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... 

Prisons of Differing Kinds

I heard yesterday that Mother's Day was invented by a woman -- Anna Jarvis -- and that she didn't even have children. She wanted to honor her own mother, and thought that everyone else should honor theirs, too. After it got hijacked by the wheels of commerce -- the florists, chocolatiers, greeting card companies -- she tried to get it repealed, to no avail. She ended up broke and in a mental hospital. That's pretty depressing.  

For what it's worth, these artificially propped-up holidays can be too. When I was a child, my Daddy would always make sure that Mama had a corsage for that day. When I married, he would get me to order those and bring them to church for her. When my house began to fill up with our little ones, I remember the last year I did that...I said, "Daddy, this is kind-of hard to wrangle on Sunday. I have four small kids to get ready for church and it just seems like a lot now. Can you do it next time?" He had gotten accustomed to the earlier arrangement. And had almost forgotten that I was also very much a mother now. For a few years after that, he would pick one up for her and for me. That was sweet, but it really wasn't his job. That was when the guilt set in. 

There's a manufactured pressure in society, one that is calculated and guaranteed to churn out money and purchases. Not just Mother's day, but Father's Day, Valentine's Day (boy, do I feel sorry for the dudes on that one), and really even Christmas. All these holidays have gotten so inflated, driven by the retail market. They play on our heart strings and yes, our latent guilt, to make loads of money. I don't have a problem with capitalism or making money, no, it is a needful part of living. God bless the rich people -- they employ the rest of us. But we shouldn't take the bait about over-the-top buying for our loved ones, when what is truly needed is the thought, the acknowledgement, the appreciation for that person, all along the way and not just because someone designated a "Day" for it. 

Yesterday was Mother's Day and we went to church. I got some texts from our children and then our eldest and his wife took me out for lunch. We went home, took naps and ended up on the front porch. I was feeling sorry for myself, second-guessing my Motherhood. Was I not a good enough Mother? Did my children get all that they needed from me? Are my children angry at me? Why was nobody over here to visit me? I should've invited everyone over for lunch -- why don't I like to cook? Am I too lazy? What is wrong with me?! 

All this silliness, well maybe, and then my neighbor walked up to our porch, needing help retrieving her cellphone. She and I spent an hour walking around, calling her phone, calling other people, sitting and chatting before we found the location of her device. We started talking about Mother's Day and I found that she had the same conflicts about it as I did. We started laughing and enjoyed just being real as we finished our time together sitting on her porch. Right about then, I saw a car pull into our driveway and a couple of lithe, spritely kids jump out. They had picked roses from their own yard and made me little homemade cards. 

Too many times, it's too much about poor ole me. What about my three daughter-in-loves and my daughter, who are all in the actual trenches, wrangling complicated lives with teenagers, rug rats and babies? Then there's the ones who have not been able to have babies or have lost them...where does that put them?! And then next month, we have the Daddy guilt coming down the path. Oh boy... I'm getting over myself right now.   

The Spring of a Grateful Heart

Yesterday I heard an explanation of that old image of seeing a glass either "half empty or half full." I often catch myself looking at things as -- "Oh no! I've only got ____ much time or resources" - or - "I'm gonna miss out!" That is a bad way to look at the world, because there's never enough of anything to fill up what is unknown. And isn't that the way the world works? We can work, plan, dream, achieve, get all the things and still never be content if we see the glass half empty. There's the same amount of goody, whether the glass is half empty or half full. The exact amount. Think about that. Being "hungry" does motivate us to work and reach, but it can become the monster that is never satisfied. 

This past Friday, we (meaning the Carrollton Wind Ensemble) had our spring concert. Most of the pieces were written by local composers, some of them actually playing in our group. We played these compositions, some just so-so but then some amazing. Beethoven didn't always write a winner, you know. Our conductor, Terry Lowry, introduced each composer after their piece. It took way longer than usual, to complete the concert. But it was beautiful, in the idea of it and in the courage of each of these people. Life is not always about the best and shiniest...and actually only rarely is it that. There was a gratefulness that flowed through all of the performance, from the instrumentalists to the audience. There's always a huge weight off our shoulders after so much work, but this one felt different. Hats off to the brave. 

Gratefulness is a gift to yourself and to all the "others" that you bless with it. When I am grateful, I see the world with different eyes. Early in our 44 years of marriage, my husband had what I thought was a stunted idea of romantic gifts. Birthdays, Christmas, anniversaries, he would inevitably come up with something practical that I had little appreciation for. Now, with the lens of time, I see that his thoughtfulness was huge. One year, there was a white, metal basket for our anniversary. I was ticked. Then he told me that he searched and searched for it -- that it fit perfectly between the seats in our big van. It also had handles, so I could pick it up and take my purse and books and things easily out to wherever our adventures took us (we were homeschooling four children at the time). Another time, I opened a package to find an empty flute case! He had, again, searched for a new case to replace my old one that was literally falling apart. Another epic gift -- he was terribly excited about Christmas and tried to get me to open my gift early. I always refuse that, because I like the anticipation. Whatever was in that box had to be just incredible, with the way he was going on about it. Christmas Eve, I finally opened it to find a brand-new, leather-bound Franklin Planner. He was giddy. I was distraught. 

My sixty-something self now understands how much thought and love he put into those and other gifts. I am sad that I did not appreciate them more at the time, and am trying to make up for it now by putting my brain into his brain, to see what he sees. Also, heavy hints from me have helped immensely (as I jingle the Brighton jewelry he bought me over every holiday this past year). He's retiring next year (Lord willing), so I'm gonna hang on to these precious items and not assume this is a future trend. I told him he can write me love notes next year and he said, "Well, I sent you a text for your birthday." To which I wrinkled my nose and suggested pen and paper. Silly girl, but I might lose those texts and that would be tragic. 

As I was toying with these thoughts, I began to think on that man, who I have been both a blessing and a curse to all these years. Him, getting up very early to put on his boots, read his Bible before he leaves, follow the same patterns for now-decades, and walk millions of miles on unforgiving factory or retail floors when his knees (and hips) are getting mighty cranky. All the while, never complaining. There were years I was home with our little ones, then our big ones (they didn't get on the bus, ya'll), then years of health issues for me where he covered it with a second job. Yes, I have always worked, whether it was taking care of babies, homeschooling, painting houses or murals, selling real estate or artwork. All women work, if they are worth their salt. It might not be in a factory or business. I was allowed to have my dream of staying home and making a home with our children, with all the creative endeavors along the way. He was with me, in that dream and it was done together, as a team. But without gratefulness, it could go sour pretty quickly. He's not perfect, and I definitely am not. A long time ago, I started trying to think of one thing a day that I was thankful for, in his person. Because sometimes, we just don't like each other. If I neglect to think on what is good about him, it starts going south. Gratefulness buoys us and gives us hope. 

I think on a baby that we lost a couple of decades ago. It was when our youngest child was eleven years old. We thought I couldn't have any more, so were surprised when I found out we had a nine-week-old baby in my womb. I was mid-fourties but thrilled to pieces. We named him Ethan and got busy planning. At fourteen weeks gestation, I miscarried and had to bury our little baby. I thought my daughter was going to have to be buried along with him, she was so overwrought with the death. I, too, felt so despairing and hopeless. Some might think we were crazy for actually wanting a baby in our fourties, but our whole family was deeply sad. Days and weeks went by and I could not find much to be happy about. My younger brother, our pastor at the time, prayed for me and gently read scripture to me about being thankful in all circumstances. I couldn't see how that applied to this situation. 

One night, however, I woke up and padded to the bathroom. There was a little octagonal window in there, and the moon was shining like a beacon. As I looked at the inky night, the stars and the moon sparkling, I began to thank God for the beauty of it, the consistency of seeing those things over my whole life. For what a glory they are, a reminder that life goes on, that the earth still rotates, that the moon still shines. 

Many have endured much worse things, but this was my "thing"' at that time. I thanked God, for taking my baby, for keeping him safe for me up there, for possibly sparing him (or us) from something unimaginable. We just don't know all the facts. My heart broke open as I thanked Him. The tears came, the release palpable. 

When we find gratefulness of any kind, our heart softens, the bitter roots begin to die, and hope springs eternal. Look for that nugget...  

Delicious Wallpaper

When we had four children still at home, you'd think it would be harder to keep the house tidy and clean. But you'd think wrong... The first time I had an event at my house when they'd all moved out, I was mentally scrambling, wondering who was going to help me get this mess sorted. The empty nest is a whole challenge on its own, but when your helpers disappear, a new paradigm forms. The idea of actually keeping up with things as I go becomes important. I tend to operate on a floating mentality, where I bounce from one thing to the other until an event or shower or the pressing issue of company arriving causes me to focus and get everything done at the last minute. There's sweat, heart palpitations, stress, some yelling, and then anger at myself for not paying attention to these things on the daily. I just had another birthday, and it's pretty late to be figuring it out. But I need to, if we're going to keep doing important stuff and making our home a haven for friends, family and wayward souls. Wayward is a pretty good definition for my homemaking skills. I love all the beautiful things, but they indeed need dusting. I don't think minimalism is going to catch on over here any time soon. They say that Maximalism is back, and if so, I'm a rock star...

We recently had several events at our home -- there's Easter (my absolute favorite) with the family, then 30+ women over for popcorn and a movie (ladies' night for the church folks), and then our shepherding group (Ken's a deacon) which turned out over 40 people for soup night last Friday. We spread them all over the house and I'm still marveling at the lack of "mess." Everybody did their part and cleaned up, thank heaven. As Ken and I plopped into our recliners when the night was over, he said, "no more socializing for awhile, okay?" We should have left for Tijuana or something, but the Sunday nap was pretty epic. 

I typically use these "events" to put pressure on myself concerning something that needs doing in the house. Ken works on the yard while I paint something or finish a project. This time, after Easter, I decided to finish the kitchen. It has been evolving for a couple of years. The cabinets are amazing; the former owner did us good with that, but the floors were ick. I bought tile and now they are in a herringbone brick pattern with a creamy colored brick tile. The countertops were next... I searched and searched and of course landed on the most expensive one, Taj Mahal, a pinky-creamy quartzite that I plan on staring at forever. Then we had to re-do the backsplash (If You Give A Mouse A Cookie...), so that became a Victorian pattern in a creamy white on white. It is an east-facing room, with morning light. I didn't understand what that means, decoratively, until after I had painted the thing four times. Mind you, we've only lived here 14 years. An east-facing room needs warmth. It always felt cold, each time I painted. This last, fifth, time, I just painted the top part "Sherwin Williams Antique White" and the beadboard trim was "SW Alabaster." That was really just a holding pattern until I figured out a color. This white stuff just ain't for Yaya, I have to say. 

Elizabeth, my daughter, showed me a lovely picture of a wallpaper in a kitchen similar to mine. I swore off wallpaper a few years ago, because I'd put miles of it up and then removed hundreds of miles of it over the decades. Never, I said. Once again, however, I began gathering samples from every website known to mankind. I found a yummy one with flowers galore, but still wrestled with the fact that it looked strikingly familiar to my last kitchen -- a literal bouquet of bodacious cabbage roses that took over my 90s house (my sister still has the leftovers plastered in the foyer of her house!) Never let it be said that I repeated anything in my life. I must pivot on every project. I spent a ridiculous amount of money amassing said samples and finally, finally settled on the perfect one. It was a funky,  different pattern with an Old World feel. It reminded me of a cover of a book that I read and kept in my bathroom basket for a long time, just because I loved the art (The Lost City of Z, by David Grann). There were monkeys, cheetahs, snakes, a jungle, an emu-looking creature and lots of flowers. I ordered a kit to help with peel-and-stick paper application and started dreaming but ended up calling Anatolli, a gifted Ukrainian dude who spoke very little English but did magic on those kitchen walls. I go in there every day and put my hands and face on that paper and thank God for the perfection of it and that I didn't have to do it myself. Of course, the beadboard required a new color. Next week's project is to glaze it with a rich, dark espresso color. I don't eat cookies, but I'm all about the next thing. Thankfully, yummy is not just about food...  

Spring and the Sounds of Little People

There is nothing like camping in the spring. Seems like we usually end up camping in the fall and winter, who knows why. This year, instead of Pigeon Forge (please don't hate me for not liking it) we went to Hiawassee. The traffic and mayhem in PF surely make those gorgeous mountains in the distance cry. When we are stuck, with thousands of cars all around, I look to the hills and wonder what they must be like. and what it would feel like to breathe in some fresh air. But in Hiawassee, the crystal clear sky and mountain views are in and through everywhere we are. The lakes, creeks, old farmhouses...they all beckon in their ancient stillness. No matter what place you are on earth, where there is nature close by, it is good for the body and the soul.  

Children who are raised with lots of outdoor time, less screens, no phones -- are the blessed ones these days. We had a week with a clutch of such kids. They speak to adults, laugh and play, and are content with what they're given. All week, they made great fun out of the old-timey things: swings, slides, bikes, putt-putt and that original invention - other kids. It was refreshing. We had campfires every night with Smores and plenty of smoke, including some fine cigars. Stories were told, laughing and seriousness were had, and all agreed that this was the best time ever.

The last day of our trip, we headed up to a place called Bell Mountain. I kept thinking someone was mistaking "Bell" for "Bald" -- and in my ignorance thought we were driving to Brasstown Bald, the highest point in Georgia. Ken loves to torture me with views of very high places in our truck. He seems to veer closely to edges and takes great glee in whipping around corners of mountains. All for the purpose of me protesting and freaking like a little girl. On this particular drive, I refused to look out the windows until we got to the destination. Then I broke my rule as we were basically riding on two wheels around a curve. There, spread out in panoramic vision, was a whole valley of mountains (if that makes sense)...the sky was azure blue, with wisps of clouds. I gasped and might have accidentally cussed. I don't know if it was the beauty or the danger that overtook me. Cussing might be a sin, well, of course it is. Ken never, ever does it and I am grateful for that. I, however, have been known to sin, when the world is about to end or I am severely shocked. Or kids have hidden a stinking mountain of clothes under their beds. These are just some of the reasons I need Jesus.  

When we got to the top, there was a parking lot, a mile of stairs and lots of rocks with graffiti everywhere. We hauled ourselves to the top, some of the grands clinging to us, dizzy in the thin air and slightly carsick. It was magnificent. We were overwhelmed with the wonder, marveling that we'd never seen such. Thank you, Aunt Melissa and Uncle Jeff, for telling us about it. Overwhelming is the glory of God's creation.

This morning, I am sad. We are packing up, about to pull the camper back to Villa Rica. There's much to do when we get back, which makes it extra sad. My calendar is already overfull for the rest of the week. I don't want to leave. Can't we wait until the trees are completely unfurled? It will be difficult to get up in the mornings, knowing that there are no grandkids waiting to throw themselves into my arms or ask for gum. Ken goes back to work in the morning and I start hitting appointments. There is quiet. There is work. There are cats (I wish I could take them camping) and plants to water and feed.

 Thank you, God, for the means to do all these things and the joy of living.  

Kernels of Wisdom

I have no idea who decided to throw hard corn kernels in a pan and pop them, but I am eternally grateful.  

Popcorn is the stuff of heaven. It's cheap, easily made, and you can hear angels sing when it's done right. I grew up in a frugal home with modest surroundings. Popcorn was the snack of choice. Hot, buttery, crunchy, salty. Dangerous. Then there was ice cream, the perfect counterpoint to it. Cold, creamy, silky, sweet. Our growing up years were cycles of salty to sweet. Our Daddy who was tall and willowy, with arms long enough to reach all the way around people, a snack-eating enigma. He loved to eat, should have weighed 500 pounds considering the amounts, but didn't. He worked hard but never "worked out" that I remember. He kept our big yard, dug a garden most years, would play ball with us kids, and walked and lifted a lot of heavy packages at his job at the Postal Service. But I never saw anything approximating a barbell in our home. He loved popcorn, ice cream, pickles, cottage cheese and peaches, fried pecans, chips and garlic cream cheese dip and oh yeah, Stuckey's pecan rolls. He'd switch from savory to sweet and back again. But the winner-winner-chicken-dinner was the popcorn. The day he died, he asked Mama for some. She made a batch in the kitchen, handed him his bowl (he said "thank you"), stepped to the kitchen to get hers...when she turned back to him, he had already gone to Jesus. With some popcorn kernels on his lips! He figured he'd just head on up after all that goodness. 

I came to marriage with opinions about the stuff. I didn't know how to cook anything useful, but I knew how to make a proper batch of popcorn (as well as rightly fell a large tree). I remember boxing out people when they tried to mess with the salting and buttering of it. Basketball definitely interfered with my domestic training. Ken and I's first "fight" was over some popcorn. We were very good friends, not dating yet, but were sharing a bowl at one of our singles gatherings after church. It was especially good, with lots of butter and Old Maids at the bottom. For those who don't know what Old Maids are...they are the half-popped, kinda burnt kernels that you find at the bottom of the bowl. They are the Goody. There are also Old Maids who are young ladies who are almost not young anymore and who are not married.  But I don't think they're called that anymore...they're just called Successful Career Women? I am not sure and will cease talking about it. I tend to get in trouble when talking about women for some reason, even though I am one. I thought I was almost an Old Maid when I got married at 21. Now we call a woman that young a baby or teenager or something. But I digress... Ken and I got to the lowest dregs of the bowl and started digging for Old Maids. He slapped my hand and told me that I had to wait until all the popped kernels were eaten. I grabbed the bowl and said watch me. We did some wrestling and I think some of the bounty was lost in the melee. Who makes up rules about popcorn, anyway? Little did we know that this was a pretty good harbinger of our future fights. Not the physical part, but the nature of it. That might have been put down to some kind of underlying tension, but I'm not sure. The temperature definitely went up in any room I found myself in with Ken Norton, but don't tell him that.

Our decades of popcorn love included us and everyone who visited and then our progeny who followed. I have perfected the making of it. For a few years, we bought that chemical-filled product you throw in a microwave. But why? When I found out about how toxic that stuff is as well as the dangers of GMO foods, I chased down some regular ole popcorn, raised on Amish farms and without hybridized genes, hormone-disrupting chemicals or alien DNA. It was heavenly, crunchy, coma-inducing. And then I discovered the real, real butter. Irish butter, that requires you to sell your first-born child to buy. I only use that particular kind on special occasions, which happens, well, maybe weekly. You get a big Dutch oven, heat up a mess of coconut oil til scalding hot. Then pour in these precious nuggets, keeping the pan moving until everything seems popped (please don't remove the lid until done). Then pour it into a gigantic farm bowl, if you have any integrity. Melt a hunk of Irish butter in same pan, then pour it over the corn, stirring it all around. Then salt, not too much, not too little. This is more art than science and I can't help you until you experiment for at least a decade or two. Bring bowls and several bar towels to the living room, along with your beverages of choice. Don't wait. It's still hot and needs to be consumed and now. We are known, however, for leaving leftover popcorn on the kitchen counter with a towel over it, and will commence to snacking on that until it's gone. Heaven forbid you would ever throw any of it away.

Tonight, I'm having a big pile of ladies from church over for movie and game night (we invited all of them) and my contribution is as much popcorn as I can muster up (til the butter runs out). They don't know what's about to go down. I can see Daddy with a grin and a thumbs up. Like I said, that's some heaven right there. And also maybe a 12-step program... 

Alleluia and Pass the Ham

In the haze of clouds of pollen last week, I kept noticing the bodacious azaleas by our front porch. They show off just once a year, but wow, the show. Here we go again....  I thought of our first home (there were azaleas...). We had rented a couple of other houses before we finally bought our first dollhouse. It was situated right by the railroad tracks in downtown Mableton in a little neighborhood of similar tiny bungalows, all under 1000 square feet. The yard was loaded with all sorts of random plantings and the house was the very definition of fixer-upper, maybe even a dump, before we even called them that. We paid $32,900 and thought we had won the lottery. My parents graciously allowed us to move in with them while we worked on it. We were pregnant with our first child, naive and full of can-do spirit. How little we knew...

We dove in with hammers and screwdrivers. By the time demo was done, you could see straight through to the other end of the house. As sick sheetrock and trim was pulled down, there were mountains of dead roaches and their leavings in the piles. It's a wonder we didn't swell up and die from all the toxins. Ken had never really done any type of construction, but he learned beside Daddy as we dug in. Ken was on evening shift at the plant, so he would work on the house in the morning and then head to his real job in the afternoon. When Daddy would get home from his day job, he and I and Mama would head to the fixer and work til late hours. Saturdays were marathons. 

We yanked all the nasty cupboards out and laid them on the back patio, where I cleaned and sanded them. One day, Daddy and I were headed back to their home when he spied some cabinets laying in some random person's yard. He slammed on the brakes and wheeled into their driveway. The guy gave us a kitchen's worth of those (also) nasty cabinets. We added them to the arsenal. These were even worse. Mama and I scrubbed, bleached and dried them, then set to sanding off the past. Ken and Daddy assembled them into our old-new home, leaving us with double the original amount of storage. I painted them a shiny cherry red and put on white porcelain knobs. There was an old, rusty light fixture in there that looked for all the world like a farm lantern. I scrubbed (scrub and sand being the dominant theme in this renovation) and sanded it, painted the inside of it snow white and the outside the same red. I found some cheap wallpaper, white with yellow lines and red cherries. A friend gave me some red and white gingham checked curtains for the window. We put in laminate counters that looked like butcher block, and vinyl floors. The kitchen was smack-dab in the  middle of the house and looked like a cottage belonging to Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs.  We had to completely re-do the bathroom, using the cheapest materials we could find and using the original sink, tub and toilet. I wallpapered the hall and the main bedroom because the walls were so boogered up there was nothing else to be done. There were two tiny closets in the whole house, ancient carpets that we couldn't afford to replace so we just cleaned them, and old pine paneling in the den that we degreased and shined. I painted the tiny nursery baby blue and painted lambs on the wall with scripture twining between them. 

It was a mess. But it was our mess. With the help of family and friends (because there was no money), we scrubbed up this little place and made an adorable home for us and our upcoming baby. I had quit my job before we started, well before we got pregnant. There were people who criticized us for that. But I learned untold amounts of skills before that first baby came...things that benefit us to this day and that can't have a price put on them. Mama helped me learn to sew during those same days. I proudly put on my first maternity dress, made from my own hands. Painting, stripping furniture and cabinets, scrubbing, wallpapering, gardening, feeding my people...these are golden skills that have blessed my family and many others over my life.

I remember the weeks after we moved in, and everything was done, clean, serene, ready. The church and family gave me a huge shower and we settled in to wait. I would spend warm mornings with my Bible in the backyard, in the swing that Ken's Pop had given us, the same swing that Ken played on when he was a child. I would put my hands around my burgeoning belly that contained an apparent Lamb of Great Size. I would talk to him, knowing he was a him even though we didn't get sonograms back then. I sang to him, wondering what and who he would be. I saw in my mind's eye a man of God, strong and willful, a light in the darkness. We named him Jonathan (gift of God) Uriah (the fire of the Lord) -- because that's what he was going to be (and is). Those sweet early days, misty and ethereal in my mind, difficult and yet simple. Happy, happy, unworthy and blessed beyond anything I could have imagined. People were often thinking we were crazy because we took roads less traveled. 

Then there was yesterday, Resurrection Day, where I sat in the middle of the years of progeny that have come behind us. My favorite holiday, where church was rife with love and victory, then home with the grandchildren all around like flowers and bees and honey all buzzing. Noise, food, laughter, green grass, pollen, and dirty little feet everywhere. 

While we were getting ready, we (finally) hung the two plates I was given at Christmas -- one with our family tree on it, growing outward like a great oak. The other, a picture of our darling but big Victorian bungalow that we ended up with all these years later. It says: "For indeed, a house is a little church." The older I get, the more humbled I am as I realize that I get so much more than what I actually deserve. The God whom I love and loves me is merciful to His children. Simple dreams. A simple yet complicated life. Easter blessings. Open hands. And a God who is greater than all our sin...   

Promises of Spring

I'm not sure when Easter became my favorite holiday, but it brings sweet, endearing memories as I scan back on my years. It all started at Orange Hill Baptist Church in Austell, where those early years included getting dressed up for Sunday church. Daddy and Mama would usually take a picture of us in the front yard. There were egg hunts with dozens of cousins, special lunches with MawMaw and Daddy's family after church, music and the joy experienced at the services. I was too little to understand all the hype, but just loved it. It was the time when dogwoods were blooming everywhere, bees buzzing, pollen flying, and all of nature bursting with flowers and mint-green foliage. Life! Abundantly...  

As Ken and I started our family, we also took pictures in the front yard with our little ones before Sunday church. The lunches were with both our sets of parents. The passing of the guard, with its sadness, leads to the new guard, bright with promise. The pictures now need the panoramic view on our cameras. 

Now we are the old(er) ones, how can it be?! As I see our grandchildren in the weeks before Easter, each one of them mentions that they can't wait for candy and the egg hunt at our house. The pressure is on. 

Last Saturday, I dashed to one of the grands' soccer games, only to arrive and see that I missed it. I had the wrong time. Ken was off, bush-hogging one of our sons' properties, so I took the opportunity to hit up Aldi's. They always have cheap Easter candy and lots of goodies. I was a little panicked, as I thought Easter was in one week. While there, I texted all the family, asking what they were planning to bring. I was informed that Easter was on April 5 this year. I said, "Yes, I know that. It's next week." Folks, it's not because I'm losing my marbles (well.....) but just had it wrongly in my head that April 5 was next week. Mind you, I check my calendar every day in my phone. Ken Norton works on a strict policy that we have to put everything in the calendar and it has served me well. But in order to use it, it helps to actually notice the dates, not just the events. 

Anyway, I'm breathing easier because that means I have an extra week to go chocolate hunting. One of our sons, who might have a healthier attitude (he, of course, is the one who subsisted on gummy worms during four years of college and ruined his teeth), suggested I put quarters and dollar bills in the eggs for hunting. I'll think about it, but maybe not... 

I am beginning to run into a conundrum with my adult children. These people would never say that they are spoiled. I raised them tough -- spanking and neglecting them just enough to make them great (I am laughing, ya'll). That also included loving the stuffing out of them. But Easter baskets have continued for all these years, for everyone -- all the grown adults and their spouses as well as Ken. What is wrong with me? This year, we acquired two more of the most scrumptious grandbabies on the planet, making fourteen in total, all 13-years-old and under. They are right to expect Easter baskets from their Yaya. But 30 and 40-year-olds, oh yeah, and the 68-year-old? I am trying to figure out where all that is coming from. I might need to sell a house in the next day or to, to finance all this frivolous purchasing. 

In the end, for all of us, is that it really isn't about the eggs, the chocolate, the pretty dresses. All of that is fun and beautiful and joyful, without the pressure of Christmas gifts and so many events hanging over us. What makes this the best holiday ever is what it represents. This week, I heard one of our granddaughters singing in that sweet, lithe voice of the young, a bird-like melody speaking of the wonder of the resurrection of Christ and what that means to believers. I couldn't help but tear up. For I have been redeemed.

Easter is hope, the springing-forth of new life, and the promise of life after death. This same week, I read a terrible, scathing post about the evils of Christianity on a cousin's post. There are evil people, there are evil deeds, there is sin in the world. There are those who claim to be Christian but are not, truly. There are also all of us hypocrites who still wrestle with our own sin. This is why we need Christ. We, meaning me, need life and a new heart. Easter, where He triumphed over sin and death, to give me a new heart. Yes, I am proselytizing, because I have been given and tasted what it means to truly be free and to have a Savior who bore my sin and gave me new life. 

There is one who doesn't want us to know this. Resist, and draw nigh to God. He will not turn you out.