Our Firsts

I'll never forget the day Ken and I bought our first house. It was a darling, tiny little hovel, full of mice, filth and literally thousands of roaches and water bugs (a nice term for monster-sized roaches). During our renovation of it, our good friend exterminator treated it seven times before we could move in, the worst infestation he had ever seen. To this day, I can abide a mouse way more than I can a roach. They are plumb evil, and I'm convinced they are part of the curse on Adam's original sin. Ugly, oily reminders that we need Jesus. 

What wasn't ugly was the sweet cottage waiting to be revealed under all the unsightly mess. We didn't have a clue how to fix that house up, but my Dad and a host of Ken's buddies helped us. We lived with my folks while we toiled over it. I was newly pregnant with our first child. The stress of remodeling a house, living with my parents out of a suitcase and being newly pregnant stretched our wits to their very end. I had been a compliant, easy-going wife up until then. Ken didn't quite know what to do with this half-crazy, hormonal woman who emerged from the chaos. 

Several hair-raising months later, we finally moved in. The house was as cute as a daisy -- light yellow with green shutters and white trim, cherry red cabinets in the kitchen gleaming (a cobbled-together repurposing of various mismatched finds which came together delightfully when I applied paint and new porcelain knobs), charming wallpaper with red cherries and yellow lines, fresh paint everywhere and a newly-trimmed yard by KenLawn. He's good. We were exhausted and so grateful for all the help and new knowledge. The day we moved in, we plopped on the couch with a collective sigh and counted the days until our baby arrived.

I loved our yard. We had a little garden and beautiful green grass. Our property backed right up to the railroad tracks. We would sit in our swing and watch all the unusual trains go by. It took us maybe a week to get used to the whistles, and then we simply took them for granted. The months passed and my tummy grew to extraordinary proportions. I knew in my heart that he was a boy and that he was huge. I would sit in the swing when Ken was at work, trying to imagine how our world would change when our little big man came. I would talk to him, patting my tummy, dreaming about what he would look like, what he would sound like, trying to imagine how I could love him any more than I already did.

He finally arrived, two weeks late and big as a lumberjack. 10 pounds, 8 ounces, wailing like a Banshee. The day we took him home, my heart trembled in fear. This Jon-boy was my dream, but I despaired of how to raise him, how to do all the things that he needed. I wanted to repeat the good things that my parents did in raising us, but felt poorly equipped to do that. One morning, soon after coming home, he was crying and I was crying. I was holding that man-child in the rocker, trying to figure out what to do to soothe him. It seemed like the long road in front of me was fraught with failure and despair. Then I looked deep into those sweet, bunny-blue eyes and began to sing a lullaby to him. "Jesus Loves Me" and then "Tell Me Why." He stopped crying and snuggled right up onto the crook of my neck.  Our little shelter, full of love and humanness, was ready to hold us, just as I clung tightly to my dear baby. It was all going to be okay. 

Hikes into the Unknown

 My childhood held no Disney, skiing or trips that involved an airplane. Those things are not required, when the earthy world around you is grounded by true love and imagination. I was oblivious to the simplicity of the trappings of our lifestyle, because within it was the bounty of a secure, happy home. As children, we were required to work hard, but there were also the gossamer wings of play and freedom that my folks understood were necessary to a healthy childhood. Fancy hotels and exotic trips were never a possibility, but the humble crackle of a campfire and the buzz of a Coleman lamp were luxuries of the most exquisite nature. Bacon popping in a skillet, burnt marshmallows on the ends of sticks, midnight trips to the comfort station...spelled heaven to us kids. I know that my Mama, who loves all things clean and tidy, must surely have loved us to the moon and back. She endured the chaos of camping -- planned, prepared and executed -- because she truly loved us. There was a similar theme when it came to animals. We had a menagerie of mammals that paraded through my childhood. She fed them and let us always have them, simply because she loved us. There could be no other reason. Animals were not her idea of fun or delight, whereas I could not live without them. So she made sure I didn't.

One of my favorite camping stories was when we had gone to some state park in north Georgia. We had always tent-camped, but my folks had snatched up a pop-up camper on the side of the road for $25. It was a mess. They painted it, put a new plywood floor down, then used a piece of leftover linoleum from our kitchen to dress it out. Mama sewed a new cover for it, using the old, ratty one as a pattern. Then she sprayed it with something to make it waterproof. This trip was our first outing with the dolled-up camper. There was no bathroom, but we were in high cotton, no longer relegated to the ground when we slept. 

I met a new friend at the campground. She was adventurous and more sophisticated than I. We hiked and climbed up a sheer rock wall, her showing me how to navigate with just my hands and feet. We were there a few days and tramped all around the expansive woods. One day, we had hiked a long way and came across a beautiful, shallow creek. There was a natural waterslide, where the creek sluiced invitingly through what appeared to be acres of shale. We debated jumping into that creek and sliding to wherever it led us. Then we debated some more. We talked about different scenarios and how we would deal with them, if there were danger involved. It was a very shallow creek. Surely it would be okay. We paused at the edge, daring each other to do it. This went on for some time, and then suddenly, inexplicably we decided against it. As we hiked around the mountain, the sun was getting low in the sky. It was a beautiful evening, purple and orange streaks near the horizon. The air was fresh, balmy, sweet. We explored the terrain as it curved  around the hills, going back down rather up now. There was a new smell in the air, akin to the earth after a storm. After a sharp bend in the trail, we came into a large clearing, where the creek we had observed earlier came into focus...spilling hundreds of feet into a massive crater. Chills went down our spines as we realized where we would have ended up, had we taken our carefree, natural waterslide ride. God protects children and fools. We might have been both.

There are times that I recall that day, the magic of it and then the decision that probably saved our lives. We make choices all the time -- choices to turn this way or that, decisions to take that road or this one. You could make yourself crazy, worrying about what is right or wrong. We could decide to just stay in our houses for a year or two, just in case. I have pondered these kinds of things all of my life. I have been young and now am not so old, but I do know this: "If the Lord wills, we will do this or that" (James 4)....and every bend of the road is fraught with adventure, danger and even, yes, boredom. Pray for protection. Pray for wisdom. Trust God to guide you, then go ahead and live. 

Greater than Gold

I've heard about the joys of grandparenting all my life. I thought my parents had had an invasion of the body snatchers when they started acquiring those little people. When my siblings and I were growing up, there was no snacking between meals and definitely no candy around the house. All of a sudden, my parents had a candy jar. It was enormous. In the early years of grandparenting, they'd dole out 2 or 3 pieces at a time, but it relaxed along the way until there were things said like, "You can only have 10 pieces!" We were checking their pulses to see if there was anything wrong with these aliens who had taken over our parents' bodies. 

But then we got grandchildren...a passel of them. We have 9 grandchildren ages 8 and under, with 2 on the way. Today, I saw a family picture that was about 10 years old. There were no babies, none on the way, everyone looking young and tight and rested. Then the tsunami of life hit and we're bustin' out at the seams, oh so sweetly. I don't have a candy jar, because I'm a sugar addict and I'd like to live to see them grow up...but I do have Juicy Fruit gum (the essential ingredient for all Grandmas) in my purse and they know all about how to get it. 

I got a visit from some of them today. We languished on the porch with them in our laps, looking at pictures and talking a mile a minute. They are all growing up so fast it's scary. I was struck this morning, especially when it was time for them to go and you get those last squeezes out...how medicinal children are to your soul. I've been feeling sorta sorry for myself these last few days, post-surgery and with joints hurting like nothing I've ever experienced. Those kids show up and it is literally like a balm on my soul and body. The joy and wellspring of life that gushes out of them, making time stand still for a bit and causing you to remember why you started this whole thing so long ago. There are no greater treasures than a human soul. If you get to claim one (or eleven) for your own, that's even better.   

Sweet Surrender

I surrendered up my womb this week. That's probably more information than I need to exclaim publicly, but I know from decades of experience that women anywhere, anytime, will gladly share their own tales of both woe and delight concerning that most mysterious of organs. It's really amazing, the cradles of life where we were all seeded, grew and were expelled from. When the doctor gently spoke to me and said mine needed to go, I cried as I thought about the four blessings that had been nurtured there, leading to currently 11 more little grandchildren souls that wouldn't be here if God hadn't worked His miracles. So far, there are 15 people walking around that are the fruit, direct or indirect, of that now-frazzled equipment.  People thought I was silly to mourn. Its job was obviously finished and our nest emptied out a year ago (finally!). Ken and I are enjoying a new chapter of getting to know each other and learning how quiet can be a very sweet thing. But my heart had to process the release of something precious to me, not just a physical structure but a season of fulfilling purpose and joy that gets very little press in this day of empowered women. We've always been empowered, though we might not have known it. The hand that rocks the cradle rules the world.

Father's Day is now a bittersweet holiday, where I can't tell my Daddy that I love him to his precious face. I can't harrumph as I remember that I forgot to get him a present or complain about the myriads of holidays that require one more gift. He was the best of Daddies. And as I lay quietly in a hospital bed this week, deliberating the loss of body parts, I couldn't help but contemplate the God who makes beauty from ashes. My parents both survived extreme family dysfunction to come together and build a legacy, not so much from grit and determination (though there was plenty of that) but from the spirit of forgiveness and surrender, which is a gift from God. We can't just conjure that up ourselves. 

As the anesthesiologist patted my hand and kindly explained that it was time to sleep, I rubbed my tummy and gave it all to God. Who knows if you're going to wake up this time? Best to be ready, just in case. A tear rolled down my cheek as I smiled at the future. I can do that, because I know the One who holds it all in His hands.   

Angels, Mermaids and Devil Machines

A dear friend died last week. She went down with her boots on, suddenly, with the smell of angel dust on her. Some folks die and it is sad or tragic. Others die and you have this feeling that the heavens just opened up something special-like. Nothing will ever be the same without them, but they also changed the world and then jumped on up to glory, like a flash. That was her. And my Daddy. The hole in the fabric of the universe might never heal, but we know they had to go. They were too good for this world. The devil loves to mess with peoples' minds, after a loved one dies. Every possible scenario of regret floats right on in and ruins everything. "If only..." Truth is, our loved ones with Jesus do not care now about this or that. They've done healed and are over it. Only we care, and we torture ourselves with what we can't change. We all need to stop doing that, and look around and fix what we can fix right now. 

I spent the weekend with my sister and some of her girls in Savannah. It was hot, muggy and rained a good bit, but we parked ourselves at Tybee Island Beach on Saturday. My joints were killing me, so my sister found me a ledge in a tidal pool to sit in. I settled my hinder parts in there and called it the Mermaid Chair. Hours passed and we all talked, laughed, soaked in the sun until we were pruney.  Women need that stuff. Our word boxes emptied out like lava from a slow volcano. Time stood still for a little while, one of those rare and beautiful days. We ate a delicious supper; the girls headed off to a ghost tour while Melanie and I opted for a movie. It wasn't horror, but it was mighty scary. I felt like we were little girls again, pulling our feet up into our seats to escape the monster aliens. Packing up Sunday morning was bittersweet; we had thoroughly enjoyed our time of uninterrupted sisterhood. It's so hard to get that anymore. We have 15 children and 18 grandkids between us, and life only gets more complicated the older we get. 

No one told me that an MRI would be the most painful procedure I've ever been subjected to, but it pert-near was. This morning, they made me lay on my tummy, never a fun affair, and place my already very-sore arms above my head. Then they threaded my poor wrist in some kind of cage and told me not to move for twenty minutes. The technician said, "And by the way, this is actually the worst MRI that we do. Everybody's shoulders end up killing them in the end." Within minutes, the pain was searing and there was no end in sight. Add to that, the technician forgot to play my requested Mozart....(ole Amadeus would have at least distracted me a little). I breathed, did all those kooky relaxation tricks (thinking of beaches, mountains, waterfalls) and none of it worked. I remembered the births of my four children, how that at least the contractions came every few minutes instead of locking down like a vice-grip. I began imagining the pain of car wrecks and trains and planes. Then I thought about Jesus and began to understand why crucifixion is one of the worst deaths: it's because of those shoulders. Just when I thought I couldn't last one more second, all the crazy noise of that machine stopped and everything slid out of the tube. I boohooed like a baby. The sweet girl helped me up and out as I blubbered and ruined my makeup. Ken met me at the door, me a shredded mess. He quickly got me a drink out of the vending machine and made me take a pain pill. I am now ashamed of my wimpiness, but upon remembering birthing several 11-pound babies without drugs, I have to own that this was some more kind of unnatural torture. Either way, after having the shakes most of the day, I'm now in a perpetual state of thankfulness. Thank you, God, I'm out of that machine.  

The World of Waffle House

Some years ago, I met up with an old friend. She had gone all bourgeoisie (boujee, for you young folk) on me...losing like 200 pounds, getting a sassy haircut and having plastic surgery done. Hey, with that kind of dedication I think she deserved it. We ate lunch together and then looked for a place to have coffee. I mentioned there was a Waffle House nearby. I don't recommend the coffee but man, those pecan waffles! She said to me, in plain English: "I take pride in the fact that I have never been inside a Waffle House." My heart broke as I realized she was no longer one of my people. For my people are those of the deepest earth, where dust and sweat and blood all mingle. There's no upturned noses, because there's no time for that. We know we are here for a minute and you better not waste one of those thinking you're better than anyone else. Not having that...

The finely-tuned machine that is your typical Waffle House is a feat of human engineering and wonder. A short-order cook handles the food with little pans and a great big griddle, while the crew deftly serves, cleans and smooths the waters seamlessly. It's more like a family than a workplace.  The laughter and jokes pass easily. There are politics and rivalries in the room, but the team spirit rises above it and they make it work. The jukebox makes me want to get up and dance. I hear "Tennessee Whiskey" for a slow turn, then romantic "At Last" comes on, followed by a funky breakdown by Michael Jackson. Who needs the symphony? 

Ken and I will not be retiring. The craziness of 9/11 wrecked his 22-year stint with a large company, leaving us without a 401K or pension. Then the crash of 2008 devastated what was left, financially. All of that is okay. We apparently haven't missed a meal and the Lord has graciously lifted our boats so that we are not drowning. Meanwhile, the nest emptied out and there are no teenage lumberjacks eating up all the profits anymore. So Papa and I love the little things: his days when his shift works evenings and I get him in the morning when he is a mad squirrel and feels like running around (my favorite thing to do); sometimes I have my evenings all to myself and I get to plunge into my right brain, where music and art intersect; on those kinds of days, where Pa doesn't have to be at work until after lunch, we often indulge and head to the local Waffle House. We get the same, exact thing every time, since my diet is pretty strict and Ken just loves doing the same routine thousands of times. I bring an apple, to round out my meal. The cook sees us coming in the door and throws our food on the grill -- she knows what's what. Our favorite server whips out a black coffee for me along with two glasses of Diet Coke for Ken. He sucks those down like a guy in a desert and she's got the next one poured already. He's going to regret those chemicals someday. 

I love and respect the humble, hardworking folk that help me have a sweet few moments...I'm not having to cook, I get to hold hands and pray with my honey, there's fun and music and entertaining personalities all around. God bless the people who show up, day after day, honest and persevering. Thank you for helping lift my load.   

The Trees of the Field Will Clap Their Hands

It started with a sore thumb, making crackling noises and swelling up like I remember my old MawMaw's thumb. Every morning when I wake up, free of makeup and sloggy from sleep, I more and more see her face (and my dear Daddy's) in the mirror. We are three peas in a pod, both in appearance and personality. I am horrified at the marionette wrinkles around my mouth, but then I smile because I loved those two people like there's no tomorrow. They're both up in heaven having a party with Jesus and I have to warm at the thought of their sweet plight. 

Meanwhile, the thumb pain spread to my wrists and hands, making me believe it was carpal tunnel syndrome. With all the typing and flute-playing I do, I shrieked in desperation with the trial of it. I ain't got time for that! I sought answers: research, passles of doctors, a massage therapist, physical therapy, medication, chiropractors, a naturopath, then in despondency I submitted to practitioners surely dabbling in voodoo. Nothing worked. Sleep was impossible. It only got worse, until one morning I woke up and couldn't get dressed by myself. With humble tears, as my dear husband gently pulled on my clothes, I wondered about how many people endure these things every day, all of their lives. 

Late last night, as I walked the dog in the darkness, I looked at the sky. The icy moon was large enough to pinch. It sat, springy and crisp on an inky, indigo ocean. Above it hung Jupiter, sparking white fire. My hands raised to the heavens in thanksgiving. The pain is real. I don't know when and if it will subside. If blessings were quantifiable, I've already had way more than my quota. And if I got what I deserved, the earth might just swallow me up. I've known heartache, sorrow, unspeakable joy and a ridiculously blessed life, but the unearned grace of God that lights my soul will carry me one day to His mountain. You think about those things when the world turns sideways. When my flesh and heart fail me, the redemption that I normally take for granted becomes precious, crystal-clear. I'm glad this ain't all there is...