There's really so many things I should be doing....
- eating organic
- selling essential oils instead of just buying them
- populating my Etsy shop with all the stuff lying around in my studio
- shopping and then re-selling things on Ebay
- getting rid of all the junk in our garage on Ebay
- painting my garage
- exercising every morning, at the gym I'm paying through the nose for...
- contributing to people in all sorts of downtrodden places
- writing a book
- taking a lot more supplements
- doing Kegels
- getting a regular job where I'm chained to a desk and get a regular paycheck (well, maybe not. We don't need more shoot-outs or postal episodes)
- doing all the Dave Ramsey stuff that I promised myself I would do
- growing a garden
- finishing the two commissions I have in my studio
- wearing earth shoes
- doing yoga. But hey, when I do that plank thing, my stomach's touching the ground, so....
- typing standing up (not sitting. I'm not joking. This is a big movement now. Somewhere. On some other planet.)
- worming my cats
- taking my dog on play dates (seriously?!)
- practicing my flute 2 hours a day
- joining the Symphony and the High Museum
- juicing
- cooking, for heaven's sake
- cleaning the house, instead of taking naps when I get the chance
- doing something miraculous for my grandchildren
- not ever eating sugar again
- etc.
So here's the thing. I really believe there are enough hours in the day. There's just not enough juice in the engine. So if something wonderful or productive or even close to that happens, something else gets neglected. So if I sell something, there's no gas to make supper. If I clean the house, nothing gets sold. If I start painting, heaven forbid, all hell breaks loose. And at this age and at this stage, I have to be honest -- I got nothing. No answers. No miracles. No promises. It's all like a production mired in molasses, where you're gonna get maybe one little fireworks show a day. After that, you might as well forget it or hope for an anomaly. All I've got to say is, thank the Lord we're getting something done and we're still breathin'. It could be a whole lot worse.
Wednesday, September 23, 2015
Tuesday, September 15, 2015
Daughter-in-Law of a Southern Belle Biscuit Maker
Heritage and Lineage. We hear those (obviously important) words a lot. My Daddy is a geneology junkie. Even though he is a king of a man and doesn't seem to understand that fact, he needed validation from his ancestors. He had his DNA examined and has done thousands of hours of investigating murky details of the past. There's no summing it up, because hey, in the end we are all related to Noah and his wife....but Daddy has found that we are the grandchildren (10 or so generations back) of the King of Ireland (Brian Boru), the descendants of a Revolutionary War bigshot (Daddy's now a proud member of the Sons of the Revolution), very close offspring of a Cherokee Indian chief, and progeny of a southern Baptist minister who fought for the Yankees in the Civil War. That's the short list. And we are not going to mention all the horse traders, thieves and pirates. Either way, I have a long, illustrious list of relatives that should make me proud and mark me as a validated human being. But what really bothers me is that, with all that heritage, I have never learned to make a decent biscuit.
I was raised here in the deep South, with a true-blue Southern Daddy and a Yankee Mama. Daddy lived up "there" for only a couple of years, long enough to find my Mama and have me. Then they had to hurry back down here. My children still torment me, saying that their mother is a Yankee, because I was born up there and because my Mama is one. What they fail to acknowledge is that, in the Bible, the Daddy is the one you go by in the geneology and by the way, I was raised down here, except for six months of my life. Now I'm not disrespecting my Yankee Mama. She is amazing. She had a lot to do with finishing my Daddy into a gentleman and she raised us right, with plenty of homegrown love, including hugs, a clean home and lots of good food. She made us behave and expected us to do our homework and chores without complaining. She made Mayberry out of a lot of chaos and I will always be grateful for the security and light she brought to our world. She's a black-and-white woman. Right is right and wrong is wrong. So I grew up thinking everybody was like that.
When I hit about the fourth grade, I began to realize that there were rules besides the ones I was growing up with. Southern Rules. I had a couple of friends who knew about the Rules. They said "Yes ma'm" and "No ma'm" to our teacher. They said please and thank you with just that extra bit of sugar on top. My Mama had no use for such confections. She said that she'd seen trashy, no-good women use those terms and it didn't make a bit of difference in their character. Let your yes be yes and your no, no. I knew that when my Mama said something, there was no embellishment and you could count on whatever she said to be true. Even if it stung. There wasn't talk behind your back, because she would tell it to you straight up. Now that I'm older, I appreciate that kind of candor. But there's also a place for the Southern graces, when done sincerely. And therein lies the problem...
I married young, into a family of Southern belles. I thought I had learned all the rules by then. But I had not. When we got engaged, I began to realize that I was clueless. There were layers and layers of Southernese that I had not absorbed, even though I'd been here since infancy. Ken took me to meet his people in Lincolnton and Washington, Georgia, where the real Southerners are. The women were as luscious as maple syrup and sassy as fresh lemonade. When they spoke, it sounded like a balmy, sweet breeze across a wide porch in the evening. They were thoughtful. I received the most beautiful, traditional gifts of crystal, silver and monogrammed correctness you can imagine. They wrote kind notes, showed up for showers and blessed us all around. I had known kindness all of my life, but I had not known the full-blown culture that was the Old South. When I partook of my mother-in-law's beyond-heavenly pecan pie and biscuits, I realized that I was in big trouble. I knew how to saw down a tree, clean and scrub anything, mow and trim a lawn, rebound a basketball like a wildcat and run like the wind.... but I didn't know one thing about making a biscuit. Or a pie. Or a roast. My husband had grown up with all the Southern rules that I didn't know, but he had also been the recipient of daily helpings of food that defied description. Food that you can't just make from a recipe. It was time-honored and Grandmama-honed stuff that you can't write down in a book or take in a class.
In our early days of marriage, I cooked a blue streak, making thousands of mistakes and a few successes along the way. My artistic soul won't let me do anything the same way twice, so my experiments with biscuits were nearly always disastrous. The Lord gave us four gargantuan children -- three stunning Lumberjacks and a Wonder-Woman-worthy Amazon. Somehow, with monthly trips to Sam's Club and lots of coupons, I managed to fill up and grow them to adulthood, with (still) no real progress in the biscuit category. One morning, before my boys married, one of them made breakfast and presented a couple of pans of perfectly-made biscuits. I asked in astonishment how he did that, and he said, "I just followed the directions on the Martha White bag, Mama." Now why didn't I think of that?
My days are still full, but not with a whole lot of cooking, much to my husband's chagrin. I'm just really grateful that Hardee's and Bojangles make some pretty mean biscuits. They're definitely not my mother-in-law's, but they beat the sight outa mine.
I was raised here in the deep South, with a true-blue Southern Daddy and a Yankee Mama. Daddy lived up "there" for only a couple of years, long enough to find my Mama and have me. Then they had to hurry back down here. My children still torment me, saying that their mother is a Yankee, because I was born up there and because my Mama is one. What they fail to acknowledge is that, in the Bible, the Daddy is the one you go by in the geneology and by the way, I was raised down here, except for six months of my life. Now I'm not disrespecting my Yankee Mama. She is amazing. She had a lot to do with finishing my Daddy into a gentleman and she raised us right, with plenty of homegrown love, including hugs, a clean home and lots of good food. She made us behave and expected us to do our homework and chores without complaining. She made Mayberry out of a lot of chaos and I will always be grateful for the security and light she brought to our world. She's a black-and-white woman. Right is right and wrong is wrong. So I grew up thinking everybody was like that.
When I hit about the fourth grade, I began to realize that there were rules besides the ones I was growing up with. Southern Rules. I had a couple of friends who knew about the Rules. They said "Yes ma'm" and "No ma'm" to our teacher. They said please and thank you with just that extra bit of sugar on top. My Mama had no use for such confections. She said that she'd seen trashy, no-good women use those terms and it didn't make a bit of difference in their character. Let your yes be yes and your no, no. I knew that when my Mama said something, there was no embellishment and you could count on whatever she said to be true. Even if it stung. There wasn't talk behind your back, because she would tell it to you straight up. Now that I'm older, I appreciate that kind of candor. But there's also a place for the Southern graces, when done sincerely. And therein lies the problem...
I married young, into a family of Southern belles. I thought I had learned all the rules by then. But I had not. When we got engaged, I began to realize that I was clueless. There were layers and layers of Southernese that I had not absorbed, even though I'd been here since infancy. Ken took me to meet his people in Lincolnton and Washington, Georgia, where the real Southerners are. The women were as luscious as maple syrup and sassy as fresh lemonade. When they spoke, it sounded like a balmy, sweet breeze across a wide porch in the evening. They were thoughtful. I received the most beautiful, traditional gifts of crystal, silver and monogrammed correctness you can imagine. They wrote kind notes, showed up for showers and blessed us all around. I had known kindness all of my life, but I had not known the full-blown culture that was the Old South. When I partook of my mother-in-law's beyond-heavenly pecan pie and biscuits, I realized that I was in big trouble. I knew how to saw down a tree, clean and scrub anything, mow and trim a lawn, rebound a basketball like a wildcat and run like the wind.... but I didn't know one thing about making a biscuit. Or a pie. Or a roast. My husband had grown up with all the Southern rules that I didn't know, but he had also been the recipient of daily helpings of food that defied description. Food that you can't just make from a recipe. It was time-honored and Grandmama-honed stuff that you can't write down in a book or take in a class.
In our early days of marriage, I cooked a blue streak, making thousands of mistakes and a few successes along the way. My artistic soul won't let me do anything the same way twice, so my experiments with biscuits were nearly always disastrous. The Lord gave us four gargantuan children -- three stunning Lumberjacks and a Wonder-Woman-worthy Amazon. Somehow, with monthly trips to Sam's Club and lots of coupons, I managed to fill up and grow them to adulthood, with (still) no real progress in the biscuit category. One morning, before my boys married, one of them made breakfast and presented a couple of pans of perfectly-made biscuits. I asked in astonishment how he did that, and he said, "I just followed the directions on the Martha White bag, Mama." Now why didn't I think of that?
My days are still full, but not with a whole lot of cooking, much to my husband's chagrin. I'm just really grateful that Hardee's and Bojangles make some pretty mean biscuits. They're definitely not my mother-in-law's, but they beat the sight outa mine.
Thursday, September 3, 2015
"I Hate Snakes, Jake, I Hate 'Em!"
In any given life, there are snakes. Snakes live among us. Whether you want to believe it or not, they are everywhere. They don't want to be stepped on, shot or eaten. They really don't like to run into us. They are the introverts of the animal kingdom....are they really animals, though? They're cold-blooded reptilian-like creatures. Have you ever held one? Weird and cool skin, like they're living dead or something. Snakes scare us. They are mysterious, sometimes dangerous and like to lurk under bushes. And then there's always that event in the Garden of Eden... I have more snake stories than one person ought to have in a lifetime. As I began musing about myself and serpents, I decided to detail the high points and leave the safe stories behind. Here goes...
Snake Rescue #1
I was a freshman in college, up in Dayton, Tennessee, where the hills look like God just threw down giant dirt clods and covered them with magnificent ferns and trees. It was a beautiful fall day, with leaves falling and crunching underneath. I was with a friend and we had hiked several miles into a place called Pocket Wilderness. We were climbing a steep hill, where you're not exactly walking or climbing but somewhere in-between...using hands to help yourself but not fully vertical. My friend was hiking maybe ten feet in front of me. I happened to glance up just in time to see two beady eyes staring at me, about two feet right in front of my face. Did I say right in front of my face? I couldn't see a form yet.... just the eyes. But then the fat, coiled body of a sage and wily copperhead snake materialized like Houdini out of a cloud of steam. I froze, steeling myself for the strike. But he froze too. As we stared at each other, I was able to carefully inch my way backwards until I was at a safe distance. My hiking partner was asking what the matter was...then he scoffed and said there was nothing there. He moved towards where the snake was and I screamed before he could get too close. The snake took off for home and the guy nearly jumped out of his skin when he finally saw it. All I could think about was what would have happened if I hadn't seen it? We were miles into the wilderness and if it had bitten me, it would have hooked me about the head and shoulders. Shuddering.... So God rescued me that time.
Snake Rescue #2
Fast forward a few years. I am married with a toddler and pregnant with a second baby. It is cold outside but we are playing in the backyard. I'm sitting on the swing when my 18-month-old starts babbling excitedly. At first I was just looking at his face, but then notice that he is pointing at the ground. At a coiled-up snake, ready to strike, right in front of him. I couldn't tell what kind it was, but it looked dangerous and had one of those diamond-shaped heads, with variegated markings, silver and black. It didn't look like any King snake I'd ever seen. I quietly said, "Jonathan, don't move." This was a child that never stopped moving and always pushed the limits. But thank God, he stood still while I Ninja-ed my way to him and was able to silently pull him away from the snake. Just as this is happening (nobody is going to believe me when I tell it)...my husband, Ken, pulls in the driveway. I'm about 15 feet away from the snake, which is still coiled and staring at us. I tell Ken and he sees it. He runs back to the truck, where he happens to have a flat-headed shovel. He hastens to the snake and with one stroke, chops that snake's head off. When it calms down and we can examine the snake, it has rattles on it. It was a Timber Rattlesnake. So....here we go again. God rescued our baby.
Snake Rescue #3
Many years later (with not a few more tamer snake stories in between) -- one day my three teenage sons and Ken were in our yard and basement, cleaning up debris and construction materials. I heard yelling, mostly, "Mama! Come here!" I ran down the stairs to see my guys all by the boat door, surrounding the biggest, fattest Copperhead I had ever seen. It was writhing, coiling, springing, and carrying on like a demon. They all thought it was very funny, particularly Mama's horrified face. I'm afraid boys never outgrow the fun and exciting possibility of scaring girls out of their wits. This is what had happened -- Daniel, our middle son, was carrying armloads of debris from the basement out to the truck. He got to a pile of plywood pieces and reached down and picked up a large section of wood. As he lifted the piece, the snake leaped out at him, barely missing his neck. After the initial shock, the guys surrounded the snake and were basically taunting the thing. Ken reached around and got his trusty flat-headed shovel and once again, acting like Poseidon with his trident, he lopped off that snake's head with one smooth motion. The dude is impressive, I'm telling ya. The guys are acting all macho, but that head is not dead yet. It was rolling around the ground, snapping its jaws open and shut. They had to bury it to keep somebody from stepping on it later. I can still see that thing in my mind. Yikes, now I have to try to sleep. But I can sleep, because I figure God's got some kind of purpose for saving our son.
Three different times, three of us have been precariously close to being impaired or probably killed by deadly snakes. But who knows how many snakes, human and otherwise, God has spared us from that we knew nothing about? I'm pretty thankful He's my friend. And oh yeah, that Poseidon guy's pretty handy to have around, too.
Snake Rescue #1
I was a freshman in college, up in Dayton, Tennessee, where the hills look like God just threw down giant dirt clods and covered them with magnificent ferns and trees. It was a beautiful fall day, with leaves falling and crunching underneath. I was with a friend and we had hiked several miles into a place called Pocket Wilderness. We were climbing a steep hill, where you're not exactly walking or climbing but somewhere in-between...using hands to help yourself but not fully vertical. My friend was hiking maybe ten feet in front of me. I happened to glance up just in time to see two beady eyes staring at me, about two feet right in front of my face. Did I say right in front of my face? I couldn't see a form yet.... just the eyes. But then the fat, coiled body of a sage and wily copperhead snake materialized like Houdini out of a cloud of steam. I froze, steeling myself for the strike. But he froze too. As we stared at each other, I was able to carefully inch my way backwards until I was at a safe distance. My hiking partner was asking what the matter was...then he scoffed and said there was nothing there. He moved towards where the snake was and I screamed before he could get too close. The snake took off for home and the guy nearly jumped out of his skin when he finally saw it. All I could think about was what would have happened if I hadn't seen it? We were miles into the wilderness and if it had bitten me, it would have hooked me about the head and shoulders. Shuddering.... So God rescued me that time.
Snake Rescue #2
Fast forward a few years. I am married with a toddler and pregnant with a second baby. It is cold outside but we are playing in the backyard. I'm sitting on the swing when my 18-month-old starts babbling excitedly. At first I was just looking at his face, but then notice that he is pointing at the ground. At a coiled-up snake, ready to strike, right in front of him. I couldn't tell what kind it was, but it looked dangerous and had one of those diamond-shaped heads, with variegated markings, silver and black. It didn't look like any King snake I'd ever seen. I quietly said, "Jonathan, don't move." This was a child that never stopped moving and always pushed the limits. But thank God, he stood still while I Ninja-ed my way to him and was able to silently pull him away from the snake. Just as this is happening (nobody is going to believe me when I tell it)...my husband, Ken, pulls in the driveway. I'm about 15 feet away from the snake, which is still coiled and staring at us. I tell Ken and he sees it. He runs back to the truck, where he happens to have a flat-headed shovel. He hastens to the snake and with one stroke, chops that snake's head off. When it calms down and we can examine the snake, it has rattles on it. It was a Timber Rattlesnake. So....here we go again. God rescued our baby.
Snake Rescue #3
Many years later (with not a few more tamer snake stories in between) -- one day my three teenage sons and Ken were in our yard and basement, cleaning up debris and construction materials. I heard yelling, mostly, "Mama! Come here!" I ran down the stairs to see my guys all by the boat door, surrounding the biggest, fattest Copperhead I had ever seen. It was writhing, coiling, springing, and carrying on like a demon. They all thought it was very funny, particularly Mama's horrified face. I'm afraid boys never outgrow the fun and exciting possibility of scaring girls out of their wits. This is what had happened -- Daniel, our middle son, was carrying armloads of debris from the basement out to the truck. He got to a pile of plywood pieces and reached down and picked up a large section of wood. As he lifted the piece, the snake leaped out at him, barely missing his neck. After the initial shock, the guys surrounded the snake and were basically taunting the thing. Ken reached around and got his trusty flat-headed shovel and once again, acting like Poseidon with his trident, he lopped off that snake's head with one smooth motion. The dude is impressive, I'm telling ya. The guys are acting all macho, but that head is not dead yet. It was rolling around the ground, snapping its jaws open and shut. They had to bury it to keep somebody from stepping on it later. I can still see that thing in my mind. Yikes, now I have to try to sleep. But I can sleep, because I figure God's got some kind of purpose for saving our son.
Three different times, three of us have been precariously close to being impaired or probably killed by deadly snakes. But who knows how many snakes, human and otherwise, God has spared us from that we knew nothing about? I'm pretty thankful He's my friend. And oh yeah, that Poseidon guy's pretty handy to have around, too.
Wednesday, August 26, 2015
Thoughts from the Nest
This season of life is baffling. I've been told of the joys and the sorrows of the empty nest. And it's true....it happens too soon but then you think it never will. Then one day, you're rocking on the porch and reminiscing about your sweet babies, remembering their soft, round faces and the endless round of meals, diapers, nap times, more meals, prayers, books, toys, bedtime. Repeat. And repeat. And then comes school, sports, social lives, love lives, marriages, babies. And the Mama never quits bearing her children. You bear them all your life. You worry, fuss, correct, pray, wake up in the night....and they are not even at home anymore. And if they are, they're really not. So all the mirages of control that you used to believe you had, well that's all gone too. It comes down to this: God's got them. When they all pile in for a meal or just along their way for a visit, we are glad to see them come and glad to see them go. We thought we knew what tired was, way back then... now we're really tired.
I have to make myself not stay back "there" -- or else I'd cry all the time and miss what's in front of me now. This week included: painting our real estate office, working on potential listings, talking to probably a gozillion people about possibilities, painting again (and again), meeting friends for lunch, meeting business associates for lunch, making suppers for family, ensemble practice, church, laundry, scrubbing a toilet, walking the dog, talking to an old friend on the phone for a couple of hours, averting a flood disaster with a daughter-in-law, internet time, quiet time, shopping, doctoring the dog's hot spot on her rump, and then neglecting about 25 other things that are still hanging there, threatening to undo me. Yet all of that is light work, compared to the days when I had four children under the age of 7. I would not take back one hour of those years and all that time that I poured my heart and soul into our children. There were those who told me I was missing my calling or that I was made for "more" because I wasn't stuck in some office making that kind of money. But those treasures that are walking around now are more precious than millions of dollars and millions of kudos. I thank God for the grace to do it and my husband for working hard and letting me do all sorts of crazy and creative things to make it all happen. I have had multiple careers, never fitting into a box and much more interesting than I ever could have imagined. There are no two stories alike on the planet, but I'm very grateful for mine. Even the really hard parts.
I looked at the beautiful moon, with the night all warm and sweet around me. It's the same moon I used to watch from my bedroom window as a child. I didn't know what God had for my life back then, but I do remember feeling His arms around me, calling me to trust Him and to enjoy all His exquisite creation. My knees are creaking and my feet are really hurting tonight from all the painting (and the pounds)...but the same girl looks at the moon and marvels at the turning of the pages, the layers of life, the meanness and the goodness of the world, and lastly, all the circles. Moons, planets, orbits, births, lives, deaths, eternity. There's a lot to think about and a whole lot to live for.
I have to make myself not stay back "there" -- or else I'd cry all the time and miss what's in front of me now. This week included: painting our real estate office, working on potential listings, talking to probably a gozillion people about possibilities, painting again (and again), meeting friends for lunch, meeting business associates for lunch, making suppers for family, ensemble practice, church, laundry, scrubbing a toilet, walking the dog, talking to an old friend on the phone for a couple of hours, averting a flood disaster with a daughter-in-law, internet time, quiet time, shopping, doctoring the dog's hot spot on her rump, and then neglecting about 25 other things that are still hanging there, threatening to undo me. Yet all of that is light work, compared to the days when I had four children under the age of 7. I would not take back one hour of those years and all that time that I poured my heart and soul into our children. There were those who told me I was missing my calling or that I was made for "more" because I wasn't stuck in some office making that kind of money. But those treasures that are walking around now are more precious than millions of dollars and millions of kudos. I thank God for the grace to do it and my husband for working hard and letting me do all sorts of crazy and creative things to make it all happen. I have had multiple careers, never fitting into a box and much more interesting than I ever could have imagined. There are no two stories alike on the planet, but I'm very grateful for mine. Even the really hard parts.
I looked at the beautiful moon, with the night all warm and sweet around me. It's the same moon I used to watch from my bedroom window as a child. I didn't know what God had for my life back then, but I do remember feeling His arms around me, calling me to trust Him and to enjoy all His exquisite creation. My knees are creaking and my feet are really hurting tonight from all the painting (and the pounds)...but the same girl looks at the moon and marvels at the turning of the pages, the layers of life, the meanness and the goodness of the world, and lastly, all the circles. Moons, planets, orbits, births, lives, deaths, eternity. There's a lot to think about and a whole lot to live for.
Tuesday, August 4, 2015
And they're cutting the Arts out of schools?
I was a child, at some point in elementary school, the first time we lined up to go hear the symphony. Field trip days were always the best days, though the jury was still out on how this one would turn out. Our school was filled with common, country kids who ran summers barefoot and drank water from hosepipes. The buses lumbered into downtown Atlanta. We lined up again and filed through to our assigned places. On the stage, there were lots of empty seats, except where the harpist sat, dreamily streaming through her warm-up. I was hooked. One by one, the musicians meandered in, preparing their instruments and music, playing their own little personal concerts with scales and pieces of melodies floating up to where we sat. It was a cacophonous riot on the ears, none of it making sense yet. About the time I began to wonder if this was all that was going to happen, the conductor, bedecked in his luxurious tuxedo, strode up to the podium and commanded everyone's attention. A hush fell over the whole place. An eternity went by. I leaned forward, silent, waiting. Just as I was about to tip out of my skin, the air burst into sound. A roller coaster ride, romp in the woods, whirlwind in a chariot, float down a river, and a triumphant ascent to a mountaintop later, I collapsed in my seat, never to be the same. The rich and intricate music, mysterious yet universal, so inexplicably knit into a living fabric, made my heart want to burst. I looked around and wondered if the others around me felt it too, but I didn't dare ask. It opened this huge place inside that I didn't know existed. It was a universe of endless possibilities, beautiful, dangerous and wonderful. Adventures that I knew, even then, there weren't enough time for, at least in this life. But that was okay. What an epiphany, that this small dip in the pond was a promise that there was also an ocean.
When I reached sixth grade, my parents bought me piano lessons, a huge sacrifice for them financially. These things are usually taken for granted by the grantee, and I zig-zagged through six years of lessons before succumbing to basketball, boys and band, not necessarily in that order. I loved my first piano teacher, Elsie McDow. She had music in her soul. My second teacher, well.... she was a technical wizard, but didn't like too much of your soul coming through the keyboard. I learned expression and classical music from Elsie, but I resisted the second teacher's coldness. Which is unfortunate, because I could have used more technical prowess. Either way, I fell in love with the flute in high school. My parents rented me a flute the summer before ninth grade (five bucks a month) and bought a band book to learn it with. I eagerly dove in and found a voice that could sing better than my natural one. I never had lessons but mustered through by listening to other flute players and practicing, which is something I didn't give the piano. I never abandoned that instrument and have played in churches that we've attended, taught flute to beginners, and played in small orchestras around town. I play now every Sunday for our church in Douglasville. I thought this would be the sweet, lyrical way things went from now on. No real challenges, no huge reasons to practice intensely. But then...
I heard about a community ensemble (Carroll Community Wind Ensemble) and thought it would be fun to play with a group again. So I showed up one Tuesday night. What I expected was some easy music and the camaraderie of other players. What I got blew me away: a professional conductor who volunteers his time, numerous professional-level players, a bunch of old fogies like me (who could play really well), and music that scared the fool out of me. Because this fool couldn't play it. I was intimidated by the excellent flute player beside me. She mentioned another group in another town, so I thought she was giving me a strong hint to take my lowly flute elsewhere. I said something about trying the other group the next week. But bless Pat, she wouldn't hear of it. She encouraged me with kind and compelling words to come back. So I practiced my guts out that week and came back, limping not as badly as the first week. Each week was similar....a lot of practice, a little progress. To be honest, I'd never played music that difficult in my whole life. Was never asked to. We did numerous, beautiful concerts in the spring and summer, with me still struggling through much of it but holding my own. I even took my first flute lesson, just because....and this lady blessed me and gave me new confidence.
Surrounded by amazing players, it pushes me and makes me practice. There is nothing like the joy of getting to throw in with a group of kindred souls to come together in (mostly) harmony and make gorgeous music. So in my little corner of the world, at my age where there's no fame or fortune or even remote ideas of professionalism, I get to swim in that vast ocean of song that defies everything ugly or illogical in the world.
When I reached sixth grade, my parents bought me piano lessons, a huge sacrifice for them financially. These things are usually taken for granted by the grantee, and I zig-zagged through six years of lessons before succumbing to basketball, boys and band, not necessarily in that order. I loved my first piano teacher, Elsie McDow. She had music in her soul. My second teacher, well.... she was a technical wizard, but didn't like too much of your soul coming through the keyboard. I learned expression and classical music from Elsie, but I resisted the second teacher's coldness. Which is unfortunate, because I could have used more technical prowess. Either way, I fell in love with the flute in high school. My parents rented me a flute the summer before ninth grade (five bucks a month) and bought a band book to learn it with. I eagerly dove in and found a voice that could sing better than my natural one. I never had lessons but mustered through by listening to other flute players and practicing, which is something I didn't give the piano. I never abandoned that instrument and have played in churches that we've attended, taught flute to beginners, and played in small orchestras around town. I play now every Sunday for our church in Douglasville. I thought this would be the sweet, lyrical way things went from now on. No real challenges, no huge reasons to practice intensely. But then...
I heard about a community ensemble (Carroll Community Wind Ensemble) and thought it would be fun to play with a group again. So I showed up one Tuesday night. What I expected was some easy music and the camaraderie of other players. What I got blew me away: a professional conductor who volunteers his time, numerous professional-level players, a bunch of old fogies like me (who could play really well), and music that scared the fool out of me. Because this fool couldn't play it. I was intimidated by the excellent flute player beside me. She mentioned another group in another town, so I thought she was giving me a strong hint to take my lowly flute elsewhere. I said something about trying the other group the next week. But bless Pat, she wouldn't hear of it. She encouraged me with kind and compelling words to come back. So I practiced my guts out that week and came back, limping not as badly as the first week. Each week was similar....a lot of practice, a little progress. To be honest, I'd never played music that difficult in my whole life. Was never asked to. We did numerous, beautiful concerts in the spring and summer, with me still struggling through much of it but holding my own. I even took my first flute lesson, just because....and this lady blessed me and gave me new confidence.
Surrounded by amazing players, it pushes me and makes me practice. There is nothing like the joy of getting to throw in with a group of kindred souls to come together in (mostly) harmony and make gorgeous music. So in my little corner of the world, at my age where there's no fame or fortune or even remote ideas of professionalism, I get to swim in that vast ocean of song that defies everything ugly or illogical in the world.
Thursday, July 23, 2015
There's the Devil, then there's God
This earth that we are walking around on is a cracked place. There are evils on every side....we are experiencing racial wars, culture wars, political wars, and oh yeah, how-to-pay-the-bills-this-week wars. If you listen to the news or keep up with current events, you could easily lose heart and feel that nothing is going right in the world. I often let myself fall into despair about the state of things, but I (and we) should not. There is hope. I have seen God do the impossible in my own lifetime, and here's just one story....
When I was a little girl, we lived in a typical suburban neighborhood, not quite middle-class. My Mama stayed at home, raising the kids and keeping our lives organized, healthy and stable. My Daddy worked at the Post Office in Atlanta, doing things completely alien to his artistic salesman nature, to keep food on the table. If you compare the things that we had to what is "expected" now, we would be considered poor, though I never thought that. We had love and security in our home and that was treasure enough.
My Daddy. A man who was raised as poor as possible....he grew up knowing hunger, extreme cold and heat, the lack of shoes to wear to school, very little education, a drunken father and hope in short supply. So when I say I saw God lived out in my father, it is no small miracle.
My Dad became a Christian when I was twelve years old. He had been a fun and kind Daddy before that, but when Christ redeemed him, he was changed all the way to the core. Where there had been rules, there was now relationship. Where there had been fear, there was now love. I saw him praying, reading the Word and loving his wife like he had never loved her before. My parents had been on the verge of divorce when the Lord swooped down and rescued them. And us.
A true Christian is marked by love. A true one. Bitterness can eat a person alive, but the forgiveness that God gives a repentant sinner emanates from that person's life. How can I not forgive, when I've been forgiven so much? I saw this walked out, when the devil moved next door to us in my teen years.
Our family lived next to a large wooded lot, probably 4 or 5 acres big (or not -- it seemed enormous). My siblings and I had grown up playing in that hallowed field. We had several tree houses, "forts" and trails carved into it and I knew every inch. We picked blackberries, played cowboys and Indians, "run away from the orphanage" (that was always so romantic) and all those things kids used to play. When Mr. Devil Man bought the property and built a house on it, even though we were getting older, it was a sad day for us kids. He built his house right up on the highway, so you couldn't see it from our side next door. But we sure saw him. All the time. My Dad had maintained part of that property because it hit right on a ridge that flowed onto our lot. Mr. Devil came over and told my Dad that he was not to maintain that part of the property and that us kids were not to step onto his land. When Dad would crank up his lawnmower, this man would run out of his house and stand on the edge of his property, making sure that Daddy didn't encroach onto his side. Any time Dad went outside to garden or do his many projects, he had a spectator on the sideline, watching and waiting for him to make a mistake or misstep. Devil man then cut a ditch and begin rerouting his runoff water onto our lot. He pitched fits about all kinds of things. I remember his red face, ranting and raving about who-knows-what. I was just a kid and wondered what all the fuss was about. This man seemed to have one purpose and that was to torment my Dad. I knew that my Dad would never purposely harm this man or impose on him, but with the way the guy was acting, I thought he should just punch him in the nose. Daddy was masculine, strong and capable of such, but I saw something else coming out of him that wasn't born of anything from this world. Something that made no logical sense.
My Daddy started praying for him. All the time. He said that he just needed love and Jesus, and that we were to be respectful to him. He could have sued this guy over the water issue and he could have thumbed his nose at him. But he didn't. Mama began taking him cookies. Daddy offered to help him with things he was working on. Still mad. Still grumpy. Still hateful. Years went by. So many years, my sister and I grew up, got married and busy with our own lives. I didn't think about Mr. Devil much anymore. Except one Thanksgiving Day, not long after Ken and I married.....
The table was groaning, the extended family was gathered, and the prayers were said. As I gazed about the room full of people, my heart was lifted in gratefulness to God as I saw what it means to be a Christian. Because that Devil Man was sitting right at the head of the table, eating, smiling, and talking with the family. He was now my Daddy's friend.
Things could have gone so differently. We could and should have ended up with a war all those years. Certainly, Mr. Devil Man wanted one. He made no bones about lobbing his hate mortars our way, right off the bat and consistently through the years, even when my Dad's kindness was lobbed back, over and over... But God's love persisted way past the point of what was reasonable and fair or even sane. It was God's child acting like Jesus -- when he was persecuted and treated unfairly, he responded with the love that God had given him.
When I met the difficult teen years, made mistakes, put my toes in the water, was tempted at the cliffs.... there was this place of refuge in my soul because I had learned, firsthand, what it means to trust in a God like that.
When I was a little girl, we lived in a typical suburban neighborhood, not quite middle-class. My Mama stayed at home, raising the kids and keeping our lives organized, healthy and stable. My Daddy worked at the Post Office in Atlanta, doing things completely alien to his artistic salesman nature, to keep food on the table. If you compare the things that we had to what is "expected" now, we would be considered poor, though I never thought that. We had love and security in our home and that was treasure enough.
My Daddy. A man who was raised as poor as possible....he grew up knowing hunger, extreme cold and heat, the lack of shoes to wear to school, very little education, a drunken father and hope in short supply. So when I say I saw God lived out in my father, it is no small miracle.
My Dad became a Christian when I was twelve years old. He had been a fun and kind Daddy before that, but when Christ redeemed him, he was changed all the way to the core. Where there had been rules, there was now relationship. Where there had been fear, there was now love. I saw him praying, reading the Word and loving his wife like he had never loved her before. My parents had been on the verge of divorce when the Lord swooped down and rescued them. And us.
A true Christian is marked by love. A true one. Bitterness can eat a person alive, but the forgiveness that God gives a repentant sinner emanates from that person's life. How can I not forgive, when I've been forgiven so much? I saw this walked out, when the devil moved next door to us in my teen years.
Our family lived next to a large wooded lot, probably 4 or 5 acres big (or not -- it seemed enormous). My siblings and I had grown up playing in that hallowed field. We had several tree houses, "forts" and trails carved into it and I knew every inch. We picked blackberries, played cowboys and Indians, "run away from the orphanage" (that was always so romantic) and all those things kids used to play. When Mr. Devil Man bought the property and built a house on it, even though we were getting older, it was a sad day for us kids. He built his house right up on the highway, so you couldn't see it from our side next door. But we sure saw him. All the time. My Dad had maintained part of that property because it hit right on a ridge that flowed onto our lot. Mr. Devil came over and told my Dad that he was not to maintain that part of the property and that us kids were not to step onto his land. When Dad would crank up his lawnmower, this man would run out of his house and stand on the edge of his property, making sure that Daddy didn't encroach onto his side. Any time Dad went outside to garden or do his many projects, he had a spectator on the sideline, watching and waiting for him to make a mistake or misstep. Devil man then cut a ditch and begin rerouting his runoff water onto our lot. He pitched fits about all kinds of things. I remember his red face, ranting and raving about who-knows-what. I was just a kid and wondered what all the fuss was about. This man seemed to have one purpose and that was to torment my Dad. I knew that my Dad would never purposely harm this man or impose on him, but with the way the guy was acting, I thought he should just punch him in the nose. Daddy was masculine, strong and capable of such, but I saw something else coming out of him that wasn't born of anything from this world. Something that made no logical sense.
My Daddy started praying for him. All the time. He said that he just needed love and Jesus, and that we were to be respectful to him. He could have sued this guy over the water issue and he could have thumbed his nose at him. But he didn't. Mama began taking him cookies. Daddy offered to help him with things he was working on. Still mad. Still grumpy. Still hateful. Years went by. So many years, my sister and I grew up, got married and busy with our own lives. I didn't think about Mr. Devil much anymore. Except one Thanksgiving Day, not long after Ken and I married.....
The table was groaning, the extended family was gathered, and the prayers were said. As I gazed about the room full of people, my heart was lifted in gratefulness to God as I saw what it means to be a Christian. Because that Devil Man was sitting right at the head of the table, eating, smiling, and talking with the family. He was now my Daddy's friend.
Things could have gone so differently. We could and should have ended up with a war all those years. Certainly, Mr. Devil Man wanted one. He made no bones about lobbing his hate mortars our way, right off the bat and consistently through the years, even when my Dad's kindness was lobbed back, over and over... But God's love persisted way past the point of what was reasonable and fair or even sane. It was God's child acting like Jesus -- when he was persecuted and treated unfairly, he responded with the love that God had given him.
When I met the difficult teen years, made mistakes, put my toes in the water, was tempted at the cliffs.... there was this place of refuge in my soul because I had learned, firsthand, what it means to trust in a God like that.
Tuesday, July 7, 2015
The Very, Very Wicked Day
I am sitting here before my computer, numb. The soft air of a fan is rushing by my face. I am now mostly sane, in my pajamas, safe, cool and everything is blissfully quiet in the house.
It wasn't always this way.
The very wicked day started in a not-too-unusual way. I switched a paint job to start a day later so that I could help my daughter-in-law with our almost 2-year-old grandbaby, Madelyn Rose. Maddie is my namesake, though after today she might want to change her name. Maddie had a terrible reaction to something from a handful of trailmix on July 4th at the fireworks in Douglasville. Anaphylactic shock, they called it. She broke out in hives, then more hives, then swelled up like a botoxed balloon. Thank God, my son Daniel had the good sense to get her right to the hospital, where they administered an epi pen and emergency measures. Everybody's lives will change now with how and what we do with Maddie. Today was a follow-up with her regular doctor. So we trawled our way to Kennesaw in the blistering heat. Poor baby had to have more blood drawn, but she was a trooper, showing everyone her new booboo and proudly brandishing about 20 princess stickers.
Suddenly, my daughter-in-law, Jessica, gets a text from my son....that he was at the hospital with an abscessed tooth. He was in horrible pain with a toothache and wound up there before he could make his way to the dentist. Before we could get to him, he drove himself, unwisely, to the dentist...so we detoured our trip to collect him, drugged and bloody, from the dental office. With a fistful of prescriptions to be filled, Ma and Pa were dispatched to the drugstore while I took Maddie back to their house in my van to get a much-needed nap. So a thirty-minute drive later, my bladder is about to explode. I had been dismissing hints from it all afternoon, trying to save time.
I shouldn't have done that.
It messed up all my sense of logic. Not that I actually have any of that. Maddie and I pulled into their driveway. My normal modus operandi is to push the button to open the sliding door of my van, before I turn off the car. But did I do that? No. I was conflicted. My bladder was in pain and I was afraid to even pick up the baby. In my muddled brain I thought I could run quickly to the bathroom before I took her out of the car seat. So I ran. The car door neatly slammed behind me (I told you this was an evil day) and I heard the door lock. I am not kidding. I do not know why it did that, but it did, locking my keys in the car. And the baby in the car.
Now I am standing in the driveway, wailing to our oldest son, Jon, on the phone about what I've just done. He tries to calm me down and tells me he will call my husband to bring the other key. Which meant, approximately another thirty minutes of hell. To add insult to injury, my dog (who was in their backyard) realizes that I am there and starts yowling like a coyote. Meanwhile, there are forces in the universe which inevitably kick in, no matter what I do. Gravity. Time. Stress. Bladder torsion. Yes, it is true. I have now been entered into the Bad Yaya Hall of Fame. Locked the baby in the car and then peed on myself.
God is real. I know this because He providentially caused me to put a huge, rude wad of gum in my mouth before I did the evil deed. So as I'm waiting for Papa Bear to get there, I also get the divinely inspired idea to blow bubbles with it for Maddie while we wait. She is laughing behind the glass, trying to duplicate what I am doing on the other side. Between 24 verses of Old McDonald, with me calling up every animal sound known to man, Maddie keeps begging me to blow more bubbles. I know that there is a statute of limitations on the elasticity of gum, so I'm interspersing the bubbles with more verses. Occasionally my emotions get the best of me and I have to turn my back to her and sob my heart out for a few seconds. Have you ever tried to pray, really hard, while you are blowing bubbles? Maddie seemed to think it was all very funny, praise God, and Papa Bear's mad driving skills got him there quicker than I want to think about. We got that baby outa there lickety-split. Two cups of juice, a bowl of applesauce and a change of clothes later, she's snoozing like a kitten in her crib.
Yaya gets home, Papa Bear tucks her in and the world is right for the time being. But now I've got this twitch in my left eye which I suspect might not ever leave.
It wasn't always this way.
The very wicked day started in a not-too-unusual way. I switched a paint job to start a day later so that I could help my daughter-in-law with our almost 2-year-old grandbaby, Madelyn Rose. Maddie is my namesake, though after today she might want to change her name. Maddie had a terrible reaction to something from a handful of trailmix on July 4th at the fireworks in Douglasville. Anaphylactic shock, they called it. She broke out in hives, then more hives, then swelled up like a botoxed balloon. Thank God, my son Daniel had the good sense to get her right to the hospital, where they administered an epi pen and emergency measures. Everybody's lives will change now with how and what we do with Maddie. Today was a follow-up with her regular doctor. So we trawled our way to Kennesaw in the blistering heat. Poor baby had to have more blood drawn, but she was a trooper, showing everyone her new booboo and proudly brandishing about 20 princess stickers.
Suddenly, my daughter-in-law, Jessica, gets a text from my son....that he was at the hospital with an abscessed tooth. He was in horrible pain with a toothache and wound up there before he could make his way to the dentist. Before we could get to him, he drove himself, unwisely, to the dentist...so we detoured our trip to collect him, drugged and bloody, from the dental office. With a fistful of prescriptions to be filled, Ma and Pa were dispatched to the drugstore while I took Maddie back to their house in my van to get a much-needed nap. So a thirty-minute drive later, my bladder is about to explode. I had been dismissing hints from it all afternoon, trying to save time.
I shouldn't have done that.
It messed up all my sense of logic. Not that I actually have any of that. Maddie and I pulled into their driveway. My normal modus operandi is to push the button to open the sliding door of my van, before I turn off the car. But did I do that? No. I was conflicted. My bladder was in pain and I was afraid to even pick up the baby. In my muddled brain I thought I could run quickly to the bathroom before I took her out of the car seat. So I ran. The car door neatly slammed behind me (I told you this was an evil day) and I heard the door lock. I am not kidding. I do not know why it did that, but it did, locking my keys in the car. And the baby in the car.
Now I am standing in the driveway, wailing to our oldest son, Jon, on the phone about what I've just done. He tries to calm me down and tells me he will call my husband to bring the other key. Which meant, approximately another thirty minutes of hell. To add insult to injury, my dog (who was in their backyard) realizes that I am there and starts yowling like a coyote. Meanwhile, there are forces in the universe which inevitably kick in, no matter what I do. Gravity. Time. Stress. Bladder torsion. Yes, it is true. I have now been entered into the Bad Yaya Hall of Fame. Locked the baby in the car and then peed on myself.
God is real. I know this because He providentially caused me to put a huge, rude wad of gum in my mouth before I did the evil deed. So as I'm waiting for Papa Bear to get there, I also get the divinely inspired idea to blow bubbles with it for Maddie while we wait. She is laughing behind the glass, trying to duplicate what I am doing on the other side. Between 24 verses of Old McDonald, with me calling up every animal sound known to man, Maddie keeps begging me to blow more bubbles. I know that there is a statute of limitations on the elasticity of gum, so I'm interspersing the bubbles with more verses. Occasionally my emotions get the best of me and I have to turn my back to her and sob my heart out for a few seconds. Have you ever tried to pray, really hard, while you are blowing bubbles? Maddie seemed to think it was all very funny, praise God, and Papa Bear's mad driving skills got him there quicker than I want to think about. We got that baby outa there lickety-split. Two cups of juice, a bowl of applesauce and a change of clothes later, she's snoozing like a kitten in her crib.
Yaya gets home, Papa Bear tucks her in and the world is right for the time being. But now I've got this twitch in my left eye which I suspect might not ever leave.
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