to get into any body of water. 

But here we are today and for the next eight days! One of my daughters-in-love along with their five children, overlooking the wondrous water. My wrist is healed; everyone is getting dressed as I write and I'm anticipating the crisp, salty surf and playing with them in the pool. 

Sometimes, life gets rough, and you've cried out to the Lord, and you've surrendered to what He has ordered. Count yourself lucky if you get to drive to the edge of the earth and dive in.  It reminds me that He is so much bigger than us, and yet, His eye is still on the sparrow and I know He watches me.

The Steady

Who doesn't love a good romance movie or book? Intrigue, tension, resolution and then there's the happily-ever-after. 

I am a voracious reader. I like to have 4-5 books going at the same time. Usually they're at my "stations," right by my various sets of reading glasses. Stations include: the recliner where I sit next to Ken, the big double-chair where I read my Bible in the morning, a spot beside my bed, a big armchair in our bedroom, and then, of course, the bathroom (that quiet cave that all Mamas learn early to appreciate). When they invented the Kindle apparatus, however, it changed the world forever. I can have hundreds of books all in one place at my fingertips. Why is it that "they" always seem to find ways to tell us that something, especially if it's newfangled, is bad for us? I saw a study recently that found that Kindles and phones and tablets actually inhibit learning -- that we absorb the information way better if we put our hands on the pages, and that it is better for our brains. I need all the help I can get in that department. That doesn't mean I'm giving up my Kindle, even if I might try harder to aim for physical books. What a treat it is to furtively read by the soft glow of a device while my husband is snoring right next to me. There's definitely something delightful about a good beach read, where the pages get rumply and sand finds its way into the spine. I think of many summers where I have lolled about with a good book on a blanket and gotten a tan while also being transported to far-flung places and adventures. Once our children were old enough to fend for themselves, the reading quadrupled. I hope they forgive me. 

Back to the romance category. Even though many people love them, I lean away. I've got more than I can handle at the house, and I don't need some fairy tale notion of love that has little to do with the sinner I live with (and the debauched one he lives with) -- but to each his own. The idea of romantic love is heady at times, like a roller coaster often, but the test of real love includes the steady, faithful walking over time. Through fire, water, trials, euphoria, delight and even boredom. I've been around the sun enough times to know that if you hang in there, you will get the experience of many different parts of your spouse and yourself, over the span of years and decades. Usually one of you is the nerd and one is the free spirit, but not always. The sandpaper of each others' personalities and foibles are the things that can make your teeth grind and the application of patience seem impossible. 

In these days, buzz words are everywhere: toxic, boundaries, narcissism, "my truth," and "I am enough." We're imperfect, struggling people, at least on the planet I'm living on. We need each other and have been helped all of our lives in myriad ways, even if we've existed in very difficult circumstances. What is romantic is when we find a way to love and forgive each other in the middle of being a mess, which we all actually are (if you could see inside our complicated, irregular selves).

I know only one way to do that, and I am the receiver of so much grace. There is a Fountain...   

Nitpickin' Our Way Through

There are things that we wrestle with in marriage, even 44 years later. The handsome stud muffin I married plagued with OCD qualities, and I with my ADD tendencies are still those same people, though we've changed and changed some more. They say that women marry a man, expecting him to change, and he never does. And men marry a woman, expecting her to stay the same, and she never does. I think this is somewhat true, though I've seen Ken change for the better and I've probably changed for the worse. People don't usually know each other well, when they first marry. We think we do. My young self would have told you that we were very similar in personality. Nothing could be further from the truth. When we took those personality tests some years later, our scores were as opposite as humanly possible. So how does that work out, over the sea changes that happen in a normal lifetime? And how do you not kill each other, when you are so different? Ask me later. Maybe I'll figure it out. That's the problem with these conundrums. Years ago, someone challenged me to write a book about how wives deal with husbands who have lost their jobs. Sounded good. We'd been through the lion's share of unemployment. I began interviewing women who had also been through it. Got lots of testimonials. Had lots of opinions about it. At the end of things, I was schlumped over my computer and stuck, because I had no real clues as to how to deal with such deep and terrible problems. I knew how I was "supposed" to behave, but there were no pat answers, no list of steps to survive in your marriage when things got bad. We managed to make it through it, but not because we had the magic formula (except, well, God, that....) And maybe things in life are not meant to have some mysterious algorithm when it comes to success.  It might be human nature to go looking for things that really aren't there at all. Case in point: there's scripture that says that men are supposed to love their wives. Like, the obvious point of loving their wives. That seems too simple, too common to be the answer to anything. Then there's the admonition to the wife to see to it that she respects her husband. Well, what if he doesn't deserve respect? Or, you don't know my particular husband. God didn't know about him and He obviously didn't know about her. Love. Respect. He didn't say much (or really anything) about the wife seeing to it that she love her husband. Isn't that weird? But I think, in general, loving our husbands isn't the hard part to us women. Respect, however, might be trickier. We see "the way." If he isn't headed there, well, I might have something to say about that. Because us women have a whole lot going on in our finicky brains and we don't naturally agree with how he's leading. If he is. And if he isn't, we demand to know why not. We're complicated. It says to see to it that I respect him, period. I'm not talking about you or your relationship to your husband. I'm not in your family. I'm speaking from these eyes over here on Magnolia Street. And after 44 years, I know that if I find a way to honor and respect that man, his back straightens, his work is better, his eyes get clearer, he often finds the he-man inside him that is stronger, more capable, with more vision. When I pick him to death with my agenda or what he doesn't do or doesn't do well, I find it tears my house down, one puny brick at a time.  I saw this with our sons as well. When the right women came along, the nobler parts of them grew and wanted to do better, to be better. Our son-in-law said he felt the same way when our daughter entered his life.  

On the flip side, when a woman truly feels loved, seen, cherished, that changes everything too. Some get that from their Daddys and husbands. Some don't. I wish I could fix it all, but I can't.

The world can be a complicated place, but what I do know is: these are ancient truths, mysterious yet straightforward. When you examine them closely, they make so much sense. Who needs the psychiatrist? Just kidding, I'm not going there...  

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'....   

Slow Boat Full of China

All the aunts and Grandmas (and oh yes, the church ladies) taught me the importance of "registering" for my wedding wishes and needs, after Ken and I got engaged. My Yankee Mama was not raised up in these environs, so was unfamiliar with many of the customs of the Deep South. I think they also do that up "there," but perhaps with not as much gusto and reverence as here. Either way, I got the drill when at first I had an engagement ring upon my (then) slim finger. 

For Atlanta area folks, Rich's department store was the go-to for such traditions. Ken and I filled out the proper forms and spent the better part of a Saturday looking for things that we liked, but nothing more important than the china we were supposed to pick. I learned that this was a legacy, one that I should pass down to future daughters and daughters-in-love, and in kind, all those grandchildren which would spring from our DNA. My soon-to-be Mother-in-law, who knew all of the Southern Rules, told me how important this was. When I got to the intimidating wall of china patterns in the hallowed kitchen and dining department of Rich's, I was overwhelmed, to say the least. There were scads of different types, all manner of colors and levels of dishes. 

My people were, for the most part, earthy. Farmers, horse traders, day laborers, and the like. We boast an Irish king, some ten generations back, but that we were, robust and Irish. Less inclined towards tea and such...maybe more Guiness and whiskey. There were threads of culture, even in that...but after it all, I needed to pick a pattern. The prices on the wall were astonishing, and I grew up being taught to think of others first. How could I begin to ask for something that cost that much? So I picked the cheapest pattern they had. It had some blue in it, and it wasn't what I would have picked at all, had I chosen what I actually liked. But I went ahead and registered for it.

After our happy wedding day and honeymoon, we returned to Ken's Mama's house to retrieve the gifts we were given. I opened eight sets of that china. We laid them out on a table and I realized, sadly, how ugly it was. They were boxed up and we took them back to Rich's and bought a pile of every-day Corningware dishes with strawberries on them. Those things lasted us many years, even with feral Viking children eating off them. 

In the ensuing years, my Mother-in-law would often ask me to choose another pattern, one that I liked. She wanted to help me get my china someday. 

I never made any special trips to Rich's or Macy's or Davison's to consider her request. But one day, I met up with one of the young pianists from our church at her parents' house, to practice some music we would be playing together (me on flute). Her Mama was a thoroughly cultured Southern matriarch, with a lovely lilt to her voice and all the right plants in her yard (read: magnolia trees, hydrangeas and plenty of azaleas -- of which I now have plenty).  As we walked back to the piano room, there was a sideboard with twelve sets of china on it, like none I had never noticed. Rich pink and white, with beautiful scenes of different castles for each piece. I asked her what the pattern was and where it came from -- it was "Old Britain Castles" by Johnson Brothers. It comes in pink, green and brown. Pink is perfect. Her sister, Elisabeth, who was unmarried but dutifully collecting things for her hope chest, loved it and attained it from a place in Birmingham, Alabama who imported it from England. I was smitten. This china personified all the things I love to look at. Creamy white, rich pink, castles in the English style. I eventually bought a Queen Anne Victorian house. What more can I say?

I told my Mother-in-law about it and she mustered up all the relatives she could to pitch in to help get it for me. We had to order it and it took around six months for it to arrive on a slow boat from England. Ya'll -- it really wasn't that long ago...but I am not kidding that that was what had to happen. The day before we were set to move into a camper on our five acres in the country, the store called and said that it was here. But of course! I gingerly took the boxes to my Mama's house and Daddy stored them for me. Two years later, when we finished our house, it was a joyful day when I unboxed it in my new, sparkling kitchen.

I still use that china whenever I can, but especially for company. One time, Ken dropped a whole stack of salad plates and broke about half of them. I found more online and replenished most of them, but I keep an eye out on FB marketplace for other matching pieces. During Covid years, I saw that someone had a pile of it, as well as some bowls and a gorgeous, big teapot...all for a very good price. I messaged the young lady and met up with her in Marietta. Somewhere in there, I noticed her name was Elisabeth and thought, "No, that couldn't be the same family!" But yes, it was. This was the self-same girl whose china I first saw at her Mama's house some thirty years ago. She is a professional artist and was permanently moving to France, so was selling her wares before leaving. 

Her china made its way back to me.

Some of it, I gave to one of my nieces, who is also collecting this pattern. Every time I use those scrumptious, lovely dishes, I think of and say a prayer for Elisabeth and her adventures. The world is truly a small place and there are unexpected blessings everywhere we turn...  

Chicken or the Egg? Work First or Play First?

My little people love the moon. Also the stars and especially the planets. Some of them know them all by heart and it is fun to point them out with the help of an app on my phone. I didn't know there would be anything about technology that could make me so happy. 

The moon seems to be the same as when I was a child, and I was thinking how time goes by with people living, breathing, dying, but that glorious moon just keeps shining down on us, basically never changing while our rat race down here tells us that a lot of things are important. But maybe they're not...

Speaking of the moon, the same one was shining when I met my old friend, 52 years ago. We bonded instantly. When I say old, well, we are just 39 I think, right?  She was this 6-foot Greek goddess -  hilarious, brilliant, quirky, totally intellectual human, introvert. I was an athlete and musician, goofy, extroverted. The threads of deep thought, sarcasm, and our love for Jesus were twined together all those years ago and are still stuck there. We will be hanging out together next week for a writer's conference and I cannot wait. With seven children and twenty-something grandchildren between us and in the past, thousands of miles to boot, we've only had small snatches of time to really talk and catch up. There have been people, jobs, health issues, children, grandchildren, opinions, elderly parents, churches and life on both sides. Precious is the friendship that endures over time. The old ones and the new ones are both beautiful, but the old ones are golden. How I thank God for them. 

With a short week ahead of me, along with the conference, our church's music camp is looming. I am in charge of the art projects, so I have to get everything lined up now, before I go. This particular camp at our church is one of the things that won my heart, years ago. Just like any typical "VBS," where the kids have that last evening to show off for their parents and grandparents, I showed up to see some our grandbabies sing and recite things. 

As a side note, I had also just attended a different set of grands' VBS night, a couple of weeks before. Unfortunately, this one was very typical of most churches these days. There were fakey "island" props and lots of shaking going on. The kids and the songs were cutesy and colorful, but with little substance in the songs or content. The pastor stood up at the end and welcomed everyone but was also thin on the subject matter. I mean, if we're going to Disney, let's just go to Disney. If these things really matter, why would anyone dilute them? We've come to the place, even in church, that the most important job is to not offend anyone. In the end, that tends to produce that which is bland, tasteless and benign. The scriptures themselves say that God prefers us to be hot or cold, rather than lukewarm. Now we're getting controversial...

Back to next week's camp -- I dearly love the whole design of it. It focuses on music (and remember, this is a Christian church, so it's full of Christ); there's also art, folk dancing (yes!), scripture memorization, and plenty of time spent on meaningful, rich content and thought. It's different, but timeless. When we have come to "grandparents night" in the past, I felt like I was going back to a more innocent age, where we used to sing about God, the trees, the animals, the sweet brooks and hills. The children had a ball, knew numerous songs and scriptures by the end of the week, and had produced some beautiful art. Who can't get behind that? Now that we are members here and I was a former art teacher, the pressure's on. I'm excited about camp like I'm a little kid. 

Ken always says, work first then play. I say, play, then I'll be so happy that work will feel like play. In the real world, that might not pan out. But it sure feels like play to be ordering art supplies and coming up with a plan. Lots to do in just a few days, but maybe I should take Ken's advice...