London Bridge

 So many reasons to be thankful, but I didn't relish the idea of Thanksgiving this entirely-too-busy Fall. I didn't even have a turkey yet, come Tuesday morning, much less anything else that was needed. Everyone brings side dishes, so that's a blessing...but there's still so much to be done. The house was a wreck. Crunchy leaves seemed to be in every corner, as we have been dealing with new trees and also picking up a bumper crop of pecans from our yard. Laundry was piled up from the results of a dead washing machine.  I've had a lot of real estate business and musical events to deal with, along with the requisite worrying about all my people (and our daughter very late with her baby). I was just plumb tuckered out. Then the lady who was going to help me clean my house had an emergency with her Mama. I figured we'd live, even if the acorns started making babies in the house. Somehow, I mustered up the energy to run through Walmart, where I quickly picked up a monster turkey, some not-home-made pies, a big sack of potatoes and a gloriously tacky Christmas sweater. It said "Feliz Navidad" and had a big Llama on the front, along with chili peppers hanging from it. I couldn't imagine many more things that would give you that much fun for $24.95. My spirits were picking up... 

The family Thanksgiving was wonderful, with enough warmth and hilarity to make it worth it all. The party wound down, with lots of sticky hugs and kisses from cute little people. My daughter and her husband and toddler son lingered behind with us and our son's family who is living with us (while they build their house). We sat in the kitchen, laughing and talking. It was one of those occasions where the evening was crystallized into a sweet bubble, when you look around the room and just want to freeze time. We rush about in our lives, fussing and worrying, arranging, buying, selling, working...and sometimes fail to really stop and savor what we are doing it all for. As we walked Liz and Marcus and Ethan outside to their car, we laughingly told her that she better get home and get to bed, because that baby was coming in a few hours. Of course, the phone rang in the middle of the night with the frantic news that they were on the way to the hospital. That turkey and gravy was just the ticket. 

It was a short travail that involved many things: dancing and funky music, laughter, a very chatty Elizabeth (even without medication), next some calm and serene songs, then the transition period into that hell-like chasm between life and death that is often natural labor. When all strength seemed gone and hope was absent, there were cries and prayers for mercy. Papa Ken was in the next room on his knees, the best (and only) thing worth doing at the time. Marcus prayed too, wrestling with the difficult and helpless place of watching his beloved in such pain. As the despair crested, the lioness roared as she refused to give in. Baby London burst into the world, red and loud, her Mama punching the air and shouting, "I did it!" The whole room laughed and cheered as Liz reached to pull their baby to her heart. 

When calm came over the room and the many hospital staff began to drift away, I was able to get close to our granddaughter. She was laying in a bassinet, wailing and protesting the cruel, cold air she found herself in. I reached down and she grasped my finger and pulled it to her face. As I began speaking to her, she ceased her crying and stared into my eyes. We had a "moment." I've experienced these soul ties before, with other of my precious grandchildren upon their births. Sometimes the tie happens later, and it might take more time. Either way, these lives are not just biology. There is that soul...

Nothing on earth is like the miracle of birth. It's gut-wrenching pain that suddenly stops and delivers you a miracle in its place. I imagine crossing on over into heaven is similar to the believer. We've got pain, trials and that pesky law of gravity, but then we're delivered, death and life tumbled together like pearls in a bowl. Swing low, sweet chariot. 

Great Ten-Pound Expectations

We have been married fourty-plus years now and there's a strange phenomenon that I have observed about men and women, when it comes to preparing for events. I do not remember this being a problem when my Mama and Daddy readied for such things (but then again, I also don't remember them having scads of people show up for random and large soirees. If I'm gonna clean up for company, we might as well invite a hundred people...) The problem with marriage is that folks tend to have expectations. If the couple happen to be polar opposites in personality (and most are), these assumptions can vary wildly. As in, when I look at a room, I see the beauty and color (or lack thereof); Ken sees the giblets on the floor and the remote control out of place. We have had many a fight when it came time to whip our house into shape for company. My thoughts run to straightening the house, cleaning the bathrooms and getting the food ready. But especially vacuuming. The roof might as well be falling in, if we haven't vacuumed before the company arrives. 99% of my problem is that I wait until there's a deadline looming and there's precious little time left to get my tasks done. I work best under pressure, I tell myself. Truth is, I've seen what happens to pressure cookers when they explode. It's not pretty. Ken's priorities, however, run to the bizarre. I'm sure he'd say the same about me...

A prime example of the subject at hand: several years ago, we were preparing to have fifty or so people over for a church-sponsored meeting. We had four very young children, whom we were also homeschooling. I was mad-dashing about the house to get it (semi) sanitary. Ken resisted my to-do list and said he had his own, so I frantically buzzed and tried to stay in my lane (does anybody really stay in their lane?) The time was almost up, I was sweating like an old fishwife, ready to jump in the shower, when I noticed a smudge on the wall. On closer inspection, I saw that there were several such marks down the main hall. I hunted down my husband, to find him with a rusty old can of paint and a brush, "touching up" the walls. To my dismay, I found that he had done this all over our big house, in literally every room, without noticing that the rust was mixing right in with the touch-up paint. After falling on the ground in a fit of despair, I righted myself and got in the shower. Somehow, some way, no one was murdered that night, we had the event, and lived to see another day. The next few weeks were preoccupied with repainting much of the interior of the house. We figured out our lanes: I don't touch his yard. He doesn't touch my paint brushes. 

I've discussed this phenomenon with other wives...and they concur with me that men have strange priorities in these circumstances. When the one (you know who the one is) is cleaning and preparing the food, the other is cleaning out the garage (that no one will see) or maybe shoring up the foundation on the house, just for kicks. Or perhaps he'll take the cars to the carwash and detail them (because the company's going to be inspecting the interiors for sure). But it might be just the day to put the new brakes on the car. Yes, there's that. 

I saw this play out in front of my eyes this week. Our dear daughter is two weeks overdue with their second baby, miserable and great with (probably) a 10-pound baby girl, if the past is any indicator. She doesn't want drugs, epidurals or interventions, so she's waiting on the nature of things to take their course. Her precious husband, whom we love greatly, decided to put brakes on her car for the first time. We are very proud of him...he has been learning to do all manner of things since they married -- he's learned how to tile, lay flooring, build out a fancy closet, strip furniture, how to manipulate wood into lovely things, and lots of other skills in the course of a couple of years. All the while working a job in a new field and acing it, as well as being a good husband and father. Not to mention, he mostly does the cooking around there. I might have skipped that part of homeschooling my daughter, I fear. But the woman can change brakes. If she can do that, I guess she can figure out the rest of it. 

While she was travailing inside the house, he pulled the car apart and started on the brake job, which turned into one of those nights where the evil-universe-dominoes decided to fall. You know those times, where this thing breaks and the next thing is messed up and you didn't know that all the things were worse than originally noticed? Wailing and gnashing of teeth was heard around the neighborhood, as nighttime and frozen air descended and the car was still up on blocks. They gave up and came on over to our house, where I cooked sub-par spaghetti and we laughed on the sofas, Liz looking all the world like she had a giant beachball attached to her tummy. Ahhh, I well remember those days. 

So we're still waiting. I popped over to their house late last night on the way back from an appointment to check on them, and I saw that our son-in-love had the car fixed and put back together. We foolishly stayed up too late (I had no clue the hour), laughing and eating all manner of food. A frantic Ken called me at midnight, after arriving home from work with no wife in sight. All these expectations! Eventually, everyone got swaddled in at their appropriate homes and we all slept like kittens. Life is a mighty fine shindig. Jesus take the wheel...    

Tree Beard and His Buddies

I whined a few weeks ago about the loss of our beautiful Water Oak in the side yard. Each morning, I have missed that golden, dappled light as I do my morning coffee and Bible reading. I started thinking about what we could do to replace that old soul that was outside our window. Alas, there is no replacing, as the thing was at least 85 years old and bigger than the house (my sons counted the rings), but something had to be done. One afternoon, as I was watching baby Ethan at my daughter's house, we took a stroller walk around the neighborhood. I saw several mature trees that made me pause. The light was filtering through them like the magic in a wonderful movie...there was curling bark, leaves dripping like they had nothing to do but show off. After a little research, I found out that they were River Birch trees. I remembered an old friend who had two of these, massive ones, flanking the walkway to her fancy Buckhead house. I always loved them, with their unique bark and the way they affected the sunlight with their willow-like leaves. I also recalled that her evil gardener talked her into sawing them down. I bet he got tired of moving leaves around. 

I started searching for local shops who had River Birches in their inventory. I talked to Ken at length about it. We wandered in the yard, him with a measuring tape and strong opinions about how many trees we could put over there. He said "one." I said "two, at least." It's gonna take years before these things make a difference, so why not double your efforts? I found a store in Carrollton (Southern Homes and Ranch -- it's an Ace Hardware, with the helpful hardware man).They had two 7-footers. One random Thursday morning, Ken said, "Can you head over and get those two trees? I'll go ahead and agree to two, and if you hurry, I'll get them planted before I have to go to work this afternoon." I threw my purse over my shoulder and flew out the driveway. Ken is not known to be spontaneous, so I knew I had to seize the day. Excitedly, I drove out I-20 to the GA 113 exit, turned left and headed to Carrollton. As I was buzzing south on 113, I whipped right past a sign: Redland Nursery. It said something about trees, both Christmas and otherwise. I needed trees! I yanked off to the side of the road, googled the nursery and called; the owner picked up on the first ring and told me that yes, he had River Birch trees, and they weren't just seven feet tall. It was kismet. 

I ambled down a dirt road to his house, passing what seemed to be hundreds of acres of saplings. I followed him off the dirt road and four-wheeled it to a batch of giant trees. He said, "These are too big. It would cost you $1200 just to get someone to dig these out." That wasn't in my budget, so we meandered around to another field, where the "little" birches were located. There was a line of lovely ones, much taller than seven feet, but just right, in my mind. In my excitement, I told him "I want three of them!" as I wrote out a deposit check. I mean, you have to admit that the Trinity is foundational to God's nature. Everything that looks great comes in threes. A triangle is a super-stable thing and I simply couldn't see anything but three in the yard. One would give off a puny vibe, two would feel too symmetrical, but three was just right.  The man told me he'd have to get "his guys" out there to dig them up and ball them up in burlap in a few days so they could be transported. He covertly asked, "Do you have a big trailer?" I figured Ken could throw them in the back of his truck and we'd be good. After much ado and details I cringe to mention, I find three monsters from Fangorn Forest laying across the trailer in our yard. Surely these mammoths were not the trees I chose. My lumberjack men informed me that they could not move these by themselves (no small concession from those I consider to be modern-day Vikings). Apparently, large, earth-moving equipment and power tools were going to have to be involved, if we were to ever get these in the ground. 

For nigh three weeks, those trees slept in their burlap while we watered them and waited for a trusty man with an excavator to come. I was alone last Sunday when everything finally came to fruition. His machinery crept by, inches from our old windows.  He expertly dug massive holes in just the right spots we had marked. Before I knew it, there were three towers standing proudly, still tied up at the top. I figured Ken was now going to die, falling off a ladder to get those loose. But when he arrived home, he quickly nicked the ropes and pulled, freeing those beautiful branches. I drenched them with the hose and could almost feel them breathing a deep sigh of relief. Now they're all tucked in and we're praying for spring and God's favor. 

I kind-of figure that Ken might decide not to send Mama on random errands anytime soon. It often turns into much more than he bargained for, but I have to say that that man must love me, after all.  

Celestial City

Celeste. When I met her, she was a little girl, shy as they come, with long, curly, jet black hair. Chubby cheeks, smiling eyes, usually wearing Chuck Taylors. Her Dad is the most excellent house painter I have ever known (and I've known more than a few). He and I would occasionally work together on a job. Once, there was a 25-foot foyer that was calling for a faux-metal ceiling (it was begging for that)...and I had no inclination whatsoever to get up there. He nimbly climbed scaffolding and a scary ladder and followed my instructions to make it look like brushed gold metal. But that's the least of it. He's one of those people that you implicitly trust -- conscientious, God-fearing, honest. His parents brought him here, at 15 years of age, from Mexico, illegally. He grew up, married a kind, humble American girl and raised a family. Then he decided to jump through all the hoops to become an official American citizen, even though he didn't have to and most don't. It took lots of time, money and persistence, but he did it. He is highly respected by our church and by anyone who knows him, yet he never assumes such. So these are the people that Celeste comes from... 

Celeste. What a beautiful, old-fashioned name for a beautiful girl. It means "heavenly." She always stood in the background, never drawing attention to herself. There were other girls that people noticed, but Celeste was one who didn't seem to mind. She kept wearing her Chucks and being just who she was -- thoughtful, caring, steadfast. Even though I would see her at church and across my feed, I somehow didn't notice that she grew up. Her cherubic, innocent face belies the fact that she's a working adult now. One afternoon I was strolling through Facebook and happened to see that she had gotten engaged, to this adorable guy. How do these things just happen, kids growing up like that? I FB-stalked him and saw their winsome pictures. There was Celeste with a ring on it, sure enough, still in her Chuck Taylors. I was so happy, I texted her Mom and said hey, can I decorate her wedding? Because, you know, I don't have enough to do right now. I dream that, sometimes...

When I spruce up a wedding, I am afraid I become a bit of a diva. I worry, dream, draw pictures, wake up in the middle of the night fretting. I talk about it to everybody, ad nauseum. The tension builds and no one around me can rest until it's over. To my loved ones, I am truly sorry. Maybe I can change, but it's looking doubtful. Venues rarely give enough time to get the place ready...they'd like you to spend extra dollars for extra time to do it right, but this is do-it-yourself, not Designer Central. I'm under several guns right now -- besides my obligations to work, wind ensemble, the holidays, holiday decorating for other people, and life in general, the big Event is that our daughter is due for their second baby. Today. I have no illusions that she's coming today, as her last baby came almost three weeks late, but the advent season is here and in not just one way. Yesterday we found out baby London has turned transverse (sideways)...just like her Mama did when she was in my tummy. I'm not gonna miss her birth, so someone else will have to fill in for all the things if she arrives on time. Bless God for good friends who rescued me from myself and assisted getting everything done. Several helped, but dear Kathy gave me two whole days, one to organize and clean all the decor, another to decorate at the venue. Pure gold. A wedding is about love and commitment. So is a true friend.

So the day is almost here and I think on my own youth, where I blissfully sailed into our simple wedding, no stress, knowing he was the right one and just wanting to be married to him. Candles, flowers, details...none of that really mattered. There were so many that blessed us. Now I more understand all the implications of marriage, the good and the bad, the charge of the long game. The truth of love, which includes the aches, the sicknesses, the sagging of the flesh. And more, maybe, the give and take of two sinful people over time, where the fairy tale ideas grow dim and the reality of weariness can overwhelm the strongest. I will pray for Celeste and Dalton, as the Lord brings them to mind. That they will love each other, forgive each other, respect each other, and that time will be kind to them as they trust God to carry them through the darkest of days as well as the light-filled, happy ones.  

Autumn Leavings

Our children gave us a gift for our fourtieth anniversary...it was an official family photography session. Our anniversary is in February, but it took us until mid-October to finally do the deed. The photographer had us meet at a local park (Clinton Reserve) at "golden hour" -- that time of day where the sun is moving down in the evening sky and everything looks magical. My daughter and three daughters-in-love commiserated and planned for months about what we were all going to wear. A color scheme was shared, "fall" colors of course. My complexion looks like the day of the dead when I wear those colors. I remember, in my past, a brown prom dress, gorgeously hand-made by my skilled Mama. I put it on and my face turned a shade of light chartreuse. Then there was an orange silk blouse, a hunter green wool sweater, a yellow bathing suit. Sad chapters in my clothing life, though I didn't understand why they didn't work. Then some brilliant person woke up in the 1980s and started giving parties where they draped you in your "colors" -- they sold you makeup and gave you a customized little color palette that fit neatly into your purse. Color Me Beautiful was the rage and we all figured out whether we were a Summer, Winter, Spring or Fall. I was a Summer, which included all the colors of the sunset that I already loved -- shades of pink, purple, blue, creamy white (not white-white), reds (with a blue undertone, not cherry, mind you), never black, but navy was amazing. All the planets aligned and I saw the fashion universe in a whole new light. I knew that I looked like a frump in that green sweater, and now I knew why. For the record, I often cheat and wear other season's colors. I've never liked to just stay in my lane, but then again, hunter green on me might deserve incarceration.  

So back to photos...I had had months to think about an outfit, and all I could come up with was some sort of denim. But my denim jacket has really tight arms and makes me claustrophobic. Two days before the big day, I strolled into Walmart for milk or something, when I happened upon a packed-out double rack of dresses and tops. When did prairie dresses come back on the scene? Because I already did that, back in the 70s, and it didn't turn out so well. Back then, we had a hippie moment and then everything suddenly went sporty. I missed the 80s, because I was getting married and raising four kids and didn't care one lick about current music, fashion or trends. I stuck to Beethoven, Dan Fogelberg and Chicago, blue jeans and t-shirts and that worked out fine for me while my main priorities were diapers and nursing babies. I blinked, they were grown, and I'm still trying to catch up. So here's this rack of clothes and I had to admit they were kind-of adorable. I didn't want to deal with the sweaty, sticky job of dressing and undressing in Walmart, so I bought two dresses and two tops and took them home to try on. I felt real fancy doing that, like one of my old rich friends used to do. Except she was shopping somewhere much more dignified than Walmart. Either way, I was pleasantly shocked that the dresses fit nice and were really cheap. I might have also figured out that I no longer have a waist, so you just kind-of make one up and that seems to work. The tops didn't fit, so I took them back the next day. The whole rack of clothes had sold out, except for one top, which was just my size. What is Walmart thinking? Cheap and cute clothes?

So for the photo session I wore the blue dress, and Papa Bear decided at the last minute to wear his overalls. He was hunkier than the Marlboro man. It was heaven, because all of our perfect grandchildren were there, along with their gorgeous, though imperfect, parents. The photographer was brilliant, coaxing all sorts of love and giggles out of everyone. Then we retired to Jon and Nakitta's house, where she had made several delectable soups. We all brought side dishes, and after stuffing ourselves, there was a bonfire, s'mores and we cut designs on our pumpkins. It was as perfect a night as I could ever imagine.  

Nights like that are like a glowing sphere in my mind (maybe it was the jack-o-lanterns, maybe it was the bonfire, but it was probably those people). They don't happen every day or we'd not appreciate them. I sat my big pumpkin, with vines carved all over it, along with Maddie and Caiden's (they're living here, with their parents, while they build their new house), on the front porch. It took two weeks before they succumbed to the elements. One of the guys threw them away yesterday, leaving a trace of moldy gourd on the porch rug. Rotten pumpkins are just tragic, no matter how much you try to puzzle through their demise. I've smiled and had warm thoughts each time I've passed that spot on the rug (you'd think I could get a warm, soapy rag and clean the mess up, but I digress...), just thinking about that lovely day that we had together and blessing God for His mercies and gifts that have nothing to do with what I really deserve. When I opened the stunning pictures from the email I was sent, I boohooed. I'm so happy that this world is not all there is...but sometimes God pulls back the curtain just enough to let us see a bit of heaven.  

Eight Days A Week

"I'm in a full pucker position," said Judge Adams. He was up on a very high-pitched roof with my husband when he said that. They were helping a friend finish his house. We laugh to this day about that expression, and every time we're in a tight spot, it gets said again. That's how I felt today, when I was trying to get out of downtown Atlanta after a closing. Folks were jockeying for position like it was a NASCAR race. I try to arrange closings with more local attorneys, but don't always get to choose. I hauled it home, ate leftovers and decided to hit the hay early, only to find that the sheets were still in the washing machine. Life is just like that sometimes. Our first-world-problems..... 

I sold my dear little camper this weekend to the sweetest lady. Ken hauled it to Newnan and fitted it into her teeny-tiny backyard (with his massive truck attached). It took an hour and a half to get it finally situated, without ruining something in the process. I was sentimental as we pulled away. I had taken that very ugly camper and turned it into something Barbie could be proud of. People would knock on the door when we camped and ask to see the inside of it. I left the dishes and pots and pans in it. How could I not? They matched the turquoise, coral and cream color palette. We had some fun in that thing and I hope the new owner does too. These Neanderthals are too big for a Barbie camper, so we got us another one, bigger and with bunks for grandkids. 

This next month might prove to be my undoing. I have to decorate a ladies luncheon, a wedding and a mansion (for Christmas), then a mural to paint for soon-to-be-present baby London Grace. We have two concerts with the Carrollton Wind Ensemble in the next few weeks (don't forget them scales!) Then there's my day job. And Thanksgiving and Christmas don't wait on anybody. I've been having trouble sleeping at night, wondering how I'm going to get all this done if London decides to make her entrance on time (she's due November 8). Her brother was three weeks late, so hope springs eternal, not that I want to wish that on my daughter. But the apple doesn't fall from the tree and the four of mine were at least 2-3 weeks late. I see Liz in all her glory, beautiful and shaped like a very ripe pear, miserable, but with all her dreams coming true. 

Dear Lord, You know I ain't got time to do all this stuff. I remember there's somewhere in the Word where you stopped time for, like, a whole day. I'm not asking for anything like that, but I'd appreciate it if you could slow everything down, just a little bit. It'd be just peachy if You could hold off London until at least November 13. And while we're at it, and since we're asking...our little Maddie is turning 9 this week and she'd like to know if You'd speed things up for her, just until Wednesday. Thanks in advance.   

Grounded

A few weeks ago, I listened to a fascinating podcast "In the Red Clay." (Not a children's podcast, I might add).  It concerns a man (Billy Sunday Birt) who was considered a hit man  for the so-called "Dixie Mafia." I never knew there was such a thing, though my early days were traversed all over dirt roads in the great countryside surrounding Atlanta, where much of this activity was rumored to have occurred, in the 60s and 70s...my very growing-up years. While listening to the tales spun out of this podcast, however, I began to think about how closely I certainly came to the characters that are introduced. I wish Daddy were still here (but of course, but he'd never come back now, after all he's seeing). I can just imagine him connecting a lot of dots from some of his people back in the day. His Daddy was known to be a rounder, with plenty of brushes with the law, usually having something to do with alcohol. The Dixie Mafia was all about hauling moonshine. I believe PawPaw had an old still across the street from their house in Smyrna, but I could be wrong. It involved a radiator, that's all I'm sayin'... There were some bad cousins, one using my Dad and Uncle's print shop after hours to make false documents. Arrests and a murder or two in my family, and you have a dingy, dusty veil of Southern gothic mystery back there, roaming the back roads that were still not quite civilized. It doesn't seem that long ago, but I guess nothing is, if you can still remember it. 

The Red Dirt story also involved a local hero: Douglas County's Sheriff Earl Lee. I don't know much about him except that he was an amazing lawkeeper -- putting the fear of God into people while keeping the peace and respect of most everyone. He was (and is) revered and kept his jurisdiction on the straight and narrow. But he was first and foremost, a man of God. The word is that Billy Sunday Birt was paid to murder Sheriff Lee one Sunday, while Lee was coming out of church. Though Birt has been credited with as many as 56 or more murders, something made him pause and reconsider. Lee lived for many more decades. Years later, Lee allegedly led Birt to Christ and arranged for him to be baptized in a country church. Yes, truth is stranger than fiction.

Irony runs along my lifelines as well. My PawPaw was nothing like the tender-hearted, God-fearing man who raised me. Many years after he died, MawMaw told me that she sometimes dreamed PawPaw was still alive, that the law was pounding on the door. She said that when she would wake up, she'd be relieved he was gone. In the next breath she was talking about how she had always loved him, no matter what kind of mayhem he was dredging up. God uses whatever He likes and PawPaw's blood runs through these veins just like my Daddy's does. I guess I've got a devil on one shoulder and an angel on the other. But I sure do love my roots, deep in that Georgia red clay.