Peace, Peace

We'd just about had it. Well, we had had it. Pa and I were up to our necks in problems, what with his Mama being really sick, nearly three months of being held hostage in our house, a wedding that got tossed all up in the air (they cancelled our beautiful venue because of Covid-19) and then just plain being cranky. We've all felt like we were slogging through mud. We've had all this time but nobody wants to actually do anything with it except binge-watch and take naps at strange hours of the day. I've found myself all pretzeled-up in unnatural positions, with drool running down my face. We're practically living on our front porch, but that's not a bad thing. Nicest spring weather I remember in years. 

If things weren't bad enough, some idiot cop does an evil murder, igniting an already-hot powder keg. If we thought the sky was falling before, now it's burning. Lord help. Ken and I were devolving from the stress already, when we decided to duke it out on the front porch. Not physically, but verbally. We were trying to come up with fresh plans about how to have our daughter's wedding in the back yard, but he's the unstoppable force and I'm the immovable object. The poor neighbors must have wondered what those supposed Christian people were up to. There ain't been no church to speak of and we're talking two heathens here, except that they've been saved by the grace of God. Two brands plucked from the fire.

We harangued back and forth, spiraling into really stupid arguments that made no purchase. How silly we humans can be, our pride choking all forward movement and hurting ourselves and others in the process. Eventually we sat silent, spent and full of regret. Nothing was fixed, Pa had to get to bed, and I still hadn't eaten my supper. If we can't get along, how do we expect the world to? I stayed up insanely late with our daughter, thinking aloud and worrying ourselves weary with the complications. There was nothing to be done but finally surrender to sleep. The human condition is often fraught with the hopelessness of our sin nature. Where is hope? Where is mercy? Where is grace? 

Today I wrestled with the idea of going to the protest that was taking place in downtown Villa Rica. It scared me, the thought of hearing what might be uncomfortable, the possibility of danger or simply the unknown. I arrived to a peaceful, quiet crowd. There were things said, some good, some bad, things shouted, prayers lifted up. I met a new friend, Lillie, a beautiful woman with a kind soul. We talked, listened, nodded, had a moment, but mostly an unspoken ease between us. We were there because we know things must change, if we are to have peace. She spoke of God, the same one that I know. In the beginning, our ancestors got off the boat with Noah all those millenia ago. We're cousins. 

Just like when I laid down my pride as I laid my head on my husband's chest after desecrating the porch with my stubbornness...I and we must also reach across to our cousins of every stripe to really see each other. That's gonna take a lot. The grace of God is where it begins.

There's a New Sun Rising

I can hear her in the next room. She's packing up her things...a lifetime of things. Clothes and trinkets and ballet shoes. Books, perfume, makeup and curling irons (aren't there at least five of those?) She finished college then has worked in Human Resources for several years. She's paid her rent and her own way at every turn. Some would say she's lived here too long. Our three sons have been married for several years now, but we've fallen into an easy rhythm with the girl. She's still our daughter, but somewhere along the way she became a woman and my comrade. Our kitchen forays included cleaning, cooking and a lot of dancing. She's quick-witted and funny, smart and insightful. She started out as my little sidekick to every shower and ladies luncheon I ever attended. She ended up my confidante and friend. How am I supposed to let her leave?

Her dear fiance stopped by yesterday. He had borrowed Papa's truck and was working on their new house over the weekend. He sat in the living room and spoke to me about how he knew it was going to be hard for me. He then talked about how much he loved her, how beautiful her eyes were, how stubborn she is. That mean boy. I've gotten used to her presence here, but it was never meant to stay that way. At her age (several years post college) and my age, you'd think I would be hoopin' and hollerin' to get shed of her. It's the thing that we prepare and pray for our kids -- that they'll find their wings and fly one day. We really don't want our fledglings to stay in the nest forever. That would stunt them, restrict their possibilities. The reality of that day, that last child, that last chapter...it's a strange, bittersweet mixture of emotions. It's a death of sorts. We aren't parting from the world (not that I know of, yet), but there is a leaving and cleaving that still stings. I'm reminded of nostalgic and happy days of their childhoods and then reminded of Ken's and my own frailty as we look towards the unsure future. I hate the buzzword "new normal" but that's exactly what it is. 

How I bless God that we're putting her into the hands of a man who is honest and good, godly, intelligent and hardworking. They've waited for each other and God made it happen. What more could a parent want? As the last few days of her singleness slip by, the evenings quiet and still, we stay up too late idling and talking. I'm anticipating a sea change in a couple of weeks. My husband is a morning bird and I'm a night owl. I'm an artist and he's an organizer. We might just have to get to know one another again. It's a new day dawning, and my beloved is still my beloved. But I sure am gonna miss that dancing.

Happy Trails

My first bicycle was impossibly big. It was blue and silver, a gem. I don't remember learning how to ride it, just that it felt like flying once I did. My sister had a Spyder bike with high-rise handlebars, very cool. She was tougher than the boys in the neighborhood but was my ever-trusting sidekick, everywhere I went. We were lucky to live on the outskirts of a small town, out in the country where there was little traffic and plenty of kids to play with. That bike took me all the way to right before college, when I bought a used "racer" model with turned-down handlebars. It was yellow and fast. I thought I was extremely modern. Melanie and I rode our bikes that next summer all over the countryside, riding farther than seemed safe. It was a banner year for blackberries, so we'd take a bucket, fill it up and head back home, metal banging against our bikes, praying we didn't spill any. Mama would bake pies and cobblers, then throw a dollop of vanilla ice cream on top. That was one of the sweetest summers of my life, enjoying my sister-friend and doing simple things. 

I've had some great bikes in my adult years, my kids riding along with me on the Silver Comet Trail. We'd throw everything in our big conversion van and meet up with friends, then fly along the trails. My kids have now flown the coop, but I've occasionally met up with my brother or sister to take a leisurely ride. These last few years, real estate and the hectic pace of work eclipsed any semblance of exercise. That's my excuse and I'm sticking to it. When I began a food plan back last year, I put it as one of my goals to eventually get a new bike. I have a fantastic Trek bike that I bought years ago, but the thing is huge and it's actually a man's model, so it's really hard to swing my rusty leg over to get on the thing. For my 60th birthday, my kids bought me some kind of Apple techno-whiz-contraption that I stared at for three days. It was fascinating, trendy and expensive. And useless, in my mind. I sheepishly asked them if I could return it and get something else. Something I really wanted. Nobody had checked my Amazon wish list, because it was right there at the top: a vintage, mint-green bicycle with wide tires, a basket and a rack on the back. It had this lovely swoop, so I could dismount easily. It looked like Seaside at the Beach, where my brain loves to reside. They laughed, happily returned the Wiz-Brain thingey and gave me the money. 

I ordered the bike and it arrived today in a giant box, in a thousand pieces. Ken was tired and begged off putting it together. My daughter had to go to the gym and promised me I could do it, with a little patience. I have none of that. But I dug in and contorted my body in strange ways to put this thing together. Right now it's sitting here in my study, looking like Mayberry popped right off the page. Tomorrow I have to get some bike grease so I can put the pedals and seat on, but it looks like a million bucks. There's guilt involved, spending money on a bicycle when we might need beans and rice next year...but I figure you only turn 60 once and then it all gets kinda dicey. Maybe I'll go hunt me some blackberries...

Victory in Jesus

Ice cream has held me hostage most of my life. Any and every kind holds its own special kind of place in my heart. I don't know why, but my Daddy could eat it every night and not get fat. If I just think about it, some kind of demon fairy plasters the extra onto my waistline. Some folks struggle with alcohol or drugs or cigarettes. Ice cream has been my drug of choice. Now that may sound funny or bring a scoff, but it just about dragged me down into the river. That and all the other sugary goodies that assault Americans at every corner. At least with the other substances, it's a yes or no question. With food, it's yes, no, how much, how often...and we have to eat. There's no getting around that one.

Last September, I was about at my wit's end. I weighed an ungodly amount, was having severe and dangerous bouts with a monster of a belly-button hernia, and should have already been on insulin. I was avoiding the doctors and avoiding the hard questions. I had tried every diet known to mankind but kept rolling right on back to the trough, all the while denying that I was a food addict. A food addict? That just sounds silly...

I knew that the odds were against me. 90-something percent of people who lose weight will gain it back, and then some. So why try again? But one day, on one of the myriads of Facebook pages that I subscribe to and never read, there was a lady telling her story: she had lost 230 pounds 19 years ago and kept it off. Now that was someone I wanted to talk to. I friended her and then saw that she was going to an upcoming food addicts conference in Houston. I was in so much pain, so sick and tired, and so hopeless, I asked Ken if I could go. Without knowing much about it and without knowing anyone, I squeegeyed my fat self between two poor folks on the plane and prayed I wouldn't die before the weekend was over. They were probably praying the same thing.

The long weekend was filled with meetings, testimonials, prayers, and lots of strange behaviors. These people carried little scales and measuring cups in their purses, hauled them out at every meal and measured their food. I thought they were out of their minds and I didn't see any possible way for me to follow the goofy plan they were on. But their words and their lives rang true to me, as they threw out their pride and their troubles for all to see. I snuck goodies all weekend, thinking that I knew better than them and that I would come up with my own plan when I got home. One lady came up to me the second day, kind of like an old sage hidden in the woods. She said, "What are you doing here? Where did you come from?" As I explained that I was just checking out the program, she bodaciously said, "Oh, so you think you are better than us and that you're going to come up with your own plan?" Being old has its advantages. You lose your filters. That made me madder than fire and I knew then for sure I was not doing their plan. 

God laughs at our plans. I don't know if you know that or not. The last morning of the retreat, I went down early and ate all the contraband from the buffet before the rest of the folks came down. Then I headed back up to my room to read my Bible, so very holy was I. I read the Scriptures and there was some noises in there about being obedient and then something about the temple of the Holy Spirit. So I abandoned that whole track and opened my emails. I had signed up for a daily devotion that was the first one there. As I read it, in a nutshell it said, "If you are thinking about doing something that you know God is putting His finger on, you need to just jump in and do it. Obey and then you will understand." I didn't like that either, but I was pricked for sure. I sauntered downstairs and sat with two of the ladies. They asked me what I was going to do with myself when I got home. I hemmed and hawed...then for some reason pulled up that email and read the whole thing to them. I started crying as I knew I had to do something or end up dead or worse. I told them "I surrender." So I did. I've had eight months of abstinence from sugar, wheat and flour, and have stuck like glue to my food plan. Every morning, I get down on my knees (sometimes it's not actual, just in my heart) and tell God "I can't do this. But You can." I report my food every day to my sponsor. By God's grace, I'm walking in victory. People used to tell me that I needed to just be moderate. I don't have a clue what that means. In my universe, more is better. And a lot is fantastic. I'm about halfway to my very big goal and feel so much better I might just bust. I'd appreciate your prayers. 

Corona on the Beach

Ken decided I needed the beach. I have to admit, I was coming unglued. Unglued is a nice word for what I was experiencing...something like bat guano. With much guilt, I booked us an AirBnB down in St. Simons. Just two nights, not enough to even call it a vacation. There's two days driving with a full day sandwiched in between. After it was over, I honestly felt like it had been a week.

When you squeeze all the goody into a short visit, it makes you savor the moments better. Just like a kid who grows up poor...when he gets an ice cream cone, he considers it akin to heaven. And that got me to thinking about kids. My childhood was sweeter, because it included hard work, lazy summers, little money and lots of love. I think that if you throw a child too many privileges, the goodies quit tasting so good. They're common, taken for granted. For way too long, folks have been pumping up their kids' egos, just because. It's a shallow way. I'm not talking about unconditional love, I'm talking about cheap love. Love can walk through fire without blinking, and that usually means sacrifice. 

Back to St. Simons...we threw off our shoes and walked all over town. Some of the shops and restaurants had just opened back up, albeit in a limited way. But the most precious part of it was the people. Everywhere we went, there was a palpable jubilation in the air. It was like we were all breathing a collective sigh of joy. Breathing the salt air and staring at the periwinkle blue sky never meant so much. There were bikes and dogs and little kids everywhere. And old folks who furtively smiled and avoided physical contact. We were all out in it, brave in our happiness, like Lazarus seeing the light. 

We've been back for over a day. I hit the floor running as soon as we got back, with family visiting and then showing homes all day today. I still have this gentle buzzing, way back in my brain. It's the ocean, the people, the ambiance of the weekend, still calling, still buoying me past the treacherous reef. Breathing deep...

Scruffy Love

"We're getting a dog!" My Daddy called me one afternoon, as excited as a little boy. I asked him if he was sure, and where was he planning on getting it. Their house, new to them, had a literal postage stamp of a yard. Mama had never allowed an animal in the house, so I wondered how that was going to work out. I have to give her a lot of credit, though. She's the best housekeeper I've ever known. You can eat off the floors, seriously. And even though animals were never her thing, because she loved us she always allowed us to have a menagerie of animals. There were protests about the mess, the hair, the aggravation, but she also was usually the one to feed them. Then when I was grown, I had four kids so they could feed my animals. This worked out beautifully for me.

My parents assured me they would find a responsible breeder and not go finding some rescue dog with problems. They have 21 grandchildren, for heavens' sake. They looked all over, but kept complaining about how expensive the puppies were. One day, they arrived at my house with this Thing. I asked where they got him; they said, "The Pound." His face looked like a brillo pad, with wire sticking out everywhere. His teeth protruded in a crazy underbite. He looked like a Shitzu mix, with terrier springs in his legs and a sprinkling of dachshund that somebody let in the back door. Daddy named him Rhubarb, after the local DJ that he loved to listen to. They took him to the veterinarian, who discovered the dog had Parvovirus, an often fatal illness. I thought they'd put the dog down, but no, they brought him home and nursed him back to health. 

We couldn't believe that my parents had a house dog. When we'd visit, Rhubarb would run all over us and the furniture, finally landing on my Daddy's lap. They thought he was the cutest thing they'd ever seen. He was taken for walks, car rides and family outings. But then the big bomb came out: he was also sleeping in their bed with them every night. These were my parents. The people who were in their late 70s and had never allowed any creature inside the house. They were smitten. It was adorable.

When Daddy died suddenly in September of 2018, our entire family, including the dog, just about crawled down in the grave with him. We still can't believe it's true, and we only cope by remembering where he is and then telling funny stories about all the wonderful things he did. I was at Mama's house a couple of weeks ago, sanitized and properly distanced for a short visit, when several other family members happened to show up too. I thought Rhubarb's head was going to explode, he was so thrilled to see that many humans at one time. He did his runabout, then landed in Mama's lap. I got a little misty, thinking about how much joy that little dog brought to Daddy...but now how thankful I am that he's there for her. We wondered how it would work, after Daddy was gone. Rhube stayed with my brother's family for some days, but finally Mama was ready to have him back. When you go to visit her, her face lights up as he jumps in her lap, and he curls right up next to her every night. He has been a godsend, one of those creatures that God makes and blesses with a touch of extra grace. It's the little things...

Labor of Love

It all started in late December of last year...my daughter's engagement to a fine, God-fearing man. Planning a DIY wedding is not for the weak-minded. We immediately began searching for the perfect invitations. These days, there's internet overload, with Pinterest, Etsy, and virtually millions of ideas. But we're cheap, so we scrounged all over and found a beautifully embossed, cream-colored invite (that included a satin ribbon to tie it all up with) at Michael's. With our 40% off coupons in hand (you can only use one at a time), we traveled all over the immediate South to find enough of them. They've sat prettily in their boxes until a couple of weeks ago. With the coronavirus mess, we have been unsure of what to do. Will the wedding be at her original venue with lots of folks, or will it be in our backyard, with only immediate family scattered at 6-foot intervals? They were already printed, so we made an executive decision: send 'em! We put a little slip of paper inside each one that said to check on the website for updates, just in case.

Months ago, I took a refresher course in calligraphy, buying new supplies and practicing for hours. We bought champagne-colored wax and a special seal with "N" on it, to gussie up the envelopes. With much pain and suffering, I eked out the sprawling words in a new wedding font at the drafting table in my studio. The playlist on my iPhone varied from Jack Johnson to Mozart, depending on the mood of the hour. Liz was hunkered down at the dining table, working from home and polishing up the guest list in her spare time. I was hunkered down, trying to write fancy words while squashing my ribs into pretzels. After they were finally addressed, I think it took two days for us just to assemble them, with the blistering hot wax flourish at the end (minus not a little skin off our fingertips). We packed them all up in two big boxes and hauled them into the Post Office. I peeked inside first, to see if our favorite Post Office Lady was there. If she hadn't have been, we were headed back home until we could stand in her line. This was too emotional a day for us to have some cranky person tell us our wax seal was verboten or that we were a pinch over on postage. Thankfully, she was there and blessed us with her kind words and hopeful wishes for Liz's wedding day. I felt hesitant to hand them over...it was like they were our little babies and how could we just leave them with someone else? In the end, I released my grip on the box and let them go. 

I cried a little when we got to the car. What was that about? Then I realized, this was about my daughter. That dear woman, beautiful and strong. She has dreamt of her wedding day all of her life. As a little girl, she would ask me to buy her bride's magazines. We would look at pictures of bridesmaids dresses. "Mama, these are the colors I want at my wedding someday...here is a  hairstyle I love...I wonder what kind of dress I will wear?" Every wedding that we've been involved in (which has been considerable), she is right there at my elbow, helping decorate and plan. Her quiet, private demeanor belies all the deep thoughts that run through. We have seven weeks to go, only seven. Both of our lives will change forever. She is the last of our four children at home, our only girl, and she's been here awhile. After college, she settled into a busy HR career and took her time choosing a husband. There were those who thought she shouldn't live with her parents, but I'm grateful. She paid rent, helped us out around the house and made me laugh. We will always be the best of friends, but I'm going to miss her and our late nights terribly. To everything there is a season. 

Of all times to get married, it would fall on this crazy year. She has had the best of attitudes, missing out on all the hoopla that normally precedes a wedding: no showers, no bachelorette party, no bridesmaids luncheon. I see her bearing it with strength and class. I don't know if I could be so resolute, proof being that I'm not resolute now. A few days ago, we finally forced ourselves to walk out into our backyard, to think about an alternate plan to the venue that we had all hoped for. The birds were fluttering, mad with spring fever...the clover underfoot smelled divine. The leaves looked like fresh mint and tiny bees buzzed sweetly as we walked around. There's a little rise between our yard and our neighbor's...the perfect spot for a wedding. We imagined her walking from the house to meet her groom on a summer's day, with flowers and lanterns and music. The cares of this world fell away. I thought about the marriage supper of the Lamb...how that a wedding is a picture of Christ and His Church. As of right now, we have no idea how it's all going to pan out, but we do know: "...do not be anxious, saying, 'What shall we eat?' or 'What shall we drink?' or 'What shall we wear?' For the Gentiles seek after all these things and your heavenly Father knows that you need them all. But seek first the kingdom of God and his righteousness, and all these things will be added to you. Therefore do not be anxious about tomorrow, for tomorrow will be anxious for itself..." Matthew 6:31-34.  

I'm gonna lay it down right there.