Villa Rica Partying

The family had gathered, partied...all the energy had risen, crested and then fallen back down to a quiet murmur. Most everyone had gone home. Papa was back in his recliner, some of the Nortons were nestled in their beds in the back of the house, Yaya and Jesse and his wife and clan were in the kitchen, snacking and trying to keep it to a small roar with the giggles of their three children. These are the days, the times that mean the most. The words that squeeze out are the meaningful ones, the ones that you don't waste. 

I'll try to sum up what our son said to me last night, without ruining the meaning of it...  he said, "Why do we waste our sorrows? Why do we waste our days, our years, on grief? When our loved ones die, our loved ones who love Jesus, who are safely in heaven...we spend too much of our emotions and time left on earth grieving them when we could be using that to tell others about Christ, to love others and to win others to Him." Wow! He specifically talked about his Grandpa (my Daddy) and how he would bemoan us dragging our feet over his death, when we're going to see him very soon. Life is a mere breath. Eternity is looooooooong. We're way too transfixed on the here and now and tend to get morbid on what was rather than what is gonna be. 

I do know this: it sure was fun to see a little 9-year-old country girl running around on her birthday, eating her favorite meal (beans, cornbread, slaw, and collards -- yes!) with her cousins, just like we used to do. It makes you feel hope for our country when you see things like that again.  

Noble Reasons To Live

 We had Blackberry Winter this past weekend, waking up to icy steps and blustery winds. I grabbed a container of Kosher Salt and sprinkled it all down the deck stairs, thinking how smart I was. Now we can't get that mess out of the house. It's everywhere. The dog coincidentally decided to eat something strange, causing piles of unmentionables all over the house, for days. And days. Then Ken's truck acted up and he missed work today. After countless cleanups, a trip to the vet, transporting vehicles to and fro to the shop, and trying to figure out the apps for Ken's new job, we rather collapsed on the couch,  which turned into naps while the TV blared. (If You Give A Mouse A Cookie...) Life in first-world countries is exhausting. What if we had to actually forage for our food? We might need to be thinking about that soon.

I moved some of our plans around, when our daughter said she would be dropping by...and then our son-in-law was going to meet her here, after he got off work. And of course, the real treat was getting to squeeze 1-year-old Ethan in the mix. We sat in the living room, enjoying their company and trying to decide on where to eat ('cause Yaya don't plan too well). Liz whips a white plastic stick out of her purse and you know what that means...I saw two pink lines and squealed, "You're pregnant!" Yes, it's #12 grandbaby. Yes, it's not their first. Yes, you'd think I'd get tired of this. But no -- it's the most wonderful gift that God gives people when they're done raising their children: grandchildren. Our society has been down on having children for quite some time. They say you can't afford them (I mean, if you have too many you might never get to go to Disney World, poor dears. I haven't gone yet and I've had a wonderful life). They say they are a liability. How in the world will you pay for their college (we don't - they paid as they went or got scholarships or were wildly successful in a trade)? They say that people are nuts to bring kids into this evil world (remember, we're taking over). They say you should enjoy yourselves and limit bringing those big carbon footprints into the world (how about raising them to be energy-givers?)

Having risked all these "dangerous burdens" and birthing four, who are now grown, responsible adults (who've married well, thank God), I have to say that there is no amount of money, fame, career or treasure that could compete with the joy that our children and grandchildren have given us. Those early years were sheer exhaustion, right along with the fun parts of it. I didn't know that I would re-live my own childhood through their eyes, that all their firsts would be like buds on the trees and flowers in springtime. I had no idea how much I would laugh (and cry) because of them. I'm still tired, but would love nothing more than to have the ability to just rotate my time around to each, one at a time, then start over. I'm guessing that's some of what eternity is for. Once, I did a study on all of the words "children, seed and womb" that are found in the Bible. Did you know that God loves children, that He always says they are a blessing from Him, and that Jesus is really keen on them too? They are our future. We need to teach them to be tough, raise them right and love the fool out of them. And pray a whole lot.

The Dark, Long Night

I remember hot, summer nights spent riding in the hinder parts of a tiny vehicle, with us three siblings wrapped together like sardines in a can. Our parents' car didn't have air conditioning, so the windows were open. I imagine we always rode through the night because it was cooler to travel that way in the dead heat of July. We hauled it from Atlanta all the way up to the breadbaskets of Illinois, where it was flat and sweltering, with miles and miles of rows of corn growing. I always wondered why it seemed to be just as hot there in the summer as it was in Georgia, because winter was an entirely different story. Our Grandma Betty always made sure we went swimming in the city pool at least once or twice while we were there. Sometimes it was at an ancient monstrosity of a pool; it looked like a tank for whales, not people. There were even murky portholes under the surface, where folks could go down and see all the chubby legs swimming. That seemed strange to me. While I was swimming, I made sure I stayed in the center of the pool, far away from any weirdos looking for cheap thrills down in the tunnels. Not that I was winning any body building contests. I looked like a tall, pre-pubescent child up until after we married. The month I got pregnant, strange things began to happen, as if my body wasn't going to grow up until there was a baby on the way. I always worked at a pool or swimming hole, from the time I was twelve. I love the water. I have enough unusual stories from those years to fill a small book. People do bizarre things when there's water involved. Boys were always fancying they were in love with me, just because I was the lifeguard. I was followed home from the pool on many occasions, where my Dad was fortunately, usually, working outside. He was the sweetest man on earth, until he wasn't. There abides much power in the craggy eye of a good Daddy. 

Thinking back to those muzzy trips, where us kids slept and sweated those hours away in a hot vehicle. Mama would pack some snacks and a thermos full of sweet tea, but since we left after supper, there generally wasn't a meal until we arrived at Grandma's house, some 14 hours later. Soda crackers smeared with peanut butter, stacked back inside the sleeve. Fruit, usually apples. If we were lucky, Little Debbies. No matter what, there was a Stuckey's somewhere along the highway there or back, and Daddy would buy a giant pecan roll. He'd hand each of us a chunk and we thought we'd died and gone to heaven. There's no misery like riding in a blistering car with the windows rolled down, going 70+ miles an hour. We were raised right, where things like whining were not rewarded. So you learned to endure and stick your head out the window, pretending you were on the back of a wild horse or riding the wind. When daylight came, there were books strowed all around the back seat, from the public library. We'd make ourselves carsick, trying to read them while the car swayed. Grandma was a book freak herself and worked for a publisher, so the days at her house were full of us languishing over the ones she'd brought from the book sales. Her house was cold with central air conditioning. Napping and reading were considered right and good activities. There was a requisite night out for steak dinner and often fireworks at the park. She always had a dance floor in her house, as well as a fully stocked bar. We'd sneak maraschino cherries and ogle her tins of strange food and bottles of drink from far-off places. She was a glamorous Chicago socialite and we were country bumpkins, full of wonder. I wish I could talk to her now, show her her beautiful offspring, pick her brains. 

On one such trip, I awoke to the sight of a policeman at the window, talking to Daddy in the middle of the night. It was in the 70s, there was a weak President in the White House, energy resources were low and they were rationing gas. Those days were frightening; it seemed like things were tipping on their head. But somehow we made it there and back again. Today I felt the same way, like I was staring at the edge of a precipice. Wars, rumors of wars, uncertainties and conundrums. All the wonders of the universe, along with the simple and the good, the bad, the ugly, I'm still glad this ain't all there is...

Stop All That Wigglin'

The rain came, chilly and blustery. It was Sunday morning and I woke up like an old bear coming out of hibernation, with joints afire. Ken was headed up to spend the day and go to church with his Daddy and I was supposed to play flute at ours. I don't know why it takes so long to get ready these days...I used to whup four kids into shape, get everybody fed and dressed and down to business within the space of an hour. When did I get so special? 

After eating my obligatory breakfast, I rolled right back into bed, with Pa tucking all the covers around me. The only thing for it was to get warmed up and take the Lord's admonishment to get a real day of rest. So I did. One of our sons and his wife and two children are living with us (while they build their house).  I could hear my grandchildren's sweet voices drifting by the door. Guilt assailed me. I thought of all the things I should be doing...going to church, playing my flute, drawing pictures with my grandkids. But no, I curled over and went back to sleep. I got up several times for basic reasons but returned to my comfy cocoon, finished a book, napped again. The day seemed lost, but I talked to Jesus and turned over a new leaf. I started out blue and sad, full of pain and worry...I ended up fresh and new, and by Monday I was raring to go. I got more accomplished in a few hours than I do sometimes in a week. 

God made us to have a Sabbath, that stopping of our work and all the regular things. I think it builds up over time, if we don't fully take that day each week to rest, restore, and to meditate on the goodness of God. We usually go to church, but do we really cease and desist the gerbil wheel of our busy lives? Probably, usually not. God took six days to make the big ole universe and then He rested. When we're in church, do we stop looking at our phones, stop thinking about all the stuff we have to do next week, stop fussing with our purse? God likes us to be still and know that He's God. I'm gonna work on that...    

Maybe They Really Were Radical...

My Mama just turned 80 years old and I'm not far behind her. She had me when she was still a teenager. She never had a childhood, until my Daddy gave her one. He bought her every doll, every trinket, car or flower he imagined she wanted. She spoiled him too...I think she was still combing his hair up until the day he died. All my life, she said she'd probably never make it past 60, since most of her people didn't live long. But she's still here -- sleeps like a boss, with skin all soft and dewy (that's odd, too, because she had terrible acne for the first half of her life). I don't think she was birthed in the normal way -- she came here fully grown, all ready to be an adult. She was an athlete, though nobody knew it except us. Daddy would be playing basketball in the driveway with us, when Mama would come marching by (she marches; I've never seen her sashay) on her way to the mailbox. We'd throw her the ball. With no delicacy or finesse, she'd fling the ball into the hoop every time, like a rocket. On her way to pick errant weeds that dared to poke their head up in our grass, we'd yell for her to take a turn at bat. Daddy would lob the ball and she'd smack it out of the yard. You could throw her any sphere and she would catch it. There was no playing, just quick hints at the coordination underneath. She had other fish to fry, literal fish, and was very happy to leave the playing to Daddy and us kids. 

When the five of us would be in the car, going somewhere, often we would start singing. Mama was probably the best voice, but she would leave it to the other four of us while she stayed quiet. Daddy was tone-deaf, but would sing to the top of his lungs. I wondered for many years why she didn't join in. She was in the church choir, for heaven's sake. I asked her why she didn't sing when we did. She said, many times, "I just like to hear you all do it." 

As I got older, I began to see the gift that she gave us. She never knew the sweetness of a Daddy who played with her, or sang with her, or threw a ball to her. Hers was a cold man, who married, made four daughters and then sat down, old before his time. He wasn't a bad person, just absent. When her and my Pa married, she wanted a different life. She herded us towards Daddy, made a secure and ordered home, and was happy to watch her progeny thrive with the opposite chemistry of she and him. She was the wind under his wings. Not that she's ever suppressed anything about her opinions, no indeed. She's strong-willed, sassy and assertive. It's a God mystery, for sure. They fussed and talked and made up, but I saw her respect and love him and I saw him love and respect her. 

Sunday night's sermon was from the current intern at our church, a young man who looks like he could be my grandson (I'm kidding -- I'm only 39 and I was still playing hopscotch when I was 14, so he couldn't be my grandson), with few rings around his trunk.  The theme running through his homily was that of quiet faithfulness. As young folks, we thought we were going to be radical, we were going to change the world. In God's economy, however, it seems to usually be that constant, resolute, true daily walk that bears fruit. The tortoise really does win the race, though I chafe at the thought. My hare-ness might just be the death of me. As I think of my folks and the things they did so well (even though they were both sinners with cracks a-plenty), I honor them and especially my Mama this day, for that golden thread that ran through the pieces of their life. They were rarely quiet, but their faithfulness was soft, simple, peaceful...a refuge for us children. Two people, flawed and bumbling, who learned to depend on Christ. Now a swath of  humanity follows them, an eternal legacy built on things that last, rather than things that don't. They actually have changed the world. Grace, grace...  

Love Song

It's a sweet thing, our anniversary. It comes in the middle of a Georgia winter, right in between Christmas and Easter. I just have to say it: I hate winter. Mama said that Daddy hated it too, though I never really knew that until today. It's too late to ask him about it, but we shared two hates: chicken and winter. Yes, I despise chicken, though I choke it down when I have to. Beef is the real deal. There's a diet that talks about blood types and all that, and they say that my blood calls out for beef (and bison). I'm an O positive. Praise the Lord and pass the burger, minus the bun.

Even though it was our fourtieth anniversary and that means a "Ruby" year (oh I love rubies!), we opted for the Carroll Symphony and a local hotel, more like a staycation. We dashed about, after Ken got home from work, threw some things in a bag and checked into our hotel. We lounged around and ate some $20 snacks, when suddenly it was time to go. I told that man we were gonna be late, but he don't listen. Ken qualifies for NASCAR getting anywhere, but when it comes time to park, he meanders around the lot until he finds the choicest spot, usually far from any entrance we're planning on entering. Then it takes several turns and precise maneuvers until he can back the car into that oh-so-special place. I slink down into my seat in embarrassment while people wait for our back-in. To add insult to injury, he has to completely clean out any trash, arrange all his paraphernalia just-so before he will exit the vehicle. On this night, steam was coming out of my ears. As soon as he put the car into park, I was out the door and stomping across the lawn to the venue. I done tole ya and tole ya we were gonna be late and now we were. We rushed in the door and sat down, too close to the front. No music was playing yet and he said something about that, but I wanted to be mad for awhile. 

Finally the music starts and I am in awe of the amazing musicians, the lush sounds, the acoustics in the building. I stop and think about this man beside me, who dressed up and brought me to hear the symphony. A man who'd rather be pretty much anywhere else. He didn't complain, heck, he even gave me running commentary on the finer points of the music and the people playing. Then he indulged me afterwards when we went to the restaurant, being okay with eating with some of my music nerd friends. He prefers a booth, with just me and him, but apparently he loves me and I wonder how. 

Fourty years of marriage is a long, high mountain. You'd think it would get easier, more like a slide than a hike. But it doesn't. There's the flush of first love, then the honeymoon, then the years of struggles with children, work, fixing up houses, decades of casseroles and messes to clean up. You blink and the kids just disappear somehow, only to start reproducing exponentially, the thing that we drilled into their brains from birth. Don't be havin' no kids without brainwashing them into bringing you some grandkids later. But then comes the space, the quiet, the reinvention. If there are things you didn't deal with early in the marriage, they have buried themselves and then spring up later, like dandelion seeds. Maybe that's why so many people divorce late...stuff was hibernating in between all the bullet points and comes back later to bite you. Ken and I talked about our wedding, how every single married couple on that stage that day, except for he and I, are now divorced. Yes, the pastor, the associate pastor, the organist, the singers, all of them now kaput. That makes me shake in my boots a little bit, maybe a lot. Dear Lord, help us see what we need to see.  

We had the best of weekends, though it started out rough. The next morning we found ourselves in Jerry's Country Kitchen, at the bar, watching the well-oiled machine. I had a bird's eye view of the biscuit maker in the back. I showed her my praise hands, hands that have laid a lot of food on our table but never really learned to do the miracles she was making. I was struck with all the people working there, working so hard they didn't have time to sit down or hardly talk....but they were happy, cheerful and thankful for their customers. It was a beautiful morning, and a long, sweet weekend with more food (we spent more on a steak dinner than I've spent on a week of groceries); we sat by the Chattahoochee River in the twilight, held hands, saw a movie and ate at Cracker Barrel. I took a nap or two and still squeezed in a real estate deal. 

Love isn't always moonlight and roses, in fact it rarely is. There's a lot of thorns and rain to get those flowers. The true parts of love aren't ethereal things that possess and sweep us away, though I've been swept away many times over these fourty years. It's more like the ocean tide, where the ebb and flow of it, the seasons of warm, then cold, then seaweed, then glorious sunsets...all of it part and parcel of the whole. Love is an abiding place, a choice. It's much more complicated than that, and the truth is that only God's grace has gotten us this far. And I got lucky to have a steady, true-hearted man. Here's to fourty more.   

Main Squeeze

Tonight, as I was balancing on the thin blade of a real estate knife (oh the drama), I began to get texts about my Mama. My sister had taken her to the urgent care with many strange symptoms, scary things. Crazy technology enables us to type one struggle while we're talking another, while the dog keeps putting her cold nose on my hand, reminding me of her important matters. I step outside with her, the cold night air filling my petered-out lungs. Amazing how you forget to breathe, when the crush of life looms close. I glance at the crystalline sky, its diamond-crusted stars ignorant of the six short decades I've been making dents in the dirt. Before you know it, I will be soil myself and all my little crises will be obliterated like so much fairy dust. 

One of my granddaughters had asked me, several days ago, if I would take her to her piano lesson today. Her Mama said it seemed too much to ask, just for a 30-minute lesson where we wouldn't even be together for long. But it's not the event. It's the ride. I don't think I said ten words in that first part of the day...there wasn't room for that, when an 8-year-old's windows are open. I had that 30-minute slot, when the lesson was taking place, to race up the road to a hill where I could get cell service. I had four important calls to make before I had to get back. Thirty emotional minutes later, I gunned it back to collect the girl. During that mad dash, I cried out to God "I can't do this! Please give me time to look in this girl's eyes and be able to actually be here today." Everybody and his brother were pulling on me with the tyranny of the urgent. The accursed phone lost service, praise God. We meandered to the library, then to the produce stand, then back to her home. Her siblings were jumping about, the four-year-old set of twins and the new baby. His downy eyelashes curled over rich blue eyes, alert and smiling. His Mama handed him to me, all bundled in somebody's fleecy coat. She put his quirky hat on. He stared at me for what seemed like ages and then his sweet eyelids fluttered shut. I kept thinking about what I needed to be doing, then I realized I was doing what I needed to be doing. Warm, sugar baby love, talking with my daughter-in-love, watching the dance of a mini ballerina and the whirling dervish of a mini man. The phone can wait. Babies can't. 

Mama is at the hospital tonight, late, my two siblings and I texting back and forth. Melanie took her there, ever faithful. Jerry picked up her dog and her meds, ever watchful. I sat crying alone in my kitchen. I laughingly say that the Lord left my Mama with a trinity of people, after Daddy died...Jerry's her spiritual overseer, as her pastor and son, so that's kinda like the Father part. Melanie's quick to take care of her physical needs, so that's kind of like the Jesus (Son) part. I'm the one who talks to her all the time, so that's kind of like the Holy Spirit (comforter) part. Except we're all flawed and sinful and all that, so I'm hoping I'm not being disrespectful. When the night waned and it was time to go to bed, the love texts started flying. We're siblings. We occasionally disagree or grumble or even fight. But in those squeezed moments of clarity, you wonder will she make it, when the murky parts of life fall away. When you regret the mean things you've thought or said, when petty differences suddenly seem silly...what comes out is that we love each other, in that dark night. I pray that morning finds Mama okay, that the sun shines again, that I learn to let go and let God (well, as if I had that much power. Let God, really?!) Life is short. Squeeze all the goody out of it.