God's Gracious Gifts

As I was drying off in the campground bathroom -- a sort-of open place where you showered in little stalls then dressed quickly before you got exposed -- I heard a vehicle drive slowly by the doorway. It sounded suspiciously like my conversion van. Seeing as my husband had already left for work and I didn't have any children over the age of 12, I threw on my clothes to see who was stealing our jalopy. I had left the four kids snoozing in our locked camper, not a hundred feet away. It was 6:00 in the morning and the rest of the world didn't appear to be moving yet. As I peered out of the doorway, I saw our blue van moseying around the other side of the campground. My brain was going into freakout mode, wondering why someone would steal a van and then just casually drive around, when the exit to the freeway was in the opposite direction. 

At the time, we were living like some sort of amalgamated hippies -- Scotch/Irish Gypsies living in an old, leaky camper with four children, about to move onto five acres in the country and build our dream home. We were holed-up in a campground across the street from an amusement park near Atlanta while we got our septic tank and electricity installed on the property. It was August of 1996 and the Olympics were in town. All the normal people were heading out for vacations and trips, while the Nortons decided to make like crazy people -- sell all our stuff, move into a sketchy RV and call in the previous twenty years of favors and love from all the friends and family we could muster. 

This early morning, with misty Atlanta heat already rising up from the earth and enough stress emanating from our lives to choke a Titan, I saw my van departing right in front of me. I hid a little behind the doorway to see who this thief was, watching for when he came around the curve. From a distance I could see he was blonde and shorter in stature. What I didn't realize was that he was actually quite tall. For a twelve year old. Yes. It was our twelve-year-old son, driving about the campground like a boss. To this day, I am still shaking my head. On that day, however, the earth was shaking too. And maybe, just maybe, a few marbles shook when I got hold of that gremlin.

This ten-and-a-half pound man-child came into the world, after much pushing and tugging, screaming like a summer tornado. He had colic and reflux and didn't stop hollering until he was eating three huge lumberjack-sized meals a day. And you better have them there on time. His first sentence was "What's 'at?!" You had to tell him quick, and a hundred times over, until the next object came into view. He was curious about everything, the world his chemistry set. There was no stone unturned, no container unpoured, no underside or guts of any object not explored. When he was five and showing zero signs of caring about letters, numbers or school-type activities except where it came to things he could turn inside out, I consulted with a teacher who was a reading specialist. At the time, we didn't know anything about Asperger's or autism or ADHD. I just knew that he wasn't going to fit into anyone's "box" and that he was absolutely brilliant, in none of the typical testing-sorts-of-ways. She said that if we put him into a traditional school setting, he would be labeled and put on drugs. His creativity and unusual learning style would be suppressed and he would have a hard time adapting to "normal" school. Mind you, Ken and I were old-school parents who believed in children behaving, spanking and loving restoration. We homeschooled our children, starting with this wild stallion of a child, not because we were so worried about his tender psyche, but because we didn't want him to stop thinking or creating. At the time, few people were homeschooling and some folks thought we were nuts. But, bottom line with this kid was, he didn't know he couldn't do anything. He had been raised tinkering with construction and cars with his Daddy, Grandpas and uncles. He had been allowed to drive tractors and trucks across our yards. He had gotten his hands skilled and calloused working alongside said men. So at the age of twelve he thought it was cool to go look for his mom, in the family van. His response to me when he saw steam pouring out of my ears was, "I didn't know where you were!" The logic from a highly unusual pre-teen with access to car keys. 

The good news is, somehow he made it to 32 years old, has a home, a wonderful wife and child, with twins on the way. He has been gainfully employed since the age of twelve and can pretty much figure out anything. All the cries we heard about socialization have gone to the wayside. Even though he showed symptoms of Asperger's syndrome, including anti-social behavior, he grew out of the bad parts and kept the good, partly because he was never coddled and was expected to adapt. The other part (well, probably all) has got to be God's mercy, because we certainly didn't know what we were doing. There's a lot of other stories that would take me reams to express about Jonathan, but at the end of the day, I have to believe it's a wonder we all survived. And back to that whirling dervish of a boy, in the craziness of those years and trying to raise him, I mostly think of his spirit underneath, the sweet eyes and his heart that wants to help everyone and fix everything. Miracles never cease.

Listening

It is in the spaces, in between all the things, where wisdom can be found.

The embrace with my cousin who just lost her sister, that moment when it goes past what is expected, what is customary. That moment when your heart breaks  and her heart breaks. No words are said. The brook of tears rolls and you just want to make her know that you care, even though it's never going to be the same, ever.

The middle of night, when something interrupts and then all the worries and information of a busy life overwhelm sleep. In those moments, the street is silent, soft breathing noises move throughout the house, the dog sighs and lays on top of my feet. The moon glistens through the lace and I hear the Word speaking: "Be anxious for nothing...." It cradles my heart as I wonder how we ever got this fractured.

In a morning of sickness, when the house has emptied of everyone but me and I lay curled in my bed, wondering if normalcy will ever come again. The quiet house encircles me like a friend. The luxury and agony of illness unfurl the thoughts that have curled up and lay dormant in the face of too much doing. Thoughts like old fashioned books, long and resplendent in their descriptions. Thoughts of things that I haven't slowed down to think about. Regrets, defeats, thankfulness and joy. 

The spaces between the things. Moments in the car, listening to a good song. Turning off the phone because it won't stop, won't ever stop....then listening to the peace of silence. Standing, stopping in the yard while the dog does her walk... hearing the breeze in the trees, the birds, the water rippling on the pond. Staring at the inky sky, the wonder of the galaxies just showing off. Those spaces, where all the things are being. Just being.

We strive for the drama of life, the big things, the moments of glory. We live for it. Die for it. Even kill ourselves for it. But when God spoke to Elijah in the book of First Kings, he didn't show himself in the fierce wind, the earthquake or the fire... He came as a whisper, a still, small voice. God in the tiny places, in the spaces, in the hushed and seemingly insignificant corners, where quietness reigns. Stop. Can you hear it?

Balls, Butterflies and Bases

Keep your eye on the ball! If I had a dollar for every time I've heard that, I'd go take a real fancy cruise somewhere. Any sport requires focus -- I played softball from infanthood (it seemed) to high school, then basketball up into my college years. It was all about the ball. Hit it. Catch it. Throw it. Shoot it. My very stance was drilled and trained in how to anticipate these activities. We ran, lifted and sweated to prepare to play with various orbs, be it a small or a large one. Off seasons were full of running and weights. Heaven forbid we show up to fall training out of shape. As an athlete, your whole world revolves in some way or another around that ball. I think it is fantastic practice for life, if you can get it. You have to learn to corral and hone your skills, get along with other people, discipline and show up for practice and games, learn submission to authority,  teamwork, and especially, push yourself beyond what you think you are capable of. Sports in this country have been elevated to a god state, and that's not good. They can be a great tool, lots of entertainment and also a boatload of fun. When they become a form of worship, we're heading in the wrong direction, but I'm not really thinking of the problems with sports. I'm thinking of keeping my eye on the ball. As a mature adult, far, far away from that svelte gazelle of years ago, the same principles apply to so many areas of life. After several fully-realized career paths, I am now a real estate agent. I don't know if I would be doing this if I didn't get paid, in fact, I'm certain I would not. It's a vastly different season in my life to be this focused on one aspect of it. But I have to be, if it's going to work. Keeping my eye on the ball, however, is not about money. If it were only about that, I would miss the jewels that are under the dirt. 

I do a lot of Estate work, with widows, orphans and Executors that need my help disposing of a house. They are usually heavily grieved, sometimes angry, sometimes feeling helpless. It can be the worst place in the world to be, with so many decisions forced on the family or loved ones. Time and situation make this one of those places no one really wants to be. There's often three houses worth of stuff in the one domicile -- Aunt Julie's crochet work, Grandma Jones' whole house of furniture jammed in the garage and Uncle Louie's old typewriter. They're dusty, out of date and don't work, but somebody has to deal with them. This can take quite some time, as relatives battle it out for the valuables, root out cousin Charley who's been living in the basement for years, and get all of the things sorted (trash/valuables/give-aways). Then the house usually has to be cleaned and painted and who knows what else. In the middle of this are all the memories and sentiment that made this place someone's home. There can be strong, deep feelings connected to it. It is often very difficult to tear away from the physical presence of the house and to let it go. I'm just the realtor. Please don't shoot me.

I know that the Lord puts me here. He causes me to empathize with others and their pain. It's one of those things we all have -- gifts that we didn't practice or train for -- they're just there. I believe it's a part of the eternal fabric and purpose that God puts us here for. I know people who have the ability to be logical and do math. Praise God for that, because, well, math. I have experienced security from a nurse who perfectly placed a needle in my arm, without having to try six times. I have seen calm police and firemen who administered help in times of need without panicking. I have known the tranquil cool of a person who peacefully organized my kitchen (I think it was a kitchen before she got here, maybe not). So many gifts, callings, talents. Some we've worked at, some we haven't. But in any way that they are used in our lives, if the "ball" in our lives is about only one thing, then it's possible to lose the nobility of it. Truth, we need money to survive in this economy, and I'm very thankful for it. A lot would be great but it's not everything. I certainly work hard for it and the Bible says that the workman is worthy of his hire. As the real estate market has ratcheted up in these last two years and my business focus has shifted more to real estate and away from art/decorative painting, I have had to pull my attention to the math/organized side of my brain. That's a problem, because that side is gummed up with many years of butterfly wings and paint. I've read all about women in their fifties, how they find new parts of themselves and actually get reinvented. I am experiencing this interesting forging of paths outside of my old comfort zones.

What I am struck with is that at the heart of any endeavor, my personal focus has to be: how am I helping and blessing others? How am I glorifying God through this? What about my family? Protecting my priorities so that I don't tip over into excess, which is what I always tend to do. How to stay balanced when you're focusing is probably the hardest thing of all. Keeping my eye on the ball, but not tripping on the way to first base.

As the World Turns

I got the news this morning that one of my cousins is very ill and will probably not make it. Not a good way to start an article or your morning. Then I began to remember back, when we were children and things were simpler. People always say that kids are resilient and that they can deal with trauma better than adults can. I beg to differ. 

Our fathers were brothers. One (mine) was and is an extrovert, charming, and lived life like a big kid. His brother was brooding, introverted, artistic. Opposites. They decided to go into the printing business together, with their shop in downtown Smyrna, behind MawMaw's house. My childhood included many evenings and Saturdays there, playing tag in the yard, running in and out of her house and the shop. The smell of ink and toner still brings a rush of memories. Then there were the cousins. Daddy came from a family of eight kids, who decided to fill the earth themselves, so I had close to 30 cousins on that side. Most of them lived nearby, so visiting my grandparents always meant lots of playmates. We played in the sketchy creek that ran by her house. Sometimes we would dam it up and make a swimming hole. I remember MawMaw pitching a fit when we did that one time. We were covered in thick mud and she had to wash all our stinky, nasty clothes. There were adventures of walking on the railroad tracks next door, scrounging for Coke bottles all over Smyrna to redeem for nickels at the store, eating sour crabapples dipped in baking soda and salt (to make them foam up in your mouth). She had a giant persimmon tree in her backyard. That taste, that plummy, sweet burst of summer on the tongue was a wonderful surprise. Everything in her world was chaos. I don't think I ever walked across her floor that it wasn't sticky, even though she was always mopping. Her sink was eternally full of cold, greasy, dirty water. She preferred to be outside, planting something. She could put a stick in the ground and it would grow. There would be a little triangle of dirt she had scratched up next to the house. Huge stalks of corn and giant tomato plants would emerge, larger than life to me. She loved people and loved life.

My uncle's kids were my compatriots, in my mind. We got gleefully filthy together on many a Saturday. Little did I know of the trials those children endured, with both parents being alcoholics. Where my siblings and I's nights were spent with a bath, prayers and then a clean bed, warm and safe, these cousins lived in filth, squalor and urine-soaked sheets. I remember their Mama who was always squirreled up in a chair in a corner of the kitchen, tiny and bird-like, with a Pepsi-Cola and a cigarette, on the phone. Until I was older, I was envious of their freedom. They could come and go as they pleased and do anything they wanted, whereas my Mama was vigilant. We were never allowed to run inside a neighbor's house without letting her know where we were. Time and the world wore on my cousins as they fell into troubles and more trouble. Eventually, they all found some form of stability -- jobs, spouses, children -- but I am certain that they went through many storms that I know nothing of. Thankfully, the one who is at death's door today seems to have found peace with God along the way. I pray that her passing will be easy and that the burdens of this life will flutter off like gossamer wings.

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...