The Promised Land

Ken says that I am a tent dweller. But, at least for now, I don't live in a tent....so I don't know what he is talking about. When I hear that term, "tent dweller," it makes me think of the Israelites wandering around in the desert for those fourty years. They'd set up their tents, take them down, drift around for awhile and then start over. God didn't let the original folks who had made it out of Egypt cross over into the promised land because of their sin and lack of faith. 

There is much said about The Promised Land in Christian circles. I used to walk down the aisle as a child and teenager, in an upheaval, in an attitude of surrender to the Lord. There were all these emotional appeals at revival services, appealing to the lost and to the backslidden....but also to anyone breathing. There was the clear inference that if you were still alive, you were missing something and that you needed to muster up a boatload of emotions and vows and renewals so that you might cross over into the Promised Land, yes, while you were still here breathing. I so wanted to please the Lord. I wanted to do the right things. I loved Him, prayed all the time, read my Bible, went to church, lived morally.... but the message I was getting was that there was more. More. More. And that I needed to figure out what God's best was for my life. Heaven forbid, if I missed what that was, because then my "diamond" would get shattered and I would have to settle for smaller but more brilliant, if I ever were able to figure out God's best and then to actually implement it. 

Eventually, many, many moons later.... as I studied the Word and pondered what it ACTUALLY said, I began to see that God's will is not as plainly laid out as I thought. There were obvious things, like sin, that I seemed to figure out pretty well. Especially that I was one of those (sinners). As far as discerning God's will, I was often taught that I needed to pray, seek counsel and then wait on perfect peace. Perfect peace was my signal that, yes! -- this is God's will. Peace goes way beyond some fuzzy, ethereal emotion that can be used as a green flag. Peace, believe it or not, does not always mean I feel great about something. It's hard to explain. 

We can spend our lives and our emotions trying to manipulate God. That's really what it comes down to. God as Santa Claus. If I "discern" His will, and then I do all the little steps just right, then I'll get God's best. Is this Scripture or wishful thinking?

I am no theologian. 

But the Gospel is simple, yet profound. Man wants to muck it up and turn it into a badge-earning-contest that, in the end, glorifies man, not God. 

Here we are, cracked and sinful beings. Proud in our posture. Needing redemption but not willing to bow the knee to our Maker. I've known sweet old ladies who seem to be loving and accepting of most everyone and everything, until the subject of Christ comes up. They are okay with Him, until I suggest that I need Him or that I am a sinner....then suddenly a prideful ball of fire erupts from that formerly sweet demeanor. And I'm not telling this dear lady that SHE needs Him or that SHE's a sinner. I'm talking about my own life. But it hits a chord, a sour note, and I see the wall that is separating this dear person from God and from true peace. 

If I set myself as good enough to work my way into heaven, then really what I'm saying is that I am God. I am my own God. I call the shots, I say what goes and what doesn't. The world according to me. What is right in my own eyes. Yeah, that's the way we like it. No rules. Just right. Don't try to tell me I'm not good. Don't try to tell me I have to bow my knee or to admit that I do anything wrong. 

This is human nature. 

I have one of those.

I was a child when I became a believer. It was so simple then. When I think on it and the things I've come to realize from the Scripture as a mature person, it all comes around. I remember lying in my bed with my sister at night in our hot oven of a brick house, with the dark all around and the thin curtains blowing gently at the window.... the stars were intense, the moon so round and full. The night sky inky and blue. I felt God whispering to my heart, over and over. I would talk to Him as only a child can, honestly and full. I came to know that He loved me, because He wooed my heart to Him. I would be afraid of the dark sometimes, but then would be comforted by the thought that He was cradling me like a baby. 

I was lucky to have had a secure childhood (but not without its warts, mind you) and two parents that loved and nurtured me. I didn't have to sleep in a nasty bed or on a floor. I didn't have drunken parents fighting it out or neglecting to feed me. I had a father who played with us, worked to provide for us, and a mother who kept us clean, warm and safe. We had a house, food, a yard, a school, a dog. Probably lower middle class, but we didn't know that. We were happy.

It could be said that becoming a Christian was easy and natural in that environment. It would seem so, but I know many others, and often with way more creature comforts and securities than I, who reject Him vehemently. It's because coming to Christ is His work, not mine. Given my natural nature, I'd choose me every time. Not Him. Not bending my knee. Not choosing the narrow road. Not choosing to ever deny myself and follow anybody, much less Christ. Our pastor used to put it this way..... I was dead on the bottom of the ocean. Dead. Dead in my sin. I couldn't save myself. He reached down from heaven and purchased me with His Son's life blood. He gave me life and pulled me up off the bottom of that ocean. He redeemed me from the pit. It's not my goodness or my figuring everything out that made me special or measured me up to getting picked. Redemption is about rescuing someone who is not able to rescue themselves. 

The rest of my life is lived in a grateful spot, because I realize, in part, what He has rescued me from.... and what the marrow of life is about. I am thankful for the Scriptures, all that milk and meat and veggies, that feed and help me see the path that is in front of me. I am thankful for Him, that once I was blind but now I see. This ain't the Promised Land, ya'll. There's thorns, critters, and lots of desert. And we are pilgrims, wandering in the middle of it. We will get there in His time, but until then, we have a Well in the desert. 

Librarians and soggy Reader's Digests....

Stillness. There it is. From rushing here and yon, planning, preparing, going, doing.... it is rare. If I look for it, I can find it. That's easy to say now, that my four children are grown. I can remember when a trip to the bathroom was fraught with perils beyond the door lock. You never knew what was going to happen and what you might miss, just because of your tiny escape to the bathroom. I kept a Reader's Digest in there, because, well, because.... you could read a whole book in, say, 20 minutes, if you were fast. So I learned to read super fast. And type super fast. And fold clothes super fast. All those Wonder Woman skills that I remember seeing my Mama whip out in record time....I would say to her, "How do you do that so fast?" She'd say, "Lots and lots of practice." Then eventually I became the skilled one. There's not a lot of room for perfection-worry when life's going on without you if you don't get stuff whipped out in a jiffy.

On another note, but talking about Reader's Digest made me think about it. The Library. Oh how I love the library and books. I would (and do) get two armloads, one for me and one for our kids. We'd carry them home in a milk crate. I still like to read 4-5 books simultaneously....one in each bathroom, one beside the bed, one in the living room by my chair.... The number of bathrooms in our house has always dictated how many I might be reading at any given time. Oh yeah, and there's the tub too. Tub adventures. Hmmmm. One day, years ago, I asked my brother to borrow a book and he wouldn't let me borrow it. He told me that he would only be BUYING me books from now on, and that I would not be borrowing them from him. I was offended. Until he told me that the last book I borrowed came back looking like one of those old Reader's Digest Christmas trees we used to make out of folded books....not to mention that it also had bite marks on the cover. He checked and said that the bites were definitely human and definitely adult-sized. How can I help it if the book slips into the tub while I'm trying to balance my ice cream in the other hand?!!! He's been true on his promise to buy me books, thankfully, and gets me the awesome ones. Back to the Library. Libraries would be just peachy if it weren't for those people they employ, Librarians. Librarians do not like me. I don't understand that. I have lots of joy and happiness when I walk in there. Most people really do like me. I love books. I love lots and lots of books. And so do Librarians, correct? But Librarians believe that those books belong to them and not to me, the tax-paying public.  They are always really nice when I first come in, and then they seem to get upset when I don't bring books back, when I make too much noise in there, and especially when I DO bring the books back but they have bite marks on them. What gives?! I mean, how many times does that one book actually get read? Surely only a few, right? Especially if they're paperbacks. They get read a couple of times then go in the 25-cent bin, where I buy them and then trade them in at the used book store for more books. Why would I keep most books? I'm only planning on reading them once, maybe, maybe twice, unless it's the Bible, so why all the hostility? Either way, when we moved to Villa Rica, I don't think these Librarians here got the memo, so somehow I have been able to remain incognito for a year and a half. Maybe it's because I've gained some Ninja-Library-Sneaking skills. I don't know..... Meanwhile, if I call you a Librarian, that is not a compliment and it probably means that you need to lighten up (don't mention what it is that I need to do). Since I don't actually call anyone that to their face, maybe it will go well and I won't get tarred and feathered yet. Many apologies to all decent and good Librarians that I may (and surely) have offended in this life. You are truly better than me and I mean that from the bottom of my heart. 

What is that buzzing in my head-- A tumor, low blood sugar, or is my brain actually working today?

What a season! I have never been so happy for the Christmas season to be over as I was this year. We have much more to be thankful than a year ago (three new grandbaby girls, Liz' senior year of college, the house is all painted inside, both still working, I've lost a total of 60 pounds now, busy in Villa Rica doings, God is merciful, etc.) but wow, all this holiday fal-de-ral (sp?) I know that it should not be this crazy and that Jesus is supposed to be the reason for the season and all that, but it was hard to find any serenity this year. When did we get so gift-crazed and nuts? I've never seen more grumpy shoppers than I saw this year. We are missing it. I need to take some serious time and contemplate what needs to change in our family. We now have precious grandchildren and I want our traditions to be sweet and memorable, not rushed and guilty.

The real problem on this corner is me. Yes, me. I see that I blogged, what, about three months ago, about the trial I was going through concerning a MRSA staph infection. Here it is, technically four months into this trial, and I am finally starting to truly get to the roots of my stubborn heart. You think ya know, but then.... time, trials and twists begin to affect what is really in there. Trusting God is a platitude that we speak often. It's tritely thrown out there like a mint after dinner. Neat, tidy, refreshing. Sugar, saccharine-sweet. Godly. Appropriate. But when things in the real world begin to go sour, when I don't get the answers that I desperately seek, or when my timetable and God's timetable don't seem to be in sync.... well, yuck.

We all have sin tendencies, whether we admit it or not. It can be a tendency towards bitterness or worry or fear or addiction, to mention a few. I tend towards debauchery and fear. Two opposites that love each others' company for some reason. As we drove Liz back to college, right after the holidays, I was sad and angry. I was not happy that she only had a few days at home and had to go back so soon for her basketball team. Reallllly not happy that her dorm apartment is off campus and that she would be alone down there without a car or transportation for a month. Also not happy that I have to trust God to protect her from everything, especially aggressive, non-qualifying male-types that flutter about her smoldering beauty like moths to a flame. Except these moths carry blow-torches and bombs. The coach put another teammate with her in the apartment, but of course it was not the one that I would have wanted to stay with her. I wanted her to be 100% safe. Meanwhile, I have a couple of MRSA spots pop up and Liz contracts a strange rash right before she goes back to school. Am I going mad? Sounds like it. 

"My yoke is easy and my burden is light." Jesus said that. I think about that a lot. 

The next day, after Liz goes back (and I find out about the "wrong" roommate, not remembering that God chose her)....I go into freak-out mode. I wanted to go back up there and get her, bring her back home. I'm so twisted inside about everything, I can't see straight. My body is betraying me. I have lost all this weight, just to go into some sort of nutso sickness....in fact, I can't keep from getting sick. I've had a stomach virus, several colds and the flu, on top of the constant threat of anything resembling a pimple on my body turning into a monster.

I go into the kitchen before church, mad at God (and Ken for always being so cantankerously calm). I sit down with my bowl of probiotics (read: yogurt) to restore my impoverished gut flora (can I scream now?).... and I said, in so many words and thoughts...."God, I don't know what to do. I can't make myself well. I can't hover over my daughter and protect her from the wolves, the devil or even herself. This was all so simple when I was young and my children were small and things were answered with a yes or no, a swat on the butt or a hug. Do You mean for me to die of this MRSA crap? I'm scared of the public pool now....so how am I supposed to exercise? Why don't we ever have any money? Why is Christmas such a guilt trip? I think everybody is mad at me and I'm not sure why. We need to paint the outside trim on the house or it's going to rot and fall down. Are they going to let me play flute at church anymore? I don't know if I like this new pastor they are calling. I want Pastor Jon back. Where is Pastor Jon when you need him? In Charleston, whaaaaaa! Who in the heck is going to take down all these (4) stinkin' Christmas trees? Why is Ken so calm when it's a perfect time to panic?!!!"

I laid my head on my chest and let it pour out. I started bawling. Ken ran into the kitchen and asked if I were okay. Then, "Should I stay in here or do you want to be alone?" "I DON'T KNOW!!!!!" These poor guys. You have to feel for them.....

I suddenly realized how much I had not trusted God for anything in the last few months. I didn't believe that He could take care of anything and that it was all up to me and my devices and decisions. I had worked myself into panic and fear. Sure, there are decisions to make and things that I can and should do. But in the midst of that, you can get so overpowered that you end up muffled, two inches under the surface of the water. You're close enough to reach up and get a breath but you can't, because you're paralyzed and your feet are stuck in the mud. Not to mention that you can't seem to know or remember what it is you are supposed to do. And then you are reminded that you haven't juiced a thing in months..... maybe we really are all just insane. 

As I poured out my heart to the Lord, I mentally, again, wrapped my arms around the cross and laid my head at His feet. I confessed my sin of unbelief, my lack of ability to trust Him, and asked Him to carry me through. If I think about the trials other people face, well....I don't know how they do it. Because those aren't my trials. These are my own trials. He allowed them, just in time, just enough. I asked Him to speak peace to me through the sermon that morning. Dried my tears, hugged Ken really big, and then we got on with our morning. Of course, when we got to church, the pastor that is being interviewed for our pulpit spoke:

http://www.sermonaudio.com/sermoninfo.asp?SID=123013829497

It was about the birth of Christ, the impossibilities of the day, and God's sovereign hand over the tiniest, dirtiest details (like poop in a stable) and how God directed the most beautiful redemption of His people through the humblest of situations. He sent me His message of peace then and there. Not to mention, answered my questions about our new pastor right along with it.

Rest. Go quiet, restless heart. (Oh yeah?! But, yeah). Go to His Word. Know that He is God. Do I believe that? Yes. Do I trust Him and His Word? Yes, by the faith He gives me, I do. Not by my own internal buzzing, that's for sure. Listen. His Holy Spirit is here. He's got it all.

Got that fiddle out....

God seems to do His best work in me when I am broken. 

He has me in a place, right now, where I have to be still. I have contracted a bad staph infection, called MRSA (which stands for Methicillin-Resistant Staphylococcus Aureus)....which means an antibiotic-resistant strain of staph. It is hard to even share that information....because it scares people to pieces. I'm not exactly sure how I contracted it, because it usually hits older people (older than me, of course), infants, hospitalized people, and those with compromised immune systems. I had been swimming at the aquatic center almost every day for a couple of months.....I used the locker room to wet my hair before swimming and then to rinse off afterwards. I rather think that I picked it up there....they keep the pool crazy-clean but the locker rooms are always moldy and full of water and the high schooler's junk. My skin had gotten very dry and I wasn't taking care of that. I was also on a "bootcamp" with my weight loss group, eating very little and exercising a lot. I think I compromised myself a bit. Either way, now four weeks into it, I have been yes, quarantined.

Not entirely.

I just can't touch anybody. Or touch my nose and then anything. I can't go to the hospital where my sweet daughter-in-love is laboring with our grandbaby. I can't go to church. I can't let my skin be exposed where it might leave bacteria for someone else to pick up. 

I have to take showers with Hibiclens, spray this special blend of essential oils all over and let it dry, then apply super-duper antibiotic ointment on the lesions and cover them with bandages. There's three spots left. Doc says that if they are not healed in two weeks that I will have to be hospitalized and put on IV antibiotics. Hurry up!!!!!!  I also have other unmentionable physical issues going on, not fun ones but at least they are not infectious.

Daniel was talking to me yesterday, while he was on his way home to take Jessica to the hospital.... her blood pressure was out the roof, so they have induced labor to get baby Madelyn Rose out of the oven. (Don't you love that name, haha?!) How my heart is grieved that I can't go to them now and be there in body to wear it with them and to greet this much-loved and wanted baby. Daniel started talking to me about how important it is that we specifically pray and ask God for things. He brought up several scriptures about the subject.... about how sovereign God is, but that He specifically states over and over how we are to ask Him for what we need. I believe He enjoys giving us good things and answering our prayers. He wants us to trust Him and to depend on His answers. How often I don't do that. How often I have a passive attitude about His will...just assuming that what will be, will be. Stupid! When here He says, "Ask and it shall be given, seek and you shall find, knock and the door shall be opened unto you." Matthew 7:7 -- it's even providential that it is chapter 7 and verse 7...God's favorite number! I am learning more and more about crying out to Him. 

Our interim pastor said a few weeks ago, in essence, that the challenge of old age, for a Christian, is in trusting God. That surprises me. I thought that it would all get easier, the longer you go. In actuality, the older you get, the more you know how little control you have. Lots of bad things happen. The world is a scary place. You begin to see that just because I did the "formula" doesn't mean I'm going to get the right result. That is what we see. But we see through a glass darkly. I don't understand all that is going on, I rarely do. God does. He's not surprised by it, not one bit. He is working all things out for my good and my salvation, no matter what it feels like. I may sound like a repeating, broken record. Apparently it takes me longer to learn stuff....

Right now, I'm stuck here in my house. I've been sad, depressed, and ugly angry. Angry at me, God, and Ken. That's just the truth. I've also had lucid moments of joy, as I stopped to thank Him for all of this. This morning, I thought Ken had already left for work. He should have, because I was being a beast. But he didn't, thankfully, and I hugged him (whoops) and asked his forgiveness for my stinking attitude. He blessed me and encouraged me. After he left, I sat out on our beautiful front porch in the swing and began to thank God for everything. Really. Think about it. How many times do we get to take a retreat? Can't work away from home. Can't go much of anywhere. The best thing I can do for my health is to eat healthy, drink my fluids, sit in the sun and rest. Oh yeah, and do laundry. People pay big bucks to go rest in a beautiful Victorian house and eat salad. 

He means for me to seek Him, to find out new things out of His word, to ponder my future plans, to redirect my mule-ish work ethic into things more suited to my gifts and my aging body, to love those He has put in my life. I can do that from here. If you are reading this, give yourself a hug from me....sending you love from Him.

The key to happiness

The key to a happy life seems to be this: gratefulness. The Scriptures talk a lot about it. "Whatever state I am in I have learned to be content" -- loosely translated from Paul. As I observe others around me, strangers and friends alike, I see a common thread. If someone is able to count their blessings, they are generally happy, no matter if they are poor or rich. On the other hand, if they constantly feel short-changed or bitter, nothing can satisfy them.

I have an old friend, who is not old, who is truly gifted. He is a master carpenter, can sell ice cubes to an Eskimo (gifted seller), artistic eye and brain, beautiful wife who adores him, and several gorgeous children who thinks he hung the moon. But guess what? He is so bitter and sour at God, he thinks that he has been given a dirty deal. Even with all that wonderful stuff. He has a blessed life, but cannot even see what is right in front of him. If he does not learn to see the good (or to be grateful to God), I am afraid all these beautiful things will begin to backfire on him. If the best things in life don't satisfy, then what else is there? And what happens when more bad things happen, as is usually the case?

I recall my old mentor, Dr. Denmark (and she really was old)... she was my children's pediatrician and lived to be 113 years old. She was talking about the gift of life and how we should wake up every day and thank God for everything, even the bad things. She said that everyone deserves a chance to live, that even a sunrise when you are lying in a gutter is a miracle. 

I haven't lived in a gutter yet, and hopefully won't have to.... but I do remember when we were living in our camper for those two years. At first it was very wacky to wake up in this little, beat-up space and try to remember if we were sane or not. Then we adjusted in myriad ways, to the constraints of our situation. It was amazing to me that we could live like that and really be happy. But we were. Yes, we had the advent of a beautiful home that we were building (virtually) ourselves, so there was the hope of that.... but when the day came when we moved into the big house, I had some sorrow about leaving the camper. I knew that we were okay in that camper and that we would never again be as close (ha!) as that and as dependent on one another as we had been. I also, in some ways, didn't feel worthy to live in a big house when I knew living in our "hut" was really all we needed. They say that when you visit a third-world country it will ratchet up your appreciation of America and all that we enjoy. I haven't done that yet, but waking up in a real house after dreaming about a cocoon in a camper sometimes still catches me by surprise. God has blessed us with our beautiful old Victorian a year and a half ago, and some days we wake up thinking we are in a bed-and-breakfast. So who's making breakfast?!

But back to gratefulness... even in my most blessed days, I can fret and worry about something. I seem to manufacture things to worry about. If I haven't worried about this child or this grandchild in awhile, it must be time to chew on that. Worry leads to ungratefulness as well.

It seems that I ponder a lot of things as I'm taking the dog out for her potty break. We live right in town and so there is traffic going by and usually a pedestrian or two to wave at. In the midst of that, our property has an old gothic wrought-iron fence around it and huge trees in the yard. So I am in this little Victorian world for a few minutes. If it's dark, the sky always amazes me with the clear moon and stars, the trees lit against the sky. If it's light, I can see the old plantings in the yard and wonder about all the people that have lived here and wandered around this same yard. It's in these moments that I really try to remember how God has blessed me, to thank Him for His goodness, and to center my heart on all that He has sent, whether it seems good or bad to me. He's promised:  "And we know that for those who love God all things work together for good, for those who are called according to his purpose." Rom. 8:28  
Definitely one of the great mysteries of life.

I have seen people in the midst of the worst kinds of sorrows who are able to look up and find grace and hope through it. I have also seen people in the midst of great blessing and success that are griping because they've been given a raw deal.

Which of those women do I want to be?

Bootcamp and spoiled toddlers

I'm on day 18 of a bootcamp, done through my weight loss group. Bootcamp. That's where things are rough, you work your tail off, and don't get much to eat. Day 18. I've lost five pounds in 18 days. That's crazy, since I have about 60 more to go. I began to feel really bad a few days ago, struggling with whether I should stay on this "island" or not. Back and forth, back and forth. I almost stopped. Then I got back my resolve. But then, this morning, after having had victorious thoughts and heart, I began to wrestle in my head about my stunted weight loss. I was angry at God, scared that I might not be able to lose weight....that somehow it is impossible for me to lose more weight and that I would be stuck at this size no matter what I did. Then I got really mad. All this effort, all this sacrifice, and so little result.

This was all happening on my way home from the pool, where I had dutifully swam my 45 minutes this morning. Oh yeah, and I have been swimming an hour, 4-5 times a week....on top of eating 2 healthy meals a day. So you see my attitude here? I began to cry out to God, "God, please tell me what to do! Give me a sign." I don't really believe in signs too much..... I've been burnt way too many times by the deceitfulness of my own heart and, like my pastor brother says, the taco I had last night. I believe that the truth lies in the Scriptures and we have to guard our minds against second sight and the whims of the wind. I have seen way too many people leave husbands, jump into financial ruin, or lose their minds over what they thought God was telling them. Saying all that, however, God gives us wisdom and He uses all manner of things to get our attention. Questions I ask myself: does this line up with Scripture? is this my flesh or the devil or God? etc. And this definitely did....

So here I am, winding my way down the road. I had plugged in my little ipod shuffle into my ears....listening to Nate Currin's "Pilgrim" album. It has been very inspirational to me during my battle with my weight demons. It is a musical journey telling the story of Pilgrim's Progress, taken from a life that has paralleled the tale. As I was asking God about what I'm supposed to do, I tuned my brain in to what was playing on my ipod. Here were the words:

"Hold on fast and don't give in... through this maze of profit. The bitter path is worth the end, and all the pain we suffer. Down in this river we call the Pleasant One. Though you're tired, carry on. 

Now You're walking by my side. I'm not alone. And though a thousand miles away, You feel like home, home. But hold on fast and don't give in....through this maze of profit. The bitter path is worth the end, and all the pain we suffer. Down in this river we call the Pleasant One. Though you're tired, carry on." - Nate Currin, The Pilgrim

Kinda gave me goose pimples, it hit home so closely. Then the next song came on, and these were the words to it: 

The path that we chose delivered us here. 
Too proud to go back, shaken in fear.
The castle was strong, covered in red.
Shackled for days, starving for bread.
What have I done to earn this despair?
This dungeon's so dark, there's must in the air.
I silently sit, faced to a wall.
I'm broken, doubting it all.

The bones and the skulls of those here before
mocked us from corners, moss-covered floors.
We sat up all night, in the cell where we prayed.
The sun broke the cracks in the walls where we laid.

What have we done to earn this despair?
This dungeon's so dark, there's death everywhere.
We silently sit, faced to a wall.
We're broken, doubting it all.

Unless I can taste, unless I can see, unless I can feel Your scars..... I won't believe....

Unless I can taste, unless I can see, unless I can feel Your scars..... I won't believe....

Oh give me faith, to find the key. 
Its name is Promise. It sets us free...." - Nate Currin, The Pilgrim (obviously highly recommended....buy it on amazon.com)

Those two songs spoke what my heart was wrestling with. Bitterness, pain, suffering, doubt.  To an outsider it may seem that I'm making a big deal about a small thing. But it is not. We either wrestle with sin or we surrender to it. It's pretty apparent I've done a lot of surrendering.

As I pondered these words, it hit me how very weak I am. I've indulged myself for many years, many banquets, desserts, cakes, cookies and large portions.... deceiving myself that I was being moderate and suffering from a metabolic problem.  At the first sign of a serious weight stall, I just about give up and surrender, acting like a spoiled toddler, stamping my feet and shaking my fist at God. Years have gone by where I did not seriously face this demon. I get my heart aligned for, what, three months, and expect instant results and no slow-downs.  No, I demanded them.

All that I can say is, I thank God He doesn't give up on me....and that I don't get what I really deserve. His grace and His resolve live in my heart. I am grateful to Him that He's showing me the depths of those dungeons, breaking me, and setting me free.

An Idyllic Childhood

I grew up in the heart of Georgia, in a subdivision of mass-produced tiny brick ranch houses. Apparently, either a Yankee or some Californian living in a dry place came up with the idea of building red brick ovens to put people in.

 (Caveat: in case any Yankee or Californian is offended by my references to Yankees. First off, God loves all His children, even if they are born in the wrong half of the country. Second, technically, my children say that I am a Yankee. They are wrong, yes they are, but here's why: my Mama was born and raised in Illinois. She married a true blue Southern boy who came up there to get a job at the Caterpillar Tractor Company.  See, it was a TRACTOR company. They had me. They lived there six more months and one day shook their heads and realized that God's country was indeed in the South. They had to get the heck outa there. So I guess you could say I'm a Yankee, since I'm half Yankee and lived there for a few months. But -- the Bible shows all the geneologies with the Father's bloodline....so since my Father is a Southerner, not to mention one of the bonafide Sons of the Confederacy, and I have lived here all but 6 months of my life, I submit that my Southern roots take the day.)

Back to the subject at hand: these houses were obviously not designed for the south. They were rectangular boxes with tiny windows. The ceilings were 8 foot high or shorter, so the heat had nowhere to go. There was no air conditioning, so they were more like large torture chambers that heated up early in the day and baked everyone inside them into sweaty, doughy, miserable masses. 

When you look at old Southern homes, they were built right. The ceilings were 10-12 feet high, so the heat could gather way up there instead of at your body. The windows were sky-high and often opened all the way down to the floor, so you could open them and catch the breeze. There were porches everywhere, to bring shade to the house and also to have a place to visit and enjoy the outside without being in the sun. They knew to orient the angle of the home so that there would be cross-breezes when everything was opened up. When I was a child, we would occasionally visit old relatives out in the country who lived in those smart-Southern-built homes. The families were usually poor and there were pigs under the porch, but to me these houses were heavenly, even if they were humble and unadorned. And of course there were always screen doors, just waiting to be banged by us kids. 

Whoever came up with the brilliant idea to put those masses of short, stout brick houses in Georgia surely is now in purgatory. Thankfully, along the way, air conditioning was invented. My parents eventually acquired a window unit for their bedroom, but you had to keep their doors closed because it wasn't powerful enough to keep anything else cool. My sister and I would take our bath right before bed and then talk and giggle far into the night, with the sheets kicked off. We only had the idea of curtains on the windows, so the breezes would be free to come in. I remember looking at the moon and praying to God, just talking to Him. He wooed me like a baby to Him.  

Even though it may seem like summers were misery, to us kids they were not. They were heaven on earth. Even the heat did not really bother us. It was all we knew. And when you are young and slim, and there are lakes and fields and trees to explore, the earth was a sumptuous banquet of possibilities. We traversed our little world, stole horseback rides on the neighbor's horses (without the aid of saddle or bridle), fished for fish that didn't exist in the neighbor's lake, made trails all over the woods and fields around us. We rode our bikes all over the neighborhood, racing each other. When a summer rain would hit, we would peel off our clothes down to our underwear and play in the water-filled ditches. Our front yard was the neighborhood softball field. Home base was a crack in the driveway, first base was the first big bush on the right. Second base was a worn spot on the property line and third base was the water meter. We would play for hours and hours. With our house oriented directly on the right side, you would think there would be broken windows, but no, we just learned to hit away from right field (there was no right field). Our Daddy coached us at Powder Springs park for years and also coached his Post Office team, so we lived, ate and breathed softball. Mama would feed us supper then we'd head to Atlanta for his games, where us kids would play in the dirt and on the playgrounds. There was (and is) a park named English Park, off of Bankhead Highway in Atlanta. There was a spooky cemetery next door to the park and we would scare ourselves thinking about the ghosts that must be stalking us from there. 

My childhood summers are a sweet, balmy memory to me. I think of creamy ice cream cones that we would stop and get on our way home from ball games. I remember the bittersweet bite of muscadines and blackberries that we gathered by the bucketfuls from the fields around us. The penny candy that we got from Reese's store around the corner. A frozen Snickers bar from Sun Valley Beach (Melanie and I rode our bikes to work there for many summers). Homemade vanilla ice cream, hand-cranked on the back porch. No wonder I have too much fat on my body....I'm trying to recreate those summers! 

I would often think about "someday" and that when I had kids, I wanted them to have some of what I had as a child. It was important to me that they have fields and creeks and places to explore as they grew up. So when Ken and I married, it was our eventual goal to get out to the country. We bought and sold several fixer-uppers and eventually moved to five acres in the middle of miles of forest and land, moved a camper onto the land and took two years to build our dream home. We homeschooled our four children, so they had a lot of time to explore and enjoy nature, barefooted and dirty, without sunscreen or helmets. We had a TV, but not on Mom time. I rarely turned on the TV during the day. We did not have computer games or devices to distract them. Nobody had a cell phone until everybody was almost grown. We did this on purpose, not because we were poor or weird. Well, we probably are weird. I wanted them to think, imagine, play, use their brains and to not be entertainment-driven. Children need to have great capacity to entertain themselves and to come up with all sorts of things without outside stimulation. We are losing this in our society. So the beautiful, sweet summers of my childhood were passed to my children. They had an old-school upbringing. We had to be weird to make it happen, but now that they are all adults I think they all would say it was worth it.