Today was beyond rough. It began with an emotional real estate transaction where a family was selling their mother's home. Her many trinkets and clothes had been mostly dispersed, but all the sentiment and trial of remembering and honoring her life took its toll. My client and I ended up crying in the kitchen.
Then on to a visit with plucky granddaughter Annabelle and her good Mama. There's nothing so sweet as the shrieks of a grandchild when you walk in the door. I stayed too long. My hair needed washing but there wasn't time to get home before my next real estate appointment...so I did what all harried women do -- I popped in to Sally Beauty Supply and bought more stuff. I was borrowing my Daddy's car and didn't have a hairbrush with me, much less dry shampoo. Ten minutes later I emerged with a whole arsenal of products intended to produce miracles on dirty hair. I sprayed and fluffed in the Walmart parking lot, then hit the road. I ain't nothing if not adaptable.
The next three hours were spent in frazzled travail as I did the realtor two-step between a Rock and a Hard Place. I called the listing agent to give him an update on the dance lessons, but was driving distracted because my bluetooth had gone awry yesterday. I was trying to drive, talk, keep from losing my mind and balance my monster Iphone on my shoulder. When I looked up and saw the green light and people moving in the next lane, I failed to see the massive red Hummer right in front of me. Yes, it's true. I smashed my Daddy's little car right into it. The Hummer didn't get a scratch but I think the Toyota is totaled. How ironic that my Daddy taught me to drive the back roads of Powder Springs in a little red Pinto at the age of thirteen...and my first accident occurs 44 years later, driving his car.
Eventually, all the people that needed to be told and all the people that needed to get there, got there. Our son Jonathan happened to drive by and jumped out too, as a great comfort to me. I sat numbly in Ken's car as we waited for the wrecker. (I still haven't finished crying). He took me to our favorite Mexican restaurant and told me that I was not on a diet today and that I had to have comforting food and beverage. So I did, without guilt. Tomorrow's another day and it will be okay. All I could think about was how stupid I was for being distracted, why couldn't I have been driving my car instead of Daddy's and ouch, I'm starting to hurt. As we began to relax, though, I noticed the weather outside. The sky was tumultuous, with large dark clouds and rolling winds blowing. I saw a little piece of a rainbow peeking out from behind a cloud. It was different -- mostly green and orange. Over the course of an hour it grew and grew, more colors blending in -- purple, pink, blue streaks. Then another rainbow came alongside it and it all stretched from the ground, arching above the massive clouds. I couldn't help but think of all the spiritual connotations emanating from this scene. My real estate deal seemed to be unraveling, with the immovable object meeting the unstoppable force. Then the plastic car meeting the concrete one. The darkest day I've known in a long while. But then, there were rainbows...
Later, as I stood in my glorious pink pantry in our Victorian house contemplating a bandaid for my toe (another story), I finally started to break down from all the seeming failures of the day. I was feeling sorry for myself and starting to sob when I suddenly remembered that it was Maundy Thursday, the night that Christ and his disciples had their last supper together. The night that Judas went out to betray Him. The night that He washed their feet and sorrowfully began to face the great hell that yawned before Him. The dark, evil clouds mustered up to consume and defeat Him. All seemed lost on Good Friday, but then the promises of God broke through on Easter morning as He crushed the serpent's head, redeeming a people for Himself. Easter is my favorite holiday. Not Christmas, not Fourth of July. Easter, when the stone was rolled away. My favorite hymn, in its fourth verse, says: "Long my imprisoned spirit lay, fast bound in sin and nature's night; Thine eye diffused a quick'ning ray, I woke, the dungeon flamed with light; My chains fell off, my heart was free; I rose, went forth and followed Thee." (And Can It Be? - John Wesley). This life is full of all sorts of chains, with some crazy dark days. And on this very wicked day, with too many swirling problems to explain, I was given the gift of precious signs in the sky. Signs of promises given way on back to Noah, where a way of salvation was provided to carry His children to safety. Symbols and types of what was to come -- what is celebrated here at Easter. I love the bunnies, the spring flowers, the eggs and the festivities. The earth is bustin' with life and greenness. But what I love most is that God-man, Jesus Christ, who defied death and hell to pluck this girl out of the flames.
Wednesday, April 12, 2017
Monday, April 10, 2017
The Value of a Tough Coach
It was the beginning of ninth grade and they made an announcement about basketball tryouts. I had played intramural sports all through middle school but had little experience with a basketball. The ninth grade coach lined us up. He had a clipboard, a list and a plan. He was handsome but grim. It was obvious he was serious about this. I liked that. The tough teachers in my past were my favorites. I knew that I only had a slim chance of making the team. I was lanky, goofy and all over the place. But I was tall.
I made the team (barely, he told me later. He also told me that it was because I was tall). Coach Buster Brown. He might as well have been Sergeant York, because he was military tough. We were sent out to run the cross-country course, throw medicine balls to each other, hike the bleachers, run suicides and do drills. All without a basketball. Weeks of it. He took us into the exercise room, threw the boys out and made us lift weights. Girls didn't do much of that back then. Just when I knew I was going to die or at least pass out, he'd send us for a water break. And then back at it. I began to notice that I was losing baby fat and that I could run faster than I did a few weeks before. Finally the day came when he let us use an actual basketball. Practices were full of drills and more drills. Shooting, dribbling, maneuvering, but very little playing. He prayed at every practice, taught us the Scriptures, and drove us mad with more running. By the time the season began, we had learned how to reach deep inside for more. He taught us Maravich drills and we warmed up to Sweet Georgia Brown.
He ended up being my coach for all four high school years. It seemed impossible to please him. He pushed us until we thought there was nothing left. There were some people that hated him, thought he was too hard for high schoolers and expected too much. But I loved him for it. The character that emanated from digging that deep was irreplaceable. It still affects me, because he proved that I am capable of much more than I think I am. I still carry that in my soul. He was emotionally aloof and never afraid to offend those he coached, in order to take them to the brink of selflessness. There's a courage in that. Teachers and coaches who shoved on that line are the ones that I respected and learned from. The soft ones didn't teach me that much, though I'm sure some people needed them. I was terribly sad when I graduated; it was difficult to leave my beloved McEachern High School, and especially Coach Brown. My college coach was too sweet. I ended up injured and back at home after a couple of years. I pined for our tough drill sergeant from high school.
When I had our four babies and time drifted on, I often thought of him and the many lessons he taught me. Sometimes I thought about how he'd probably fuss at me because I got fat and quit working out much. But I knew that he'd still be proud of my life and what the Lord had done in it. Many years went by and as the children grew up, our last two ended up at a small college in North Georgia. Jesse was playing basketball there and the ladies' coach had talked to us about Liz, who would be coming there Jesse's senior year. Alas, she quit coaching the spring before Liz was due to try out. But mid-summer, the athletic director called and asked if she was still interested in playing. He told us that they had hired a new coach. His name was Buster Brown. Yes. That Buster Brown.
Liz wound up playing for him her freshman year in college. He wasn't as mean or as tough as all those decades before, but he was good for her and she learned much from him. He decided that he was meant for high school coaching and went back to White County High School the next few years. But I will never forget the goodness of the Lord in letting Liz be on his team. It started her education and she was able to graduate with little debt because of the scholarships and opportunities that spun off from basketball.
There's a place that I go back to...those blistering summers (and falls, winters and springs -- he never gave us much time off) days of Coach and his whistle, making us run and work, lift and push. When other athletes were taking time off, he was cracking the whip. Every day on this planet, there are coaches and teachers who get up, work, care, do the hard things... with little pay and little appreciation. They've changed our lives forever. Remember them. Thanks, Coach.
--
I made the team (barely, he told me later. He also told me that it was because I was tall). Coach Buster Brown. He might as well have been Sergeant York, because he was military tough. We were sent out to run the cross-country course, throw medicine balls to each other, hike the bleachers, run suicides and do drills. All without a basketball. Weeks of it. He took us into the exercise room, threw the boys out and made us lift weights. Girls didn't do much of that back then. Just when I knew I was going to die or at least pass out, he'd send us for a water break. And then back at it. I began to notice that I was losing baby fat and that I could run faster than I did a few weeks before. Finally the day came when he let us use an actual basketball. Practices were full of drills and more drills. Shooting, dribbling, maneuvering, but very little playing. He prayed at every practice, taught us the Scriptures, and drove us mad with more running. By the time the season began, we had learned how to reach deep inside for more. He taught us Maravich drills and we warmed up to Sweet Georgia Brown.
He ended up being my coach for all four high school years. It seemed impossible to please him. He pushed us until we thought there was nothing left. There were some people that hated him, thought he was too hard for high schoolers and expected too much. But I loved him for it. The character that emanated from digging that deep was irreplaceable. It still affects me, because he proved that I am capable of much more than I think I am. I still carry that in my soul. He was emotionally aloof and never afraid to offend those he coached, in order to take them to the brink of selflessness. There's a courage in that. Teachers and coaches who shoved on that line are the ones that I respected and learned from. The soft ones didn't teach me that much, though I'm sure some people needed them. I was terribly sad when I graduated; it was difficult to leave my beloved McEachern High School, and especially Coach Brown. My college coach was too sweet. I ended up injured and back at home after a couple of years. I pined for our tough drill sergeant from high school.
When I had our four babies and time drifted on, I often thought of him and the many lessons he taught me. Sometimes I thought about how he'd probably fuss at me because I got fat and quit working out much. But I knew that he'd still be proud of my life and what the Lord had done in it. Many years went by and as the children grew up, our last two ended up at a small college in North Georgia. Jesse was playing basketball there and the ladies' coach had talked to us about Liz, who would be coming there Jesse's senior year. Alas, she quit coaching the spring before Liz was due to try out. But mid-summer, the athletic director called and asked if she was still interested in playing. He told us that they had hired a new coach. His name was Buster Brown. Yes. That Buster Brown.
Liz wound up playing for him her freshman year in college. He wasn't as mean or as tough as all those decades before, but he was good for her and she learned much from him. He decided that he was meant for high school coaching and went back to White County High School the next few years. But I will never forget the goodness of the Lord in letting Liz be on his team. It started her education and she was able to graduate with little debt because of the scholarships and opportunities that spun off from basketball.
There's a place that I go back to...those blistering summers (and falls, winters and springs -- he never gave us much time off) days of Coach and his whistle, making us run and work, lift and push. When other athletes were taking time off, he was cracking the whip. Every day on this planet, there are coaches and teachers who get up, work, care, do the hard things... with little pay and little appreciation. They've changed our lives forever. Remember them. Thanks, Coach.
Monday, April 3, 2017
The Eye of the Storm
I found myself in Atlanta this morning, when the rain started pounding my car. I knew that there were going to be storms but not tornadoes! There were warning sirens going off. Huge drafts of wind were tossing my poor old mini-van to and fro. The raindrops sounded like hail on the windshield. I got to my destination and looked around at the other people in the room, of whom I knew no one. There was a bit of fear and uncertainty as the wind whistled at the door. I imagined, what if this cool looking ceiling just crashed in on us? But alas, it didn't, and eventually I made my way back to Villa Rica by inches. My kids started sending me pictures of tornadoes in the area. A Carrollton fire station was hit badly. The news was going crazy on all the situations around.
What if it were my last hour? I heard that Rhubarb Jones, that familiar Southern disc jockey, died yesterday. I assumed he was old, but he was not that much older than me (so that means he was young). I had just heard him talking on the radio and now he's gone. We're all going to be pushing up daisies someday, though we don't believe it. I have wrestled with the fear of dying at times, not because I'm unsure of where I am going....but because I see how very difficult it is for families and loved ones after you're gone. I still grieve for my Grandmas and a few friends. You never really get over that. But it's all a part of the mysterious fabric of life, babies and the old folks, birth and death.
In the middle of the storm, I got great news (and a couple of pictures) of our twin grandbabies that are on the way...babies that God has been talked to a lot about, even before they were conceived. I think about the mind of God, how He knows everything since before the invention of time. Those beautiful little souls, in His mind's eye. We dare not treat any of them lightly. Made in the image of God, with a couple of twists of incomprehensible DNA twining together to make the most complex beings in the universe. More sophisticated than the planets, more vulnerable than we can imagine. Trusting, trusting in His plans and timing. We breathe, we pray, we plant our faces to the ground. I hear the birds' riotous singing after the storm. The shrieking wind, swirling, debris everywhere, fear, reports, caution, danger....then came stillness and then the song. That's so much like life.
What if it were my last hour? I heard that Rhubarb Jones, that familiar Southern disc jockey, died yesterday. I assumed he was old, but he was not that much older than me (so that means he was young). I had just heard him talking on the radio and now he's gone. We're all going to be pushing up daisies someday, though we don't believe it. I have wrestled with the fear of dying at times, not because I'm unsure of where I am going....but because I see how very difficult it is for families and loved ones after you're gone. I still grieve for my Grandmas and a few friends. You never really get over that. But it's all a part of the mysterious fabric of life, babies and the old folks, birth and death.
In the middle of the storm, I got great news (and a couple of pictures) of our twin grandbabies that are on the way...babies that God has been talked to a lot about, even before they were conceived. I think about the mind of God, how He knows everything since before the invention of time. Those beautiful little souls, in His mind's eye. We dare not treat any of them lightly. Made in the image of God, with a couple of twists of incomprehensible DNA twining together to make the most complex beings in the universe. More sophisticated than the planets, more vulnerable than we can imagine. Trusting, trusting in His plans and timing. We breathe, we pray, we plant our faces to the ground. I hear the birds' riotous singing after the storm. The shrieking wind, swirling, debris everywhere, fear, reports, caution, danger....then came stillness and then the song. That's so much like life.
Tuesday, March 28, 2017
I'm Definitely Not Marie Kondo
It seems like every time I open my email box or Facebook page, there's admonitions from every side to clean up all my mess. I'm busy, creative and in a hurry, so unfortunately I leave a trail of breadcrumbs and trash everywhere I go. Since I'm not eating bread now, it's more water bottles and pork rind crumbles. I don't think pork rinds are healthy, just saying, but sometimes you need to eat something that crunches and isn't green.
So I read this book by a Japanese lady, on the top-seller list. I am always intimidated by anything Asian (except for Kung Pao chicken and eggrolls, that). Their art is strange to me and everything always seems so smooth, neat and tidy, unlike my world. But it was highly recommended and I needed help. She tells you to go through your house, bit by bit, and pick up your items and talk to them and think about them. Ask the universe if this item gives you joy. If it doesn't, then plunk it in the trash or in the give-away bin. My husband raised his eyebrows when he found me talking to my underwear and tossing most of it in the trash. He didn't say anything when he saw bags and bags of give-aways on the front porch. He also didn't protest when I started going through his drawers. He even asked me to go out to the barn and work on that and then the closet in our study. It appears this is never going to end, because I believe a truck with a junk goblin pulls up in the night and dumps more in the house while we're sleeping.
I was about to start a diet a couple of months ago. No, not a diet, a WOL. Don't you hate those acronyms, where people throw them around and assume you know what they mean? W=Way, O=Of, L=Life. Which is short for, a delusional attempt at telling yourself that you're not on a diet. I knew that if I had Oreos, brownie mix and pancake mix in my pantry, I was never getting off the ground. I broke down and hired a professional Organizer for four hours to help me conquer my kitchen. Since I have a Victorian walk-in pantry big enough to hold dance parties, she started there. Fourteen bags and boxes later (count 'em), things began to feel lighter. I sent five home with my niece (with all my cake supplies), five to a charity and four to the landfill. The Organizer hauled away the contraband food. I hired my niece to clean the house, something that deeply hurt my homemaker pride. But as she pulled away with all those boxes in her trunk and I looked around and sniffed the clean air in my house, I felt like a new woman.
Free to start my diet, I also subscribed to flylady.com. She's this kindred spirit who tortures you with five emails a day, telling you to swish out your toilet, clean off your desk, put your shoes on, and a hundred other daily hints to help make order out of chaos. I can't say I'm flying yet, but I'm definitely making progress. My husband's scared to think that his dreams might finally be coming true. He's the kind of guy that hangs his clothes equidistant apart and actually cleans out his car every time he drives it. God has a sense of humor when He puts people together. For what it's worth, I feel and look better and Easter's a-comin'!
Free to start my diet, I also subscribed to flylady.com. She's this kindred spirit who tortures you with five emails a day, telling you to swish out your toilet, clean off your desk, put your shoes on, and a hundred other daily hints to help make order out of chaos. I can't say I'm flying yet, but I'm definitely making progress. My husband's scared to think that his dreams might finally be coming true. He's the kind of guy that hangs his clothes equidistant apart and actually cleans out his car every time he drives it. God has a sense of humor when He puts people together. For what it's worth, I feel and look better and Easter's a-comin'!
Monday, March 20, 2017
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.
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.
Monday, March 13, 2017
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?
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?
Tuesday, March 7, 2017
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.
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.
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