Sugar, sugar, sugar. It's everywhere and in everything. When I think of good things from my childhood, I remember stops at the Baskin Robbins in Mableton, on the way home from my Daddy's Atlanta softball games. Back then, we trundled down Bankhead Highway to almost everywhere. That highway spans most of the country, doesn't it? I remember stops at the Fat Boy in Smyrna for twisted soft-serve cones after spending long nights at MawMaw's while Daddy worked with his brother at their printing presses. I am ashamed to admit that I still conjure up in my mind, after decades, a giant cone of goodness that I missed out, because it tumbled from my hand during a near-fender bender. It fell onto the gritty floor of our Volkswagen beetle, never to be enjoyed. Maybe that's what's wrong with me, why I have two bodies on one skeleton now. I'm still trying to fill up that icy, custard-flavored vacuum in my soul that regrets dropping that thing smack dab in the middle of an idyllic childhood. My world was obviously small, though precious. I always did hate to miss out on anything, be it food or people. I still despise being late and I hate to leave early.
They say that we are eating something like twenty times the amount of sugar we used to consume. Maybe that's why those sweet moments are held dear in our memories....because we didn't get them very often. Much research coming in is showing that sugar and those other devils, starchy grains and bread, are blowing us up with inflammation and disease. How can that be true, when that's what Grandmama fed me with so much love? But again, she wasn't smothering me with it either. I say things about my addiction but no one really says anything back. We are all addicted!
So here I go again, on another tangent. I've tried everything, including moderation, whatever that is. I'm from a large family tree whose branches are decorated with lots of bottles and pills. Jesus has rescued many of us from ourselves, with amazingly creative grace. I think of others, with artistic genes and complicated brains. How rich their inner worlds, hamstrung by their vices, unable to emerge from the smog long enough to put their roots down and bloom. We all struggle with that in varying degrees. Even the most brilliant are weighed down with cracks -- either of their humanity or their environment. The glimpses of God still peek through. Inspiration inches out of the cloud -- bursts of song, smell, sight, ideas, beautiful deeds. Even the most cynical among us must crack open occasionally.
No one knows how much time they have. A tree could fall on my head tomorrow or I could die old in my bed. Meanwhile, if God gives me a day or a few decades, I'd like to feel good, as long as it's in my power to do it. January 1st has come and gone, but all this sugary goodness has got to go. I have to kick it out, since it's taken over my life. Anything that can't be said "no" to, needs to be examined and dealt with. Starting next week, I'm signed up with my doctor and a clinic to get Ninja-laser-focused on my health. So I can have a lap and a life for my granddarlins -- Eden, Annabelle, Madelyn, Titus, Tatum, and #6 sugar-dumplin on the way. So I can kiss Ken without bumping tummies. So I can breathe when I play my flute. So I can be an example of God's grace over temptation. And there's the rub...some of my sins might not be obvious, but this one is. Believe me, I don't miss much in life even though I'm a fluffy chick and I don't have much shame about jumping right on in, but still. I don't want to miss anything. Ya'll pray for me!
Monday, January 30, 2017
Monday, January 23, 2017
The Wisdom of Three Year Olds
What a week we had. My daughter and I headed to a conference in Atlanta with 2500 other people. We got up early and stayed up late, eating fast garbage and drinking too much coffee. One of my grandbabies came with her parents (who were there to help with logistics of the conference). Annabelle, 3, is a virtual tiny jungle gym, wrapped up in a little body. She never stops moving, or talking, ever. Unless she is asleep. Since Yaya is a wimp and a virtual big comfy chair, Annabelle prefers hanging, climbing, pulling or hurtling herself onto Yaya with glee. By day three, my ribs and biceps were sore but very happy. That girl is a handful, but so sensitive to the pains of others. She asked me about my Grandpas and I told her I had two but that they died a long time ago. I thought she might cry as she comforted me. We enjoyed the conference immensely, though there were protesters and crazy people on Twitter threatening to blow up some of the lecturers. How dare 2500 Christians convene in the same vicinity? It was pretty exciting. Suffice it to say, after church on Sunday, I was joyfully and sinfully looking forward to a nice, long nap. Then one of my other sons called, asking us to keep Maddie, also 3, for the afternoon. I figured I would do double duty and we'd snuggle up and take a siesta together, something I always loved doing when my kids were little. I failed to remember that Maddie also never stops moving or talking. When it was time, she ran to the crib in the nursery, but I said, "Naw, you can nap in my room!" Our bed is half a story high, so I padded the edges with pillows, tucked her and myself in and told her to stop. Talking. Stop. About the time my poor brain finally found the snooze button, I heard a tiny voice: "Yaya, I have to potty." I grumbled all the way there and back, then reassembled the pillows and blankets. She was so sweet, saying, "I'm sorry. Thank you Yaya." Things got quiet. I heard little snoring noises coming from her. As I lost consciousness, I suddenly smelled peanut butter breath and heard tiny words coming out of a face that was pressed to my nose. "Yaya, are you awake?!" This scenario worked itself over and over for, like, eternity. I finally gave up and stumbled into the living room with Maddie asking where the paint brushes were. Later, much later, I crashed into bed and slept an awesome four hours before I had to get up to prepare for a closing.
The world's falling apart. People are freaking out and wearing pink things on their head because they think the devil's in the White House and he's going to take away their magic powers. Somehow this seems like a smart way to show how legitimate, tolerant and wise they are. Riots, pandemonium and death threats. People acting like their Mama never told them no. While that's happening, I'm spending my weekend with precocious three year olds that have more sense than all of them combined. To quote an old saying, "What's this world coming to?"
The world's falling apart. People are freaking out and wearing pink things on their head because they think the devil's in the White House and he's going to take away their magic powers. Somehow this seems like a smart way to show how legitimate, tolerant and wise they are. Riots, pandemonium and death threats. People acting like their Mama never told them no. While that's happening, I'm spending my weekend with precocious three year olds that have more sense than all of them combined. To quote an old saying, "What's this world coming to?"
Tuesday, January 10, 2017
There is No Normal
It was one of those days that was like a dream. A nightmare, more like it. That dream where you're svelte, young and fit and back in high school, but without the cellulite or the self doubt. You're lined up for a race. The gun goes off. You begin to run, but you can't. It's like your legs are mired in thick mud. No matter how hard you try, nothing will move any faster.
It was that kind of day.
I was wearing multiple hats, starting off with a paint job that wouldn't end. The client couldn't open her beautiful, new shop until I finished painting all the cabinetry for it. What I intended to be a three day job was turning into five, with no end in sight. Every which way I turned all week, things got in my way. Wrong equipment, another run to the store for supplies, underestimating paint needs, doctor appointments, an urgent biopsy, Snowpocalypse 2017 (which means, in Georgia, a dusting of snow over an inch or two of deadly ice), my Daddy got rushed to the hospital, and in between all that, I had three real estate closings looming in the next couple of weeks. On a good day, I'm not really a multi-tasker. I tend to get very zoned in on what is right in front of me. But just to make things interesting, when I found myself slogging through the mud and unable to get anywhere, I decide to drag my husband to Forest Park to buy a used table I found on Craigslist. $40 and it was exactly what I needed for that black hole in my living room.
We rushed through 50 miles of Atlanta traffic to get over there, some kind of surreal and weird justification on my part since I was getting it so cheap. My Daddy is in the hospital and I need to be there, but I made an appointment to look at junk so I have to hold up my end. Sometimes when craziness begins to creep in, I think the human answer is to do stupid stuff. Halfway there, I began to relax. Ken was playing 70's rock and roll on the radio and kept saying things to make me laugh. He reminds me of all the times we've driven across the state to look at somebody else's bad idea and all the times my Daddy would haul us as kids with him to look at old lawnmowers and cars. I'm from a long line of cheapskates. But it's always an adventure.
It was getting dark when we knocked on the wrong door. The neighborhood was sketchy, with hoodlums on corners looking hopeful when we appeared lost. Once we found the right house, the owner hollered at us from the other side of the door. I told her who we were. We heard a lot of commotion from inside the tightly shuttered domicile. Then, as the door opened, she turned off the interior lights. Yes, I said "off." The table was right there at the door. I had to turn on my cellphone flashlight to see it. The table wasn't even made of wood, but plastic with a big chunk taken out of it. I offered her $20, figuring I could work some paint magic on it. They refused and we walked away. I hoped Ken wouldn't be irritated, having spent a whole evening and 100 miles of gas on a wild goose chase. But he wasn't. He laughed and said it was a cheap date. We made our way back home, to leftovers and taco soup (from my sweet client who has endured my distracted life).
The day was fraught with insanity, but after a long, hot shower and hugs all around, I thought about that muddy dream I occasionally have. In the middle of it, when my feet won't move fast enough and I am hearing things coming from behind, I start flapping my wings (I always have some sort of appendages in the midst of these things). I'm still moving slow, but eventually my feet begin leaving the ground and I find myself flying, escaping whatever was chasing me. I love it when that happens, that dream. Maybe that's what leaving this life is like and I'll be shedding my feet of clay and winging it on up there. Meanwhile, I gotta get back to work...
It was that kind of day.
I was wearing multiple hats, starting off with a paint job that wouldn't end. The client couldn't open her beautiful, new shop until I finished painting all the cabinetry for it. What I intended to be a three day job was turning into five, with no end in sight. Every which way I turned all week, things got in my way. Wrong equipment, another run to the store for supplies, underestimating paint needs, doctor appointments, an urgent biopsy, Snowpocalypse 2017 (which means, in Georgia, a dusting of snow over an inch or two of deadly ice), my Daddy got rushed to the hospital, and in between all that, I had three real estate closings looming in the next couple of weeks. On a good day, I'm not really a multi-tasker. I tend to get very zoned in on what is right in front of me. But just to make things interesting, when I found myself slogging through the mud and unable to get anywhere, I decide to drag my husband to Forest Park to buy a used table I found on Craigslist. $40 and it was exactly what I needed for that black hole in my living room.
We rushed through 50 miles of Atlanta traffic to get over there, some kind of surreal and weird justification on my part since I was getting it so cheap. My Daddy is in the hospital and I need to be there, but I made an appointment to look at junk so I have to hold up my end. Sometimes when craziness begins to creep in, I think the human answer is to do stupid stuff. Halfway there, I began to relax. Ken was playing 70's rock and roll on the radio and kept saying things to make me laugh. He reminds me of all the times we've driven across the state to look at somebody else's bad idea and all the times my Daddy would haul us as kids with him to look at old lawnmowers and cars. I'm from a long line of cheapskates. But it's always an adventure.
It was getting dark when we knocked on the wrong door. The neighborhood was sketchy, with hoodlums on corners looking hopeful when we appeared lost. Once we found the right house, the owner hollered at us from the other side of the door. I told her who we were. We heard a lot of commotion from inside the tightly shuttered domicile. Then, as the door opened, she turned off the interior lights. Yes, I said "off." The table was right there at the door. I had to turn on my cellphone flashlight to see it. The table wasn't even made of wood, but plastic with a big chunk taken out of it. I offered her $20, figuring I could work some paint magic on it. They refused and we walked away. I hoped Ken wouldn't be irritated, having spent a whole evening and 100 miles of gas on a wild goose chase. But he wasn't. He laughed and said it was a cheap date. We made our way back home, to leftovers and taco soup (from my sweet client who has endured my distracted life).
The day was fraught with insanity, but after a long, hot shower and hugs all around, I thought about that muddy dream I occasionally have. In the middle of it, when my feet won't move fast enough and I am hearing things coming from behind, I start flapping my wings (I always have some sort of appendages in the midst of these things). I'm still moving slow, but eventually my feet begin leaving the ground and I find myself flying, escaping whatever was chasing me. I love it when that happens, that dream. Maybe that's what leaving this life is like and I'll be shedding my feet of clay and winging it on up there. Meanwhile, I gotta get back to work...
Tuesday, January 3, 2017
Fighting the Minions
We're all staring at the New Year -- I feel hopeful and at the same time have some trepidation about all that a new year can bring. We have things we want to change, things we would like to do, adventures we'd like to take. Some folks want to poo-poo those things and will say things like resolutions, plans and goals are just dumb ideas that don't take flight. I do not agree. Ken and I, many years ago, had resolutions in our hearts that didn't happen overnight, many took decades to accomplish....but we kept resolving each year to keep trying. Some years absolutely nothing happened in regards to particular goals and sometimes we even went backwards. But I tell you, it's wise to keep plugging, to look closely and to keep fighting for the things that we should do or want to do, within reason. 2016 was a nutso time, on so many levels. Ken lost his job in April, ending with three months of unemployment. I was working hard but also didn't have a closing during those three months. Despite those setbacks, the Lord took care of us and we were even able to finally achieve a 30+-year old goal by the end of the year: to be entirely debt free.
As I stare at my bellybutton these last few days of 2016 (never mind, I can't see on the other side of that appendage) I am thinking of what my "why's" are. A friend of mine lost her mother recently. She talked to me about how she wrestled with anger because her mother would not quit smoking, which eventually led to her death. I told her, "I'm killing myself too...with oh so many snacks." Are my kids going to be mad if I don't find a way to wrestle down this demon? Probably. It's my annual resolution to do just that. I've had a few brief seasons of victory, only to succumb to defeat every time. So here I go again. I simply have to keep fighting. It took us 30 years to get out of debt. Maybe this is the year.
As the world turns and people go about their lives, change can happen slowly or it can turn in a moment. We often get lulled into thinking that things will always stay the same. Bad idea. As we go forward, we should glance at the past, hope (and plan) for the future, and live in the now. Really live. We're not promised tomorrow and we can't fix yesterday. I have a bad habit of running from fire to fire, putting out what is urgent but not slowing down enough to savor today. Next thing you know, that kid is married and having his own kid. Or the old neighbor died before I got to tell her how much she meant to me. Or the shop down the street closed because I didn't take to buying birthday gifts there and spreading the word. Opportunities missed. The moon keeps rising each night but I didn't look at it. Slowing down means that something else has to be let go of. "No" has to be said to the lesser things. One of my sons reminded me this weekend that the priority needs to be the people. Yes, but the bathroom needs to be scrubbed. And the people have to be fed. It's a constant balancing act between keeping the rows straight and taking time to dance with my folk. Distractions and social media would like to steal all my stray minutes. But here's hoping I can learn to slay those minions. Let's have a year of mindful work and relationships. And to God be the glory.
As I stare at my bellybutton these last few days of 2016 (never mind, I can't see on the other side of that appendage) I am thinking of what my "why's" are. A friend of mine lost her mother recently. She talked to me about how she wrestled with anger because her mother would not quit smoking, which eventually led to her death. I told her, "I'm killing myself too...with oh so many snacks." Are my kids going to be mad if I don't find a way to wrestle down this demon? Probably. It's my annual resolution to do just that. I've had a few brief seasons of victory, only to succumb to defeat every time. So here I go again. I simply have to keep fighting. It took us 30 years to get out of debt. Maybe this is the year.
As the world turns and people go about their lives, change can happen slowly or it can turn in a moment. We often get lulled into thinking that things will always stay the same. Bad idea. As we go forward, we should glance at the past, hope (and plan) for the future, and live in the now. Really live. We're not promised tomorrow and we can't fix yesterday. I have a bad habit of running from fire to fire, putting out what is urgent but not slowing down enough to savor today. Next thing you know, that kid is married and having his own kid. Or the old neighbor died before I got to tell her how much she meant to me. Or the shop down the street closed because I didn't take to buying birthday gifts there and spreading the word. Opportunities missed. The moon keeps rising each night but I didn't look at it. Slowing down means that something else has to be let go of. "No" has to be said to the lesser things. One of my sons reminded me this weekend that the priority needs to be the people. Yes, but the bathroom needs to be scrubbed. And the people have to be fed. It's a constant balancing act between keeping the rows straight and taking time to dance with my folk. Distractions and social media would like to steal all my stray minutes. But here's hoping I can learn to slay those minions. Let's have a year of mindful work and relationships. And to God be the glory.
Tuesday, December 27, 2016
A Scarlett Kind of Christmas
There's got to be a name for it... that blissful, bittersweet space of time in between all the presents being opened and getting back to work. Everyone lays about like so many stuffed sausages, deliriously happy, exhausted, glad it's over but then sad. The Moms get a bit forlorn when they think about all the mess that's got to be cleaned up, with no motivated helpers to be found.
There's this tension that begins to awaken by the time Halloween rolls around. I know that I should have already done a lot of things -- bought gifts, planned my decor, written things down. But instead, I have just rolled through the days, putting out fires as they pop up, hoping that I can still pull out a Christmas miracle. When my kids were young, I'd always warn them that Christmas was going to be really small this season. Somehow I don't remember that ever happening, even in the leanest of years. But the best one ever was when we were living in an old, beat-up camper on our land. We were completely immersed in working on our new house, and since apparently I don't multi-task well, I had not bought a thing and had no decorations up anywhere, except a 12-inch tiny tree that my Mama had given us. It was now Christmas Eve day and the Grinch was looming. I swung into a local gas station, where they had live (read: dead) trees still for sale. I negotiated the guy down to $5 for a decent-looking one. He strapped it to my roof and I headed off to Kmart, where I found paintball guns for the boys and a beautiful doll for our daughter. I scrounged around and found presents for immediate family and then hauled it all home. Ken and the boys dragged the tree into the house (which was dried-in, with a roof and not much else) and nailed it to the floor. We strung lights and a few ornaments on it and had the best Christmas ever. It's good for me to remember that year, when I'm already getting stressed in October.
Meanwhile, back to the stuffed sausages laying all over the living room. This year, we ate and ate, rushing to and fro to get it all in. This was not a good thing, because we promptly got a stomach virus, starting on Christmas day. I'm sitting here now, wrung out with joints aching and cracking all over. That brief twilight moment after all the gifts were still fresh in our minds was overtaken with devilment and Montezuma's Revenge. The torn paper and ribbon, crumbs of every kind, and a basic dusting of sugar is covering all the important parts of the house. I guess I'll have to default to that old adage, "I'll think about it tomorra..."
There's this tension that begins to awaken by the time Halloween rolls around. I know that I should have already done a lot of things -- bought gifts, planned my decor, written things down. But instead, I have just rolled through the days, putting out fires as they pop up, hoping that I can still pull out a Christmas miracle. When my kids were young, I'd always warn them that Christmas was going to be really small this season. Somehow I don't remember that ever happening, even in the leanest of years. But the best one ever was when we were living in an old, beat-up camper on our land. We were completely immersed in working on our new house, and since apparently I don't multi-task well, I had not bought a thing and had no decorations up anywhere, except a 12-inch tiny tree that my Mama had given us. It was now Christmas Eve day and the Grinch was looming. I swung into a local gas station, where they had live (read: dead) trees still for sale. I negotiated the guy down to $5 for a decent-looking one. He strapped it to my roof and I headed off to Kmart, where I found paintball guns for the boys and a beautiful doll for our daughter. I scrounged around and found presents for immediate family and then hauled it all home. Ken and the boys dragged the tree into the house (which was dried-in, with a roof and not much else) and nailed it to the floor. We strung lights and a few ornaments on it and had the best Christmas ever. It's good for me to remember that year, when I'm already getting stressed in October.
Meanwhile, back to the stuffed sausages laying all over the living room. This year, we ate and ate, rushing to and fro to get it all in. This was not a good thing, because we promptly got a stomach virus, starting on Christmas day. I'm sitting here now, wrung out with joints aching and cracking all over. That brief twilight moment after all the gifts were still fresh in our minds was overtaken with devilment and Montezuma's Revenge. The torn paper and ribbon, crumbs of every kind, and a basic dusting of sugar is covering all the important parts of the house. I guess I'll have to default to that old adage, "I'll think about it tomorra..."
Monday, December 19, 2016
My Haunted House
The question that many people ask, within a few minutes of stepping inside our house, is: "Is it haunted?!" It's a 116-year old Folk Victorian with a gothic wrought-iron fence around the front yard. The ceilings are 12-feet tall, with plaster walls about a foot thick, windows leaded and wavy. There's five coal fireplaces and every area seems to have ten doorways. A warren of rooms lead you from one to the next. It's got porches all around and ancient plants deeply rooted in the yard. There's nothing new about it, except where tasteful and careful kitchen and bathroom necessities have been updated. The old floors don't creak. They were finely joined, with many details, by some insanely skilled craftsmen. The mantels are each a work of art and have been preserved by past, loving owners. We were lucky to buy it, right at the bottoming-out of the downturn. We had to trade in our much-loved homeplace on acreage to get it, but it left us without debt and in a place that makes a dandy Papa and Yaya house. The question still looms: is it haunted?
Our society seems to think there are ghosts everywhere. There's all sorts of reality shows and people chasing poltergeists. Thousands of movies feature gore and havoc stirred up by displeased, floating souls. In my realtor treks, I am often asked by clients if I believe a house is haunted. Sometimes there are freakout sessions because of a strange doll or hole in the wall or a spooky feeling in some of the houses I show. This happens a lot. But I have my own story that I'd like to share...
Ken and I bought a huge fixer-upper home from an estate. A dead guy's estate. A man who had, unfortunately, killed himself. Thankfully, he didn't do it on the property. That might have been too difficult to deal with. There was a profound somberness as we talked with the family and entered into this huge project. The house was only half built and standing roof-high in weeds. Our goal was to bring joy to it, even as a testament to God's life-giving spirit. At the time, we had two toddlers and were pregnant with a third. Ken worked nights and we were living in a friend's basement apartment. I would leave out after breakfast to work on the house so he could get some sleep and quiet for a few hours.
The first day that the children and I walked into the empty house, I heard heavy footsteps upstairs, directly above us. I yelled "Hello!" and carefully proceeded into the hall. Creeping across the downstairs, I kept hailing the ghost, with no response. Curiosity got the better of me as I slowly climbed the stairs. I even hollered out things like, "Hey Ken, honey, somebody's here." (Remember, Ken was back at the apartment in deep snooze by now). Great security tactic when you don't have a weapon on you. Eventually I realized there was nobody else in the house. At least no Body. I got busy and shook off the spookiness, but we didn't stay long. Ken had to work several days of overtime, so he didn't go to the house until a week later. I told him about the phantom that had made his presence known every day we were there. He thought I might be leaning towards the dramatic and brushed it off.
Bright and early the next Monday, we pulled into the yard. I wondered what Ken was going to think about our little (well, he sounded big) friend. I didn't say a word when he opened the door and walked in. Within a few minutes, Mr. Casper began his heavy trod across the ceiling. Ken jumped, then grabbed a large metal tool. He went into Ninja mode, crouching around corners and anticipating a blood-thirsty mercenary. After an exhausting search with no visible results, he turned to me: "I'm sorry, Rose! I didn't believe you." He then made a call to my Daddy, who made haste to come over to the house. We stood around, hands linked, and prayed over that abode, over the other family, over us. With the most sincere of hearts, we asked the Lord to bind Satan in the name and through the blood of the Lord Jesus Christ. We had a good laugh and went about our business. It took us six months to finish that house, and then lived there quite merrily for the next eight years. The "ghost" was never heard from again. Not a peep, creak or even one chilly draft.
We're not charismatic, heck we're not even non-denominational anymore. We don't watch scary movies and we've never celebrated Halloween. And now we live in a really old house that people want to believe is haunted. So what's my take on all this? From the scriptures, we can find truth about these things. The Bible says that it is appointed once for a man to die, and then the judgement. Once. If you're dead, you're dead. You're not floating around. You're either in heaven or in hell. But the Bible also says that there are spiritual beings, both angels and demons. Good and bad. And there are entities on this planet that we cannot explain. He also tells us that we are to take dominion of this earth and to pray against principalities and powers that are evil. This spiritual warfare, in my opinion, can attach itself to all sorts of things and people. I know that I am not in a bubble, life is not ever going to be perfect, and I may have bad things happen to me at the hand of evil people and things. But I also know that, as a Christian, the Lord is working all things for my good (Romans 8). I have that confidence and do not have to be afraid. When we prayed over the weird spirit that seemed to be in our house, we knew that God had the preeminence. We never had to doubt or to be fearful of what something might do to us. God's on the throne and Satan has to flee in His name.
When we bought our Victorian, we did as we have learned to do. We prayed and dedicated it to God and His glory. These flawed, sinful souls that live in it are firebrands that He picked out of the flames, redeemed bearers of His mercy. So when someone asks me if our house is haunted, I just tell them, "Yeah, it is. With the Holy Ghost."
Our society seems to think there are ghosts everywhere. There's all sorts of reality shows and people chasing poltergeists. Thousands of movies feature gore and havoc stirred up by displeased, floating souls. In my realtor treks, I am often asked by clients if I believe a house is haunted. Sometimes there are freakout sessions because of a strange doll or hole in the wall or a spooky feeling in some of the houses I show. This happens a lot. But I have my own story that I'd like to share...
Ken and I bought a huge fixer-upper home from an estate. A dead guy's estate. A man who had, unfortunately, killed himself. Thankfully, he didn't do it on the property. That might have been too difficult to deal with. There was a profound somberness as we talked with the family and entered into this huge project. The house was only half built and standing roof-high in weeds. Our goal was to bring joy to it, even as a testament to God's life-giving spirit. At the time, we had two toddlers and were pregnant with a third. Ken worked nights and we were living in a friend's basement apartment. I would leave out after breakfast to work on the house so he could get some sleep and quiet for a few hours.
The first day that the children and I walked into the empty house, I heard heavy footsteps upstairs, directly above us. I yelled "Hello!" and carefully proceeded into the hall. Creeping across the downstairs, I kept hailing the ghost, with no response. Curiosity got the better of me as I slowly climbed the stairs. I even hollered out things like, "Hey Ken, honey, somebody's here." (Remember, Ken was back at the apartment in deep snooze by now). Great security tactic when you don't have a weapon on you. Eventually I realized there was nobody else in the house. At least no Body. I got busy and shook off the spookiness, but we didn't stay long. Ken had to work several days of overtime, so he didn't go to the house until a week later. I told him about the phantom that had made his presence known every day we were there. He thought I might be leaning towards the dramatic and brushed it off.
Bright and early the next Monday, we pulled into the yard. I wondered what Ken was going to think about our little (well, he sounded big) friend. I didn't say a word when he opened the door and walked in. Within a few minutes, Mr. Casper began his heavy trod across the ceiling. Ken jumped, then grabbed a large metal tool. He went into Ninja mode, crouching around corners and anticipating a blood-thirsty mercenary. After an exhausting search with no visible results, he turned to me: "I'm sorry, Rose! I didn't believe you." He then made a call to my Daddy, who made haste to come over to the house. We stood around, hands linked, and prayed over that abode, over the other family, over us. With the most sincere of hearts, we asked the Lord to bind Satan in the name and through the blood of the Lord Jesus Christ. We had a good laugh and went about our business. It took us six months to finish that house, and then lived there quite merrily for the next eight years. The "ghost" was never heard from again. Not a peep, creak or even one chilly draft.
We're not charismatic, heck we're not even non-denominational anymore. We don't watch scary movies and we've never celebrated Halloween. And now we live in a really old house that people want to believe is haunted. So what's my take on all this? From the scriptures, we can find truth about these things. The Bible says that it is appointed once for a man to die, and then the judgement. Once. If you're dead, you're dead. You're not floating around. You're either in heaven or in hell. But the Bible also says that there are spiritual beings, both angels and demons. Good and bad. And there are entities on this planet that we cannot explain. He also tells us that we are to take dominion of this earth and to pray against principalities and powers that are evil. This spiritual warfare, in my opinion, can attach itself to all sorts of things and people. I know that I am not in a bubble, life is not ever going to be perfect, and I may have bad things happen to me at the hand of evil people and things. But I also know that, as a Christian, the Lord is working all things for my good (Romans 8). I have that confidence and do not have to be afraid. When we prayed over the weird spirit that seemed to be in our house, we knew that God had the preeminence. We never had to doubt or to be fearful of what something might do to us. God's on the throne and Satan has to flee in His name.
When we bought our Victorian, we did as we have learned to do. We prayed and dedicated it to God and His glory. These flawed, sinful souls that live in it are firebrands that He picked out of the flames, redeemed bearers of His mercy. So when someone asks me if our house is haunted, I just tell them, "Yeah, it is. With the Holy Ghost."
Monday, December 12, 2016
A High Calling
In this most childish of seasons, I have been pondering the role of children in our society lately. Every generation tends to bemoan how the next batch is doing...or not doing. As a youngster, I recall the seasoned folks shaking their heads and wishing for the old days. The truth is, societies do tend to rise and fall in cyclical fashion. We often point to the downturn of the Roman empire as it met its demise over decades of gradual moral slippage, slouching towards mediocrity and decadence until it imploded.
We've raised four children to adulthood, so now I'm the one clucking and shaking my head. It's easy to raise commentary when you are no longer responsible for little humans. It's easy to forget how difficult it is and also how profoundly tired you were. But meanwhile, I still have my checklist. We used to breed and raise (responsibly, of course) lovely Golden Retrievers. Over twenty years, I saw dogs go from being treated as pets to being adopted out like children. In the same period, I've seen children go from being potential adults to being pets. Children as pets. I think there might be a book with that title. They're cute, with these big, dewy eyes. They're standard issue, for most families. Sure, they come with their package of problems, but if you can find a way to outsource a lot of stuff, maybe you can keep your hands clean. Good luck with that.
I'm just hoping that we will have enough parents in these next few generations that have the gumption to see past the immediate. Because the immediate is what is generally getting answered. Instant gratification, devices on auto-pilot, entertainment at every juncture. They say that the attention span of today's typical elementary child has shortened to a ridiculously few seconds, because of the amount of artificial stimulation that children are receiving these days. Gone are simple pleasures that drag out the minutes and hours and teach us to focus. There are some families that are defying this trend, but they have to be intentional and vigilant to make it stick.
I made plenty of mistakes in raising our children -- neglect, germs, yelling, not noticing dirty sheets, spending too much time on the phone, being generally selfish and sometimes stupid. At the end of the day, it's only the grace of God that gave us these awesome children who are hard-working, thinking, God-fearing adults. I pray that there will be those in this generation who will look beyond surviving today's crazy bustle to the deeper, nobler, higher things that they have been entrusted with. That they'll see children as a blessing, not a curse. Not as pets, but as the framework of the future. God help us.
We've raised four children to adulthood, so now I'm the one clucking and shaking my head. It's easy to raise commentary when you are no longer responsible for little humans. It's easy to forget how difficult it is and also how profoundly tired you were. But meanwhile, I still have my checklist. We used to breed and raise (responsibly, of course) lovely Golden Retrievers. Over twenty years, I saw dogs go from being treated as pets to being adopted out like children. In the same period, I've seen children go from being potential adults to being pets. Children as pets. I think there might be a book with that title. They're cute, with these big, dewy eyes. They're standard issue, for most families. Sure, they come with their package of problems, but if you can find a way to outsource a lot of stuff, maybe you can keep your hands clean. Good luck with that.
I'm just hoping that we will have enough parents in these next few generations that have the gumption to see past the immediate. Because the immediate is what is generally getting answered. Instant gratification, devices on auto-pilot, entertainment at every juncture. They say that the attention span of today's typical elementary child has shortened to a ridiculously few seconds, because of the amount of artificial stimulation that children are receiving these days. Gone are simple pleasures that drag out the minutes and hours and teach us to focus. There are some families that are defying this trend, but they have to be intentional and vigilant to make it stick.
I made plenty of mistakes in raising our children -- neglect, germs, yelling, not noticing dirty sheets, spending too much time on the phone, being generally selfish and sometimes stupid. At the end of the day, it's only the grace of God that gave us these awesome children who are hard-working, thinking, God-fearing adults. I pray that there will be those in this generation who will look beyond surviving today's crazy bustle to the deeper, nobler, higher things that they have been entrusted with. That they'll see children as a blessing, not a curse. Not as pets, but as the framework of the future. God help us.
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