Reaping Where We Have Not Sown

While sitting here, bloated from the Christmas feasting, though I'm not sure I feasted. I had no sugar, flour or wheat and turned down the immense temptation to order a pecan waffle at Waffle House. But I did have popcorn (non-GMO, of course) a few times and some amazing (real) french fries at Hudsons BBQ. At our family Christmas dinner, complete with roast beast (Jon's smoked brisket) and everything but the kitchen sink, sweet little ginger Addison piped up: "Yaya can't have sugar because she's already had too much!" I love the astute observations of children. We should all hark back to our youths and be so honest. That got me to thinking about the subject of sowing and reaping. There are so many things written and spoken about it, but I've never been so aware of the ramifications of it until my bones began to ache like the dickens in recent months. The doctor says it's rheumatoid arthritis, although my bloodwork doesn't tell that tale; the naturopath says it's from all the years of toxins that got released when I lost a bucketload of weight. It's the latter opinion that made me think about the sowing...

We all sow things, good or bad, especially in our youth. Some are noble causes, but often, we leap to sow to our spring-fed flesh. There are a lot of roads to go down when we're young, and we usually don't realize it's a road until it's too late. You can't really back up, because time doesn't behave like that. You can full-stop and reverse, but you're actually going to take a different road, not traverse from the original one. This can, in truth, be a very good thing. The mistakes and sins I've made often and usually inform my future choices. The broken road can light our path to the right one. Without regret, I can see that God leads us when we lay down in the dust of repentance, usually when we've fallen deep into the wagon wheel ruts of life. 

I love the Scriptures where they talk about Joseph. Remember him? He's the guy who was sold into slavery by his delightful brothers, then went from bad to worse, from rich to poor, then back again. He ended up ruling right under Pharoah in Egypt, eventually saving his bratty brothers who'd been lying about his supposed death to their distraught father for decades. What did he say to his family, who crouched in fear when the truth was revealed? "What Satan meant for evil, God meant for good."  That is the grace of God, where what appears to be the worst is actually His purposes moving forward. A prime example of when evil was sown to the wind, and God redeemed a people anyway. He does that. I'm really grateful that I don't actually get what I deserve...

Meanwhile, the new year yawns before us. After the two behind us, we're really ready to shed some roads. When the gym opens after January 1, it will be full of new converts. The diet plans and programs will make enough in a month or two to scoot by until the next year. I've tried all those resolutions - sometimes they work and mostly they don't. What I actually can do is walk better: By laying down my devices more; Stop and listen, instead of waiting for the other person to quit talking. Wake up and say, "God, I can't do this, but You can." Especially, do the next thing. My Daddy had a little sign on his workbench, and because I have his DNA deeply imprinted on my soul (which includes ADOS - "Attention Deficit, Ooooh Shiny!"), I should heed the same admonition. It says, and this was before Nike: "Just Do It." As I rise to get the dog out the door for her walk, I say, "Yes, Lord."  

The Fun Parts of Influencing

When our grandchildren come for a visit (usually because their beleaguered parents need a date night or a doctor visit), I do what I like to do: we either paint or play instruments. Of course, sometimes there's a meal (and a fluffy, mindless movie, if Yaya needs a quick nap on the couch). I'm not really crafty, but painting and playing music are my happy places, and I so want to impart that love to our little folks. When we paint, they all have their own pint-sized aprons and sets of watercolors. There are no rules or directions about what to create...they just have at it. Sometimes the colors are stormy and gray, sometimes drippy rainbows. I don't ask them "what is it?" -- rather, I ask them to "tell me about your picture." They always have a story. God knows we all need to take some time to listen to the stories of children, before we forget the wonder of seeing the world afresh. When they all get a little older, I'll start teaching them about perspective and lines and mixing colors, but for now I want them to learn to be comfortable with throwing any and everything onto the paper. 

Sometimes I need to practice my flute while the young 'uns are here, so we make our own little orchestra. Some of them play the piano (no banging!), some sing, some toot on the tin whistles I have laying around. Occasionally one of them will make something into a drum, and my flute cleaning tool becomes the conductor's wand. These are all brief forays into music land, but loads of fun and maybe, just maybe, will be small doors into the areas these children are inclined towards later. 

Whatever path God has put us on, be it the creative places or cooking or proficiency with a calculator, there are others, both small and great, that can learn or be blessed by those paths. To contort myself into subjects that bring great pain to me might be needful at times, but when it comes to my grandkids, we're going to go where the fun is. God made us all different, glory be. We also all have our compelling thoughts and agendas that dominate our lives. I figure there are greater reasons for these, maybe eternal ones, that I don't understand, but I want to be an influence where it's possible. Lord help me to not be an influence where I wane in my weaknesses, though there's beauty to be found from ashes. I know for a fact that this is true. 

And happy late Christmas shopping to all, as I am right there with you!  

So. Much. Human.

One evening, during our fall family beach trip, two of our gargantuan sons leaped up after their team scored in a rousing game of Catch Phrase. They were fist bumping, then dancing, then belly-bumping. We were roaring with laughter when our third son jumped in with them and yelled: "So much human!" And while I'm sitting here, still chuckling about the image and hilarity of that night, I'm also thinking about how overwhelming is the weight of our humanness. Maybe it's the panoply of the last two years or the reality of the effects of gravity on my last few decades, but some days it seems like too much. In the naivete of my youth, I thought I'd get better and better, and that old age would just be a resting phase before glory. Little did I know that the real (and in truth, noble) challenges would come when strength ebbed and the burgeoning weight of reality became plainer. It was easier to muster through when muscles were thick and spry, when waking up wasn't a marathon unto itself. I know now that trusting God is harder when you've seen the dark side of hardships on every side. 

I believe that this is the way it's supposed to be. This life is not all there is. And for those who believe that it is, I do not see how they can have hope in their old age or through difficulties. The manifest picture of the new + old testaments is that we need saving, that we are not adequate in and of ourselves, and that there is a Redeemer who pays the price for that redemption. This last Sunday, the heart of the sermon in our church was about when the Israelites were slaves under the thumb of a wicked Pharoah. It's a long story, so I'd highly recommend reading it yourself, even if you know it. After many trials, the final solution that leads to their escape was the death of a lamb, with its blood applied to the doorposts and lintel of each house. The angel of death passed over each home that was under the covering of that blood, leading to their salvation and subsequent exodus out of Egypt. It's a gruesome history, full of death, blood, and grisly details. But it's also a picture of what Christ, the ultimate sacrifice, accomplished in His death and resurrection. It's a beautiful truth, weaving in and out of the scriptures, beginning in the garden with Adam and Eve and ending with the great revelation. 

And here it's Christmastime, with all the insanity and rushing about. Here's to an orange and some brazil nuts in the stockings, because we've gone way overboard (me especially). Last week, when I was melting down over all the overcommitting I have done, I laid my head on my desk and asked God what in the world. Why do we have to fill up every minute? And why do we make more of Christmas than of Easter? And why is it so hard to make the notes work on my flute? I have two concert commitments in the next week, and I keep thinking, "After that, I'll stop and breathe." Life gets like that, where we're just hankering for the next thing to be over, so we can get back to "normal." Truth is, there is no normal, there is no stopping the life train from happening. There is always the next hill. If I only keep hoping for the hill to be done with, I'm never going to find serenity in the here and now. How many folks have we seen, who keep saying that "when I retire..." and then they drop dead in six months, or become terribly ill and never get to enjoy it? No. I'm not going to wait until next week, next year, to relax and drink in what is right in front of me. I'm not going to listen to the siren song of the urgent today. I'm going to noodle on my flute with some joy (not despairing of the notes I apparently am incapable of hitting); I'm going to dandle my new grandbaby on my lap; I'm going to blow raspberries on another grandbaby's cheeks when he gets here in an hour; I'm going to squeeze my grandson and granddaughter who just moved in with us (along with their parents, thank God); I'm going to FaceTime the other three grandchildren who I'm missing terribly; and I'm going to kiss my husband full on the mouth when he walks in, just for fun. No more ba humbug!   

An Ocean of Music

The first time I got to experience an orchestra, I was in elementary school, not sure which year. We all lined up for the bus ride, first thing in the morning, and trundled to the big city of Atlanta. I was already familiar with Atlanta, as our Daddy worked downtown at the central Post Office, where he would often take us to visit his coworkers. The icing on the cake at Christmas was when we'd go there to see the Lighting of the Great Tree at Rich's department store (which was right next door to the post office). We'd ride the Pink Pig and buy gifts for our parents and siblings at Rich's Santa's Secret Shop. It was the biggest night of our lives back then. He'd also take us to the Varsity for chili dogs, onion rings and a fried peach pie. Much later, when I dated a boy in college and took him to the Varsity, he lost my heart forever when he said that the Varsity was a horrible, greasy place (contrast that to my Sugar Honey Ken who says, "I need some grease in my life!") That and the fact that he was a Yankee sealed his fate. Even though Mama's a Yankee too, and I was born "up there" (though six months was long enough for Daddy to haul us back to God's country) -- she didn't cotton to the idea that I might marry one and leave the warmth of my Southern roots. But I digress...

I remember the day I first heard the Symphony. After our long bus ride, then all the fal-de-ral of getting everyone in their places, a stillness came over the hall. The musicians began to drift onto the stage, picking up their instruments and beginning to warm up, noodling scales and pieces of songs. A tall, elegant lady with a long black dress glided to the giant harp. I was mesmerized by the magic of that instrument, thinking about how young David soothed mean ole' King Saul's demons long ago with a harp. The sound became a cacophony as more instruments joined in. What started as a buzz became a whirling dervish of a beehive, loud and confusing, dissonant and with no resolution. Suddenly, the sound stopped as the conductor strode to his podium. He called up a note and they tuned to it, one section at a time. Finally unified, they played the tone together. He raised his arms, then boom! Beautiful, gorgeous music ensued. An hour, a day, a week... I lost track of time as the universe opened up for me, a virtual ocean that I had no former knowledge of. It was like a Milky Way that had been hiding in the cupboard. I am no longer a youngster, but I still often feel this way when the music begins. I haven't heard it all yet. And I'm certain that heaven is filled with it.

I play flute (or attempt to) with the Carrollton Wind Ensemble. We have our upcoming Christmas concert at the Carrollton Arts Center on December 14th (tickets at https://cprcad.myboxoffice.us/program/wind-ensemble-christmas-concert-1635). Terry Lowry is our faithful conductor and the Ensemble is a community outreach of the Carrollton Symphony. How blessed we are to have great music right here at our back door! They have other music events scheduled at the Carrollton Arts Center, so check them out too. While I'm at it, the Villa Rica Tour of Homes is this Saturday from 2:00-9:00 (self-guided walking/driving tour). It is being sponsored by the VR Historical Society and starts at 212 W Wilson Street, Villa Rica 30180. Proceeds go to help restore the old Wicks Tavern (which is where the tour begins). Let's all support these events and have a really joyous Christmas season this year!    

Cold, Lovely Thanksgiving

It's bleeding cold this morning, in my bleary, foggy and tortured state. I hate that it takes me near half the day to feel normal, though that's not new to me. I've always looked askance at morning people. I don't trust their fresh perkiness at 5:00 a.m. (enter my husband). If he sees that I am awake, the happy sunrise squirrel that he is, I should always listen carefully. This is when all his words pile out like so many gems. But by the time the sun dips below the horizon in the evening, the man has gone back into his cave, no squirrel to be found. How God can make two people more opposite, I will never know. 

Camping is usually done in the warmer times of the year. That's what sane people do. They don't wait until November, when the floor feels like an ice cube and it's so cold that the water heater won't work. But that's what we did....hauled our cute little Love Shack up to Hiawassee last weekend, with one of our sons and his family. I love my little camper. It was ugly and brown when I bought it last year, but I dolled it up with cream, turquoise and coral pink paint, even painted the wheel hubs pink. People keep trying to buy it off me, but I also keep resisting. It's just so adorable. Then again, it's teeny-tiny, and Ken and I are built more like Vikings who've had a bit too many potatoes. After this last trip to icicle land, I'm tempted to cash in and buy another camper, bigger and probably uglier, so that we don't have to squeeze into it like stiff old sardines. I'll have to start over on all the cutesy stuff, but that's okay. I'm not busy enough as it is, so I'll have to add a project to my life. I wish that were true. My project list is about to topple what's left of my sanity.

So here we are, another crazy year, another crazy season. Everyone's standing on the rooftops yelling about the Apocalypse. We're all hoarding something, worrying about how we're going to have Christmas and biting each other over our political preferences. Mind you, I think we have humongous things at stake right now and we all need to be on our knees. And maybe that's just it... it's Thanksgiving. Just in time. Can we all stop for a day, or a week, or a month....can we stop and look outside ourselves? Thank your Mama, your Daddy, even if it's just that you somehow arrived here breathing. Thank your mailman, the Amazon guy, the lady who waits your table. Think of the people in your life who have blessed you, who have stopped along their way to make sure you were taught, were fed, were helped. We all have them, somewhere along that path. And then, ultimately, thank the Creator God who made this beautiful earth and sky, who made your DNA so uniquely that there's no one just like you. Stand in your yard or on your front stoop or in the street and look to the hills, from whence cometh our help. Bless God. Bless others. Let's love someone today.  

The Orbiting Seasons of Life

 A lady from my past reached across Facebook Messenger tonight. We used to play duets at church, gossamer pieces of music. I was the flute, she the pianist. I was not worthy of her gifts. She is one who has that uncanny ability to embellish anything on the score. She puts the liquid in between the pieces, so it all flows and fills the room with joy. I asked her how she came to be so fluent. She said it was sheer necessity, in a small church where they needed a pianist. With no real experience, she was thrown into a situation where it was sink or swim. So swimming was the order of the day. Over time, and with more and more confidence, she learned how to innovate and add chords to the simple hymns. There are people who technically know how to play the piano, who thrill with their immense skill. Then there are those who have it deep in their soul, going way beyond skill or training. Alice was, is, such a player. Any of us whose ears were graced with her gift will never forget her.

In this day of social media overkill, there are some good parts...where we get to cross paths with old friends. To consider the days, the folks that have meant much to us. 

But the bad part: I think our brains are filling up with too much easily-gained information, so we're forgetting how to actually think. Our wires and synapses are getting shortened artificially because we don't take the time to process, to wander into a library, smell the old books, sit down and read something that isn't on a glowing piece of glass. It has been said that we have a capacity for just-so-many B-B's in our brains, and that when the bowl gets full they start falling out...and that there's no accounting for which ones escape the hatch. We laugh, but I'm afraid it's true. And now we're putting a whole lot of really tiny B-B's in there and they're starting an avalanche.

I recall days, not so very long ago, when I wasn't compelled to check my phone 200 times, when I wasn't worried about missing a call (and therefore missing a client). Survival was simpler, though maybe harsher. We had less, but that was okay. We didn't really know we had less and it didn't matter. Afternoons with a friend, with a dozen kids climbing all over, coffee and Kool-Aid, sticky walls and puppy hair everywhere. We thought it'd never end, and some days you looked blissfully to the day that it would, thinking it would be so much easier then. It never is, and there's always a trade-off. 

Downy heads and tired, sleepy eyes...how did God know how much we'd need grandchildren? They're ours, body and soul; we read, sing, play, feed them, then they go back home, just in time. The moon rises and I remember it again... 

Get 'Er Done

Somewhere along the way, someone told me about a theory called The Second Law of Thermodynamics. On further thought, it's not a theory, it's a law. As in, naw, there's no guessing about it....it's just the truth. And in this humble, uneducated and simplistic brain, this is what it means: if you don't do something about stuff, it crusts up, gets dirty, breaks down. Any house that contains children, heck, not even children, just people, will tell you that if you don't constantly pick it up, polish it, clean it, buff it, wipe it down -- it will degrade into chaos. Like my house right this minute. I've had two grandchildren under the age of 8 for two days. We've gone to church, had numerous meals together, ran an errand for a neighbor, answered phone calls and emails for real estate deals threatening to unravel, had naps, cleanups and scraped dog poop off of shoes. The house looks literally like a bomb went off in here. And it's just Monday. The Villa Rica Christmas Tour of Homes is in 3-1/2 weeks and there's not a Christmas ornament to be seen. Everything's still packed up tight as a clam in the barn. I promised myself I'd decorate the week after Halloween (whatever) and that I'd turn down everything humanly possible. Meanwhile, Thanksgiving's looming like a bad vulture and they're saying we're not having Christmas this year anyway (whoever said that doesn't understand the meaning of Christmas). 

The grandkids asked if they could jump in one of Papa's piles of leaves and I said why not. I've continued to insist on them not watching any TV or shows while they're here. And even though I caved on them having any snacks and did a U-turn on 278 to get them a chocolate-on-chocolate doughnut (and I got a giant iced coffee that really helped me out, a lot), I've stuck to the no-TV thing and they've had a lot of old-fashioned fun getting filthy dirty, even if it did mean dealing with dog offal and scratchy skin. While they jumped, I stopped long enough to actually look at the sky today. It's that periwinkle-kind-of-blue that lays pretty on the fall leaves. It smells like smoke and dusky leaves out here, and even a few minutes of it restored my faith in the wonder of childhood. 

They'll be going home in the morning. Somehow I'll get this mess cleaned up and somehow I'll once again pull a rabbit out of a hat for the Tour of Homes (it's December 3, if you're asking. Tickets can be found on Facebook on the Villa Rica Christmas Tour of Homes 2021 page). I've often said that (unfortunately) I'm kind of like a old geyser -- it has to back up real bad and then I explode and get busy. Here's hoping I don't hurt anybody on the way out...