Dangerous Creatures and Thirsty People

My son, the traveling one, read my last article and had lots of questions: "Mom, what do you mean? All the stuff about Disney? You need to write another article explaining yourself." He has always had a quadrillion questions about everything. His first sentence was: "What's that?!" He would pester us until he was satisfied with an answer. God's sense of humor came back around on him, with a 2-year old darling daughter whose first sentence and persistent curiosity are identical to his. So, thanks Jon, for making me think again...

Disney, Disney, Disney. Is my diatribe against them, really? No, I don't hate Disney. Yes, I'll admit I hate a lot of their political agendas and their insistence on making their princesses out of airbrushed Playboy bunnies and how that (now) most of the men in their stories are bumbling idiots or bad guys (I guess they're just mirroring the current attitudes about men in TV and advertising). A normal, healthy family can't be found in their stories and usually parents are as stupid as those leading men. Think about it. I guess I have to admit that's a diatribe. And that would make me a curmudgeon. 

Do I hate Mickey and the Magic Kingdom? No. But it's like so many things in our culture... I think you can enjoy things, like a cute cartoon or a movie or a comic book. We can laugh at something funny or read a fluffy book just for entertainment. What I think is wrong, however, is letting these things lead us. Or define us. That we don't ponder the deeper things in life, that we don't question the message behind the fluff. Are there subtle things that are undermining our basic ideals and morals? Do we care?

We need to be living mindfully, not just moseying along life's river, oblivious to the alligators lurking under the surface. Because they are there. And they have eaten many of us and many of our children. And there's that other creature: lemmings. In my earlier article, I referred to lemmings....little rodents. They occasionally do a strange thing -- they will gather in large groups and then begin running, faster and faster. They move as one, picking up other lemmings along the way. When they are confronted with a cliff or a body of water, they pay no heed and scamper, pell-mell, right off the cliff or into the water, to their deaths. This is what I see happening to our young people. So many of them are running life's races being led by their peers, not by their parents. Our culture is saturated with messages that parents, and men in particular, are weak and stupid and not worth listening to. So where are they getting their wisdom? God? Themselves? Their parents? Their teachers? With the advent of so much technology, media and instant gratification, we are getting farther and farther away from the serenity that comes from the simple act of thinking. We don't even have to reason anymore....our answers are only a few keystrokes away. 

So my beef isn't with Disney, per se. Disney is a corporation made up of some very savvy business people and a boatload of amazingly creative mortals. They've made a whole universe of fantasy that takes us away from reality for awhile and entertains the masses. But even as creative and beautiful a world as they have constructed, there are walls to it. I was sitting on a bench at Disney Downtown (basically a giant outdoor mall with 10,000 reasons to buy overpriced cute stuff and food) in front of a shop that had decorative things for your house. Yes, you can buy Disney things for the kitchen. I was amazed at the lack of creativity in that particular store. Of all places, this should be over the top. Even with all their creativity, it was constrained by the brand and the trademark. 

Now I sound like a gripey old lady who doesn't want to have fun. Quite the contrary. We live in an amazing world, in a basically still-free country, where the possibilities are endless. God made us, and intended us to enjoy and delight in this world. Technology is changing, expanding at an exponential rate, and keeping up with it is challenging. But with all this, there comes a price. It takes us being intentional to move beyond the fireworks and sparkles, to keep our humanness and relationships meaningful. I have recently gone to events where most of the people were immersed in their phones, not talking or reaching out to one another, and certainly not talking to the strangers. Tragic. Because I have found, in my inquisitive years, that everyone has a story, a life, and something they care about. Each individual matters. But if our eyes and minds are immersed in our phones and locked onto only our canned little worlds and peers, we will miss the one passing us by. Or sitting beside us on the bus. Or dying next door.

It really gets down to God. It's becoming fashionable to be an atheist or an agnostic. If there's no God, hey, nothing matters anyway. We're just bags of chemicals trying to survive and get us some. We're so smart, thinking ourselves to be God, we are becoming fools. In the spin I'm hearing all around, it often gets said that no one can prove the existence of God and there's no way to know if he is real. Have you looked at the intricate wings on a ladybug, the sweet eyes of a baby staring back at you, the wind and rain, the moon lining up at just the right gravitational juncture to keep the tides at bay, the exquisite dance of man, beast and nature that keeps the circles of life circling? I can hold up a simple, empty Coca-Cola bottle and no one would ever believe that it just made itself. How much more do the untold fathoms of details and designs that make up this insanely complex world prove that it was planned and that it has a grand purpose? God is here. Our sin is here. We need redemption and He sent it in Christ. Our cracked selves and imperfect world need a Savior. There's no amount of technology and entertainment that can fix that. But there's a Well in the wilderness who can. Cry out to Him while it is still day.

Fairy Dust and Fireflies

We got the luxurious opportunity to visit our son and his wife and baby this last week. He is making the rounds, traveling and doing construction jobs all over the country. This one landed them in Orlando, the land of all things Disney. We had a wonderful time at SeaWorld and strolling through the shops. But I couldn't help but wonder...

Do I dare step in this pile?

I grew up in the 60s and 70s. Disney for our family was that few moments on Sunday night when we saw the show coming on TV. Us kids were hoping Mama and Daddy wouldn't notice that it was time to leave for church and maybe we might get to actually watch it. But alas, usually we headed out the door. I loved to see Tinkerbell waving her wand over the castle and all that fairy dust going everywhere. Our family didn't have the means to actually visit Disney or even see all the movies. Our vacations were more in the mode of visiting relatives and tent camping on Lake Allatoona. 

You might think I would be sad. Or bitter. I never got to visit Mickey. But I'm not. Maybe it was the fact that we saw very little of those Disney shows on Sunday nights. Or that it wasn't advertised as heavily back then. Most probably, it was because we had a relationally-rich childhood full of heavenly-scented, newly-mown grass to run in, fireflies all around in damp, heady romps in the woods, the bittersweet bite of wild, ripe muscadines, truckloads of books from library trips in the summer, trips to Grandmas who thought you hung the moon, and sticky days running barefoot with siblings and cousins. Who needed Disney? Life was simpler, cheaper, with less expectations and more fulfillment. Instant gratification was limited to getting that one little drop of goodie out of a honeysuckle blossom. I'm not (that) old yet, and this wasn't that long ago. I'm afraid our fantastic bouquet of technology is making us into zombies (read: walking dead). 

Our oldest child is 31 years old. When we birthed our four babies, I was already seeing the writing on the wall -- that outside stimulation and technology was beginning to overtake us. What I always hated about even the simplest TV was that hoards of people could all sit in the same room and stare at it, not talking, eating mindlessly, living vicariously through silly sitcoms that were way more exciting than actual life. In one show, you can cram days and weeks into one concentrated 20-minute episode. Real life can seem mighty sluggish in comparison. There have been studies done on what happens to our brains when a TV is on. Basically: nothing. We are entertained and don't have to think or process much. No wonder it's so easy to get hooked on it. And so hard to let go of it. I am just as guilty as anyone. In my dreams, though, I wish we could throw the things away and start over. 

I tried valiantly, however, with my kids. I limited their TV time to when their Dad was home and watching sports or special movies. We didn't buy them video games or high tech toys. I remember being scolded by people because we didn't have a computer or cellphones for many years. We moved out to the country and I shooed them out the door for entertainment. They grew up in the trees and woods, a world similar to my childhood. We homeschooled them, because I wanted them to think for themselves and not be led by their peers like lemmings over the cliff. Did this yield perfect adults or Mayberry in Douglasville? I'd like to think so, but naw....we're all still perfectly cracked humans. Still, I'm thankful that we resisted the onslaught and that they had an old-school upbringing.

There's always ominous reports, no matter what universe you live in, controversies and dire predictions that threaten to destroy the world. Sometimes horrible things happen. Countries get bombed, droughts and plagues and tsunamis hit. We could have an EMP attack (a deliberate burst of energy that could disrupt the electrical grid and cripple NORAD's ability to defend the nation). There are whole websites and fantastic movies dedicated to the notion, where we could be thrown back into the Stone Ages instantly. Fireflies and muscadines wouldn't look so romantic then. Some people say "Prepare!" and others say "Baloney!" 

I think I'm too tired to prepare, so I'd just have to go out with the first wave. 

Either way, better to have lived, really lived, than to exist in a Disney bubble, no matter how cute, fun and entertaining it might be. Please don't hate me.

Halloween and the Zombie in the Basement

I am a big, fluffy gal, and if you didn’t know me well, you might not know that I can whup anybody at painting.  I love paint fumes and the soothing flow of a paint roller.  There is just something about a fresh coat of paint that clears your mind and renews your soul.  I’ve always wondered why it is that many of the painters I run across, both residential and artistic, seem to be alcoholics as well as very “soulish” people.  We gather at the contractor’s desk at Sherwin Williams and ruminate about colors and painting techniques.  Old crusty guys with vaporous breath seem to have a kinship with me.  It must have something to do with the soul of an artist and inhaling deeply. I've been able to avoid the substance abuse, but maybe I'm compensating with food...

An age ago, we lived in a camper (not a trailer) for two years and built a home (ourselves, with our own hands...don't you forget it) on five acres in Douglas County. When it came time to waterproof the basement, I was the gal for the job.  When inspiration hit me, it also happened to be a school day (for normally-schooled children) and Halloween. Waterproofing a basement is no normal paint job. It's sticky tar applied down deep in the bowels of the earth onto the basement walls before you fill in the hole around the foundation. It gets everywhere. I believe it took me a week to recover the notion of clean skin and hair after doing that job. In order for me to get down to the remote parts of the exposed basement, I had to be let down with a rope.  We had a nice sturdy one and I had four kids who got a free pass to play that day, except for the times that Mom had to be hauled up out of the hole.  When I needed a break or to move to another area, I'd holler and the kids would attach the rope to something and pull me up out of purgatory. 

Of course I happened to be in the deepest section of the outside of the basement as well as completely covered in black tar (not to mention the state of my hair or face) when I heard wheels crunching on the gravel driveway.  I was in too deep to see anything or to help myself get out.  The kids started yelling, “It’s a policeman, Mama!”  I was yelling back for them to haul me up, but no, too late….I could hear them all running away to check out the cop.  I also heard them talking to him; meanwhile I’m pulling and yanking myself up the dirt wall to try to get out.  Just about the time I got my carcass to the top (and wrenched my back really bad), he’s pulling slowly back up the driveway.  If he had looked back I am certain that our lives would have taken a drastically different turn.  I was covered in tar, my hair and body had red crusted dirt all over, and by this time I’m a little wild-eyed.  I don’t know why I considered letting that man see me at all.  Thankfully, he didn’t. 

When I asked the children about what had conspired, they said that he told them he was out checking around since it was Halloween. Praise God, he didn't see the zombie painting the basement. For some reason, he also didn’t ask these truant children where their parents were and just told them to be careful.  That night, when we were regaling the story to Ken, he was concerned.  He told me to make sure that everything was buttoned up tight the next day….that we were to have “normal” (whatever) school in the camper and to not let the kids out for any reason, in case DFACS was sent over or something.  I hadn’t thought of that. 

So we were pressed and dressed the next day, camper clean and kids studying and warned not to go outside unless Mom did reconnaissance first.  Mid-morning, I heard gravel crunching again outside.  I walked outside and saw to my horror a white government car crawling down the 400-foot driveway.  The emotions that went through my heart that day were indescribable.  I imagined my kids being hauled away, Fox5news helicopters flying over, me in handcuffs and chains and wailing loudly.  Next, a woman with a clipboard got out of the car and started writing.  It was obvious she did not want to talk to me.  She nodded in my direction and with tight lips continued writing and checking off things on her little list.  She stepped around the house and even talked on her walkie-talkie.  I think this was the day I started having heart palpitations (well, except for that day when I first saw Ken, that).  After quite some time and waiting awkwardly for her to acknowledge me, she walked towards me.  I must have looked like an ashen ghost.  I nearly fainted when she stuck out her hand and said, “I’m _________ from the Tax Assessor’s Office.”  I can't stand taxes or the idea of the government coming onto our land and assessing our property, but all of a sudden she was my new best friend.  We started talking and I found in her a kindred spirit. All the fear and trepidation washed away as she told me about her family, three beautiful kids and a husband that had left her. They had been separated for a time, but he had recently become a Christian and they reconciled and were back together.  By the time she left, we were friends. We hugged and prayed together in the driveway, with tears rolling down our faces. Unbelievable.

God definitely has a sense of humor.  I shudder to think about the peril that we would have been in had someone decided to call the authorities about us living like crazy hippies in a camper and homeschooling our four kids.  People used to live in one-room cabins and mud huts in America, but nowadays that would be considered cruel treatment to children.  I happen to think it was the best thing we ever did for them. All four of them are thinkers and survivors and know how to adapt to lots of situations. Nowadays, whenever we are able to get together around our big round table, one thing's for sure -- there's going to be laughter. Their parents are pretty cracked, but we are really grateful for the mercies of God! 

2011 seems like a long time ago....

09-28-2011 7:18:58 AM CST

Time Warp

Last Friday night, my husband and I rented a couple of $1 movies from the box down the road. We watched the first one and then Ken decided he didn't want to watch the second one. It was Jane Eyre, which he would have loved if he could have endured the initial protestations of his manliness.... and I dearly loved the movie. As I was watching it, Ken was in the other room on the computer....it was cool outside and the windows were open, with a breeze blowing in. It was dark in the room and I was very cozy wrapped up in my blanket. Something about the night reminded me of when we were first married, almost 30 years ago. I was reminiscing about those days but embracing these days and suddenly I had this feeling of time literally flashing by. Here we were, a couple, having a nice Friday night..... and the images of a packed life flashed from here to there. No, we haven't raised four children to adulthood. Surely not. How does a life that was so incredibly full and busy and filled with conversations, schedules, school, extracurricular activities, so many sports events, corrections, disciplines, distractions, meals, meals, meals....suddenly shift in a moment, it seems? Like a u-turn on a busy highway. It couldn't have happened overnight, but it sure seems like it did. Our first-born son married 3 years ago. Our two last sons have moved into separate apartments, both preparing to marry precious women in the next few weeks. Our youngest, our daughter, is off at college and very busy with studies and sports. When we go to sleep at night, we don't have to think about shutting doors or placing fans strategically to ward off noise. There are no giant feet bounding down the stairs. There are no monster appetites to fill at mealtimes, in fact, now we're spending a great deal of time trying to beat down our own appetites that threaten to send us to an early grave. When our youngest son, Jesse, moved out last week, I heard him talking with his Dad and hauling out the rest of his junk. It seemed bittersweet, but tolerable, until a few days later when I surmised that this was not him leaving for school....and that he will be back starving at semester break. No, that was his last tornado through the house. The things that I took for granted, the noises, the talk, the thumps, the finger marks all over the ceiling, the irritating need to make supper.... those things are not there, in a forever kind of way. Older women tried to tell me about this, but it seemed we were way too busy for that to happen.

Changes

Changes (This was written in 2012)

April 3, 2012 at 7:59am

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There is no way to describe the last few weeks. I have neglected to write it down because the emotion of it overwhelms me.

It appears that we have sold our home. We are due to close in ten days. I can't describe the depths of sorrow and grief that I am experiencing. I have made myself virtually sick over it. My stomach is like raw hamburger... largely because one of my children is so grieved. It is scary, different and permanent. That is the hellish part of change. It is usually permanent. You can't go back.

God has seemed to almost lock-step cause everything to fall into place. So strange. All these years, only a handful of lookers at our house. Then all of a sudden, they were everywhere....and we had two offers within six days of each other, then another offer this week.

The people on the other end, where we were looking to buy, took our offer and also gave us money for repairs. Every objection or problem that has come up has resolved, and quickly.

I seemed to find peace and then my son's depth of grief pulled me right back there. If he were just mad, it would be one thing. But when he wept with me on the phone, I could not bear it. It is a death, and I am ashamed that I have grieved more over this than I have over the deaths of my loved ones.

I also know that my fear and despair are more about the leaving behind of other things. Jon is married; Daniel and Jesse recently married. Liz is busy with her life away at college. Our children are grown. My life's main pursuit and goal has been to raise a house full of children. That job is over. Even Liz is now a woman. We have four precious adult children and that significant purpose is over. I am still here for love and advice (ha!) and frozen pizzas....but maybe it is just really hard to face that.

I am not healthy -- a hundred-plus pounds overweight and aching all over. My hands are bending in on themselves. It is nobody's fault but mine. And life goes on.

Meanwhile, the Lord....
His purposes are complex and unfathomable. Way beyond what we can see. The threads He is weaving are on the back side. Who am I to question His will or what He is doing? I used to think that His will would always be manifested with a slice of cherry pie...and that my world would be safe and secure, free of trouble and full of purpose and happy things. But as you age, you begin to see that just because you are His child, you are not immune to suffering, to the encroachments of a cruel and evil world. Towers fall, people get sick and die, jobs are lost, dreams fail. We realize we are indeed cracked at our very centers.

At the same time that I begin to see these truths, I also begin to deeply and subtly understand the heart of the gospel: that I need saving. The fatal flaws that run through me and threaten to shatter into a million pieces are irretrievable. There is no hope, but for Christ. The picture becomes clearer.

I am undone. My world is shattered, oh so temporary. I cry out to Him in anguish. I don't understand. I am afraid. It all is slipping through my hands.

But God.
He's in the boat. The waves are crashing around, there is no hope. Damn it, He's asleep. He doesn't even care that we're going to die.

With a word, He hushes the storm. The waves fall. The wind stops.

He wasn't asleep, after all. He did care. He knows everything.

He works all things, even the storm, to my good. Then He admonishes me because I didn't have faith.

The storm is huge and roaring. It's all I can see. It's what I can taste and feel. Yet He tells me to trust Him.

I determine, today, to keep my eyes fixed on Him. Not the storm, not the boat. He is there at the eye of the storm, where all is still even though hell rages at the door.

Guilt on Planet Venus

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.

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.