Great Expectations

 You would think that while in Paradise, there could be nothing to get in your way of having just the most wonderful time. Especially since we've been in some pretty crummy settings and just had a ball anyway. But then, even if you are dirt poor and have actual access to a beach, you can put your toes in with the rest of the bourgeoisie people and you're all on equal ground, because God's gorgeous creation trumps everything. Ken and I always head to the beach with our grown kids, usually every May. We share a big ole house and it's a cheap vacation for everyone. There's lots of kids and mayhem and we come home exhilarated and exhausted from all the goodness. So he likes for he and I to take a separate trip, later, to have time alone and remember who we are, to reconnect, relax and reignite. This year, because Liz and Marcus have their first newborn, the family decided to do our big trip in September. Ken desperately wanted a beach trip in May, so here we are…

There was hardly anything available, not surprising since Covid has kept a lot of people from traveling up until now. And everything was expensive. I booked a sweet place, in a darling, quaint village in Sandestin. It's a convoluted, manufactured village, not one made of collected years and layers of entrepreneurs…but a planned community. That should have been my first clue. We're not people who are naturally inclined to Disney-like vacations. Not that this was Disney, and not that I might not want to go there someday. But we've just never swam with the pack. We're more likely to swim upstream and away from the general crowd. We think that's normal, but apparently it's not. 

The night before we left, I realized that there is no kitchen in our little condo. This is bad, because I eat a special diet that involves "normal" food. Do you know how hard that is to find, in our current culture? There's never enough veggies or fruit, and everything is dipped and cooked in vast gobs of oil, if you go out to eat somewhere. So suddenly, I'm faced with the fact that we will have to eat out most of our meals, expensive and fattening. 

We arrive to our place and walk down to the wharf, with a sweet, gentle breeze blowing. We enjoyed an hour and then headed to our room. After deciphering the masses of codes that it took to get inside the parking deck, then the door code to the condo, then the code to our place…my brain began to scramble and I wondered how I might ever detach from my phone. I needed it for all those codes. Then there was the wifi password, passcode to the pool and not to forget the card to get on the tram that takes you to the beach. But all that is worth it, when you finally get to sink your hinder parts into that white, warm, silky sand. The next morning, we threw all our beach stuff into a bag and hauled it down to the tram pick-up site. This was going to be great. No long trek to the water…they just drop you off and there's even a restaurant right there. As we made our way over the little berm of sand, we were completely unprepared for the sight in front of us. We've been to the beach so many times over the last 39 years, I've lost count. But I've never seen a place where there were literally thousands of people crowded like sardines for as far as the eye could see. We knew there was water somewhere, but where? We wound our way around legs, towels, canopies all the way to the shore. We found a tiny speck of land, right by the ocean, where we could park our chairs. There wasn't even room to lay out our towels. Ken told me later he really wanted to just turn around and head home right then and there, but couldn't bring himself to disappoint me. So we put our chairs close together, with the cooler close by. The water was so cold, I could not stand to get in, which is big for me. I'm actually part mermaid, but not a northeastern one. So we passed a couple of hours, each wondering how we got here. Neither of us said anything negative…just wanted it to work. At this point, we were both contemplating the logistics of a whole week of this. Then, of course, the next day, the bottom fell out and it began raining. Like buckets for days.

As we holed up in our place and gave up hope of any grand adventures, I remembered why we were here. To rest, unplug, talk to each other, think about  nothing and everything. We live in what has been a blessed life, far more blessed than we deserve. I remember lean times, where we scraped all we had together to eat peanut butter and jelly for days, a house full of loud and hilarious kids. Then there were times of harvest, when we got to indulge in steak and fancy Italian water. None of it means a thing if you can't be thankful in the moments or if you are looking for some pie in the sky that may or may not happen. My children's old pediatrician once said, "Life is good, even if you are just watching the sunset from a gutter." I think she might be right.

Studyin'

The majority of my work is done here in our lovely study. When we bought our Queen Anne Victorian some 9 years ago, it was a bedroom and the ugliest room in the house. Three walls had wallpaper with pink and blue rosebuds on it, then a third wall had burgundy paper on it. The ceiling was papered with nasty stuff that had years of stains. All of it was threatening to come down, as if that mattered. I wrestled with what I was going to do to the room. We had found a cool, original painting out in the barn, an Impressionistic scene of old men around a pot-bellied stove. It was to go above the mantel and wound up informing me what to do with the room. Ken said he wanted it to feel like a man cave in there, so I chose a wall color that would coordinate with the picture. Then the real work began...

Daughter Elizabeth was my assistant for my decorative painting business (how dare that gal go off and get hitched?) We set to work scraping the mess off the walls. Underneath everything was plaster. Half the paper wanted to fall off, the other half wanted to stick like glue. We spent a month trying to get it at least somewhat smooth, then set about getting it primed. Since there were still bits of paper still clinging to the walls and ceiling, we had to Kilz it with oil-based B-I-N primer. That stuff is beast. We were up on scaffolding in the 12-foot-high ceiling, having a fine old time. The tunes were piping out of my phone and we were enjoying dancing and singing while we worked. Ken arrived home from work and bellowed "why don't you have the windows open?!" Suddenly I understood where some of that joy was coming from and why we were starting to see visions of Elvis. The fumes were thick and noxious. Pretty soon, Liz and I were laid out, sick at our stomachs and higher than two kites in the wind. We threw open all the outside portals, turned on the fans and passed out on the front porch.

After a few days of recovery, we started up again. I faux-finished the painted trim to match the other half that was stained, used textured paint to finish the ceiling, then sueded the walls with a rich mushroom color. Ken built gorgeous wall-to-wall shelves for our mountain of books. The old guys and their stove went above the mantel and we were done. I've enjoyed this room immensely and practically live in it. It's where folks visit me, it's where I do most of my work, practice my music and write stuff. But I am a lover of light, and it's starting to feel like a cave in here. Yesterday I started pulling books and tchotchkes off the shelves and throwing them into boxes. Anything that doesn't spark joy (Marie Kondo, you devil) is headed to the Good Will store tomorrow.  I gotta get some light in here and get rid of all this clutter. Who knows...we might just start over, me and ole' Elvis. 

Heaven on Earth

When you get to my age, and it's your birthday, you either act like it's not happening or you just drag all the gusto you can, for as long as you can. I choose the latter. If I've got to admit I'm a year older, let's make a week-long party out of it. Ken asked me if my new flute could qualify as a birthday present, haha (see how I made that into a joke)! In actuality, it might qualify for a decade of birthdays, Christmases, Valentines and love-gifts, but don't tell him that. 

Phase I of the birthday-ing was spending the night with my sister. We stayed at the Marriott in downtown Carrollton (talk about a treat -- that place is gorgeous), ate dinner, shopped the Encore on the Square and mostly talked. And that was the best part. We have 15 children between us. Yes it's true. She has 11 and I have 4 (and our brother has 6). We also have 18 grandchildren between us, 9 each, neck and neck, with another one on the way for us. We are not Mormon or Catholic or mentally ill.  Passionate Protestants and we're taking over the world. There is no joy like she and I being able to simply talk for hours uninterrupted. 

Phase II was coming home and having most of our kids, their spouses, grands and my Mama over to grill out and hang around a bonfire in the backyard. The grandkids played and squealed, I got dozens of hugs and love, we ate, laughed and talked. My idea of heaven. 

Phase III was Ken pampering me all weekend with whatever I chose to do, ending with yummy steak at Brothers restaurant in Villa Rica. I took a nap Sunday, a little later than I should have, and woke to an empty house. Ken had gone on to church by himself while I rested. It was a good Sabbath day even though I skipped evening service.

With another year behind me, I look forward to whatever God has in store. He's creative and I never know what that might mean. I just know that He does all things well.  

Flutacious

So the flute lessons have been going pretty well, except for the fact that I don't know how to play now. My teacher is a toughie (which I need) and a librarian-type person, which means that she expects a lot and doesn't mind picking on me. After two weeks, I was ready to quit. A friend in our community band admonished me not to...to hang in there and keep trying. I feel like a youngster, back at school, getting smacked on the hand with a ruler. But all of this is good. She's having to de-construct all the bad habits that I didn't know I had. Since that's about 47 years of doing some things wrong, it's gonna take awhile. They say that playing an instrument helps keep your brain young and I believe it. But what about those cranky finger joints that want to freeze up and keep me from advancing? Only time will tell.

  One thing that has come to light, with all this noodling around, is that my poor old flute is tired. Thirty years ago, my family gave me money for my 30th birthday to get a new flute. I bought it through a precious, old, crusty instrument broker who allowed me to take home three or four at a time until I found the One. It was actually an old Artley Wilkins model, older than me at the time, that called my name. Solid silver, with a difficult-to-play headjoint that was bigger than Kansas. But it had a sweet warmth that made the extra effort worth it. It was also an in-line flute that was hard to wrap my fingers around. Now the flute is some 65 years old and I'm still a kid but my hands are hurting. I decided I was working too hard, both in my real estate career and in my flute practice, to not buy a new flute. Cue my teacher, who referred me to a broker (the company is called Flutacious, in California -- isn't that darling?!). She sent me four delightful instruments to try out, gloriously shining and new. I practically drooled as I was opening the container. Phone calls and clients irritated me all day before I got a chance to play them. The first one out of the box drew out the youngster (and maybe the Pan) inside me. Remember Christmas morning as a tot? The first time you fell in love? Or maybe when you first tasted the inside of a honeysuckle. The silky sweetness of the sound is filling up my house, new and fresh and springy. I'm still making up my mind about which one I'm going to buy.

 Good grief -- with this magnificent spring weather, the trees showing out with flowers and greenery, the sparkling blue sky and a new flute, I might just bust.   

Come On In, the Water's Fine

I had to open the doors tonight, even though the pollen is still flying as thick as an Oklahoma dust bowl. Ken and I passed like two ships in the night, but he left the pond splashing and the party lights on the porch all lit up. He knows how happy that makes me. Now, with the dark of the evening taking over, I threw open the big front door. The cool night air wafts around my feet as I play my flute to no audience. I'm a social person but sometimes it's nice to have the peace of aloneness, particularly when the days have been hectic as of late. The devices are off, there's no one to entertain. The thoughts spread out and twine around my brain like my jasmine bush that's starting to look for things to grab onto. Why do we fear the quiet, needing to fill every moment with noise and mental gyrations? I think sometimes I've forgotten the bliss of boredom. There is such a thing.  

I spent the early part of the day with one of my dear daughter-in-loves. She has lost three babies in the last nine months. There aren't enough words to fill that chasm. We walked in the spring air with her three very lively children, who were hangry and mourning in their own way, even though they don't even know about this last loss yet. Sometimes it's just too much. There is a finely-spun web of understanding that spins between women who have lost babies. I have three in heaven, myself. Once in awhile my thoughts will run to them, wondering what it would have been like, to have them here with us. Then I think of them with their kinfolk up there, never having  known disappointment, sin or even a bad day. But in the here and now, there is no ache like an empty womb. I have been young and now am not, and I know the abiding hope that comes from trusting God through the storms.  The layers are at once bittersweet and rich. The pages of life's diary are flipping faster all the time but if I stop and savor them, I find it's all very, very good.  

Oh Glorious Day

There could not have been a more perfect day than Easter Sunday this year, the year from Hades. The real themes of life, death, burial, resurrection, all are summed up in that glorious day of Christ's victory over the grave. 

We had a somber, quiet Good Friday service at our church. I always find it dry, to be honest. There's scripture readings and hymns and a short sermon. It should be dry...it's death. Dried up hearts, left hopeless. Is this all there is? What's the use? Saturday had me cleaning and preparing food. With a final flourish of the vacuum cleaner and placing the last chocolate egg in the last Easter basket, we were ready for Sunday's flurry. All night, I kept waking up in anticipation. 

As the light broke forth over the horizon and our stiff limbs began to stir, my husband said "He is risen!" He is risen indeed. We played an old favorite song from Don Francisco, "He is Alive!" Starting with its somewhat cheesy 70s vibe, it ends with chill bumps and tears from the glory of it. Then there was church, happy faces, lovely ladies and children decked out in new Easter finery. As I listened to the hymns and sermon, I recalled my childhood days and many joyous Easter mornings with little white gloves, hats, patent leather shoes. Then our family would travel over to MawMaw's house by the railroad tracks. There was a groaning table filled with ham, deviled eggs, potato salad, baked beans, scads of desserts. We ate, the old folks talked and we would play all afternoon with our dozens of cousins. These were some of the sweetest memories I cherish with that side of the family.

Fast forward to this year, this most difficult of times. I find myself ensconced on our front porch. There's ham and sundries in our bellies as we laugh and talk. We're the old folks now. Eight of the grandchildren scamper and play in the yard while dibs were being taken on turns for holding our week-old grandson. It was late afternoon before I got my chance. The air was fragrant and sweet, filled with sun and blossoms blowing. Everyone lingered at the day, not wanting it to end. My heart was about to burst with the joy of family, the joy of a resurrected Savior who saw fit to rescue us, starting way back with my folks and leading to a legacy of love, forgiveness, redemption. 

The dry bones leaped and sprang forth from the tomb, defeating the snake and death. He's right there, hands open to us. What we can see is not all there is...  "For as by one man came death, by one man has come also the resurrection of the dead. For as in Adam all die, so also in Christ shall all be made alive." I Cor. 15:21,22. It's a great mystery. I see it on this dear day, spread out before me in real time. Glory be.

Boats, Babies and Sparrows

I was worried plumb sick about her... it was my daughter, two weeks late with their baby boy. At night, I'd wake up in a sweat, having scary dreams and wanting to call her up and yell: "Get over to the hospital and get him out, now!" We knew he was big. The last ultrasound they had done was pinning him at over ten-and-a-half pounds. She wanted to have him natural, if possible. The specialist they sent her to was making noises about scheduling a caesarean at 39 weeks. She was told that the baby was "too big, had a big head and there was too much fluid." Sounded just like my pregnancy with her, some 30 years ago. Much testing ensued. Sometimes, and often, all this  technology just makes our lives miserable. Eventually, the word was that everything was leveling out and he appeared to be okay. As if that would change what she did. This baby was treasured and wanted, no matter what.

Finally, she surrendered to a light induction, where they tried to coax the baby out without bringing in the big guns. I was freaking out, because I know that the more intervention that occurs, often leads to bigger problems. As Friday morphed into Saturday, and she wasn't progressing much, the scared Yaya Bear began to puff up with worry. They were ratcheting up the pitocin (a drug which causes intense contractions). I know that worry is a sin, but apparently I'm an addict. Jesus take the wheel. Covid paranoia has made a mess out of our lives. We can't see our sick folks, bury our dead, sit with our Mamas or help our daughters birth their babies. My mother-in-law suffered and died away from us all for two months back last summer and we still suffer with the injustice of death without a chance to properly grieve our people. And now my baby girl was having her first baby, without me.

When I had my four babies, I had an assortment of family and loved ones that visited while I was laboring. One of our children was born at the same time a dear saint from our church was on her deathbed in the same hospital, one floor up. The church family was visiting her and then popping down to visit me. It was a precious mix of the bittersweet and the eternal. We had a party going on while I mustered through my contractions...for me, it was the best kind of distraction. Besides Ken, my parents, sister and mother-in-law were with me for the actual births. Mama and my sister mid-wifed me through our daughter's homecoming, everyone grabbing a leg or an arm to help me push that 11-pounder out. I remember looking up, after Liz was born, to see my mother-in-law and sister hugging and crying their eyes out. There is nothing in the world like the moment that a child breaks out of its cocoon and lets you know it's all going to be okay. 

Someone snuck me in to see Liz at the hospital on Saturday, while Ken whisked Marcus (her husband) off for wings and calming beverages at Jefferson's. I was told I had ten minutes to visit, which turned into an hour and a half. We cried, laughed, prayed. I told her to let go of anybody else's expectations, even her Mama's...to trust God, confer with her dear husband, and to do what she wanted. She suffered through several nice contractions and suddenly that boy flopped sideways. You could see his bowling-ball-sized head on one end and then his bum poking the other way. The nurse panicked and starting running around to see what could be done. Liz immediately stood up and said, "I've been laying around too long." She started marching around the room, swaying her hips like a salsa dancer, talking to that munchkin and telling him to turn back down. Of course, they kicked me out and Marcus made his way back upstairs. We all texted and called our people and churches to ask for prayer. Before I could get settled good at home, that big boy had decided to get back down to business, in the right position.

When Liz called me, some hours later, in terrific pain and with her progress stalled, my heart broke. Time stands still for no one, and the next thing we know, it's Sunday morning and she's still the same. Ken and I decided to head on to church, since we could do nothing but pray for her. I figured I could enlist more prayers while I was there while hearing from the Lord at the same time. Sunday School proved to be impossible. I sat at the back, fidgeting, crying, twisting inside. Every fiber of my being was distressed for our child, her husband, their baby. The teacher's mouth was moving but I was not listening. Finally, I was convicted that I should try to concentrate and pay attention. I looked at the wall behind the speaker, where a verse flashed up. I craned to read it...Mark 4:37-40, my very most favorite passage of Scripture. It's when Jesus is in a boat with the disciples, asleep (asleep!) on a pillow. A massive storm rages and He just keeps sleeping. The disciples rouse him with "Hey we're about to die here. Don't you care?!" Jesus sits up and rebukes the storm, which instantly stops. Then he rebukes the disciples with "Oh ye of little faith." In a moment, I almost got charismatic in our dear, quiet church as the amazing providence of God flooded through my mind. That teacher prepared the lesson in advance. That particular book and passage were arranged part and parcel before our daughter was having her "little" emergency. I was there, but not there...and then God just flashed me with another one of His sparrow moments ("not a sparrow falls without His notice"). My heart melted with peace, conviction, joy.

Yes, the baby eventually, finally arrived that afternoon. Ten pounds, 1 ounce, cuter and sweeter than a gingerbread cherub and perfect. I am still reeling from the stunning hand of God, who goes before and after, from dawn to dusk, from death to life, not necessarily in that order. Life is a mix of the hellish and the heavenly. We had a little of both.