A Pretty Old Love Story

I thought I'd revisit the subject of marital love...

I was in agony, some years ago. My stomach had been doing flip-flops for weeks and I finally wound up in the hospital. People torturing me every hour on the hour, waking me up ten times a night, dragging me down to the bowels of the place for testing, vampires draining me of my blood every morning and evening. I was scared. They said that I had pancreatitis and did I drink? Did I have my gallbladder? (No) -- so then I must drink a lot. No! You don't know me, but no! Meanwhile, my stomach. Thankfully a hospital is also a place where they have drugs for that (No! I don't do recreational drugs). So many questions. 

In the midst of the confusion and agony was this guy. He hauled me down to the Urgent Care place, an hour away, then stayed up all night, asking the nurses and doctors all the questions that I didn't think to ask. They put me in an ambulance headed for the hospital. He made plans, called the right people, held my hand and rubbed my back, then tucked the covers around me when they finally gave me something for pain. After several days in the hospital, when things began to resolve, he held me quietly as my fears overtook me in the night. When we got home, he ran to the store for strange foods and liquids to help me through. When I got cabin fever he got me in the car and road us all over Carroll County, looking at land and houses (one of our favorite pastimes). 

Love is very rarely like the movies. It's beautiful but then icky. The playing out of it over time is a roller coaster ride, where sometimes you'd like to jump off. Other times it's as soft as a kitten purring. We've made and squeezed out a bunch of babies, thrown things, yelled things, hugged, asked forgiveness, barely tolerated each other, laughed until we cried, toiled up many a steep hill. We've both been made over several times, had to take massive detours in the road, failed, won, lost, gained. Thank God it's not been a competition but a partnership. I trust God to give him wisdom to lead our family, at the same time my sassy nature bips him in the nose and messes up all his plans. It's a challenge, this love. And though we are way flawed and mess up daily (hourly), I know that we are the luckiest of the lucky. Love is a battlefield, an ocean, a river, a haven. I never want to take it for granted.

The Monster in the Dining Room

There's this giant beast sitting on our dining room table. I'm scared of it. It's this mysterious, black rectangle that opens up like some sort of plastic book, then lights up. Everybody told me I needed one, that I needed to be portable. It whirs and makes fan noises, like some kind of miniature plane winding up for takeoff. I'm frightened that I'm going to drop it. My husband forgot to get the extended warranty plan. I've been known to take baths with phones and Kindles. What's to make me not do that with this contraption? 

My career of real estate demands that I keep up with technology, but I always lag just behind the curve, holding my breath and praying that maybe I won't have to figure one more thing out. Alas, progress does not wait for me. I have to navigate past my fear into strange waters. How come children seem to come out of the womb understanding the mysteries of blue light and toggle switches? Toddlers eagerly hop up to the desk, barely able to reach the keyboard, manipulating the mouse like they were born knowing how to operate it. Long gone are the days where the remote on the TV was us, the kids. There were three local channels and absolutely no computers. My husband and his brother even had to run outside and onto the roof to move the TV antennae to change stations. They did this in the space of a commercial and thought nothing of it. Many of today's kids wouldn't know how to climb up on a roof if you paid them. 

Years ago, Ken bought me an automatic typewriter that couldn't keep up with my typing speed. I would wait in frustration as the words printed out. Eventually, we bought a home computer. My kids found all sorts of ways to commit mayhem while I was distracted by the thing. The strange tones of the dial-up made me think of demons screeching as they hauled my brain to na-na land. Now they're telling us all to take time to unplug. That, after years of trying to tell us we had to learn how to operate all these machines. Now we're addicted to them and we find out they're giving us ADD and sleep deprivation. We're fatter, unhealthy, less educated and dissatisfied, all because of that blue light calling us away from all the people and books we're supposed to be paying attention to. What would happen if we had a massive EMP attack? (Electromagnetic Pulse Attack). All the machines, electricity, computers, lights, camera, action would cease to operate as we now know them. I think about that a lot. I'm sure there would be massive chaos, lots of starving, rioting and pillaging before people would settle into some semblance of survival. We'd have to go back to the ways things were a hundred or more years ago. Back to the way people have lived for millennia before that (and some still do, in far-flung places). I have no interest in doing that, and I don't know who would be willing to get on the roof (in case they got the TVs running again). 

But sometimes I sure would like to unplug a few of these thingamajigs. 

Love Definitely Means Having To Say You're Sorry

We were about to pull out. All the bags and beach towels were stowed in the back of our car, with trickles of sand hiding in the corners. Cheerful goodbyes all around, until I got to my old friend. As I hugged her, a gulf of emotions unleashed themselves. We had enjoyed just a few days alone with them at the ocean, after spending our annual beach week with our grown children. It had been many years since we spent that much time together. What overwhelmed me was the fact that we had come full circle. There and back again. 

Life is filled with bends in the road. There are moves, job changes, aging, church turnovers, school progressions, not to mention the shifts that come about as we move from one demographic to the other. Ken and I are baby boomers, but the Gen-X's and Millennials came right behind us. Throughout all these life changes, what is unpleasant are the relationship crashes that sometimes occur along the way. This friend was offended.  That one was left behind. We didn't continue to see eye-to-eye on a subject. Our children had a fuss. One party moved away from the other politically. Disagreements. Difficulties. Misjudgments. These things often ruin friendships. Sometimes you can't even figure out what happened. It just did. You emotionally move away from each other and neither side does enough to fix it. Or maybe you try and it just can't be fixed. Years go by and you marvel at what used to be and is no more. 

Many years ago, through a weird set of misunderstandings and life-junctures, we separated from our old friends. Our children had been very close but our paths parted and we were all left wondering what happened. With lots of kids and responsibilities looming between us, we dove back into our lives with our noses to the ground. Time marched on. We had changed churches too, so we were  not in close proximity anymore. There were some half-hearted attempts to figure it out, but maybe too much pride or too many problems got in the way. It was like a boat that had sprung a leak and was on the bottom of the lake. Nobody knew why it leaked or how to go about raising it back up.

One fine, beautiful day, years later, I was sitting on our porch reading my Bible. I don't know how God breaks up our fallow ground, how He reaches and stirs up our souls to repentance, but He does do it. That morning, I couldn't remember what had mattered so much that it broke up our friendship. But I did recall what I did wrong. The last thing I wanted to do that day was to call my old friend. (I don't want to think I'm proud, but guess what?) I picked up the phone and rang her, hoping she wouldn't answer. Of course she did. It's such a pain to cry when you're trying to talk. The words spilled out and skittered like dry pintos on the floor. I tried to explain what happened, then gave up and just told her I had been wrong. It's not like "I apologize." That's a pretty, polished stone that you offer someone. "I was wrong" is like handing them a knife and falling down on the floor, completely at their mercy. It was me. And that's what I'm responsible for. I asked her to forgive me for my attitude, for my lack of love, for the places where I failed her. She did, and then she asked me the same. We talked for a long while, hung up, then went back to our mutually busy worlds being lived out an hour and a half apart from each other. Over the years, we have talked occasionally, keeping in touch through social media and our childrens' lives. Those halcyon days of movie nights with a dozen kids between us, beach vacations and church suppers are no more. Our offspring are spreading their wings and repopulating the earth in their own new horizons.

She and her husband invited Ken and I to come to their beach cottage for a few days after we finished our annual family trek to Florida. We were thankful to hang out and catch up, eating, laughing, enjoying the company and the water. It was brief but very sweet. And as we were preparing to leave, the ocean tide in my heart burst open. As I hugged her and said goodbye, I felt the essence of heaven, of what forgiveness and redemption really mean. There was a whole lot said, without saying a word.

Hurricane Weather

There's this still place in life that you come to. I've always heard that if you can get into the middle of a hurricane, you can fly a plane around in there. It's quiet and still, unmoving. So that's where Ken and I find ourselves. The kids are grown, the grandkids are coming. On the other side, our parents are aging. They're still doing well but once in awhile I see glimpses of fragility, peeking past their strong-willed independence. There are powder kegs everywhere, of different kinds. Bursts of life sprouting forth with energetic squeals from the children. I get reminded that I really need to get these legs back into the gym, just to keep up a semblance of breathing. Then I sit down with our old folks and I have to remember that they are indeed getting old. They're not going to live forever and I need to stop what I am doing to cherish the hours I have with them. Everything doesn't have to be done right now. There's a lot of stuff that can be let go of. The things that can be quantified are not the things that really matter.

We are here in Florida for our annual family vacation. A house full of young people (which makes Ken and I the old ones). How soon I've forgotten the treadmill of child-rearing, where diapers and food and potty breaks and food and naps and more food rule the day. Getting everyone down to the beach takes half the day and getting back takes the other half. The wagons get packed, sunscreen applied, and the kiddy train ambles down the sidewalk. Yaya is left here writing. The world goes quiet again. A dove coos near the porch, a distant lawnmower whirs, a little plane buzzes over. It was yesterday that I was the one driving the kiddy train, the one that I thought would never stop. I guess it didn't stop, I just handed over the reins. The grass keeps growing and still needs cutting. The boat of life turns slowly most of the time, though sometimes a storm takes it down. 

The challenge of the years is: stay the course, don't surrender to my weaknesses, love and forgive, don't grow bitter or weary in well doing. Enter each day with gratefulness and don't lean much into my preferences; don't let my world grow too small. In the eye of the hurricane, just because all seems quiet, don't get caught dawdling.

A Lover and a Fighter

The doctor left for some needed rest. "This baby's not coming for awhile yet. Call me when it's closer to time." I was sad, because I was ready to meet this child, our second son in two years. The doctor had ordered another shot of Demerol, a goofy drug that had given me about ten minutes of reprieve before the pain came roaring back. My tough, natural-birth-only resolve had withered. My experience with drugs during childbirth could be summed up as this: you get some edge taken off the distress initially, but then the pain comes back and by then you're drunk. So you can't cope. Awful. But alas, I was in the middle of it when the nurse put a needleful in my IV. Immediately, that man-child did what he has been doing ever since: he kicked and decided to make his entrance. There was much scurrying, a nurse ran downstairs to retrieve the doctor. He rushed in the room, someone snapped gloves on him, another person held his tie, and he caught the 11 pound, 2 ounce (23-1/2" long) baby lumberjack that popped out. Daniel ("God is my judge") Josiah ("The Lord heals"). Giant kicks and somersaults inside my unwieldy girth had already told me that this was no pansy man. I sensed that he was a warrior-poet-sort of fella. Strong willed but tender at the same time. He came here like a tornado and then snuggled right into my heart. 

He was only a few months old when big brother would do funny things and Daniel would start laughing, holding his stomach and gasping for air. He understood humor and sarcasm right out of the gate. He was surrounded by big, bossy personalities and decided he'd lighten the mood with his rapier wit and be a buffer where there was none. A second-born always faces the challenge of whether to fight or get along. He decided to do both. In wrestling, they called him "The Bulldog." When he decided to knuckle down, his opponents weren't getting loose. Years later, when he got into MMA fighting (cage fighting, heaven help us, and his name was "The Lumberjack") -- his determination and grit propelled him to the top of his weight class in the state of Georgia. He was big, quick, more stubborn than his opponents, and never lost in the big ring. He became a skilled carpenter, but was bent on being a firefighter. His Mama tried to dissuade him. It's not safe. It doesn't pay well. And oh yeah, it's not safe. A long, winding road led him finally to his dream, where if Mama needs an ambulance, he's gonna be the one hauling her outa here. He spends his days honing his skills and fitness, always pushing himself and everyone around him to fight harder, even if he makes enemies doing it. At his heart, he really does long to serve and protect. It's what God made him to do.

This son, God's blessing to us. Sometimes difficult, often hard to read, yet always tender underneath the bravado. The Lord sent him a wife perfect for him just when he needed her and then a baby girl who thinks he hung the moon. As this Mama is sometimes tempted to cry over her empty nest, I only have to stop and think of our eagles and of God's mercies as they fly, then stumble, then soar. The many layers that make up Daniel, the depths of thought and spiritual wisdom that rest in his soul after all these years....the fighter and the healer are finally one. God is good.

Midnight Train in Georgia

There are so many things that pull at me. So much to do. So many obligations, needs, wants, and then there's all the distractions in between. Plus the corners are mighty dusty. 
This week was absolutely dizzying, with work and multiple commitments looming. I dashed about from here to yonder, trying to make a semblance of catching up. One night, my sister wisely suggested making a master list (I have plenty of lists, just hadn't made a "master" one). In fifteen minutes, I emptied every worrisome thought out of my brain onto a piece of paper. It sat there like an accusation. I rewrote it onto an index card, this time with priorities in mind. There were things on there that technically could have waited or been cancelled. My friend, Pink, whom I had committed to helping paint her 9-foot-tall bunny (Mr. Adderholt)... An old client, who needed assistance with tax questions that I could have shuttled off to someone else... My nephew's play... That trip to Carrollton with my daughter in love and granddaughter... 

We could go on and on. I still had a distracted week with my phone to my ear and eyes as real estate roared in like a shrieking train. Every night was an adventure when my eyes would pop open at insane hours of the night with my brains firing the next days' directives. I love to whine and complain, it's just the truth. And I hate that. It's a sin! One such night, after the craziest evening ever, with knee pain on top of it, I decided to go on and get up and do some real estate work. It was midnight. Ken woke up with pain too at 2:30 a.m. and needed a heating pad (no smart-aleck comments, ya'll...there was nothing romantic about it). I laid back down. Then some strange dog got up on our porch and started barking at the cats, so Zoe started barking and growling too. At 3:00 a.m! Chased the dog off with Ken's big axe handle that he keeps beside the bed (don't ever try to break into our house. Ken Norton with an axe handle = Thor). We both took some pain killers and laid back down (again). I kept laughing which led to coughing, while trying to keep Ken from waking back up. So this morning when my eyes peeled open, I smiled and thought about the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living. "Oh sing to the Lord a new song! Sing to the Lord, all the earth. Sing to the Lord, bless His name; proclaim the good news of His salvation from day to day. Declare His glory among the nations. His wonders among all peoples." - Psalm 96:1-3. If we don't sing, if we don't laugh, if we don't thank God for all the stuff -- in, out, in-between -- we'll miss the blessings. Praying for eyes to see, even through the crazy.

The True Keeper of the Secrets

As my 98-year-old client walked in front of me into Wallace's restaurant for a bit of barbecue, I couldn't help noticing her freshly-coiffed hair. It was beautiful and silver, springy and curled, ready for another week. Her dear daughter drives an hour and a half every Friday morning to bring her back here to the salon she's frequented for fourty years. We are listing her little brick ranch for sale, something that is difficult for her to face. Even though she is mercifully ensconced with her daughter (dare I hope to make it to 98 and my kids let me live with them?) she despairs of letting go of the last vestiges of independence. I marvel at the kindness of her daughter, who understands the significance of the deep, mysterious rite of womankind that binds us all -- the ritual of the beauty salon. 

As a child, I remember being relegated to a corner of a busy shop while my Mama endured the shampooing, snipping, curling, ratting and spraying that was the required maintenance for a 1960s beehive hairdo. Millions of women went for their weekly refresh, carefully winding nets around their hair every night, sleeping in strange ways to keep from un-doing all that poofy goodness. My Grandma Betty had a standing appointment every Friday after work. When we would visit her in Illinois, I always thought it odd that she kept that appointment, no matter what. I was a kid and didn't yet understand what was so important about those hallowed tents of ozone-depleting fumes. Time went by and the beehives, though they have yet to disappear, became less sought-after and were replaced with the big hair and perms of the 1980s. The 90s and 2000s brought lots of highlights and blonding. Now we're morphing into every shade of the rainbow - blue, purple, pink, along with twenty-somethings having their hair silvered. Silver, really! I'm getting mature, just in time. 

When I began having children, I started to understand the allure of the beauty salon. There's nothing quite like a fresh cut and highlights when your days are full of Cheerios and Fisher-Price music. Those dates were often accomplished with Daddy or Grandma watching the children and a half-day of getting there and back. It wasn't a spa by any stretch, with our Walmart-worthy-budget, but it might as well have been. Sometimes my sister and Mama and I would all head out together to our favorite stylist who lived out in the sticks of Roopville, with our dozen or more kids with us. The kids would play outside while we got permed, cut, and colored. It took hours but it was like a day at the Ritz for us Moms. 

I went this week for my pre-vacation-hair appointment at Belize Salon in Villa Rica. (I always have two large fixes a year, one before the Christmas holidays, where my stylist puts lots of dark drama in with the blonde...and one before vacation where she turns up the California). As I was waiting, listening and watching all the theatrics that occur in any salon, I couldn't help but eavesdrop on numerous conversations. When a woman drops her head back to get shampooed, then submits to a rotating chair and scissors in someone else's hands, something puzzling happens and she becomes unhinged. Before I walk into a salon, I tell myself to try and shut up this time. Be quiet, be humble, be subtle. But the stylist is not a hairdresser any longer. She is my psychologist, confidante and mentor. She can say what she wants and I will believe it. But mostly she listens to the stream of consciousness that flows unhindered from my mouth. I can't seem to stop. I say things that I never mean to say. The time goes too fast, the job is done, I'm fresh and ready to go. As I pay her, I wonder if she ever reveals any of the codified information she gets from all the women that pass under her hand. She is the keeper of mysteries and the helper of Moms, Grandmamas and prom goers everywhere. I am very grateful for her.