An Old Rock Song

For our annual anniversaries, my husband Ken and I usually take a long weekend trip, somewhere in the Southeast. Since we got married mid-February around the most "romantic" holiday ever, it is difficult to get reservations. We don't get legalistic about the actual day. I figured out, after 35 years of this, why they stuck Valentine's day in the middle of February. It's because it's the dreariest month of the year. Somebody thought up a clever way to bring some romance to winter, guilt husbands into buying flowers and candy, boost the economy and fatten us up one more time before spring. Just in case Christmas didn't do it. I got late starting on my New Year's resolution diet, whoops, way of life, when Ken tried to get me to wait until after our trip. But it was too late. I was already on the boat and I wasn't jumping off. So we went and somehow I still enjoyed sumptuous food even though there was no sugar involved. How is that possible?

St. Simons Island. Can I go back now? We adored that darling village. We stayed in a little hotel across from the lighthouse and brought our bicycles. Peddled, shopped, ate, hung out at the beach, watched people, met people, and ate some more. There were no chain restaurants in sight and we were treated like it was our hometown. The little shops were wonderful, with very decent prices. Ken only wanted some flip-flops. But since I don't have enough jewelry yet, rather, there's never enough jewelry, I added several pairs of earrings and a necklace to my arsenal. Grandma Betty would be proud. My sister's children have been known to call me Aunt Bling-Bling. But I think they exaggerate...

I don't believe we've had a trip in our thirty-five years that made me feel so peaceful and rested. Maybe it's because I actually left our house in order before we retreated. Maybe it's because we had money set aside for it. But most probably, it's because I got to ride bikes and spend three days with that good-looking hunk of man who still loves me after all these years. You're still the One, honey.

Heavenly Heights

A dear friend invited us to a concert of some of the Old Masters at a church that we used to attend. Liz and I went, anticipating hearing some beautiful music and connecting with folks we haven't seen for fourteen years. As we pulled into the parking lot, a wave of nostalgia swept over us. Liz' earliest memories of church were experienced there, as well as her conversion and baptism. The parking lot was my children's favorite playground for many years. We would stay very late on Wednesday nights, women talking in clusters, kids laughing and swirling around us. Sunday mornings, Sunday nights, fellowship meals, suppers and prayer meetings, weddings, funerals, Vacation Bible School, classes....the hours we spent there were uncountable and also the center of our social and spiritual life.

Somewhere along the way, our paths parted and the Lord took us down a different trail. We grew up Baptists and ended up PCA Presbyterians. That's the really conservative ones, but don't tell my Baptist friends. They were afraid we had flipped our lids. Our heart's cry never changed and we remained true to the Word of God and to the sufficiency and authority of the Scriptures. Presbyterians sprinkle and Baptists dunk. That was enough to kill each other over, a few hundred years ago. Hopefully we've gotten past that. That's probably good, since we might have to harmonize when we get to heaven. 

But back to the concert...when we walked into the auditorium, we were enveloped like babies into a warm blanket. Old friends and acquaintances ran up, bear-hugging and crying out sweet words. It was a joy to let the years fall off and then sit down to listen. Voices rose, coached to perfection by a Mom who had decided to summon up her past and shake the rust off her talents. Goosebumps and tears kept cropping up as the exquisite words and music of Handel, Mozart, Haydn and the like soared into the still air. Oh yeah, I remember them. It was like cracking open a crusty treasure box to gleaming trinkets. Such wisdom, such passion. They don't write stuff like that anymore. 

Too soon, the concert was over and the reception hall was full of fruit and cheese trays and more affection. When we left, the brisk night and the twinkling stars seemed to accentuate the preciousness of the evening. We talked about it all the way home. What might have been called Old Home Day or Homecoming really felt just like that. Across our lives full of changes, growth, babies, old folks, death and ever-shifting perspectives, the love of God crossed the lake. Now that's a bit of heaven right there.

A Dream Within a Dream

I remember the times that my children and their spouses have surprised us with the most exciting news of all: that we were going to be grandparents. One was in Hudson's restaurant, where our youngest son presented us with a picture of baby booties. A big-sister T-shirt on another one. A picture of a roll in an oven (bun-in-the-oven)! Our second-born and his wife woke us up late at night with a knock at the front door and a pregnancy test. The aftershocks included months of waiting, praying, checking, ultrasounds, pondering....and then the final, near-heart-stopping kicker of pushing out those wrinkled, red, wailing lumps of pure love. 

All my life I've heard about how wonderful grandchildren are, how we should have had them first, how they're great because they are yours but you can send them home, and then the endless talk of how beautiful their grandkids are. But ours take the cake. They really are different than everybody else's. My husband says they are products of fine breeding, unlike the rest of the world's...they're smarter, funnier, and definitely cuter. No narcissism here. We now have five of them, aged three and under. All three sons had baby girls in the same year, and then our youngest son decided to up his A-game with two boys in rapid succession. On the rare occasion that all five are together, with our Aussie herding them in circles around the living room, the noise and drama are overwhelming. Number six is on the way, to our oldest son and his wife. Our hearts are constant in prayer, as they have suffered with infertility and the loss of other babies in utero. Every single morning, as I regain consciousness and I remember where I am, my heart lifts this child to God. And her/his Mama and Daddy. Life is a tenuous thread, where we indeed see through a glass darkly. We don't know what God is doing or why, most times. Our days are full of learning to trust Him. Or not. As I look in the sweet, bunny eyes of each of our grandchildren, I can't help but be amazed at the gift of life. These sugar dumplin' babies are full of themselves, helpless at first, then making up the hardest job you'll ever love. As I hold or play with them, I remember their Daddies and their Aunt as children, just yesterday. 

God gave me a precious dream recently. I was asleep in that dream, laying on a couch in a cream-colored version of our Victorian house, majestic tall windows and the screen door with lace blowing. As I "napped," each of my children climbed up, one at a time, and snuggled. They were small and I could smell their delicious baby hair, squeeze their chubby, smooth, firm skin. It was as real as life. When I woke up from my dream, I cried. Cried for the loss, and also cried for the blessings God mercifully sent me. It truly goes by in a flash and then you have to figure out the rest of your life, which is now convoluted by all the streams and rivulets pouring out from those beginnings. River of life, whose streams make glad the city of God...

Sugar-Whuppin-Ninja

Sugar, sugar, sugar. It's everywhere and in everything. When I think of good things from my childhood, I remember stops at the Baskin Robbins in Mableton, on the way home from my Daddy's Atlanta softball games. Back then, we trundled down Bankhead Highway to almost everywhere. That highway spans most of the country, doesn't it? I remember stops at the Fat Boy in Smyrna for twisted soft-serve cones after spending long nights at MawMaw's while Daddy worked with his brother at their printing presses. I am ashamed to admit that I still conjure up in my mind, after decades, a giant cone of goodness that I missed out, because it tumbled from my hand during a near-fender bender. It fell onto the gritty floor of our Volkswagen beetle, never to be enjoyed. Maybe that's what's wrong with me, why I have two bodies on one skeleton now. I'm still trying to fill up that icy, custard-flavored vacuum in my soul that regrets dropping that thing smack dab in the middle of an idyllic childhood. My world was obviously small, though precious. I always did hate to miss out on anything, be it food or people. I still despise being late and I hate to leave early. 

They say that we are eating something like twenty times the amount of sugar we used to consume. Maybe that's why those sweet moments are held dear in our memories....because we didn't get them very often. Much research coming in is showing that sugar and those other devils, starchy grains and bread, are blowing us up with inflammation and disease. How can that be true, when that's what Grandmama fed me with so much love? But again, she wasn't smothering me  with it either. I say things  about my addiction but no one really says anything back. We are all addicted! 

So here I go again, on another tangent. I've tried everything, including moderation, whatever that is. I'm from a large family tree whose branches are decorated with lots of bottles and pills. Jesus has rescued many of us from ourselves, with amazingly creative grace. I think of others, with artistic genes and complicated brains. How rich their inner worlds, hamstrung by their vices, unable to emerge from the smog long enough to put their roots down and bloom. We all struggle with that in varying degrees. Even the most brilliant are weighed down with cracks -- either of their humanity or their environment. The glimpses of God still peek through. Inspiration inches out of the cloud -- bursts of song, smell, sight, ideas, beautiful deeds. Even the most cynical among us must crack open occasionally. 

No one knows how much time they have. A tree could fall on my head tomorrow or I could die old in my bed. Meanwhile, if God gives me a day or a few decades, I'd like to feel good, as long as it's in my power to do it. January 1st has come and gone, but all this sugary goodness has got to go. I have to kick it out, since it's taken over my life. Anything that can't be said "no" to, needs to be examined and dealt with. Starting next week, I'm signed up with my doctor and a clinic to get Ninja-laser-focused on my health. So I can have a lap and a life for my granddarlins -- Eden, Annabelle, Madelyn, Titus, Tatum, and #6 sugar-dumplin on the way. So I can kiss Ken without bumping tummies. So I can breathe when I play my flute. So I can be an example of God's grace over temptation. And there's the rub...some of my sins might not be obvious, but this one is. Believe me, I don't miss much in life even though I'm a fluffy chick and I don't have much shame about jumping right on in, but still. I don't want to miss anything. Ya'll pray for me!

The Wisdom of Three Year Olds

What a week we had. My daughter and I headed to a conference in Atlanta with 2500 other people. We got up early and stayed up late, eating fast garbage and drinking too much coffee. One of my grandbabies came with her parents (who were there to help with logistics of the conference). Annabelle, 3, is a virtual tiny jungle gym, wrapped up in a little body. She never stops moving, or talking, ever. Unless she is asleep. Since Yaya is a wimp and a virtual big comfy chair, Annabelle prefers hanging, climbing, pulling or hurtling herself onto Yaya with glee. By day three, my ribs and biceps were sore but very happy. That girl is a handful, but so sensitive to the pains of others. She asked me about my Grandpas and I told her I had two but that they died a long time ago. I thought she might cry as she comforted me. We enjoyed the conference immensely, though there were protesters and crazy people on Twitter threatening to blow up some of the lecturers. How dare 2500 Christians convene in the same vicinity? It was pretty exciting. Suffice it to say, after church on Sunday, I was joyfully and sinfully looking forward to a nice, long nap. Then one of my other sons called, asking us to keep Maddie, also 3, for the afternoon. I figured I would do double duty and we'd snuggle up and take a siesta together, something I always loved doing when my kids were little. I failed to remember that Maddie also never stops moving or talking. When it was time, she ran to the crib in the nursery, but I said, "Naw, you can nap in my room!" Our bed is half a story high, so I padded the edges with pillows, tucked her and myself in and told her to stop. Talking. Stop. About the time my poor brain finally found the snooze button, I heard a tiny voice: "Yaya, I have to potty." I grumbled all the way there and back, then reassembled the pillows and blankets. She was so sweet, saying, "I'm sorry. Thank you Yaya." Things got quiet. I heard little snoring noises coming from her. As I lost consciousness, I suddenly smelled peanut butter breath and heard tiny words coming out of a face that was pressed to my nose. "Yaya, are you awake?!" This scenario worked itself over and over for, like, eternity. I finally gave up and stumbled into the living room with Maddie asking where the paint brushes were.  Later, much later, I crashed into bed and slept an awesome four hours before I had to get up to prepare for a closing. 

The world's falling apart. People are freaking out and wearing pink things on their head because they think the devil's in the White House and he's going to take away their magic powers. Somehow this seems like a smart way to show how legitimate, tolerant and wise they are. Riots, pandemonium and death threats. People acting like their Mama never told them no. While that's happening, I'm spending my weekend with precocious three year olds that have more sense than all of them combined. To quote an old saying, "What's this world coming to?"

There is No Normal

It was one of those days that was like a dream. A nightmare, more like it. That dream where you're svelte, young and fit and back in high school, but without the cellulite or the self doubt. You're lined up for a race. The gun goes off. You begin to run, but you can't. It's like your legs are mired in thick mud. No matter how hard you try, nothing will move any faster. 

It was that kind of day.

I was wearing multiple hats, starting off with a paint job that wouldn't end. The client couldn't open her beautiful, new shop until I finished painting all the cabinetry for it. What I intended to be a three day job was turning into five, with no end in sight. Every which way I turned all week, things got in my way. Wrong equipment, another run to the store for supplies, underestimating paint needs, doctor appointments, an urgent biopsy, Snowpocalypse 2017 (which means, in Georgia, a dusting of snow over an inch or two of deadly ice), my Daddy got rushed to the hospital, and in between all that, I had three real estate closings looming in the next couple of weeks. On a good day, I'm not really a multi-tasker. I tend to get very zoned in on what is right in front of me. But just to make things interesting, when I found myself slogging through the mud and unable to get anywhere, I decide to drag my husband to Forest Park to buy a used table I found on Craigslist. $40 and it was exactly what I needed for that black hole in my living room. 

We rushed through 50 miles of Atlanta traffic to get over there, some kind of surreal and weird justification on my part since I was getting it so cheap. My Daddy is in the hospital and I need to be there, but I made an appointment to look at junk so I have to hold up my end. Sometimes when craziness begins to creep in, I think the human answer is to do stupid stuff. Halfway there, I began to relax. Ken was playing 70's rock and roll on the radio and kept saying things to make me laugh. He reminds me of all the times we've driven across the state to look at somebody else's bad idea and all the times my Daddy would haul us as kids with him to look at old lawnmowers and cars. I'm from a long line of cheapskates. But it's always an adventure.

It was getting dark when we knocked on the wrong door. The neighborhood was sketchy, with hoodlums on corners looking hopeful when we appeared lost. Once we found the right house, the owner hollered at us from the other side of the door. I told her who we were. We heard a lot of commotion from inside the tightly shuttered domicile. Then, as the door opened, she turned off the interior lights. Yes, I said "off." The table was right there at the door. I had to turn on my cellphone flashlight to see it. The table wasn't even made of wood, but plastic with a big chunk taken out of it. I offered her $20, figuring I could work some paint magic on it. They refused and we walked away. I hoped Ken wouldn't be irritated, having spent a whole evening and 100 miles of gas on a wild goose chase. But he wasn't. He laughed and said it was a cheap date. We made our way back home, to leftovers and taco soup (from my sweet client who has endured my distracted life). 

The day was fraught with insanity, but after a long, hot shower and hugs all around, I thought about that muddy dream I occasionally have. In the middle of it, when my feet won't move fast enough and I am hearing things coming from behind, I start flapping my wings (I always have some sort of appendages in the midst of these things). I'm still moving slow, but eventually my feet begin leaving the ground and I find myself flying, escaping whatever was chasing me. I love it when that happens, that dream. Maybe that's what leaving this life is like and I'll be shedding my feet of clay and winging it on up there. Meanwhile, I gotta get back to work...

Fighting the Minions

We're all staring at the New Year -- I feel hopeful and at the same time have some trepidation about all that a new year can bring. We have things we want to change, things we would like to do, adventures we'd like to take. Some folks want to poo-poo those things and will say things like resolutions, plans and goals are just dumb ideas that don't take flight. I do not agree. Ken and I, many years ago, had resolutions in our hearts that didn't happen overnight, many took decades to accomplish....but we kept resolving each year to keep trying. Some years absolutely nothing happened in regards to particular goals and sometimes we even went backwards. But I tell you, it's wise to keep plugging, to look closely and to keep fighting for the things that we should do or want to do, within reason. 2016 was a nutso time, on so many levels. Ken lost his job in April, ending with three months of unemployment. I was working hard but also didn't have a closing during those three months. Despite those setbacks, the Lord took care of us and we were even able to finally achieve a 30+-year old goal by the end of the year: to be entirely debt free.

As I stare at my bellybutton these last few days of 2016 (never mind, I can't see on the other side of that appendage) I am thinking of what my "why's" are. A friend of mine lost her mother recently. She talked to me about how she wrestled with anger because her mother would not quit smoking, which eventually led to her death. I told her, "I'm killing myself too...with oh so many snacks." Are my kids going to be mad if I don't find a way to wrestle down this demon? Probably. It's my annual resolution to do just that. I've had a few brief seasons of victory, only to succumb to defeat every time. So here I go again. I simply have to keep fighting. It took us 30 years to get out of debt. Maybe this is the year.

As the world turns and people go about their lives, change can happen slowly or it can turn in a moment. We often get lulled into thinking that things will always stay the same. Bad idea. As we go forward, we should glance at the past, hope (and plan) for the future, and live in the now. Really live. We're not promised tomorrow and we can't fix yesterday. I have a bad habit of running from fire to fire, putting out what is urgent but not slowing down enough to savor today. Next thing you know, that kid is married and having his own kid. Or the old neighbor died before I got to tell her how much she meant to me. Or the shop down the street closed because I didn't take to buying birthday gifts there and spreading the word. Opportunities missed. The moon keeps rising each night but I didn't look at it. Slowing down means that something else has to be let go of. "No" has to be said to the lesser things. One of my sons reminded me this weekend that the priority needs to be the people. Yes, but the bathroom needs to be scrubbed. And the people have to be fed. It's a constant balancing act between keeping the rows straight and taking time to dance with my folk. Distractions and social media would like to steal all my stray minutes. But here's hoping I can learn to slay those minions. Let's have a year of mindful work and relationships. And to God be the glory.