Peace Carries a Mustard Yellow Purse

There were a thousand reasons to cross the street.  There always have been.  As long as I can remember, I have seen this woman walking around north Florence in a slow, hobbled gait.  She has never been clean. She has (again, in my conscious memory) always had a discernible, wiry beard sprouting from her knobby chin; the chin which juts out below a checker-board smile of occasional teeth. And now she’s forty feet ahead, slowly advancing on the sidewalk toward me.

 

Honestly, I thought she would have died by now.  It was strange to be walking toward this specter from my childhood on my morning walk in October 2013.  I can clearly visualize, as if in one of those sepia-toned flashbacks, talking about her with my mother when I was in middle school.  We were standing outside the back of our flower shop looking towards the old Wilson’s grocery store near the Seven Points intersection, circa 1991.  It was a summer day, one of those where the heat radiates off the faded asphalt from 10am to midnight. The day looked yellow and wavy. We saw her slowly, yet resolutely trudging out of Wilson’s with a big brown grocery bag.  She was dressed in long pants, heavy knit shirt, coat—in fact, now that I think of it, I don’t know if I’ve ever seen her without a coat—with her shoulder-length brown hair cascading in greasy waves and swaying with her gait. I don’t know what I asked my mother; something about cleanliness or smelliness I imagine.  (I have always had an acute sense of smell, and a heightened awareness of what does and does not smell pleasant.) My mom told me, in a half-sympathetic-half-gossipy way “I heard the cashiers at Wilson’s say that they try to slip soap and deodorant into her grocery bags, but she always brings them back. She tells them she ‘doesn’t need them things.’” From that moment, my impression was sealed.  Someone who not only smells bad, but flat refuses Christian charity from little old biddies at a family-owned grocery who are only attempting to make her smell GOOD, was just, well, deserving of the sneers and upturned noses of the general public—including myself. 

From then on every time I saw her I would think of her defiance and her sad smelliness. One time she even came to our front door to ask if we needed any yard work done, which I thought was audacious and borderline comical. I mean, did she even OWN a lawnmower?  I thought not. There was even a time when I went so far as to make up a whole family tree for her in my head, involving her being the unfortunate mother of a particularly harsh-faced and similarly-unkempt boy in my eighth grade class who we all called “Goatboy.” They were outcasts. And as in real life (like in the claymation great “The Land of Misfit Toys”) all outcasts knew each other and were probably related, and eventually plotted the demise of the pretty clean people if their expectations of acceptance were not met. It made total sense to 13-yr-old me, and I even believe I developed some sort of warped, self-righteous sympathy for the whole situation.

But back to October.  With this intricate backdrop of psychological noise, here I was approaching this woman on my morning walk.  On Howell Street, no less: the cutest and most walkable street this side of downtown. And it just so happened that on this morning I was having a massive self-pity party…I might as well have had black balloons, death angels, and a symphony of whining violins hovering over my head. I don’t know about you, when or if you get into a self-pitying mood, but mine also comes with a drippy, dramatic soundtrack, retelling all my woes in graphic and accusatory detail, on replay in my head.  NOW I’ve got to greet someone. Me, the (here’s the replay part) childless, jobless, overweight, freckle-faced debtor who is selfish and needy and is doing the world no good, now must smile and ask the reeking hobbling smelly woman “How are you?” Because that’s what Southern people do. And if she had any morals or social intelligence at all, her answer would be “Fine” just like mine would be and then we would part in reserved, shallow silence. It’s just how things are done.  But I didn’t feel like it—I mean, at least she had Goatboy to show for her fertile years! I felt bereft of worth, and I didn’t even want to share my words.

But I did notice she was carrying a huge, bright mustard yellow purse. It seemed out of place in her drab, dirty, trudging world—and it was just the kind of thing to present a distraction. As women, even women as we are, I figured we could talk about accessories. I thought “I’ll give this old woman a compliment and make her day. Then I will have at least done the world some good.” I was just gearing up for my pitiful, small-minded bit of superficial praise when (as He does) God decided to railroad my plans.

“Good morning” I said.

“Good morning” she replied. “How are you?”

“Oh, I’m doing alright” I lied, “How about you?”

“I’m tired.  Been working all night and had to walk a long way back, but I’m nearly home.”

“Where do you work?” I asked, now genuinely interested.

“At a friend’s house over on Alabama Avenue. I sit with her mother who needs ‘round the clock care, and she has to work and can’t hardly afford any help.  The other nurse was two hours late, so I had to stay.”

“Oh.” I stammered “Well, it was good she had you there to help.”

And here’s where my recollection gets fuzzy.  By this point I was shaken a bit to be having a full-on discussion with this legend, but even more surprised that she was the carer and not the caree (or the thief, or beggar, or leech, or any other despicable thing you can put in there that I had always associated with similar outcasts.) I was also shocked to notice her eyes. I had never been close enough to really look in her eyes before, and they were so very blue and clear, though shrouded beneath her puffy, protruding forehead.  She was truly astonishing. So I don’t remember what started this particular outpouring, but I think one of us mentioned our church family. Then, she began to speak, and poured a healing, stinging salt into my wounded perspective.

 

“I love my church family.  They helped me get off alcohol for good.  I had a brother die from it, and another brother’s in prison from it, and I decided I just wasn’t going to throw away my life on it.  I have my husband. He always has a mess waiting for me when I get home. I have my job. I have my house—it’s not much, but we own it—and I have my little poodle dog that I can love.”

“What’s your poodle’s name?”

“Snowball.  She’s the cutest little thing. And I have my church, and God blesses me everyday. I get to go and work and pray. My name is Geneva. My church friend told me that my name means “peace,” and I guess that suits me because I am that. I am peacefull.”

At this point, I could barely speak.  I did mention that I didn’t have a job, and she promised to pray for me. We soon parted, and I spent the rest of that walk sobbing and saying “Thank you” to God for bringing me this example. I prayed to be more like Geneva. (And if that does not mean “peace” no one better tell me, because in this instance fiction is better than truth.) I prayed for Geneva and that she would find a ride to her job, and she would be warm, and that her family could find Jesus. For weeks I prayed for peace like Geneva.

Recently, though, the real tragedy struck me. Possibly one reason I don’t have peace like Geneva is that I don’t really want peace like Geneva.  That kind of peace means caring so little about what others think of you that you dress in what is available, not what’s in style. That means living in a house you can afford, not a house you like. That means only buying the barest of essentials (though, I must say, soap would likely be one of mine) and not accepting things you can’t pay for even if others think you need them. Looking back on that first memory of her, I wonder what she truly felt or said to the Wilson’s cashiers. I realize now that what appeared to be Christian charity to me at 13 could have, in reality, been a kind of judgmental hazing by nosy busybodies in a town where everybody tries to get in your business. I believe that Geneva, at least as I met her that day, makes God very happy. She’s got it right. But to my eyes, too filled with cable T.V. and social engagements and luxury, [and YES, my one-bedroom apartment IS luxury. Let me not forget it.] she still looks dirty and backward. And while I feel sympathy, I have a long way to go to earn the kind of peace that Geneva lives in. I am convinced that it is not a prerequisite to be dirty or poor to have peace, but I do have to just quit looking at the world for my standards. And if God answers my prayer for peace, he might have to make me dirty or poor to get it through my head that this physical world is only a projection. It’s just a flicker across the screen, easily disrupted, over so soon. If my clothes must be dirty to make my heart clean, then I pray God changes me gently to receive it.

11Not that I speak from want, for I have learned to be content in whatever circumstances I am. 12I know how to get along with humble means, and I also know how to live in prosperity; in any and every circumstance I have learned the secret of being filled and going hungry, both of having abundance and suffering need. 13I can do all things through Him who strengthens me.…(Phillipians 4 NAS)

I pray you all meet your Genevas. Mine carries a bright yellow purse.

 

God and Walnuts

Just so you know, I have a rant stored up.  I am convinced that Superhusband and I should be grateful hunter/gatherers and never own, title, tag, nor drive a vehicle.  But I’m going to put that aside for today.  I learned amazing things in worship today and I want to share.

 

When I worked in Houston, TX at a Christian school, several of my colleagues were from the same family.  They were a HUGE family who worked in different capacities around the building, but their main focus was providing janitorial services. Their patriarch was a stern-looking 4’11” man of square jaw and suprising strength for his frame. I have literally seen this man hoist stacks of lumber over his shoulders and walk up flights of stairs. He and his family kept the school clean, improved, structurally sound and full of amenities. (Unfortunately he was a bit of an opportunist when it came to materials and tools—if he could reach it, it was fair game.  Many’s a time I found 2X4”s from my theatre sets “repurposed” into bases for new locker units. None of us are perfect, eh?)

 

So, for a long time there, I viewed Mr. R as a wily janitor. I respected the man, but in a “blue collar” kind of way.  Then I was cleaning up in the chape-café-gymna-torium (that’s right, folks.  Chapel, lunch, gym class and school assemblies all took place in once cavernous area) one day, and he asked me to go to the maintenance room across the hall and see something.  His English was a bit choppy, so I didn’t understand all that he was saying, but the directive was clear.  Instead of pulling out something janitorially related, he totally surprised me by handing me a walnut shell.  Well, half of a walnut shell, to be exact.  After seeing my quizzical look he encouraged me to look closer.

 

As I drew the feather-light bauble up to my eyes, I saw more detail than is naturally in a walnut shell. There were seven tiny figures carved into the circumference of the shell like paper dolls: holding hands, looking inward, creating a tiny wooden merry-go-round in my hand.  Delicate as lace, graceful as snowfall. The magnitude and non-sequitur nature of the situation just about made me cry then and there.  Here was a man who was a builder, a janitor, a cleaner of toilets.  And yet here he was, standing amidst lightbulbs and machine oil, power tools and sawdust, giddy as a child to show me his walnut carving.

That is God.  Infinite power coupled with Infinite attention to detail. He created planets and honeybees. He dreamed up the Milky Way and the milk cow. He swirled the worldwide ocean currents and fashioned the swirls in my fingertips. That experience in the maintenance room in Houston not only changed my view of the janitor forever, but gave me a crystallized visual representation of the amazing bigness and smallness of our God. And isn’t He wonderful?

 

I was reminded of just this kind of juxtaposition in worship this morning.  We were shown pictures of Earth taken from billions of miles away. One included this quote by Carl Sagan.

            “Consider again that dot. That’s here.  That’s us. On it everyone you love, everyone you   know, everyone you ever heard of, every human being who ever was, lived out their            lives.  The aggregate of our joy and suffering, thousands of onfident religions, ideologies,          and economic doctrines, every hunter and forager, every hero and coward, every creator          and destroyer of civilization, every king and peasant, every young couple in love, every       mother and father, hopeful child, inventor and explorer, every teacher of morals, every      corrupt politician, ever “superstar,” every “supreme leader,” every saint and sinner in the    history of our species lived there—on a mote of dust suspended in a sunbeam.”

It is all just too beautiful.  In our humanness “bigness” usually comes with absence of detail.  (I used to work in a women’s plus-sized clothing store, so I can testify to this fact. Mu Mus do not come with intricacy.) But in God’s reality, the elephant is just as detailed as the fruit fly. So I am challenged to think of both aspects.  It’s probably going to give me headaches because my mind will be BLOWN, but I’m going to try anyway. I will try to understand that God is at once big enough to take care of every problem and natural disaster on the planet—or on every planet in every solar system at the same time, for that matter—and yet is so fastidious that He desires to perfect every single thought and impulse in my life.  He is the Builder who carves a walnut.

Yes, Wendell, those are war drums.

In the last month or so since I’ve written, Superhusband and I have attempted to find out what happens when practicality and disciplined scheduling are thrown to the wind. What’s left may not be pretty, but it’s possible. And sometimes, it’s awesome.

 

Exhibit A: Superhusband wanted a camper.  And he wanted it like, yesterday. I don’t know about all of you and your super spouses, but mine has a singularity of purpose like none other.  When he has honed in on his target, there is no time for delay, nay, even slight hesitation. It’s on. So we searched far and wide for a suitable camper that had toilet and shower capabilities, possibly more floor space than our beloved caravan in Australia, and was light enough to be pulled by our non-goose-necked equipped truck with only a V6.  And it had to be in our budget.  We drove to Corinth. We drove to Huntsville. We drove to Decatur. We drove back to Huntsville. But every locale turned up a dry creek bed of hopelessness instead of the lush, dreamy camper of our desire, and all were $2,000 outside our budget. So, finally, just deciding that we WERE going to get a camper, and it WAS worth it to drive an insane amount of miles to get it at the right price, I widened the search. Turns out that Knoxville, Tennessee is the Mecca of campers for sale at reasonable prices. There were several options which looked promising.  We called on Monday afternoon, made sure the ones we wanted were still available, and by Monday night at 9pm we were on the road on our 5-hour-away adventure.  Practical? Not a bit.  But one thing I HAVE learned about marriage is that there just aren’t enough chances for the two of you to be a swashbuckling, rip-roaring, united crime-fighting team; so even if the “crime” you’re fighting is over-pricing of campers, you take it. 

 

At 1am Tuesday morning, we pulled into a Days Inn about 30 minutes outside of Knoxville. We caught a few winks, and got up in the morning to hunt our prey.  The first stop held the cheapest camper with a full bath; it also held the biggest disappointment. Let me just pause here and let you know that if you are ever looking at a recreational vehicle and you find a bald, cammo-wearing mannequin on the toilet, run away.  Preferably drive.

 

But the second stop, an hour and a half past our first one, turned out to be the bees knees.  After some clever negotiation of both country roads and posted prices, we lumbered down a winding road with our pristine 1998 Jayco Eagle Lite 30^th Anniversary Edition with air-conditioner, separate fridge and freezer, full bath, and room to sleep 5. The only things we didn’t have were tail lights or tow mirrors.  That’s right, after all our checking up on the specs, we forgot to ask what the towing connection was, and now we had to figure out how and where to get an adapter before dark…approximately two hours from the time we paid for it.

 

Again, there was swashbuckling.  With Superhusband inside Auto Zone trying to figure out what connections we could rig to get us legal with the tail lights, I sat clench-jawed in the truck googling and calling every automotive store within a 15-mile radius. In half an hour we were in at WalMart, and half an hour after that we were back in the truck in the parking lot, and on the phone with a lovely Progressive agent who helped us secure insurance sturdy enough to drive it home across state lines. We pulled out at 9pm and headed toward Florence.  At 4am we pulled the truck and new camper into the driveway of our fixer-upper (about a block away from our apartment) grabbed necessities, and walked back to our apartment.  It was then we found that our air-conditioning in the apartment was out.  I mean 91 degrees out.  At 4. A. M. You can only imagine the day we had following.  But, really, our mission was victorious; swashbuckling and mayhem often go together.

 

Exhibit B: We went to NASCAR. Yes, us.  Two poet souls from opposite ends of the earth, well-traveled, well-spoken, capable of producing sonnets and odes…..yet inextricably drawn to the gut-busting, gas-guzzling, mullet-wearing epicenter of NASCAR, Daytona Beach, Florida. The first couple of days were spent strolling along the beach and watching July 4^th fireworks displays in full panoramic view from a drawbridge over the North Causeway in New Smyrna Beach. Absolutely lovely. Then there was race day.

 

We carefully packed our “legal” items into our approved soft-sided cooler bag and set Tom Tom to the free parking lot for the speedway. We got there in plenty of time, and parked uneventfully in lot 12.  From there it was a bus ride to the speedway, a walk up the most gi-norm-ous pedestrian bridge I’ve ever seen, and into the stadium.  We ate our packed lunch, trolled the snack counters, and found our seats in plenty of time for the Cheryl Crow concert.  Then, the unthinkable.  I went to check the time, only to find that my phone was gone. I mean GONE. I froze, the hideous panic creeping from my abdomen up to my pale face and out to flailing, helpless limbs. We decided to check Superhusband’s phone to see if we could call mine, and eerily we had just missed a call from my phone.  Thousands of thoughts of espionage, entrapment, extortion and bribery flooded my paranoid mind.  Who had it?  And what did they want?  (Of course this is just another example of my vivid imagination meeting with my delusions of grandeur.  My phone is nice, but it’s not worth a felony charge.) I called back and spoke to a voice that clearly “wutn from ‘round here” as the locals would say, but he said he had the phone, that he had found it in the parking lot, and that they were still there; we could come and get it. 

 

The walk back over the bridge, to the buses, and back to the parking lot was a hot, dirty walk of shame for me.  I was relieved and terrified, and so embarrassed that I was dragging Superhusband back out of the stadium with his hurt knee and sweating forehead.  We trudged angrily, discussing whether or not we needed a police escort, or if it was the speedway staff who had found the phone, hence why they couldn’t leave the parking lot.  When we finally reached the free parking section, we headed straight for the information booth—to no avail.  We then called my phone again and discovered it was just a civilian (but a civilian with a terse Northern accent, which while saying nice things, seemed abrupt or just devilishly fast.  The terror mounted. He said he was parked inside lot 13 under a garnet tent.  After having to explain to Superhusband what “garnet” meant, we sped around looking for any signs of such a tent.  Every time we called my phone for more instructions, it indeed seemed that we were just being taken for a ride, and this person was having fun getting us lost.  Finally, he just said, “Meet me by the port-a-potties in section 12.  We made a beeline. 

 

We arrived there about the same time as he did.  A young man, say 22, and looking like he could put on a flat cap and star in “Newsies.” He introduced himself as Guido.  That’s right, Guido. He said his “auntie” had found the phone and told him to find the owners.  We thanked him profusely. I’m even kind of sorry I didn’t give him any kind of reward, since he didn’t ask for one.  But the whole exchange took only a moment, and after thanking him, we rushed back to the buses to get to the concert.  After that, while really neat to hear and see 40 racecars barreling toward you at ridiculous speeds, everything else was anticlimactic.

 

But, hey, it’s “no risk no reward,” right? We have a camper.  We experienced NASCAR. We met Guido, all by the grace of God and a willing spirit.  And I hope, by the grace of God, to continue my willingness to do the impractical in search of the fantastic.

 

And as God often does, I was given a biblical example of willingness and openness this week in my readings.  This one comes from 2 Kings 4:1-7.  I’ll quote it here for speed of access.

 

The wife of a man from the company of the prophets cried out to Elisha, “Your servant my husband is dead, and you know that he revered the LORD. But now his creditor is coming to take my two boys as his slaves.”

Elisha replied to her, “How can I help you? Tell me, what do you have in your house?”

“Your servant has nothing there at all, “she said, “except a little oil.”

Elisha said, “Go around and ask all your neighbors for empty jars.  Don’t ask for just a few.  Then go inside and shut the door behind you and your sons.  Pour oil into all the jars, and as each is filled, put it to one side.” 

She left him and afterward shut the door behind her and her sons.  They brought the jars to her and she kept pouring.  When all the jars were full, she said to her son, “Bring me another one.” But he replied, “There is not a jar left.” Then the oil stopped flowing. She went and told the man of God, and he said, “Go, sell the oil and pay your debts.  You and your sons can live on what is left.”

 

Great, right?  And chocked full of wisdom! God will use what you have, if you surrender all you have.  Ask and it shall be given.  Obey what is asked of you and receive the promises…but my favorite part is the admonition of Elisha “Don’t ask for just a few.”  That’s what I do so often.  I proverbially “Pray for rain but don’t take my umbrella.” In the instance of the widow, the miracle lasted as long as her preparation. She was blessed with oil to the measure that she asked for jars. And so are we. Our willingness and openness, and in a sense, our emptiness, must precede the blessing.

 

I will give you one, final episode of our week which sort of relates, and is sort of just an excuse to tell you another story.

 

For weeks Superhusband and I have been saying “When we get that tree down, we can…” insert appropriate chore here, like “map out our extension,” “clean the back of the house,” “really start building.” So, on Wednesday of this past week, at around 3 in the afternoon, I googled “tree removal” and called the first add I saw that said “free estimates.” I was answered by a somewhat harried sounding woman who took my details and said “He’ll have to call you back.”  Who “he” was, I didn’t know, but I hoped it would be a small-time, for-hire lumberjack. A few minutes later “she” called back and said “he” might be able to come over this afternoon, and could I give her directions.  The exchanges were made, and after mentioning the words “free estimate” several times and getting no disagreements, I told Superhusband we might have a tree guy that day.

 

The events of the next few moments were splendid.  A rusty, formerly red, raised roof Chevy van pulled up and honked.  Out popped a 60-something man and two teenage boys who looked like they had been dragged out of a tree stand just for the occasion.  The man loped up to me, shook my hand, and introduced himself as Wendell.  (I have a whole diatribe on names of people that I would love to share here, but this is getting too intricate.  Suffice to say, men named Wendell are audacious, rowdy, and bold in my experience.)

 

As I was motioning to Superhusband to come and shake hands, Wendell looks at me and exclaims “WHAT is that?” I informed him it was the radio. He then added, “I thought it was war drums or somethin’.” Now I don’t know what you do when someone says something so completely ludicrous, but my impulse (happily, most of the time a resisted impulse) is to agree with them immediately.  I actually checked out of the conversation going on and began crafting my desired reply; “Yes, Wendell, those are war drums.  We are a proud people. You have been asked here to sacrifice the sacred tree….” At this point I had to rejoin planet earth and try to conceal my giggles at my hypothetical answer.

 

Wendell sized us up, sized up the tree, took a seat on an upturned 5 gallon bucket and said, “Well, what’s it worth to you?” I pulled a figure out of my head, and it was met with only modest rebuke.  But when we told him we didn’t want him to cut it into chunks, but leave it for us in long pieces, he said “All right. Move this pickup.”  And he was set in action. It was so quick I had to get Superhusband to run after him to make sure he meant to proceed right then. To which Wendell, apt to his name, replied “We’re burnin’ daylight standin’ here talkin’ bout it.” Well, okay then.  I went to get cash for the men at our local bank, and by the time I got back the tree was on the ground. It just goes to show that when you’re ready for anything, anything can happen. 

 

So that’s us. We are constantly conspiring to schedule, plan, map, etc., but in some small way I like the fluidity of our days.  We are at once more vulnerable to wasting time yet more ready to take on a challenge which requires full attention.  And I know that it will not last forever.  Jobs, possibly children, and other restraints will eventually creep in structure our moments.  But for now, we’re gathering jars and seeing what happens.

Lightning Bugs and the Terrible Two's

 

As of today, Superhusband and I have been residents in Alabama for four months.  Sometimes it’s hard to believe we’ve been here that long because everything seems so new, and others it seems we’ve been working on this house and the car FOREVER. We visited some great friends in Nashville last weekend, and I believe I took a huge, audible intake of air as we crossed the city limits and were outside of town—we were travelling again, and it was exhilarating.

 

But it takes routine to appreciate adventure.  And the reverse is also true, that it takes adventure to appreciate routine.  There are things I have been noticing lately that I haven’t had in so long that I’ve forgotten I ever took them for granted.  One being tonight—we had my mother and grandmother over for dinner.  I got to hear their voices familiarly talking over one another (like you do when you’re family and not “company”) as I tended to things simmering. And now I sit, over-full and content in our apartment as Superhusband sorts through pictures and I am propped happily on the loveseat: quiet, peaceful, non-tv-watching, non-planning.

 

(Fast forward to Sunday—this time I’ve had to write piecemeal. I am, however, still over-full from a Fathers’ Day lunch. But back to the story.) Other than just being over-fed lately, I have noticed some wonderful, some not-so-wonderful things about being back in Alabama.

 

First, are the friends—in relatively similar time zones.  It is such a relief not to have to do quantum math to figure out if someone I want to call is likely to be awake. And not to mention actually getting to be in the presence of said friends.  A part of my soul returned when I got to talk to one of my besties in Nashville about non-important things; like hair, shoes, drink preference, traffic patterns, ad nauseum.  If you only talk about important things, you’re a therapist. If you talk about everything, you’re friends.  It’s good to be back. 

 

And then on Friday night Superhusband and I went to visit some newer friends we’ve made since attending our home congregation here in Florence.  While there I had the ultimate privilege of combining several southern delights; friends, chicken casserole (the kind of casserole where the cook takes your compliment and then immediately says “It’s SO easy, you just take a can of……”, which, in my opinion, are the best ones.), porches and lightning bugs. You just can’t get any better than girl-talkin’ on a front porch at dusk and watching lightning bugs. Seeing the little flickers in the grass and rising to the trees makes it easy to believe in fairy tales and wonder and mystery and beauty. I also get a bit anxious that the species will somehow have remembered me for the way I used to destroy myriad of their kind on a summer evening by squishing their butts into my Granny’s front porch steps (partially to impress the boy cousins, partially because I wanted to see if I could write my initials with their glowing entrails before they stopped shining. It’s not the kind of thing you want a lightning bug race to remember.) Insect brutality flashbacks aside, it was a great evening. 

 

And it followed on the heels of another couple of great events—one spontaneous, one planned. Last Sunday I was privileged to attend the memorial service of one of our church member’s brother. To my knowledge I had never met the man.  But our little congregation was providing food for the family, so I got to go.  Now we had just had a huge thunderstorm sweep through the area, and after losing most of our power during the last ten minutes of worship service that morning, had lost all remaining power just in time for the memorial.  But if southern church of Christ women know how to do one thing, it’s to improvise.  We took every tea light and taper out of the cabinets, the ones reserved for special occasions, and festooned the buffet line, the dessert table, and both the men’s and women’s restrooms. We paid special attention to the placement in the women’s restroom stalls because we didn’t want anyone’s dress catching on fire in such a delicate situation.  And the men would not be outdone—there was a video and music to be played, so there had to be power.  One man brought his generator from home. Five others courageously set it up outside (and almost out of earshot, to their great compliment) and strung a straggly net of extension cords inside the building and up to the projector and music equipment. It was brilliant. 

 

And beyond the practical was the sentimental.  Friends, neighbors, family all spoke of the deceased with candor, humor, and tenderness.  Perhaps my favorite gleaning was from a rough-spoken man who quoted Dr. Seuss: “Don’t cry because it’s over. Smile because it happened.” I was touched, moved. And ultimately I was thrilled to be a native of a place which still considers a life well-lived something to be celebrated.

 

But just as there is joy in planned things, there is joy in surprises. After Wednesday night Bible class, a couple of us were still sitting in the classroom talking.  A man in the congregation came in and joined our conversation, then out of nowhere the other woman in the room suggested we sing a verse of a song.  We belted out the first verse of “My Jesus, I Love Thee.”  After that, to quote the great Dr. Shull, “We were like a hound dog with his first chicken; we could not be stopped.”  The requests came pouring in and the verses came gushing out of us with eager abandon.  It was refreshing, and sweet, and fun. It was just another example of the home-grown entertainment and spur of the moment praise that make me wistful about Florence, Alabama.

 

But not all has been rosy.  Nope.  Other things that happen here have begun to leave a bad taste in my mouth. I now subtly sneer at all the teens working in restaurants who hug all their friends who come to eat there—I just think it’s smarmy and unsanitary. I have mourned the fact that big hair will never go out of style here.  Ever. And even today I have been ashamed of my constituents ahead of me in line at the Dollar General who made me ten minutes later in making my Mexican cornbread because the two homosexual women and their indigent man-friend had to call someone to bring them money because their food stamps wouldn’t pay for their energy drink.  (No lie—but I have a love/hate relationship with that incident because it so nicely encapsulates our quirky yet pathetic low-class culture. Bless their hearts.) I’ve still had time in my head to do a lot of pouting, whining, griping, fighting…and various and sundry other disgruntled noise-making activities.  And that’s just at home!

 

And all of that noise has led me to a conclusion about marriage.  We all know that passage where we are told that “For this reason a man will leave his father and mother and cleave unto his wife, and the two shall become one flesh.” (Mark 10:7-8)  Okay, I get that.  But what that verse doesn’t say is that the one flesh that’s created is NOT a full grown adult one.  Not even an average of the ages and/or maturity levels of the participants.  Oh, no.  It’s a figurative baby relationship. And it will act accordingly.

 

We plan for weddings like we plan for babies.  We kind of know what they’re going to look like, we get presents for them, we prepare special food for them. When they arrive it’s a glorious celebration which is at once wonderful and terrifying.

 

Then, after all the parties are over, those two people take that one baby marriage home, and muddle through with it.  At first, with both babies and marriages, there is a lot of cooing, a lot of unintelligible speech, copious amounts of saliva, and let’s face it, if things are normal, a lot of sleepless nights. We expect most of that, on both counts.  But what we don’t expect is this relationship to develop its own personality so quickly.  Because two people are involved, you can’t just eat what you used to eat for dinner (for me, a bowl of Lucky Charms, a Slim Jim and bunch of cheese and crackers might suffice); now the relationship tells you what to eat. For ease and entertainment, from now on in this post I’m going to call mine and Superhusband’s marriage Marty.  Marty then decides what we watch on TV. Marty decides what makes us happy, sad, angry—we are often tired because of Marty, but we can’t give him back.  We made him. ALL attention, work, scheduling, anxiety and joy is directly tied to our baby marriage. We are the parents of this writhing, screaming, socially awkward, often poopy little baby marriage, and it is our responsibility to raise him. Don’t get me started on the teething process.

 

As the marriage baby grows, it gets to do some fun things too, which impress his parents and other interested by-standers. Our Marty has already begun picking out his new clothes, which sometimes match with fashion and sometimes don’t.  But Marty’s big enough to handle that now.  Marty has been working on numbers, saying “please” and “thank you,” and sharing.  He even has learned who “Mommy” and “Daddy” are, and identified traits of each—these are the parent marriages that made ours.  And whether we like it or not, Marty looks a lot like his parent marriages (those of my parents’ and Superhusband’s), and sometimes the similarity is so ingrained that each blames the other, but we’re not really sure who initiated the trait.

 

Superhusband and I have been married for just over 18 months.  That means that our Marty is in his terrible two’s.  The parallel is so clear! We often find ourselves worried about the kinds of things a two year old is consumed with: “What is “mine?” Are we there yet?  Did you get more than me? But I wanted to go first! No!” It’s really exhausting. But just as we are about to throw in the towel, little Marty snuggles up and says “Don’t cry. I love you.” and we melt.  And while Marty doesn’t know it, the two people who made him know that this is just a phase.  Not that the decisions made during this time aren’t relevant, because they are, but Marty’s reactions, confidences, misgivings and fears will change.  He will mature as we do. We must nurture, but never assume that our mistakes (if they are honest ones) will totally screw the kid up.

 

So, on we trudge.  Through growth spurts, fevers, hand-eye-coordination victories, through temper tantrums and fits of giggles. And I am blessed beyond belief to be sharing it all in my little Southern hometown, with the lightning bugs as time-honored witnesses.

The Patient Builder, or "Don't Fall SPLAT."

Do you remember (if you are from a southern, American, Christian home, or even once attended a VBS in such a place) that little song about the builders?  The words are from scripture, (Matt 7:24ff and Luke 6:46ff) but with a bit more onomatopoeia.  The song goes:

 

The wise man built his house upon the rock.

The wise man built his house upon the rock.

The wise man built his house upon the rock,

And the rains came tumbling down.

 

OH, the rains came down as floods came up (do the hand motions—you know you want to.)

The rains came down as the floods came up.

The rains came down as the floods came up,

And the wise man’s house stood FIRM.

 

Then, there’s the foolish man, same number of repetitions.

 

The foolish man built his house upon the sand….and the rains came tumbling down..and the foolish man’s house went SPLAT!

 

The lesson?  SO (third verse)…Build your house on the Lord Jesus Christ, and the blessings come tumbling down...OH, the blessings come down as the prayers go up.  Repeat as necessary.

 

I like the song.  I loved singing SPLAT ridiculously loud in a church building. I haven’t thought of that song in ages, until this week. 

 

I have decided that I sympathize with the foolish builder.  Last week while working on our remodeling gauntlet, I was taking what seemed the zillionth load of rubble to the “burn pile.” I hoisted the wooden handles of the wheel barrow above my head, grunted, and thought “WHO has the patience to build a house?” If you know me, you would know that patience is not one of my strong points, and you might have even discouraged Superhusband and me from taking on such a project. You would have been completely justified in such discouragements. We are not patient people. (For the record, I would not encourage any couple to build/remodel a home until they’ve been married at least five years. Maybe longer. It’s unreasonably hard and both parties develop the tendency to go crazy at the same time. But I digress.)  

 

I believe that patience is what the “foolish” builder lacked.  Both these guys built houses, a hard enough task in itself. But what the wise one did was KEEP digging until he had the right foundation.  He didn’t stop with the obvious. I like Luke’s version best when in verse 48 he records “He is like a man building a house, who dug down deep and laid the foundation on rock.  When a flood came, the torrent struck that house but could not shake it, because it was well built.” Contrast that with the next verse where the other man “built a house on the ground without a foundation.” This is interesting to me because the foolish builder didn’t go out and find the most wishy-washy sand on which to build.  He used the ground.  I have often thought, “It’s the ground.  You can’t get more firm than that.” But it’s not true.  Ask me about placing pillars under a porch deck sometime, and I’ll tell you how NOT reliable the ground can be. Then think about getting beyond that ground to bedrock—not 2 feet, not “til you hit a pipe” but Fred Flintstone bedrock. That takes an awfully long time.  And what happened to the builders was not normal, either.  Who expects a flood right after building their new house?  No one outside of Galveston, Texas, I’d guess. But it flooded.  And the listeners to that parable learned what I need to be reminded of, in my spiritual life as well as my vocational: The preparation is worth it. Whether I’m building my faith or a house, digging deep makes all the difference.

 

And speaking of digging and faith, Superhusband and I are becoming quite a focal point for our neighborhood “scavengers.” It seems the faster we unload the rooms of their baggage, the faster people come out of the woodwork to dig through the garbage.  This has had an effect on how I think about garbage and people.

 

I have had to “dig deep” figuratively in order to try to see these people like God sees them.  I don’t know about you, but I’ve got a super-sized criticism switch in my brain.  I can walk into a mall and immediately spot the bad haircuts, poor lipstick choices, and not-so-skinny skinny jeans wearers in the place.  And all of those people are ostensibly washed and of a high enough socio-economic class to “shop.” Not so with the people who come to our yard.

 

(I’ll use initials here to protect the privacy of our pickers) There’s T who drives a beat-up minivan and likes to stop by two or three times a day when there’s a good pile out front.  He likes our dog, and likes to let others do the digging while he skims off the top.  There’s J who stopped to get scrap metal and wanted to make sure we weren’t going to rezone our property for government housing. A girl J with her mother stayed for over an hour picking up old fabric to make into purses. And my personal favorite, L, who didn’t have money for a car, or clothes, but walked to the tanning bed and back. These, along with the constant stream of twenty-something ball players and unruly teens that come and go from the apartments next door, make for a busy, distracting, and sometimes annoying atmosphere.  But I’ve started doing two things to help me dig deep in my faith. 

 

1) Every time I’m tempted to criticize a clothing choice (Particularly extra-saggy pants. To quote the great Donna White “I just can’t with that.”) I think, “I don’t know them, but God does.  He loves that kid. God made that kid on purpose to teach the world something about Himself.” Now, I don’t believe that God promotes baggy-pant-wearing, but I know full well that He does not include “baggy pants” in His list of “reasons my child is far from Me.” My job is to discover what God is trying to teach me through that person. Every time.  Every person.

 

2) I have begun introducing myself to each of the scavengers and handing them a card with a map and service times for our home congregation.  I really attempt to remember that this one day, in front of this one pile of garbage, may be the only time I talk to this person my whole life. And if they remember one thing, I want it to be about Love.

 

I am not saying this to brag.  I am confessing that I should have done it sooner.  I am a full 34 and 3/4ths years old, and I have just begun to reach out in my day to day life. And I’m not where I should be, either.  I have not yet found the courage to say things like “Do you know Jesus?”—which is the real reason we “church” anyway. But I’m pushing.  I’m digging.  I’m getting down to the rock of what’s important.  Not clothes, nor scrap, nor economic status, or tan level.  But the people.  Every person God brings to my patch of lawn is a piece of Him that He’s entrusted me to influence this one time.  What an honor.  What a God. What a job.

 

And when I think of what God did for me, it’s obvious what I am in the story.  If we turn this scenario around, I would play the garbage.  God came through and picked ME. Little ol’ me. To do this great thing, and to be married to Superhusband, and to talk to these people, and to live in this house.  He plucked me off the rotting pile and said “There’s usefulness here. I’ll keep this one. In fact, this one is so precious I’ll trade my life for it.” And that’s the miracle.

 

So I encourage you—when you feel the torrential rains coming, and they will come—dig deep. Hit bottom. Level out. You may even have to lay on the rock for a while. After that, you can begin to build a mansion out of salvage.

A Short List of My Demands

 

 

This week Superhusband and I re-joined the 21^st Century.  We got cable AND internet AND new smart phones.  I’m pretty taken with my Motorola Galaxy Stratosphere with the physical keyboard and touch screen.  I’m going to leave it near the package of bacon in the morning and see if, indeed, it can cook my breakfast. But I digress. There are adventures in bureaucracy and the mundane to be told, and I’m just the girl to do it.

 

We signed up for Verizon for our phones on Thursday, April 25^th, 2013 at 1:00 in the afternoon. At such time, we also requested the “Double Play” bundle from Comcast wherein we could get the same price for internet and cable as with going directly through Comcast, just minus the installation fees and plus a gift card. When our intrepid sales rep “Beau” put in our order with Comcast, however, he received an error message saying that the location in question (that being our apartment) was not a residential address.  Oh goody. He assured us that things would be fixed soon and that he would call with details and a solution which he was sure were imminent.

 

Superhusband and I trotted off to Nashville, playing with our phones. When we returned to Florence, we even waited until Monday to call Verizon.  No word. Nothing.  We called again Thursday. Nothing.  We called again the next Monday.  Nine days in, we decided we had had enough and went down to Verizon at 7:45pm, a mere quarter-hour before closing, and were ready to make heads roll—because, frankly, after building fence gates, mucking out a demolished back room, and squaring a porch, I had little patience for someone who got to be clean all day and just push buttons telling me that they couldn’t find the right button to push.  They STILL could tell us no more, and even their “higher-ups” who were working on the case (we were told) couldn’t get closer to resolution.  So Beau printed a screen shot of the error message which contained an 800-number, and sent us on our way with more promises. You would think that as adept as Superhusband and I have gotten with waiting and paperwork that we would be prepared for this.  I have found that one is never prepared for Comcast.

 

The next morning I lived up to my title as Blunderwoman.  Let me just say that if the thought “I’ve got a few minutes before we’re ready to go out; I’ll make a quick call to my cable provider.” EVER runs through your head, squash it. It’s either brainwash time, or you just need to volunteer for euthanasia, because it is a stupid thought. But I had it, and even worse, I dialed the phone.  Upon getting rescued from the worst-quality Musak in the Western hemisphere, I met Ranada. Something in her voice told me that I would not get off the phone unscathed. I had Renada on speaker phone with Superhusband intending to give moral support. 

 

I explained the problem to Renada.  She gave me a sales pitch wherein all the prices were different and installation fees applied, making no reference to our Verizon deal.  Superhusband’s face turned red. I explained the problem again. She gave me a sales pitch wherein all the prices were different and installation fees applied, making no reference to our Verizon deal. Superhusband’s face turned purple and he began to mutter. I explained the problem, doggedly and impassioned. She gave me a sales pitch wherein all the prices were different and installation fees applied, making no reference to our Verizon deal. With Superhusband in grave danger of spontaneously combusting from the neck, I explained to Ranada that she would have to speak to my husband who desperately wanted to explain the problem to her yet again.

After only a few veiled threats and quick conference with her manager, Ranada finally saw things more clearly—that we were going to have the price that was offered, the deal that was offered, and no installation fees.  We made an appointment for installation for Thursday May 9^th, 2013 at 1:00 in the afternoon.  And I’m sure that Superhusband’s face sustained no lasting damage.

 

That, thankfully, was the hard part.  Since getting our new service we have discovered the absolute joy and surge of power that comes with the ON DEMAND button. I have never had this service in a room without wings on it.  It’s reminiscent of Singapore Airlines’ personal entertainment system only lacking the porcelain-faced Asian women bringing me hot towels and snacks (which is a downer, because I really liked them, but the fee to bring one home was just too steep.)  Superhusband and I get practically giddy with authority in choosing shows, mainly of home-renovation-theme, and fast-forwarding through all commercials. And if we don’t like a show, we STOP it.  And if we have to go out, we STOP it.  It is as if the entire home-entertainment industry may not proceed without our express consent.

 

I like the idea so much that I began thinking about other things that I would like to be able to “ON DEMAND.”  Food, that’s one.  Imagine the possibilities if I could speak the word “CAKE” and one appear before me?  And if it’s not a flavor I liked? I could send it back to the ether along with all the calories I consumed.  All that would be lost is the time I took to taste it.  Now that’s power. Or if I could say “FAMILY” and they would appear, and press pause and they’d stay healthy. If I could say “CHILDREN” and immediately have a brood of my own—or better yet “GRANDCHILDREN” and I could just skip to the spoiling them part of the story and not have to actually put in the hard years of disciplining impressionable beings. I could say “HOUSE” and either get our home completely renovated or have Hugh Laurie appear before me brashly.  I’d be okay with whichever.

 

Then, this morning, Superhusband and I were listening to one of our favorite on-air local preachers while we were getting ready for our home-congregation’s worship service.  His message was about filling our spiritual gas tank, and about how God doesn’t give us an “empty light” because He never intended us to get low on fuel. We were made to be full and made to be driven. Then I thought, reverently, what if Spiritual help was “ON DEMAND?”  Then a second later I thought, “Oh…it is. I just don’t push the button.”

 

I am determined to make more use of the incredible, supernatural, magnificent, magnanimous, graceful help of my Lord than I have before. Things in my recent life have been raw and scary and twisted and really sometimes quite pathetic. I have felt so burdened and blinded, self-righteous and selfish—and honestly so convinced of my own opinion on a subject that I would physically choke any nay-sayers with my tiny bare hands (at least to where they pass out. Don’t act like you’ve never felt that way.) But all I really have to do is submit to prayer. Live the discipline, and my ON DEMAND help will be delivered straight to my consciousness.  It might not change my circumstances, but it WILL change my perception. He can do that.  I need to act like I believe that the Loving Being who spoke all things into reality can, will, and will always listen to me.  Especially when I’m not making sense to anyone else.  Especially when I’m so knotted up in what I think and my “rights” that I can’t see straight. Even when I want what is wrong, He can deliver right thinking. If you see me not acting on this belief, call me on it. Demand it even.

 

Now, I’ve got more “Rehab Addict” to attend to. As always, thanks for reading.

Two scoops of blue shag, and other "shouldn't haves"

 

It is now May. While my mind feels as though the dust is still swirling, my body and the calendar tell me that a lot has settled in the last five months (mainly that my Superhusband is a green-card-carrying permanent resident of the U S of A!). Spring has sprung in North Alabama, and as my BEST cousin “Kitty” said, “Now that you’ve got an apartment, a garden, and a new stove, it’s time for another blog.” We have tallied many adventures betwixt then and now, so don’t hold your breath while you read. It’s going to be a doozie.

 

Between November 7 and December 9, 2012, Superhusband and I drove the entire width of Australia. Twice. That’s a little over 2,000 miles in a four-door Ford Falcon pulling our beloved 14-foot caravan.  We conquered deserts, forests, inland metropolises like Salmon Gums and Eucla, and even drove the Nullarbor Plain where the horizon was set by spirit level. We paid, in American terms, roughly $15 a gallon for gas. We witnessed a dust storm first hand, changed a flat tire on the crispy South Australian asphalt, and met countless Irish twenty-somethings earning five times their normal wage to spend their gap years bartending in forsaken outposts. Superhusband I together visited our first American Consulate in Sydney, and had the interview of our lives in a room reminiscent of a DMV. (If there are any Australian readers here, that interview was given to us by a woman who freakishly resembled the large, island woman in the insurance commercials who proclaims “Rhonda is mine!” Americans, you can google it.) We even celebrated our first anniversary and our second Thanksgiving on the road. That Thanksgiving dinner was complete with a turkey roast, dressing, asparagus and cheese sauce, cranberry sauce, and roasted sweet potatoes—ALL made in the caravan parked in the Lane Cove River nature preserve north of Sydney. I even got to SEE a live turkey that morning.  Unfortunately he was pecking through our garbage. What a trip.

 

 The summer had started to swelter in WA, and I tried to stamp all of the colors into my memory before our long journeys outward.  There is a reason that few impressionist painters are bred in Australia—those hazy, smooshy, feathered colors are part of reality in France, or Virginia, or even around the smoky swamps of Louisiana. They are far from the vision of Australia, especially its West.  Somewhere between Toodyay and Cocklebiddy, God cleaned off his palate knife, scraping huge clumps of color into the landscape.  The gum trees have a dark green-black oiliness that shimmers like taffy above the brick red rocks.  The sky is Looney-Tunes blue with creamy, muscular white clouds that make you think there’s a tiny train puffing away on a track just out of view.  The Indian Ocean is unadulterated turquoise; the sand stark eggshell. It’s a place of dust and sun and waves and bizarre creatures and musical, guttural language. There is no subtly in Australia. The land and the people are equally bold. It has made a dent in my psyche, and I will be forever changed and grateful.

 

We left Australia for England on Christmas Eve 2012. Then there’s English Christmas. After a roughly 20-hour flight and a surreal stop-over in Singapore where forty-foot Christmas trees bubbled with orchids of every description in every corner of the airport, we touched down in Manchester at 8am on Christmas day.  Uncle Alec was our welcoming committee in the frigid drizzle, and in just over an hour we were enveloped in the arms and 80-degrees-warm house of Auntie Maureen.  We had coffee and home-made mince pies (there should be a whole post devoted to these later.  Maybe I’ll write one post for the sugar-coated, perfectly crumbly pastry, and a WHOLE ‘nother post for the spicy fruit filling.  You just can’t understand.) We got freshened up a bit and then walked to “pop ‘round” to Superhusband’s cousin’s house.  We “rugged up” in our scarves and hats and boots and clomped intrepidly through a back lane from one side of Moss Side, Leyland to the other.  The cold, damp air was almost unbreathable, and the sound of my boots on the broken asphalt was so sharp and loud (after some jetlag, to be fair) it was unnerving.  It was as though Singapore Airlines had developed a wormhole and spit us out on another planet—the realities of Australia and England could not have been further apart without including extra terrestrials. The next few days were a flurry of new family faces, bone-chilling winds, ivy-covered cottages gripping the damp, green hills, and more roasted food than I have ever encountered in one place in my life.  I developed a love for my new family and for parsnips, in that order.

 

Unfortunately, while I was meeting and/or reconnecting with my new family, my old family was straining under the weight of new burdens. My newest nephew was delivered a month early because of my sister-in-law’s ill health; my grandfather was put in the hospital that same time. As my parents tried to cope with round-the-clock care for them, my father’s health was in decline.  We got the call on December 29^th that Dad was in the hospital for emergency amputation of his left leg. His father, my Pappaw, died on January 5. Dad didn’t even get to go to the funeral. And I was left to play out all of this range of emotions in front of caring, yet fairly unfamiliar, people a half-world away from home.  All of England’s beauty couldn’t buy me comfort.

 

But it was useless being depressed.  Superhusband and I plucked up our spirits and saw some of the most breath-taking things on the planet. I stood in the room where Shakespeare was born. I ate icecream made on-site at a dairy farm near Blackpool. I met my husband’s best friend that he’s known since the age of 4. I got to stand on a mountain in Wales. (Every inch of that tiny highland nation is fascinating, and our family in Ruthin gives the best guided tours. If you need some vacation ideas, let me know—I will hook you up!) And then our three weeks of the old country were done, and it was time to move on.  We flew back to Australia for three weeks and final goodbyes, and after a serendipitously missed flight and a grand overnight stay in Sydney, we were off to America to start over.

 

I have found that you never really understand a place until you’ve seen it through someone else’s eyes.  This has been my experience with Superhusband’s adjustment to my childhood home of Florence, AL. Just like I was in Australia, now he is here: struggling with feeling grown-up and self-sufficient in a place with all different rules, different notions of correctness, different practices of the postal service, etc. I never knew how many burger joints there were in Florence until we started looking for something other than burgers to eat.  Before I travelled to Australia I had a sneaking suspicion that cream cheese wontons weren’t authentically Chinese, but now I know for certain, and it has cast a different light on my beloved Peking Buffet. And if it weren’t for a new Publix opening up on Cox Creek Parkway, we would have had to send to Perth to get our HP Sauce! So many differences. So many challenges. I’m waiting for the “so much reward” part. 

 

On top of this, we have been working our fingers to the bone and have not earned one, red cent. As you may have guessed, we are not a couple who settles for predictability, our new life here has started with some overwhelmingly huge tasks. Well, task. We are currently renovating a house my father sold to us for $10. And by renovating, I mean excavating.  Let me explain.

 

The house has been un-lived-in for about ten years, and unlivable for five. It’s a 1940’s dormer bungalow with three bedrooms and ¾ acre of land. Two of the bedrooms, all of the common rooms, and half of the land were filled with my father’s “collections.” We are not talking art, were talking junk. Out of date car seats, soda bottles, pesticide pumps, boxes of screws, a 1970 year book from a school that none of our family attended, paint rollers still in their packaging, plastic beads, play-doh, aluminum cans, boxes of fabric, pictures of people we don’t know, funeral flowers, 1960’s elementary science books, my homework papers from 1988, ruined shoes, dirty blankets, roughly 200 cans of paint in rusty buckets, old shingles, two derelict water heaters, three rolls of waterlogged fiberglass insulation, dolls, keepsakes, angle iron, five non-functioning chainsaws, good china, McDonald’s happy meal toys….and in the back room which had been partially knocked off the house by a tree, a blue shag carpet so old and rotten that it had to be removed with shovels…….all coexist and molder on the property. Some days I feel like I must know how those mucking out after hurricane Katrina must felt—only the hurricane is someone I love. It started out as a desire to help others; to fix and mend and restore and bless, just like a hurricane starts as a small trough of low pressure which brings much-needed rain to a parched region. It breaks my heart to hear all of the “shouldn’t haves” that are echoed from the piles.

 

So that’s where we are. Each day we laugh a little, cry a little, work a little, and dream big. We fellowship with our new church family, bake exotic cakes, and have the privilege of seeing our oldest nephew performing a fantastic rendition of an elephant in the kindergarten program. We are learning the joys of being still. I’ll save more detail for next time—I’ve got to call Superhusband who is currently concreting in a post for our fence. Until then, love from Blunderwoman.