Sproutin' in the Drought

How easy it is to be anxious. Easier than relaxing, trusting, charging ahead. Anxiety stops us in our tracks, hijacking our thoughts, plans, progress. Sometimes I have gone from one anxious mountaintop to the next, barely pausing between them. No sooner than one crisis is resolved and the next one rears its ugly head. But does it? One woman's crisis is the next woman's joy. 

I want to be free. There are lots of opinions about what that is. The conflicted teenager might think it means having no rules to follow. The struggling family might think it's having lots of money. A weary mother might believe it's having her young 'uns grown and out of the nest. I believe that true freedom is a place of rest, contentment and purpose, within all the hurry. 

There's always something over the crest of the hill that might solve our problems. But I'm not living on that other side. I'm here on this side, where each day is either an opportunity or a liability to be dealt with. I think we tell ourselves all kinds of lies. It's our nature to make a mountain out of a molehill. I've heard that expression all of my life, but have only recently seen what moles make out of dirt. My yard is teeming with molehills and the little holes that can trip you up in between. 
I find I'm not interested in spending my life imaginating up a mountain out of one of those. Life is too short to spend it worrying, fussing, fighting, waking up in the middle of the night coming up with scenarios that may or may not come true. It's also too short to let my mouth run like a sieve. Gossip and critical talk shortchange my religion, making it in vain. Lord I am guilty. Lord, please forgive me, and let Your Spirit lead, not my easy-tell-all nature. 

As I turn to His Word, praying, asking for wisdom, He's got it all there. It has the answers and the peace that passes all understanding... "Blessed is the man who trusts in the Lord, whose trust is the Lord. He is like a tree planted by water, that sends out its roots by the stream, and does not fear when heat comes, for its leaves remain green, and is not anxious in the year of drought, for it does not cease to bear fruit." Jeremiah 17:7-8.  So cast off those worries and get sproutin'.

Sandy Dreams

We slept soundly over the miles, the car swaying gently with the smooth asphalt rolling beneath it. How many times have I done this? I recall warm, liquid nights with the windows rolled down, stars winking in the sky. Balmy smells of hay, cut grass, musky horse and the occasional chicken house wafting in like a wave. We passengers are cocooned snugly with our pillows and blankets, Cornnut and Cheez-Its crumbs everywhere. If it's a day trip, there will be pecan rolls. It's the South and it's mandatory.

This time, however, it's a different season. There are no stops to nurse a baby or change a diaper. It's our annual beach trip and Papa decided that instead of waiting for morning, we'd leave at nightfall and drive through the night. He's rarely spontaneous, normally requiring an act of Congress to change any plans. He should have been in the military, but God had other ideas. He'd be a five-star general by now. Either way, we gleefully pile into my SUV, Papa and I, our daughter and her boyfriend. My sensible side wonders at how this is going to go, but as we pull into the beach house at 4:00 in the morning, I can't help but feel like a kid again. Only this time we're the old folks and there's a boatload of munchkins waiting for us. 

When my life was thick with the joyful raising of our four children, the earth spinning like a top, I forgot to notice that they were growing up. It was hard to believe that life would ever change from the tyranny of the urgent. My sweet babies' faces, their sincere love, their happy welcoming arms whenever I returned home from somewhere...all those thousands of things that get taken for granted. Now I see them parenting our grandchildren, and I am amazed at their energy, their tenacity, their dedication. Was I ever that strong? Was I ever that young? We see our children and grandchildren often, but this one week a year we live like sardines and remember. 

There's food and coffee and late-night games and movies. It takes half a morning to get down to the beach then half an afternoon to get back. We're burnt, sore and hungry. The kids are giddy, heady with cousin-play.  We take turns cooking, and this year's cuisine is scrumptious. Our jobs and home responsibilities are afar off. Naps are luxurious indulgences. We have church, sing, pray. There's books, snacks, drinks. But especially, there's my people. Soft baby arms reach for hugs,  Papa plays and jokes, the Mamas and Daddys help each other make it work. There's nothing and then there's everything. Peace, tension, resolution, popcorn. We are blessed.

Gunboats Arise!

I might can hear the beach from here. In approximately five days, we'll all be down there. All. Of. Us. That means Ken and I, all four of our grown children, our three daughter-in-loves, our daughter's boyfriend and eight grandchildren, ages 6 and under. We rented a big ole house with five bedrooms, but I imagine that's not enough. Our daughter likes to sleep on the couch so that she gets to wake up with little people all up in her business. 

I'm already feeling so lazy, I'm certain I'm going to be a disappointment to a lot of people while I'm there. My flipflops are trying to jump into my beach bag and I can already smell the salt air. Do I have to cook? Why would I do that there, when I barely do it here? You can clearly see that I am doing serious work, getting ready for this holiday. I always bring stuff to write with, things to draw with, and a snorkel kit. It's possible I'll dribble something in those books or float out to the sandbar. Or not. Or I'll read during naptime and answer many questions from inquiring little minds. 

Maybe I'm of an age now where, like wearing my Clark's shoes, nobody's expecting a whole lot. Speaking of which, I don't know where along the way I thought of myself as a fashionista. I'm way too fluffy and goofy to look trendy. I gave up heels a long time ago, except for boots. I thought I was swank with my name-brand tennis shoes. Truth is, if I stand back and look, there's nothing svelte about my feet, no matter what you cover them with. This past winter, I got tired of trying to figure out what shoes looked nice with professional clothing. Pumps and pointy shoes made me hurt and downtrodden. So I just died to it and plunged headlong into the arena of granny shoes. What in the world took me so long? They're supportive and expensive, but they last forever. You can multi-task in them and they don't care if you're walking the dog or closing a deal. They still feel really good.

But back to the beach. These nasty toes have been concealed most of the winter. It looks like somebody beat them up and tried to put them through a meat grinder. I'm going to have to sashay over to the nail salon and get somebody to haul out the power tools. I know I should feel guilty for spending money on those digits, that I should attempt to get my wood chipper out and get to work. But no. There are some things that are worth delegating, particularly when they involve hoof-like appendages. The only redeeming quality of my feet is that they look just like my dear-departed-Daddy's. I can look down at them, laugh, and hope that when you get to heaven you get a new pair. Hoping to see them surrounded with lots of sand very soon.

Melting Pot

With our large brood all around us for the Easter weekend, I thought of the phenomena that occur when two people make a family together. 37 years ago, Ken and I got together like a nice salad dressing: oil, vinegar and a lot of spice. You have to keep shaking it to keep it all together. Our families are both Christian, but the cultures of them are as opposite as night and day. The Norton qualities Ken brought are of strong, bullish Scotch/Irish Southern stock, with stoic emotions and physical bodies that are robust and tenacious. The factors that I contributed were the sarcastic, artistic and emotionally intricate Slate genes, also Scotch/Irish but of the passionate, expressive ilk. But again, none of that is one name or one culture. Each of us also brings at least two of our own cultivars into our partnerships (our parents), so where I'm saying "Slate," I really mean "Slate + Rush."  And with Ken, there's "Norton + Goldman + Brannon." This is confusing, I know, but I find it intriguing, as I look at my siblings and their spouses and all the children we've wrought (3 of us children have produced 21 grandchildren, 17 great-grandchildren, just from my parents). The cultures that have sprung from those three families are as different as three roads off an intersection. And now we're raising our own garden.

I believe God has purposes for all of us. Our family origins are intricate organisms that help to make or break us, and there's no rhyme or reason as to how that's going to play out. I've seen terrible parents who produced amazing, resilient children who are determined to change the world. On the other hand, I've seen really good people produce disastrous progeny. At the end of it, we all stand on our own for what roads we go down, no matter how we are raised. But my Mama would say, "Don't spoil that child, else later it'll come to haunt you." I don't think many people worry about spoiling their kids these days. Our society might have some misery, in a decade or two. Or maybe it already does.

But back to culture... when our growing, extended family gets together for holidays and such, it is an extremely raucous affair. I have felt compassion for the new boyfriends or girlfriends as they were introduced to the clan. This is no "toast" family. The introverts are thrown into the lake along with the rest, and you better hold your nose or you'll drown. Sarcasm, extreme opinions and athletic key-throwing are Olympic events here and nobody's asking permission. Now there are eight grandchildren with the same DNA coursing through their veins. It's overwhelming. After holidays or vacations, I need a riverbank and a good massage. 

Speaking of which, we are about to embark on our annual beach trip with all of them. Everyone's married and producing offspring, except our daughter. Her boyfriend is braving the trip with us, and we will see if he survives the gauntlet. He's kind, honest, trustworthy and artistic. Also introverted. We might could use an infusion of his good nature over here. I'll let you know how it goes. 

Take A Breather

I'm trying to remember why it's important to plan ahead for things, because when I do that, I just lose the stuff. I had big plans for New Years 2019... take off a gozillion pounds, channel Marie Kondo and minimalize my 2800 square foot Queen Victorian house (right?), learn what the word "no" means, think about going back to college, and last, but not least, take a calligraphy course. I already do all kinds of decorative writing, but I needed to update my calligraphy for sure. It ain't the same as it was when I learned Old English script in the 8th grade. You see cool script everywhere -- on pillows, car windows, water bottles. I needed to get into this century (whichever one this one is). The course was cheap, only twenty-five bucks online. But I had to gather about a hundred dollars worth of supplies before I even started. I had no idea that copy paper could cost over twenty dollars a ream, that really special kind I had to have to become wonderful. I amassed a whole pile of essentials from the art store, put them in a special place, then proceeded to forget about my promise to myself. It's mid-April now. Life gets in the way and I might just be out huntin' squirrels. 

Today I promised myself I'd chase down all those precious things I bought back in December. They were nowhere to be found. I also was looking for a woodgraining tool for a different project. Same result. As I ransacked the house and began wondering not only about the century but about what planet I had landed on, my phone buzzed and an amendment appeared for one of my real estate contracts. I dropped everything, all the searches and thoughts about the Bermuda Triangle, and got to work on the amendment. Then I decided to write my article and chime in on my Facebook page. An alarm started dinging somewhere, in the deep recesses of the kitchen. I wondered what in the Sam Hill that was about.  I shrugged and got to plugging away on my computer, leaving my phone in the galley on the charger, since it was almost dead anyway. Later, I sauntered in there for a glass of water, only to see flashy things on my screen. Then I remembered what the alarm was for. It had nothing to do with pot roast or supper and everything to do with the fact that there were two people already waiting, twenty minutes away, for me to let them into a house to clean it out. As I scrambled out the door, I thought of my favorite children's book, If You Give A Mouse A Cookie, and how my life might have inspired that tome. 

So with a wild dash, and Ken-Ninja-like maneuvers from here to Fairfield Plantation, I met up with the folks, begged forgiveness, got them in the house, had a nice chat and headed back home. I said, God, You know where all that stuff is. Can you please give me a sign or something? Because apparently I need help. I walked in, went to the studio for the twentieth time and instantly found those art supplies, then marched outside to the barn where I promptly found the woodgraining tool. I let the dog out, plopped down on the swing and looked up. The pecan trees were busting with little, fresh minty buds. All the clouds were gone and the sky looked like somebody had scrubbed it clean. I breathed deeply for the first time today and decided everything else would just have to wait. That was hours ago and I can still feel it. That'll work, until the next squirrel pops up. 

Emancipation (Easter's A-Comin')

When you are stripped down to the rocks of your soul, when the waves rise and beat mercilessly against the shore...the calm lake of ease has left and we find ourselves weak, worn out, threadbare. Poverty has many forms, just as does strength. 

The real challenges of life come after the storm is gone. The stillness bears down, unrelenting. The sun insists on coming up and going down. The moon rolls its pocked face around again. It seems like nothing will ever change. The world keeps going by. Plans are sought, but slip through fingers and fall short. Feet are plundered, swollen, red with fire. Sleep comes quickly but then mocks at the darkness. My ugly crags expose themselves. I hurt those that I love. I cannot help it. 

Heaven and hell run a hot race. The Prince of the power of the air would like to defeat me, to cause me to lay down my sword at his feet. If he could destroy me, he would. But he also knows if he kills me, my soul will give him no satisfaction as it beats a hasty retreat to victory. Better to leave me here, to try and soil God's work in me. To prove wrong the truths that have kept my paths straight, that have defied what is natural in me. 

As I age and see more clearly my own heart, I know more fully that my works do not save me. My goodness is an illusion. When the wind and the rocks pierce me through, when there is no strength left, when this frail flesh fails and the dragon points his dagger to deliver the death stroke, my Champion throws himself in the way. Death is swallowed up in victory. At the end of days and when the last fight is fought, the dragon does not rise again, does not win as in the horror tales. For though he gives it his all, he was defeated long ago by the only perfect One who stood in my place. Sleep sweet tonight.

Train Song

That train. It comes all hours of the day and night, though less at night. My grandchildren squeal with terror and delight when they hear one come through. I'm trying to teach them things like: "God has not given us the spirit of fear, but of love and power and a sound mind." They calm down, but then next time that whistle blows, I get a lapful of kids. 

If you live here for long, you start to notice that there are distinct qualities about each train, how it moves and sounds. The length and breadth of whistle styles can either make you happy or make you want to blow something up. Seven years we've been here and the personalities of the trains (and their engineers) still intrigue me. I may never get to ride on one, but I sure hope so. It seems so romantic, to race through the countryside all the way to Birmingham or New Orleans. It costs as much as a short cruise on a boat to the Bahamas, so I keep skipping over it. But maybe one day...

The train slows us down, separates the north from the south, and reminds us of long ago. The nostalgic connection of the past runs through my psyche every time I notice the whistle. Interesting how, over time, it quits being so noticeable unless you're trying to talk to a neighbor or get over the tracks before the bank closes. It just becomes a part of the rhythm of life here. When I've played with the Carrollton Community Wind Ensemble at the Mill Amphitheatre, it is always humorous to see when the train is going to interrupt a serious piece of music. Last time we played there, we decided to stop playing if a train came through. Of course, it didn't. 

My MawMaw's house was practically on the tracks in Smyrna, so I grew up thinking trains were awesome. I wound up connecting the sounds to the emotional heartstrings of loved ones. Trains make me think of MawMaw and her house and of course, Johnny Cash. "I hear that train a-comin' -- it's comin' round the bend..." My early childhood is a sepia-toned, dusty film filled with old folks, old houses, trains and tinny music from a little transistor radio. It wasn't that long ago, but it was a thread that can't be pulled too hard. Those pieces of the old South are gradually disappearing, some for good reason and some for lack of players. I keep a place for it back in my brain. Keep the good, learn from the bad.