It has been a stressful few days. Stress relief came in a most unusual way this evening. Mr. Lincoln, lovely man that he is, drives MP to Vanderbilt most Saturday and Sunday mornings. I might add that he always stops at McDonald's and gets me a large Diet Coke. He does not approve of my beverage of choice, but he buys one for me anyway. This morning was no exception. Did I mention that she goes to work at 5:45? It is a Switzer thing to leave home an hour and fifteen minutes before one has to be at work some fifteen minutes from home. He returned home, ran for about two hours, helped babysit both boys, went to the office downtown and worked three or more hours, returned home to drive me to Stallworth to visit my mother so that I would not have to walk very far as I am dealing with issues from the hamstring pull I accomplished during the infamous reindeer antler retrieval event, drove home, watched a little football before returning to Vanderbilt to pick me up and wait for MP's text that she was headed down at which time he departs his holding spot to time the pick up perfectly. What a man!!!
Things went a bit awry, however. MP's text "I'm headed down" came in so we pulled out to drive the two blocks to meet her. At the light at 25th and Children's Way, a CSO (Community Service Officer) was stopped. We could tell that he was either texting or surfing the web on his phone. When the light turned green, Mr. CSO #972 did not move. Mr. Lincoln did what anyone would do in the circumstance; he gently tapped his horn to make the distracted officer aware that the light had changed. There was no response, so Mr. L. tapped again, then again, a bit more forcefully, then again. At this time, the officer got out of his car, walked back in a semi-menacing demeanor demanding, "what's the problem?"
"I am trying to get by so that I can pick up my daughter and you are just sitting there."
"Go around!"
So, Mr. L. backed up to get around the CSO (we were thinking perhaps he flunked out of CSI school) and promptly hit the car behind us. The lady driving said car was most displeased. We are not sure why because prior to this fender bender, the front grill of her car was dangling, there was about an 18 inch section missing, and a long scratch down the side that never came in contact with Mr. L's vehicle. We figured that she was no stranger to minor accidents. Her upset seemed a bit extreme so Mr. Lincoln asked, "is anyone dead?" She was not amused and demanded an "inspection."
The police officer who was called to the scene of the accident commented that the CSO was the whole cause of the accident, and tried to convince the lady to just forget the whole thing. She was having none of it, so the officer asked, "did this damage happen just now?" "No." "Did this?" "No." "Or this?" "No." "Then what is the problem." "I think I see a scratch."
So all information was exchanged. In the meantime on the sidewalk the intoxicated gentleman who had just jumped into the CSO's truck was waving his arms, trying to stand on one foot, and seemingly explaining something of great consequence.
Finally, the traffic officer returned Mr. L's insurance card and license asking him to pull on up so the lady with the banged up car did not back into him. The CSO began to back up coming at a rate of speed that caused the traffic officer to exclaim, "holy #%$x, that guy is giving me a heart attack."
Laughter ensued. Stress relieved.
So for today, I wish you non injurious moments of hilarity, and I wish you
Blessings
Saturday, December 14, 2013
Saturday, November 23, 2013
We Knew This Day Was Coming
My heart is not here today. I have much to do to prepare for the 35 or so coming for Thanksgiving and for a rather large party on the 8th, so my body is in Nashville, but my heart is in Martin. This is a day I have known was coming for quite some time. It has been kept quiet so as not to draw attention. It is a day that for most will seem "so what," but it is very significant in my dear Mr. Lincoln's life. You see, today is the last day he will stand on a football field as a college football official. It is the end of an era. He chose the date, and once it was chosen, there was no going back. He is leaving officiating on his own terms.
Mr. Lincoln will be emotional. Those of you who know him best will not be surprised by this. He is just an old softy. He is wise, and so he will soak in every bit of this day. I think he told his crew last night that next year they will have another leader. Perhaps, they had already caught wind of his retirement, and have waited for him to make it official. Perhaps, they were surprised. Whichever, they are going to miss him.
He has put so much energy and effort into being the best football official that he could be. He knows those rules forward and backward. His crew has to be one of the best prepared that ever hit a field. There was never danger that Mr. Lincoln would embarrass his organization by acting the fool in any shape or form. One of his fellow officials, who understands the significance of this day, sent him a lovely email yesterday. He said that Mr. Lincoln had always conducted himself as a "man of God" on the field and off. What more can anyone say of a person's influence?
I think of Marshall's last football game in high school, how as he walked off the field, he turned and looked back to soak it all in. He was etching that moment in his memory. It was such a poignant moment. Mr. Lincoln was crying then too. I know he will follow his son's example this afternoon and turn to look back and etch the moment in his mind.
My heart is not here. You may wonder why that is true while my body is in Nashville. Mr. Lincoln said, "do not show up at the ballgame. If I look up in the stands and see you, I will lose it." So, I will be here, cooking and cleaning and decorating and ironing, but my heart won't be in it, for my heart is with Mr. Lincoln today.
For today, I wish you the ability to mark life's special events, be they sad, happy, frustrating or poignant. I wish you someone to love, and I wish you
blessings
Mr. Lincoln will be emotional. Those of you who know him best will not be surprised by this. He is just an old softy. He is wise, and so he will soak in every bit of this day. I think he told his crew last night that next year they will have another leader. Perhaps, they had already caught wind of his retirement, and have waited for him to make it official. Perhaps, they were surprised. Whichever, they are going to miss him.
He has put so much energy and effort into being the best football official that he could be. He knows those rules forward and backward. His crew has to be one of the best prepared that ever hit a field. There was never danger that Mr. Lincoln would embarrass his organization by acting the fool in any shape or form. One of his fellow officials, who understands the significance of this day, sent him a lovely email yesterday. He said that Mr. Lincoln had always conducted himself as a "man of God" on the field and off. What more can anyone say of a person's influence?
I think of Marshall's last football game in high school, how as he walked off the field, he turned and looked back to soak it all in. He was etching that moment in his memory. It was such a poignant moment. Mr. Lincoln was crying then too. I know he will follow his son's example this afternoon and turn to look back and etch the moment in his mind.
My heart is not here. You may wonder why that is true while my body is in Nashville. Mr. Lincoln said, "do not show up at the ballgame. If I look up in the stands and see you, I will lose it." So, I will be here, cooking and cleaning and decorating and ironing, but my heart won't be in it, for my heart is with Mr. Lincoln today.
For today, I wish you the ability to mark life's special events, be they sad, happy, frustrating or poignant. I wish you someone to love, and I wish you
blessings
Wednesday, November 20, 2013
Sometimes, the Thing is not the Thing
Recently, I heard the story of a grandmother whose two teenage grandsons dropped by, spur of the moment, to ask her to go to dinner. She said she had already eaten. She did not go. That story got me to thinking about how often what seems to be the main thing is not the thing at all. Those boys stopping by to invite their grandmother to dinner had nothing to do with food. It had everything to do with being together. My first instinct was to be angry at her. My second, was to feel badly for her. She missed a wonderful opportunity to spend time in the presence of young people...young people who were seeking her out. I wonder if she regretted her decision after they left. I do not wish her regrets, but I do wish her to revisit that decision. I hope next time she will go, and make a sweet memory for her grandsons and herself. And, I hope she pays for dinner.
That got me to thinking about a time when a man I know planned a trip for his dad to Chicago to see the Cubs play. Now, this dad was a huge Cubs fan, and had passed that insanity on to his son. The father was aging. He was not ill, but he was aging, and the son felt the need to do something nice for his dad, and to spend time with him. The son planned everything. He was paying for it all - travel, lodging, food, tickets to the game at Wrigley Field. Everything was set. A couple days before the grand adventure, the father called his son to say that the weather forecast predicted rain in Chicago, and the game would probably be rained out so he was not going to go. You see, the thing was not the game. The thing was spending time with a son who planned a trip around his father's interests. That was the thing. As it turned out, it was a beautiful day in Chicago, the game did not get rained out, the Cubs won (a red letter day any way you look at it), and those tickets went unused. That father is gone now. He missed his opportunity. I wonder if he ever regretted his decision.
If you read this blog, you are aware that I often travel to the beach with two friends. We go different times of the year. I have had people say, "aren't you afraid it will be cold in November" or "the weather might not be good" or "it rains a lot there in August." My reply is always, "we don't care." While we all love the beach, the thing is not the beach. The thing is being in each other's company. Nice weather is great, but one of our most fun trips was when tropical storm Isabelle (I think) hit Gulf Shores. It was awesome, and I mean that not in the present day vernacular but in the Webster definition of "inspiring a mixed feeling of reverence and fear." Awesome!!!
Well, let me say, I have certainly been guilty many times in my life of thinking the thing was the thing when indeed it was not. As I age, however, I try to pay attention, and see, what I learned in mediation classes, is "below the line." Below the line is where you will find the thing that is the thing.
A note to Simeon and Max - do not ever come by my house and invite me to do anything or go anywhere if you do not want me. If I ever say to you, "I have already eaten," immediately call 911 for I am very, very ill.
For today, I wish you the wisdom to recognize that thing that is the thing, and I wish you
blessings
That got me to thinking about a time when a man I know planned a trip for his dad to Chicago to see the Cubs play. Now, this dad was a huge Cubs fan, and had passed that insanity on to his son. The father was aging. He was not ill, but he was aging, and the son felt the need to do something nice for his dad, and to spend time with him. The son planned everything. He was paying for it all - travel, lodging, food, tickets to the game at Wrigley Field. Everything was set. A couple days before the grand adventure, the father called his son to say that the weather forecast predicted rain in Chicago, and the game would probably be rained out so he was not going to go. You see, the thing was not the game. The thing was spending time with a son who planned a trip around his father's interests. That was the thing. As it turned out, it was a beautiful day in Chicago, the game did not get rained out, the Cubs won (a red letter day any way you look at it), and those tickets went unused. That father is gone now. He missed his opportunity. I wonder if he ever regretted his decision.
If you read this blog, you are aware that I often travel to the beach with two friends. We go different times of the year. I have had people say, "aren't you afraid it will be cold in November" or "the weather might not be good" or "it rains a lot there in August." My reply is always, "we don't care." While we all love the beach, the thing is not the beach. The thing is being in each other's company. Nice weather is great, but one of our most fun trips was when tropical storm Isabelle (I think) hit Gulf Shores. It was awesome, and I mean that not in the present day vernacular but in the Webster definition of "inspiring a mixed feeling of reverence and fear." Awesome!!!
Well, let me say, I have certainly been guilty many times in my life of thinking the thing was the thing when indeed it was not. As I age, however, I try to pay attention, and see, what I learned in mediation classes, is "below the line." Below the line is where you will find the thing that is the thing.
A note to Simeon and Max - do not ever come by my house and invite me to do anything or go anywhere if you do not want me. If I ever say to you, "I have already eaten," immediately call 911 for I am very, very ill.
For today, I wish you the wisdom to recognize that thing that is the thing, and I wish you
blessings
First Memory
A friend forwarded a short article her brother-in-law wrote about his memories of the Kennedy assassination. It got me to wool gathering. First of all, it is almost unfathomable that I am old enough to remember something that happened 50 years ago. How can that be, when on lots of days I do not feel much older than I was the day the event occurred? Well, maybe a bit older, just to avoid those terribly awkward years as opposed to my present moderately awkward self.
So, some randomly to-the-best-of-my-ability-to-remember gathered thoughts.
I was eleven years old in the sixth grade. Mrs. Simpson was my teacher. It was my second year to have her. When in 5th grade, I was in a split grade with 6th graders. I think, academically, a split grade was advantageous to the lower grade, and not so much for the higher one. I learned lattice multiplication in the 5th grade as Mrs. Simpson explained it to the 6th graders. No doubt, I was supposed to be studying something assigned to us lowly 5th graders.
I remember three distinct times that I got into trouble in elementary school. The first time was in first grade when I talked during devotional, was asked if I wanted to go to the cloak room, thought I was told to, and spent quite some time there wondering if Mrs. McPherson had forgotten me. She had. Nancy saved me when Mrs. McPherson called on me to answer a question and realized I was not there. The second time was in 5th grade when I was talking as Mrs. Simpson worked a math problem on the board. She asked who was talking, and 3 of us were honest (stupid) enough to admit to our sin. She called us to the board, gave us a math problem to work as she walked behind us keeping up a constant monologue of chatter. This was to show us how difficult it was to work a problem in front of a class of disrespectful chattering students. She then sent us to our seats and began to work the very problem she had given us errant students. I turned to whomever was sitting next to me and said, "if she gets the same answer I got...." at which time Mrs. Simpson spun around and asked who was talking. I reluctantly raised my hand. The terrible embarrassment of that moment has blurred what came next. I still get that down-in-a-barrel, red-faced feeling when I think of it.
The third time was in sixth grade, the day John Kennedy was assassinated. When I was told that the president had been shot, I was in the workroom of the library cleaning up a mess I had left. My housekeeping skills have been fairly consistent throughout my life - pitiful! Apparently, when asked who had left the craft sticks in the giant jar of paste, I was the only one who confessed. Personally, I am fairly certain that even I did not leave that many sticks in the paste, but there I was cleaning the mess up when Mrs. Melin, the librarian, told me to go back to class. The TV's were on as we watched the breaking news of the president having been shot. If I recall correctly, school was let out early. It did not take an act of congress or God for schools to be dismissed 50 years ago.
There was nothing on the TV but coverage of the assassination. News came in about an arrest of a man named Lee Harvey Oswald. All sorts of information about him was being aired. We watched the swearing in of Lyndon Johnson as president. We caught glimpses of Mrs. Kennedy, still in the pink suit. We heard the doctor announce the time of death. It was like watching a train wreck. That was Friday. Saturday came. There was only this national event in any of the news. I learned much later that C.S. Lewis, a great man and favorite author of Christians around the world, also died November 22, 1963. On Sunday, I stayed home from church with my dad as I was sick with a cold. Daddy was in the kitchen as I watched, live on TV, Jack Ruby step out and shoot Lee Harvey Oswald. I shouted out what had happened and Daddy came running. It was only later that I understood that I saw live, in real time, a man being shot to death.
The world was going mad. The age of innocence for citizens of the United States was rapidly coming to a close. We did not know it that weekend, but trust for our government was in a downward spiral. The Warren Commission Report, for many, was one of the first nails in that coffin. Political officials from every level have been hammering nails into the coffin of governmental trust and ethics ever since. The funeral, even for an eleven-year-old (especially for an eleven-year-old) was a paradox of horror and pomp and circumstance. But, even the death of the president of the United States does not halt the rising and setting of the sun.
The day after the funeral, school commenced. It was the first event of national consequence that I hold in my conscious memory. Mr. Lincoln remembers well the Cuban Missile Crisis, but my only memory of it was a night of extreme disquiet, crying, asking my dad if the world was about to be destroyed by war. He assured me that it would not. I trusted him.
Later, in high school, I visited President Kennedy's grave in Arlington National Cemetery. I was a junior in high school, and neither appreciated nor understood the significance of all that I saw on that class trip to Washington D.C. I did grasp the reasons for the solemnity at that grave. Years later, I visited Dealy Plaza in Dallas. I went to the book depository. I looked out that window. I have read several books on these events. I once told Mr. Lincoln that when I got to heaven I was going to ask God who shot JFK. Mr. Lincoln assured me that it would not matter then. I am certain he is right.
So, on this, the almost eve of the 50th anniversary of the assassination of John F. Kennedy, I wish you a moment to reflect, and I wish you
blessings
So, some randomly to-the-best-of-my-ability-to-remember gathered thoughts.
I was eleven years old in the sixth grade. Mrs. Simpson was my teacher. It was my second year to have her. When in 5th grade, I was in a split grade with 6th graders. I think, academically, a split grade was advantageous to the lower grade, and not so much for the higher one. I learned lattice multiplication in the 5th grade as Mrs. Simpson explained it to the 6th graders. No doubt, I was supposed to be studying something assigned to us lowly 5th graders.
I remember three distinct times that I got into trouble in elementary school. The first time was in first grade when I talked during devotional, was asked if I wanted to go to the cloak room, thought I was told to, and spent quite some time there wondering if Mrs. McPherson had forgotten me. She had. Nancy saved me when Mrs. McPherson called on me to answer a question and realized I was not there. The second time was in 5th grade when I was talking as Mrs. Simpson worked a math problem on the board. She asked who was talking, and 3 of us were honest (stupid) enough to admit to our sin. She called us to the board, gave us a math problem to work as she walked behind us keeping up a constant monologue of chatter. This was to show us how difficult it was to work a problem in front of a class of disrespectful chattering students. She then sent us to our seats and began to work the very problem she had given us errant students. I turned to whomever was sitting next to me and said, "if she gets the same answer I got...." at which time Mrs. Simpson spun around and asked who was talking. I reluctantly raised my hand. The terrible embarrassment of that moment has blurred what came next. I still get that down-in-a-barrel, red-faced feeling when I think of it.
The third time was in sixth grade, the day John Kennedy was assassinated. When I was told that the president had been shot, I was in the workroom of the library cleaning up a mess I had left. My housekeeping skills have been fairly consistent throughout my life - pitiful! Apparently, when asked who had left the craft sticks in the giant jar of paste, I was the only one who confessed. Personally, I am fairly certain that even I did not leave that many sticks in the paste, but there I was cleaning the mess up when Mrs. Melin, the librarian, told me to go back to class. The TV's were on as we watched the breaking news of the president having been shot. If I recall correctly, school was let out early. It did not take an act of congress or God for schools to be dismissed 50 years ago.
There was nothing on the TV but coverage of the assassination. News came in about an arrest of a man named Lee Harvey Oswald. All sorts of information about him was being aired. We watched the swearing in of Lyndon Johnson as president. We caught glimpses of Mrs. Kennedy, still in the pink suit. We heard the doctor announce the time of death. It was like watching a train wreck. That was Friday. Saturday came. There was only this national event in any of the news. I learned much later that C.S. Lewis, a great man and favorite author of Christians around the world, also died November 22, 1963. On Sunday, I stayed home from church with my dad as I was sick with a cold. Daddy was in the kitchen as I watched, live on TV, Jack Ruby step out and shoot Lee Harvey Oswald. I shouted out what had happened and Daddy came running. It was only later that I understood that I saw live, in real time, a man being shot to death.
The world was going mad. The age of innocence for citizens of the United States was rapidly coming to a close. We did not know it that weekend, but trust for our government was in a downward spiral. The Warren Commission Report, for many, was one of the first nails in that coffin. Political officials from every level have been hammering nails into the coffin of governmental trust and ethics ever since. The funeral, even for an eleven-year-old (especially for an eleven-year-old) was a paradox of horror and pomp and circumstance. But, even the death of the president of the United States does not halt the rising and setting of the sun.
The day after the funeral, school commenced. It was the first event of national consequence that I hold in my conscious memory. Mr. Lincoln remembers well the Cuban Missile Crisis, but my only memory of it was a night of extreme disquiet, crying, asking my dad if the world was about to be destroyed by war. He assured me that it would not. I trusted him.
Later, in high school, I visited President Kennedy's grave in Arlington National Cemetery. I was a junior in high school, and neither appreciated nor understood the significance of all that I saw on that class trip to Washington D.C. I did grasp the reasons for the solemnity at that grave. Years later, I visited Dealy Plaza in Dallas. I went to the book depository. I looked out that window. I have read several books on these events. I once told Mr. Lincoln that when I got to heaven I was going to ask God who shot JFK. Mr. Lincoln assured me that it would not matter then. I am certain he is right.
So, on this, the almost eve of the 50th anniversary of the assassination of John F. Kennedy, I wish you a moment to reflect, and I wish you
blessings
Thursday, November 14, 2013
How Mysterious
On some level, I hesitate to write this blog for fear that the emphasis will be misplaced. This is not a blog about me. This is a blog about the mysterious way it seems (to me) that God moves in this world. It is such a trivial thing about which I blog, but I am convinced that it was not coincidence. I certainly have no idea whatsoever what the point is or what it means. Riveting, huh?
After spending part of the morning with MP and Simeon at Hobby Lobby not getting the 50% off the items I purchased, I returned home facing dirty dishes, dirty clothes, floors that need to be vacuumed, a dining room table that needs clearing and cleaning, and possibly, just possibly, some dinner that needs to be at least considered. So, I did what seemed reasonable to me, I left home to go look for a birthday present for MP. She will be 33 tomorrow. What? How did that happen???
My intention was to get to the store where I wanted to shop before the really awful Green Hills lunch traffic commenced. I had a small window of opportunity to accomplish that, but it looked as though I was going to be successful. As I waited to turn left, on the right side of the street stood a young man with a small cardboard sign. I could not read it from my car, but I was fairly certain it did not say something as simple has "have a nice day."
Thus, began the all-to-familiar dialogue with the Holy Spirit. It went something like this:
H.S. - You are going to have to get closer to read the sign...if you must, for I am fairly certain you have an idea what the sign says.
Me - Do you remember last week when I sat in really awful Green Hills lunch traffic....forever?
H.S. - You call that forever? Ha! Go read the sign.
Me - I'm in the wrong lane.
H.S - Do you see any traffic coming in the other lane? Who do you think arranged that? Go read the sign.
Me - OKAY!! (The sign said - "Homeless. Anything will help.")
I pulled over into the astonishingly empty right lane, rolled my window down and asked if the young man needed lunch. He said he would definitely be glad to have some lunch. I told him to wait, and I would be back as quickly as possible to bring him some food.
I hurried to Kroger and bought a hot lunch - pot roast, mashed potatoes, green beans, caramel cake, an apple, and 2 cartons of milk, one plain one chocolate. I wasted no time in getting back to the corner where I left the young man. What?
Me - He's gone. The boy is gone. Really, he could not wait 15 minutes for lunch. I don't want this lunch. Seriously, what was this little exercise about?
H.S. - Look around. Pay attention.
I look around and then I see the Contributor Seller who sells on the corner opposite the one where the boy was standing. He is in a wheel chair. He is missing one leg from the knee down.
H.S. - Think he might like lunch?
Me - I don't want to insult him. People think they don't have jobs, but standing/sitting on the sidewalk all day selling papers is a job...and a hard one. I don't want to insult him.
H.S. - How will you know if you don't ask?
Me - OKAY!
So, I walk over to the Contributor Seller and asked if he would allow me to give him lunch. He looked startled and asked me to repeat my question. I asked again if he would allow me to give him lunch. He was thrilled. Thanked me profusely. Wished God's blessings on me.
I did not explain that in some strange way, God had just sent me on a blessed wild goose chase. I have no idea where the young man went. Certainly, he could have believed that I would not come back. He does not know me. I suspect he has been disappointed by people on numerous occasions. My prayer is that someone bolder and braver than I came by, picked him up, took him to lunch, and then found him shelter with one of the organizations set up to aid those in his situation. I hope that is what happened. Most likely, I will never know.
I left, went to the store that was my original destination, got a gift, ate salted caramel yogurt with Heath Crunch for lunch, came home and did a bit of laundry and a few dishes. I have much left to do this day. It might get done. It might not.
Now, I know there are those who will read this blog and think it a bunch of hogwash. They will be gracious enough to not say it, however. I get that lots of people think that it is absurd for me to believe that God's Holy Spirit has time to converse with the likes of me, or for me to even believe in that spirit at all. I know it makes me sound like a ding-a-ling to some. I get that. I sort of sound like a nut job to myself, but I still believe it. I do. And, I might be so naïve, or childish, or imbecilic as to believe that really good parking space I got in the midst of really awful Green Hills lunch traffic was not a coincidence either.
Today, I wish you love and
blessings
After spending part of the morning with MP and Simeon at Hobby Lobby not getting the 50% off the items I purchased, I returned home facing dirty dishes, dirty clothes, floors that need to be vacuumed, a dining room table that needs clearing and cleaning, and possibly, just possibly, some dinner that needs to be at least considered. So, I did what seemed reasonable to me, I left home to go look for a birthday present for MP. She will be 33 tomorrow. What? How did that happen???
My intention was to get to the store where I wanted to shop before the really awful Green Hills lunch traffic commenced. I had a small window of opportunity to accomplish that, but it looked as though I was going to be successful. As I waited to turn left, on the right side of the street stood a young man with a small cardboard sign. I could not read it from my car, but I was fairly certain it did not say something as simple has "have a nice day."
Thus, began the all-to-familiar dialogue with the Holy Spirit. It went something like this:
H.S. - You are going to have to get closer to read the sign...if you must, for I am fairly certain you have an idea what the sign says.
Me - Do you remember last week when I sat in really awful Green Hills lunch traffic....forever?
H.S. - You call that forever? Ha! Go read the sign.
Me - I'm in the wrong lane.
H.S - Do you see any traffic coming in the other lane? Who do you think arranged that? Go read the sign.
Me - OKAY!! (The sign said - "Homeless. Anything will help.")
I pulled over into the astonishingly empty right lane, rolled my window down and asked if the young man needed lunch. He said he would definitely be glad to have some lunch. I told him to wait, and I would be back as quickly as possible to bring him some food.
I hurried to Kroger and bought a hot lunch - pot roast, mashed potatoes, green beans, caramel cake, an apple, and 2 cartons of milk, one plain one chocolate. I wasted no time in getting back to the corner where I left the young man. What?
Me - He's gone. The boy is gone. Really, he could not wait 15 minutes for lunch. I don't want this lunch. Seriously, what was this little exercise about?
H.S. - Look around. Pay attention.
I look around and then I see the Contributor Seller who sells on the corner opposite the one where the boy was standing. He is in a wheel chair. He is missing one leg from the knee down.
H.S. - Think he might like lunch?
Me - I don't want to insult him. People think they don't have jobs, but standing/sitting on the sidewalk all day selling papers is a job...and a hard one. I don't want to insult him.
H.S. - How will you know if you don't ask?
Me - OKAY!
So, I walk over to the Contributor Seller and asked if he would allow me to give him lunch. He looked startled and asked me to repeat my question. I asked again if he would allow me to give him lunch. He was thrilled. Thanked me profusely. Wished God's blessings on me.
I did not explain that in some strange way, God had just sent me on a blessed wild goose chase. I have no idea where the young man went. Certainly, he could have believed that I would not come back. He does not know me. I suspect he has been disappointed by people on numerous occasions. My prayer is that someone bolder and braver than I came by, picked him up, took him to lunch, and then found him shelter with one of the organizations set up to aid those in his situation. I hope that is what happened. Most likely, I will never know.
I left, went to the store that was my original destination, got a gift, ate salted caramel yogurt with Heath Crunch for lunch, came home and did a bit of laundry and a few dishes. I have much left to do this day. It might get done. It might not.
Now, I know there are those who will read this blog and think it a bunch of hogwash. They will be gracious enough to not say it, however. I get that lots of people think that it is absurd for me to believe that God's Holy Spirit has time to converse with the likes of me, or for me to even believe in that spirit at all. I know it makes me sound like a ding-a-ling to some. I get that. I sort of sound like a nut job to myself, but I still believe it. I do. And, I might be so naïve, or childish, or imbecilic as to believe that really good parking space I got in the midst of really awful Green Hills lunch traffic was not a coincidence either.
Today, I wish you love and
blessings
Tuesday, November 12, 2013
The World Outside My Living Room Window
As I lay on the sofa resting before a party I am helping to host tonight, I ponder the changes outside my living room window. I spend a lot of time on that sofa, gazing out the window. When Simeon is here, in my lap, on that sofa is the only place he will sleep. I call myself the Fluffo. During those three or four hour naps, I have some time to contemplate the world outside that big picture window.
I watch the seasons change. Today, the wind is blowing. The brilliant yellow leaves are trying desperately to hang on, but they are dropping rapidly. I watch the leaves from my neighbor's house racing across the street into my yard. I do not care. Max will have even more leaves to walk through and kick up into the air tomorrow. It seems just yesterday that silvery green leaves were holding on tightly as they cast welcome shade on our "elfin al fresco dining spot." We will be seeking sunshine tomorrow as we, perhaps, have our morning snack there. If we are lucky, sometime before new leaves begin to bud, we will see a blanket of snow covering those branches.
Sometimes, as I sit on that sofa, gazing out that window, I see a little boy and his daddy walking down the street. That little one will be talking in his little boy voice...earnestly talking about running, running, running, or pointing out the mailbox, leaves, grass, rocks and sticks as though DaDa needed the lesson. I like to just sit and watch them.
There are those days when I see Sheri driving up the street in George, turning into the driveway either delivering or picking up Max. On rarer occasions I see Marshall in his truck pulling in the drive, possibly dropping his much loved son off to spend the day. Both sets of parents, living with small children, are grateful for a respite. As the parent of adults, I am grateful to be in their presence, whenever I have the opportunity.
Probably, my two favorite sights out that window are when Mr. Lincoln comes home, and when he is out walking with the boys, holding a tiny hand in each of his. I know he is happy. I know they are happy, and while the boys will not remember those specific occasions, their lives are being shaped by those moments with their Fizzie as he gives them undivided attention - carving pumpkins, picking up sticks, throwing leaves into the air, discussing the complexities of life, walking around the block.
In the next week or so, that big window (and all the others) will have to be washed in anticipation of the 35 or so folks coming for Thanksgiving. Mr. Lincoln and I do that together ~ twice a year. Every time it takes about 4 windows before we get the rhythm down, but we work side by side, mainly without talking, to get the job done. There are no curtains on my windows. I dearly love to see out. It is a quiet street. If more than 3 cars come by within an hour or so, I know there is a problem on Harding.
Life is not idyllic. We have problems. We have hurts. We have pettiness. We have pain. We "act the fool" from time to time. But, today, on this sunny, cold, fall afternoon, outside my living room window, life seems pretty fine.
For today, I wish you beautiful sights outside your window, and I wish you
blessings
I watch the seasons change. Today, the wind is blowing. The brilliant yellow leaves are trying desperately to hang on, but they are dropping rapidly. I watch the leaves from my neighbor's house racing across the street into my yard. I do not care. Max will have even more leaves to walk through and kick up into the air tomorrow. It seems just yesterday that silvery green leaves were holding on tightly as they cast welcome shade on our "elfin al fresco dining spot." We will be seeking sunshine tomorrow as we, perhaps, have our morning snack there. If we are lucky, sometime before new leaves begin to bud, we will see a blanket of snow covering those branches.
Sometimes, as I sit on that sofa, gazing out that window, I see a little boy and his daddy walking down the street. That little one will be talking in his little boy voice...earnestly talking about running, running, running, or pointing out the mailbox, leaves, grass, rocks and sticks as though DaDa needed the lesson. I like to just sit and watch them.
There are those days when I see Sheri driving up the street in George, turning into the driveway either delivering or picking up Max. On rarer occasions I see Marshall in his truck pulling in the drive, possibly dropping his much loved son off to spend the day. Both sets of parents, living with small children, are grateful for a respite. As the parent of adults, I am grateful to be in their presence, whenever I have the opportunity.
Probably, my two favorite sights out that window are when Mr. Lincoln comes home, and when he is out walking with the boys, holding a tiny hand in each of his. I know he is happy. I know they are happy, and while the boys will not remember those specific occasions, their lives are being shaped by those moments with their Fizzie as he gives them undivided attention - carving pumpkins, picking up sticks, throwing leaves into the air, discussing the complexities of life, walking around the block.
In the next week or so, that big window (and all the others) will have to be washed in anticipation of the 35 or so folks coming for Thanksgiving. Mr. Lincoln and I do that together ~ twice a year. Every time it takes about 4 windows before we get the rhythm down, but we work side by side, mainly without talking, to get the job done. There are no curtains on my windows. I dearly love to see out. It is a quiet street. If more than 3 cars come by within an hour or so, I know there is a problem on Harding.
Life is not idyllic. We have problems. We have hurts. We have pettiness. We have pain. We "act the fool" from time to time. But, today, on this sunny, cold, fall afternoon, outside my living room window, life seems pretty fine.
For today, I wish you beautiful sights outside your window, and I wish you
blessings
Thursday, October 31, 2013
Hauntings of Halloweens Past
I am loving this day. The weather is threatening to get wicked, but for now, it is Halloween perfect. It makes me think of many of the October 31's I have enjoyed.
Random memories in no particular order...isn't that what random means?
Marshall's first-he is 10 days old. I took a picture of him with a giant skeleton's arm around his shoulders.
Mr. Lincoln never participated in Trick or Treating. He said it was because every year his mother threw a sheet over his head, cut two holes out for eyes, and he was a ghost, yet again. Enthusiasm for the holiday did not run high in his home.
My mom decorated lavishly every year. At age 89, she still does. I remember once my dad jumping up from the kitchen table and running into the dining room during dinner. We thought he had lost his mind, but, no, he had noticed a fire reflected in the kitchen window. A papier mâché jack-o-lantern was flaming in the dining room.
Ooh, do I ever remember when my brother held a gun with a firecracker hanging out of the barrel a bit too closely to a burning candle. The deafening explosion sent my mother into conniptions, and caused Mike and his friend to be banned from the house.
When Sam was a baby, my friend, Becky, and I decorated his stroller and took him door to door to collect candy....for us. Our bags were loaded when a neighborhood dog began to eagerly bark and chase us. Becky screamed, threw her bag, candy flying everywhere, as she took off running. I struggled behind her, just as scared, but it would have been difficult to explain to Mom why I had left Sam behind. If I recall, correctly, I saved both Sam and my candy.
Costumes I remember...me as a rather heavy, old lady....actually, I did that twice. The first time was without a mask. No one knew who I was except for my most observant friend, Bernie, who said she recognized my eyes. The second time, my own daddy did not recognize me. Great disguise!! MP as Raggedy Ann, oh, my stars she was precious. Marshall wearing Mr. Lincoln's shoes all day in "Miss" Eva's two-year-old class. He was one cute clown. The kids as headless people, Marshall as the queen, MP as a ghost, and in one snapshot, she looked translucent. That picture still gives me the willies. My parents dressed as little kids from the backcountry with missing teeth. They were a hoot. Mr. Lincoln as a gorilla. He played the part well. Me as a clown that had a frightening resemblance to John Wayne Gacy. Between that and my mother's witch costume, Doree's neighbor children ran out of her house wailing. I felt pretty badly about that one. Oh, and, of course, the cutest little dragon and elephant ever this year.
Times change. My first Halloweens were spent at 1920 Moran. Chili or maybe spaghetti on the menu. Always we had ginger snaps and apple cider. When my children were very young, we continued to go to Mom's. by this point, it was a bit too dangerous to go to just anyone's door so we always saw the Leeches, the Murphy's, and the Kornmeyer's. Rarely did we miss visiting Mr. Roy Acuff 's house. They gave great treats. As my children grew, the Halloween celebration was moved to our house. From here we always went to Mz. Bernie's and Mr. Bud's. wherever else we might have gone, we never missed their house. Then our Halloweens moved to Doree's and Stewart's who lived in the best neighborhoods for trick or treating. I can still see Cole dressed as some sort of specter seemingly floating above ground from house to house. Chili remained on the menu. We rode in the bed of Stewart's pick up truck.
This year, we are back at our house. We will have no trick or treaters....well, I hope not because our front porch is missing. Taco salad is our dinner fare. Max will not be here, but we got to spend Sunday evening with him at Trunk or Treat, which seems the trend these days. Simeon will be here. Channie and Cole have parties to attend. It will not be a rowdy evening, unless the weather takes that wicked turn. It will not be just Halloween 2013 for me. It will be a windswept stroll down Memory Lane.
Random memories in no particular order...isn't that what random means?
Marshall's first-he is 10 days old. I took a picture of him with a giant skeleton's arm around his shoulders.
Mr. Lincoln never participated in Trick or Treating. He said it was because every year his mother threw a sheet over his head, cut two holes out for eyes, and he was a ghost, yet again. Enthusiasm for the holiday did not run high in his home.
My mom decorated lavishly every year. At age 89, she still does. I remember once my dad jumping up from the kitchen table and running into the dining room during dinner. We thought he had lost his mind, but, no, he had noticed a fire reflected in the kitchen window. A papier mâché jack-o-lantern was flaming in the dining room.
Ooh, do I ever remember when my brother held a gun with a firecracker hanging out of the barrel a bit too closely to a burning candle. The deafening explosion sent my mother into conniptions, and caused Mike and his friend to be banned from the house.
When Sam was a baby, my friend, Becky, and I decorated his stroller and took him door to door to collect candy....for us. Our bags were loaded when a neighborhood dog began to eagerly bark and chase us. Becky screamed, threw her bag, candy flying everywhere, as she took off running. I struggled behind her, just as scared, but it would have been difficult to explain to Mom why I had left Sam behind. If I recall, correctly, I saved both Sam and my candy.
Costumes I remember...me as a rather heavy, old lady....actually, I did that twice. The first time was without a mask. No one knew who I was except for my most observant friend, Bernie, who said she recognized my eyes. The second time, my own daddy did not recognize me. Great disguise!! MP as Raggedy Ann, oh, my stars she was precious. Marshall wearing Mr. Lincoln's shoes all day in "Miss" Eva's two-year-old class. He was one cute clown. The kids as headless people, Marshall as the queen, MP as a ghost, and in one snapshot, she looked translucent. That picture still gives me the willies. My parents dressed as little kids from the backcountry with missing teeth. They were a hoot. Mr. Lincoln as a gorilla. He played the part well. Me as a clown that had a frightening resemblance to John Wayne Gacy. Between that and my mother's witch costume, Doree's neighbor children ran out of her house wailing. I felt pretty badly about that one. Oh, and, of course, the cutest little dragon and elephant ever this year.
Times change. My first Halloweens were spent at 1920 Moran. Chili or maybe spaghetti on the menu. Always we had ginger snaps and apple cider. When my children were very young, we continued to go to Mom's. by this point, it was a bit too dangerous to go to just anyone's door so we always saw the Leeches, the Murphy's, and the Kornmeyer's. Rarely did we miss visiting Mr. Roy Acuff 's house. They gave great treats. As my children grew, the Halloween celebration was moved to our house. From here we always went to Mz. Bernie's and Mr. Bud's. wherever else we might have gone, we never missed their house. Then our Halloweens moved to Doree's and Stewart's who lived in the best neighborhoods for trick or treating. I can still see Cole dressed as some sort of specter seemingly floating above ground from house to house. Chili remained on the menu. We rode in the bed of Stewart's pick up truck.
This year, we are back at our house. We will have no trick or treaters....well, I hope not because our front porch is missing. Taco salad is our dinner fare. Max will not be here, but we got to spend Sunday evening with him at Trunk or Treat, which seems the trend these days. Simeon will be here. Channie and Cole have parties to attend. It will not be a rowdy evening, unless the weather takes that wicked turn. It will not be just Halloween 2013 for me. It will be a windswept stroll down Memory Lane.
Tuesday, October 22, 2013
An Unintentional Revelation
The parents and grandparents arrived early today. It was a cold morning, so as they arrived I invited them to wait inside in the warmth. One of the early ones looked older than the others. He explained that he was a grandfather. I figured as much. I told him, as I am wont to do, that I was relatively new to this grand-parenting thing with two one-year-old grandsons. He said, "I have seven and they really keep me busy."
He explained how he is doing something all the time with one or the other grandchild. Tomorrow, he will be going to a pumpkin patch with one of them. I fear he may be even colder tomorrow than he was today. "All my grandchildren live in Murfreesboro, and I live in Nashville," he explained. "I really do not like that drive." Now, I haven't earned the moniker "Mellie Mend It" for nothing, so I offered that perhaps he might consider moving to Murfreesboro himself. "We'll, I can't right now. My wife's mother is still living. She lives about three minutes from us, so as long as she is living, we will stay in Nashville."
This man was merely making conversation as we awaited the arrival of the group. I sensed neither braggadocio nor serious complaint. He was just idly chatting. He unintentionally revealed much about himself. I suspect he was a father who lovingly served his children. He is probably a very hard worker. He continues to serve his children by loving and tending to his grandchildren. He understands the importance of children having someone involved in their lives, chaperoning field trips. He honors his wife by serving her mother. He radiated kindness and joy. He seeks neither fame nor fortune. He is satisfied to serve. He is the best sort of man.
I wonder what my unintentional revelations say about me.
For today, I wish you unexpected meetings of lovely people, uplifting unintentional revelations for others, and I wish you
Blessings
He explained how he is doing something all the time with one or the other grandchild. Tomorrow, he will be going to a pumpkin patch with one of them. I fear he may be even colder tomorrow than he was today. "All my grandchildren live in Murfreesboro, and I live in Nashville," he explained. "I really do not like that drive." Now, I haven't earned the moniker "Mellie Mend It" for nothing, so I offered that perhaps he might consider moving to Murfreesboro himself. "We'll, I can't right now. My wife's mother is still living. She lives about three minutes from us, so as long as she is living, we will stay in Nashville."
This man was merely making conversation as we awaited the arrival of the group. I sensed neither braggadocio nor serious complaint. He was just idly chatting. He unintentionally revealed much about himself. I suspect he was a father who lovingly served his children. He is probably a very hard worker. He continues to serve his children by loving and tending to his grandchildren. He understands the importance of children having someone involved in their lives, chaperoning field trips. He honors his wife by serving her mother. He radiated kindness and joy. He seeks neither fame nor fortune. He is satisfied to serve. He is the best sort of man.
I wonder what my unintentional revelations say about me.
For today, I wish you unexpected meetings of lovely people, uplifting unintentional revelations for others, and I wish you
Blessings
Wednesday, October 16, 2013
What to Call How I'm Feeling
Today, I am feeling blessed. That term bothers people I know and love. Some really resent being wished a blessed day, or blessings on their day. On some level that makes sense. We think of blessings as coming from God, and when the disparity of blessings, or lack thereof, is witnessed, it makes God seem unfair, arbitrary, and capricious....or nonexistent. This inequity of blessings is one reason some atheists are atheists. Well, it is probably not THE reason anyone embraces atheism, but the imbalance of blessings is one more nail in the coffin of incredulousness a non-believer experiences. It would be foolish to try to minimize that. It would be foolish to try to explain. I have no explanation.
But, today, as most days, I am feeling blessed. Certainly, it is not because of anything I have done to earn this sense of blessedness. In a way, it has very little to do with externals today. My neck hurts. I can barely turn my head. I do not know why. Perhaps, it is those 3 ruptured disks. The Advil I have taken for the pain makes my stomach hurt. My grandsons are not here. One is in Florida, one is at home being loved on and cared for by his other grandmother, a lovely, lovely woman. I miss them. The morning started off with some stress; the cause of which I have to just tell myself will not matter in five years. I have accomplished pretty much nothing today besides eating, including opening a 4 pound bag of chocolate chips and eating a handful of those. I suppose I should feel fortunate that I have not eaten all 4 pounds. It is after 1:00, and I don't think I have even brushed my teeth yet. Not a productive day, to say the least.
But, I am feeling blessed today. I am not sure why. I am not sure if "blessed" is the right word to use. I do not feel giddy, or particularly "happy." I am not sure if contented is even a good word. Maybe, I feel lucky, or fortunate, or, I do not know. Maybe grateful is right.
I am grateful for Simeon and Max, for my children, for their spouses, for this dreary, cool fall day, for a husband I love and like and enjoy spending time with but can be apart from, for my mother, for this house that has cracks and doors that won't work and a suspicious musty odor when it rains, for the memories of my family of origin, for those of that family with whom I still can spend time, for a brother who moved home giving us the opportunity to know and love each other, for the love I feel especially from 2 or 3 friends in particular (you know who you are), for texts from a niece in Arkansas who saw a car like mine and was disappointed it was not me, for another niece who shows great character and determination, for a nephew whose kindness and sweetness touch my heart, for a neck that hurts so when it doesn't I will appreciate the lack of pain, for a car that runs, for food to eat, for a church family I love, for gracious emails from a friend from high school, for equally gracious emails from a young man I greatly admire, for a phone call from someone with whom I had lost contact and plans for lunch have been made, for the thoughtfulness of a father whose child participated in a tour yesterday, for the physical ability to walk and talk in order to conduct those tours, for holidays approaching, for a precious family of 4 in Minnesota who I love from the bottom of my heart, for all the people who have come and gone in my life, for those who have come and stayed, and for so many more things I am most grateful.
Am I blessed? I believe so. I do not know why. How do I handle these blessings? It depends. Some days I refuse to see them, and focus totally on what I think I do not have. Some days I take them for granted, as though they were owed me. Some days, just some days, I recognize some of them. On my best days, I share them.
For today, I wish you a "best day" of sharing your
blessings
But, today, as most days, I am feeling blessed. Certainly, it is not because of anything I have done to earn this sense of blessedness. In a way, it has very little to do with externals today. My neck hurts. I can barely turn my head. I do not know why. Perhaps, it is those 3 ruptured disks. The Advil I have taken for the pain makes my stomach hurt. My grandsons are not here. One is in Florida, one is at home being loved on and cared for by his other grandmother, a lovely, lovely woman. I miss them. The morning started off with some stress; the cause of which I have to just tell myself will not matter in five years. I have accomplished pretty much nothing today besides eating, including opening a 4 pound bag of chocolate chips and eating a handful of those. I suppose I should feel fortunate that I have not eaten all 4 pounds. It is after 1:00, and I don't think I have even brushed my teeth yet. Not a productive day, to say the least.
But, I am feeling blessed today. I am not sure why. I am not sure if "blessed" is the right word to use. I do not feel giddy, or particularly "happy." I am not sure if contented is even a good word. Maybe, I feel lucky, or fortunate, or, I do not know. Maybe grateful is right.
I am grateful for Simeon and Max, for my children, for their spouses, for this dreary, cool fall day, for a husband I love and like and enjoy spending time with but can be apart from, for my mother, for this house that has cracks and doors that won't work and a suspicious musty odor when it rains, for the memories of my family of origin, for those of that family with whom I still can spend time, for a brother who moved home giving us the opportunity to know and love each other, for the love I feel especially from 2 or 3 friends in particular (you know who you are), for texts from a niece in Arkansas who saw a car like mine and was disappointed it was not me, for another niece who shows great character and determination, for a nephew whose kindness and sweetness touch my heart, for a neck that hurts so when it doesn't I will appreciate the lack of pain, for a car that runs, for food to eat, for a church family I love, for gracious emails from a friend from high school, for equally gracious emails from a young man I greatly admire, for a phone call from someone with whom I had lost contact and plans for lunch have been made, for the thoughtfulness of a father whose child participated in a tour yesterday, for the physical ability to walk and talk in order to conduct those tours, for holidays approaching, for a precious family of 4 in Minnesota who I love from the bottom of my heart, for all the people who have come and gone in my life, for those who have come and stayed, and for so many more things I am most grateful.
Am I blessed? I believe so. I do not know why. How do I handle these blessings? It depends. Some days I refuse to see them, and focus totally on what I think I do not have. Some days I take them for granted, as though they were owed me. Some days, just some days, I recognize some of them. On my best days, I share them.
For today, I wish you a "best day" of sharing your
blessings
Saturday, October 12, 2013
Peace, a Valuable Commodity
Very few things in life are as valuable as peace of mind. That has been illuminated for me as I watch myself and others longing for and often failing to capture a peaceful heart.
Really, how can one be peaceful in this world? So much is on Facebook about the government shut down, the president, and congress. People are riled. Jobs are being lost. Insurances changed. Premiums rising. Taxes assessed. It is enough to make a person feel churned up inside. Some actually believe the photoshopped picture of Mt. Rushmore being covered by a tarp. I will say my favorite FB post was the one that said: "the Washington Redskins are changing their name. Because of the hatred, violence and rancor caused by the name, they will from now on be known simply as the Redskins." LOVE THAT! Just a little levity in the midst of a lot of anxiety.
Peace is hard to find when loved ones feel terrorized. Just this week I have talked to someone waiting for news from medical tests that will either leave her with some time to coast, or cause her to have to make some really tough decisions. Another friend, waiting in the hospital for a heart transplant, learned this week that he has a cancerous nodule on his thyroid which removed him from the transplant list. Another friend anxious over a pregnancy; another whose adult son is very ill. I talked with someone whose marriage is in a shambles..."we just don't get along." I know others who are burdened with financial strain. One told me of her mother in the nursing home who is just not right in her head making her very difficult. We hear stories of war torn countries, hurricanes bearing down on innocent people, child abuse, and murder. One friend told me of an acquaintance who is dying of a brain tumor, and her nine year old son is being physically and violently bullied at school. Peace? Where can peace be found in the midst of this turmoil?
For me, a believer in Jesus, certainly I am told that peace can be found in Him. I believe that, but sometimes it is so very elusive. He is not elusive, but my ability to tap into His peace is.
Oftentimes, peace is an "inside job." Finding what brings peace to our spirits is probably about as varied as there are people. Exercise, meditation, yoga, prayer, Candy Crush (nah), Bible study, Hallmark movies, just lying on the sofa and being quiet, self-talk, spending time with friends, not spending time with friends, not watching the news or reading the paper, watching the news and reading the paper. Whatever it is, we each need a source of peace. Finding peace in our circumstances does not mean that we are unaware of our circumstances. It just means we have made a choice.
I found some peace in my heart today spending it in companionable conversation on a beautiful day during a short road trip with Nancy. We talked and laughed and commiserated and encouraged each other. I feel peaceful this afternoon. Nothing that was robbing me of my peace has been removed from my life. But with some time away, I am able to see it a bit better. I find peace when Mr. Lincoln gives me a good long hug. It is home. Peace for me is a stroll through Radnor (not with 2 babies and no stroller, that's just stupid) or Cheekwood. Peace for me is my house to myself for a few hours. I find peace making up my mind to see my surroundings as I wish them to be and not as they are...what potholes in the driveway? If I cannot fix it, for whatever reason, I choose not to let it rob me of my peace....most of the time. Sometimes I just cave in a become a screaming maniac...in my head...rarely do I really scream where others can hear me. I am searching for peace...always searching for peace.
So for today, I wish you peace and I wish you
blessings
Really, how can one be peaceful in this world? So much is on Facebook about the government shut down, the president, and congress. People are riled. Jobs are being lost. Insurances changed. Premiums rising. Taxes assessed. It is enough to make a person feel churned up inside. Some actually believe the photoshopped picture of Mt. Rushmore being covered by a tarp. I will say my favorite FB post was the one that said: "the Washington Redskins are changing their name. Because of the hatred, violence and rancor caused by the name, they will from now on be known simply as the Redskins." LOVE THAT! Just a little levity in the midst of a lot of anxiety.
Peace is hard to find when loved ones feel terrorized. Just this week I have talked to someone waiting for news from medical tests that will either leave her with some time to coast, or cause her to have to make some really tough decisions. Another friend, waiting in the hospital for a heart transplant, learned this week that he has a cancerous nodule on his thyroid which removed him from the transplant list. Another friend anxious over a pregnancy; another whose adult son is very ill. I talked with someone whose marriage is in a shambles..."we just don't get along." I know others who are burdened with financial strain. One told me of her mother in the nursing home who is just not right in her head making her very difficult. We hear stories of war torn countries, hurricanes bearing down on innocent people, child abuse, and murder. One friend told me of an acquaintance who is dying of a brain tumor, and her nine year old son is being physically and violently bullied at school. Peace? Where can peace be found in the midst of this turmoil?
For me, a believer in Jesus, certainly I am told that peace can be found in Him. I believe that, but sometimes it is so very elusive. He is not elusive, but my ability to tap into His peace is.
Oftentimes, peace is an "inside job." Finding what brings peace to our spirits is probably about as varied as there are people. Exercise, meditation, yoga, prayer, Candy Crush (nah), Bible study, Hallmark movies, just lying on the sofa and being quiet, self-talk, spending time with friends, not spending time with friends, not watching the news or reading the paper, watching the news and reading the paper. Whatever it is, we each need a source of peace. Finding peace in our circumstances does not mean that we are unaware of our circumstances. It just means we have made a choice.
I found some peace in my heart today spending it in companionable conversation on a beautiful day during a short road trip with Nancy. We talked and laughed and commiserated and encouraged each other. I feel peaceful this afternoon. Nothing that was robbing me of my peace has been removed from my life. But with some time away, I am able to see it a bit better. I find peace when Mr. Lincoln gives me a good long hug. It is home. Peace for me is a stroll through Radnor (not with 2 babies and no stroller, that's just stupid) or Cheekwood. Peace for me is my house to myself for a few hours. I find peace making up my mind to see my surroundings as I wish them to be and not as they are...what potholes in the driveway? If I cannot fix it, for whatever reason, I choose not to let it rob me of my peace....most of the time. Sometimes I just cave in a become a screaming maniac...in my head...rarely do I really scream where others can hear me. I am searching for peace...always searching for peace.
So for today, I wish you peace and I wish you
blessings
Wednesday, September 18, 2013
Reflections on the Day
5:30 am is really early for a one-year-old....and a sixty-one-year-old.
A 2 1/2 hour nap is not nearly as satisfying as a 4 hour nap....especially if one has been up since 5:30am
Paper comes out the same way it goes in....'nuf said.
A one-year-old can be on his knees pushing a plastic baby wipes holder across the floor, fall over and bloody his nose and mouth. Go figure!!
There is a certain kind of sippy cup that I hate, yes, hate. The pressure builds up, and sprays my glasses with milk. Really, I hate that thing.
Handing a one-year-old a Baggie of shredded cheese to eat on his own is not smart.
A Baggie will seriously impede the suction of a Hoover Linx vacuum.
Reading Spot Goes to the Library does not necessarily promote library etiquette. Sorry about that, folks.
The glass in a picture frame will break just as thoroughly when dropped by a one-year-old as when dropped by an adult.
A 4x6 piece of glass can disintegrate into a lot of little pieces.
Glasses that sit under a kid's nose do nothing to help said child's vision.
Trebuchet!! The battle cry of little boys both of whom can seriously launch a pumpkin. Sorry about that Johnny Howell market workers.
Max has never seen a Better Homes and Gardens magazine that he does not enjoy tearing up.
Trying to put a diaper on a one-year-old who does not want his diaper changed is like wrestling a tiger.
With determination and a bit of a downhill slope, Simeon can push Max in the wagon across the whole front yard.
A 24 roll package of toilet paper serves many purposes....a step up for Simeon to get in his car seat and a soft place to land when Max takes a dive out of his.
For today, I wish you fond reflections on your day, and I wish you
Blessings
A 2 1/2 hour nap is not nearly as satisfying as a 4 hour nap....especially if one has been up since 5:30am
Paper comes out the same way it goes in....'nuf said.
A one-year-old can be on his knees pushing a plastic baby wipes holder across the floor, fall over and bloody his nose and mouth. Go figure!!
There is a certain kind of sippy cup that I hate, yes, hate. The pressure builds up, and sprays my glasses with milk. Really, I hate that thing.
Handing a one-year-old a Baggie of shredded cheese to eat on his own is not smart.
A Baggie will seriously impede the suction of a Hoover Linx vacuum.
Reading Spot Goes to the Library does not necessarily promote library etiquette. Sorry about that, folks.
The glass in a picture frame will break just as thoroughly when dropped by a one-year-old as when dropped by an adult.
A 4x6 piece of glass can disintegrate into a lot of little pieces.
Glasses that sit under a kid's nose do nothing to help said child's vision.
Trebuchet!! The battle cry of little boys both of whom can seriously launch a pumpkin. Sorry about that Johnny Howell market workers.
Max has never seen a Better Homes and Gardens magazine that he does not enjoy tearing up.
Trying to put a diaper on a one-year-old who does not want his diaper changed is like wrestling a tiger.
With determination and a bit of a downhill slope, Simeon can push Max in the wagon across the whole front yard.
A 24 roll package of toilet paper serves many purposes....a step up for Simeon to get in his car seat and a soft place to land when Max takes a dive out of his.
For today, I wish you fond reflections on your day, and I wish you
Blessings
Tuesday, September 10, 2013
Danger! Danger! A Grandmother's Warning
This world is fraught with danger, and I am not talking about weapons of mass destruction...well, yes, I am, but not the kind that have been in the news. Keeping one-year-old boys has newly opened my eyes to the perils of this life. As a grandmother, dangers loom much larger than they did as a parent.
The kitchen sink is clogged. A cup of soda down the drain followed by vinegar (I just really love the results of that combination) with a chaser of boiling water was what was needed. Oh, wait. If I boil water on the stove, one of the boys might somehow figure out how to open the gate, or worse, they could be in cahoots and somehow help each other get over and what if I don't hear them and they get underfoot and I spill scalding water on them? Never mind, the sink will have to remain clogged.
Who knew a kid's rocking chair could be such a hazard? A couple weeks ago, while Fizzie sat right beside him, Max flipped the chair over, hit the floor found himself trapped underneath, and let out a cry that would have waken the dead. Telling him to "shake it off" was not going to be helpful. The same chair yesterday, whacked Simeon in the head as he rocked. Yep, the dead were roused yet again.
And, then there are the toys. Who makes these things with buttons that could fall off, or hair that somehow could get tangled in their teeth and pull them out. How can such a tiny mouth hold an entire plastic Easter egg? Don't the makers of bubbles know that little eyes can be burned by bubble soap? Maybe, I will make some with baby shampoo, but, no wait, what exactly is Polyquaternium-10? That can't be good for a baby. Forget the bubbles.
Why is the drawer in the table upon which the TV sits such a fascination? Well, they are boys, and that is where the remotes are, but there are batteries in the remotes, and what if they think they are candy and eat them,and what if they remain in cahoots after attempts to breach kitchen security by crashing the gate and decide to rock the TV table turning it and the TV over on them? Maybe I will block the TV with the rocking chairs, but they could climb on those like they do on the table by the sofa and then there will be real trouble. I will just sit here and not take my eye off them.
Simeon and I took a walk this morning I am certain he was eyeing the drainage pipes going under the driveways. We had a talk about never, never, ever crawling through those, and he will never, never, ever hear the tales of his Mellie and her siblings and friends doing such crazy things growing up. Sometimes hiding in the drainage pipes under the Kornmeyer's drive was the only way to get away. But, never, never, ever are Simeon and Max to know such a thing.
Shelves are tethered, tables and a birdcage stand are moved to a locked room before the boys arrive. I did not think of the birdcage stand until Simmie pulled it over on himself yesterday. He did not cry so, oh, dear why isn't he crying? Wonder if he has a concussion. Well, no, he got right up, he seems fine, who would have thought he would even find it something worthy of notice, how did he not break the glass boboches on the little chandelier hanging on the birdcage stand, and who hangs a chandelier on a birdcage stand anyway, and how did he manage to break every one of the turquoise candles in the chandelier, oh, well, he seems fine, better move that thing into a locked room. What? Now he has knocked himself in the head with the little plate stand in the hallway!! Okay, into a locked room it goes too.
So, life is full of peril, especially if you happen to be the grandmother to two one-year-old boys. Did you know there is a website entitled the "Hidden Dangers of Yogurt?" I will not even mention all the possibilities for harm the wooden back scratcher carries. Yep, that locked room is really filling up.
For today, I wish you the company of one-year-olds, safety, and I wish you
Blessings
The kitchen sink is clogged. A cup of soda down the drain followed by vinegar (I just really love the results of that combination) with a chaser of boiling water was what was needed. Oh, wait. If I boil water on the stove, one of the boys might somehow figure out how to open the gate, or worse, they could be in cahoots and somehow help each other get over and what if I don't hear them and they get underfoot and I spill scalding water on them? Never mind, the sink will have to remain clogged.
Who knew a kid's rocking chair could be such a hazard? A couple weeks ago, while Fizzie sat right beside him, Max flipped the chair over, hit the floor found himself trapped underneath, and let out a cry that would have waken the dead. Telling him to "shake it off" was not going to be helpful. The same chair yesterday, whacked Simeon in the head as he rocked. Yep, the dead were roused yet again.
And, then there are the toys. Who makes these things with buttons that could fall off, or hair that somehow could get tangled in their teeth and pull them out. How can such a tiny mouth hold an entire plastic Easter egg? Don't the makers of bubbles know that little eyes can be burned by bubble soap? Maybe, I will make some with baby shampoo, but, no wait, what exactly is Polyquaternium-10? That can't be good for a baby. Forget the bubbles.
Why is the drawer in the table upon which the TV sits such a fascination? Well, they are boys, and that is where the remotes are, but there are batteries in the remotes, and what if they think they are candy and eat them,and what if they remain in cahoots after attempts to breach kitchen security by crashing the gate and decide to rock the TV table turning it and the TV over on them? Maybe I will block the TV with the rocking chairs, but they could climb on those like they do on the table by the sofa and then there will be real trouble. I will just sit here and not take my eye off them.
Simeon and I took a walk this morning I am certain he was eyeing the drainage pipes going under the driveways. We had a talk about never, never, ever crawling through those, and he will never, never, ever hear the tales of his Mellie and her siblings and friends doing such crazy things growing up. Sometimes hiding in the drainage pipes under the Kornmeyer's drive was the only way to get away. But, never, never, ever are Simeon and Max to know such a thing.
Shelves are tethered, tables and a birdcage stand are moved to a locked room before the boys arrive. I did not think of the birdcage stand until Simmie pulled it over on himself yesterday. He did not cry so, oh, dear why isn't he crying? Wonder if he has a concussion. Well, no, he got right up, he seems fine, who would have thought he would even find it something worthy of notice, how did he not break the glass boboches on the little chandelier hanging on the birdcage stand, and who hangs a chandelier on a birdcage stand anyway, and how did he manage to break every one of the turquoise candles in the chandelier, oh, well, he seems fine, better move that thing into a locked room. What? Now he has knocked himself in the head with the little plate stand in the hallway!! Okay, into a locked room it goes too.
So, life is full of peril, especially if you happen to be the grandmother to two one-year-old boys. Did you know there is a website entitled the "Hidden Dangers of Yogurt?" I will not even mention all the possibilities for harm the wooden back scratcher carries. Yep, that locked room is really filling up.
For today, I wish you the company of one-year-olds, safety, and I wish you
Blessings
Saturday, September 7, 2013
"Christians are bipolar," he said...
He sat on the steps of the church eating Ramen noodles. I asked him how he was doing. "Having to eat out of the dumpster today," he said.
I admit, I wondered who had thrown Ramen noodles in a dumpster, but could not think of a graceful, non-incredulous-sounding way of asking. He quickly satisfied my curiosity by explaining that a fellow homeless gentleman shared the noodles with him.
"I am really sorry," I replied. "I have $2.00, and you are welcome to it, but I realize it won't get you much. I wish I had more."
He said he had been back in Nashville for two weeks. Someone had stolen his backpack and the clothes in it. I am thinking, seriously? Not, seriously are you lying to me, but seriously, who steals from a homeless person? How very privileged of me. I suspect it was taken by someone who is hopeless and desperate as well.
He seemed embarrassed that the jeans he had on were dirty, but he had no others.
"You know ma'am lots of Christians are bi-polar. You know what I mean by that?"
"I'm not sure. Help me understand what you mean."
"We'll, they go to church, and they look good and are all right acting there, but you get them out on the street and they don't do a thing to help."
"Hmmmmmm, I am afraid that I do know what you mean." I see a bipolar Christian in the mirror every morning.
I asked him if he was aware of resources available to him. He had not heard of the ones I suggested. He did not know of Father Strobel, and said that he is not Catholic. I assured him that he did not have to be. He shared that he does not have an ID. I had no idea if that was a problem or not. I tried to reach a minister at church, but he was not available. I knew I would be able to get help at church, I just did not have time at the moment to work it out as I was about to begin a tour.
"What is your name?"
"Earnest."
"My name is Marilyn. It is a pleasure to know you."
"I's nice to meet you."
"Well, Earnest, give me some time, and I will work on finding you some clothes. Where can I find you, say tomorrow morning?" I do not have time for this, I have to be at church tomorrow morning. Really? Church is going to keep you from meeting Earnest in the morning? Really?
"I will be down on 2nd Avenue tonight, and then I usually come sit on the church steps every morning."
"What time?"
"Sleeping on the concrete, I am usually up here by 4:00."
4:00 a.m.? Not going to happen, Earnest.
The people I was waiting for arrived. "It was a privilege meeting you, Earnest."
"No, ma'am, it was my privilege."
We parted ways, probably with each of us thinking there was no way we would meet in the morning....me thinking that he was a "typical" homeless person who just cannot be depended on to be where they say they will be, and him thinking that I was a "typical bipolar Christian."
Neither of us was taking into account God's grace in making sure that His children meet their divine appointments.
For today, I wish you a church that responds, I wish you trust in a God who will see that you meet the most important divine appointments, and I wish you
blessings
I admit, I wondered who had thrown Ramen noodles in a dumpster, but could not think of a graceful, non-incredulous-sounding way of asking. He quickly satisfied my curiosity by explaining that a fellow homeless gentleman shared the noodles with him.
"I am really sorry," I replied. "I have $2.00, and you are welcome to it, but I realize it won't get you much. I wish I had more."
He said he had been back in Nashville for two weeks. Someone had stolen his backpack and the clothes in it. I am thinking, seriously? Not, seriously are you lying to me, but seriously, who steals from a homeless person? How very privileged of me. I suspect it was taken by someone who is hopeless and desperate as well.
He seemed embarrassed that the jeans he had on were dirty, but he had no others.
"You know ma'am lots of Christians are bi-polar. You know what I mean by that?"
"I'm not sure. Help me understand what you mean."
"We'll, they go to church, and they look good and are all right acting there, but you get them out on the street and they don't do a thing to help."
"Hmmmmmm, I am afraid that I do know what you mean." I see a bipolar Christian in the mirror every morning.
I asked him if he was aware of resources available to him. He had not heard of the ones I suggested. He did not know of Father Strobel, and said that he is not Catholic. I assured him that he did not have to be. He shared that he does not have an ID. I had no idea if that was a problem or not. I tried to reach a minister at church, but he was not available. I knew I would be able to get help at church, I just did not have time at the moment to work it out as I was about to begin a tour.
"What is your name?"
"Earnest."
"My name is Marilyn. It is a pleasure to know you."
"I's nice to meet you."
"Well, Earnest, give me some time, and I will work on finding you some clothes. Where can I find you, say tomorrow morning?" I do not have time for this, I have to be at church tomorrow morning. Really? Church is going to keep you from meeting Earnest in the morning? Really?
"I will be down on 2nd Avenue tonight, and then I usually come sit on the church steps every morning."
"What time?"
"Sleeping on the concrete, I am usually up here by 4:00."
4:00 a.m.? Not going to happen, Earnest.
The people I was waiting for arrived. "It was a privilege meeting you, Earnest."
"No, ma'am, it was my privilege."
We parted ways, probably with each of us thinking there was no way we would meet in the morning....me thinking that he was a "typical" homeless person who just cannot be depended on to be where they say they will be, and him thinking that I was a "typical bipolar Christian."
Neither of us was taking into account God's grace in making sure that His children meet their divine appointments.
For today, I wish you a church that responds, I wish you trust in a God who will see that you meet the most important divine appointments, and I wish you
blessings
Sunday, August 18, 2013
A "No Panties" Kind of Week....Girls' Trip
I really debated the title of this blog. Some may contend that, perhaps, the don't-use-that-title argument should have won. Maybe, maybe not. If it offends you, I sincerely apologize, but I also know that if you are offended, you just do not get "traveling with the girls." The phrase "no panties" was coined by my mother several years ago when she said at the end of a trip to Sarasota with my sister and me (her 80th birthday present), "why, I don't think I have had panties on all week" (please say that out loud in a charming southern accent, and all offended feelings will be healed). It does not mean that she was going "commando" a la Cosmo Cramer, it means that swimsuit and pajamas were all that were worn for the week. Talk about perfection.
Ernest Hemingway is quoted as having said, "Never go on trips with anyone you do not love." Amen and amen, Ernest. I recently traveled with people I love. Not only are they people I love, they are people with whom I love to travel. So, here's our trip "by the numbers."
10 - the number of days we were together
1 - the number of times we ate dinner out, and that was at Chik-fil-a in McDonough, Georgia on our way home when we were too exhausted to consider anything fancier.
0 - the number of cross words spoken
0 - the number of times M got "pissed off"
8 - the number of days we just sat on the beach and enjoyed being
3 (I think) - the number of Key Lime pie servings in a coconut shell
6 (maybe) - trips to Publix - once to buy food for the week and 5 to buy lunch on the way to the beach
1 - the number of rocket launches we witnessed (now, that was amazing!!)
7 - the number of tries it took to figure out how to turn the water on
lost count - the number of wrong turns taken trying to find the post office
4 - the number of trips to TJ Maxx
5 - tanks of gas for the trip down and back
3 - umbrellas lined up - the picture is of our "compound"
dozens - the number of side scurrying crabs that came out in the evening
1 ton - the amount of sand I vacuumed from Mr. Lincoln's car
2 tons - the amount of sand left in Mr. Lincoln's car after I vacuumed
3 - the number of suitcases we took
8? - the number of extra little bags of varying sizes filled with various items that we took
1516 - the number of miles we drove
2 - the number of trips to Pickin' and Grinin' thrift store...2nd trip to buy that beverage cart for Martha
4 - the number of white serving dishes I bought at the thrift store
272 - the number of white dishes I now have
5 - the number of books I read on my phone - love that Kindle on my phone
?? - the number of journal pages Martha wrote
9 - the number of nights Melissa cooked herself a healthy dinner and offered to share
9 - the number of nights Martha and I declined Melissa's healthy dinner
Don't want to talk about it - the number of Diet Cokes I drank
2 pounds - the amount of dark chocolate with almond Hershey's Bliss we (I) ate
Approximately 180 man hours - spent looking at Pinterest
Cannot be counted - the laughs, the prayers for each other's families, the memories of this and previous trips, the times we will think how fortunate we are to have each other, the times we remember how right Ernest Hemingway was.
So, for today, I wish you a "no panties" kind of week with people you love in a peaceful setting, and I wish you
blessings
Once Upon a Time....I Had a Social Life
Even before I knew what a social life was, I had one. I went square dancing with my parents and their friends, drive-in movies in my pj's with Becky Leech, sleepovers, elementary school carnivals, and, because I had an older brother, high school football games with my folks.
I had quite the social life in high school; Friday nights were for ball games, sometimes with a date, but more often with a group. Saturday nights were youth group activities, or games of Pit or Spoons and Toll House Cookies at the Murphy's. There was prom and Sadie Hawkins Dances, and Homecoming and the Lionettes Christmas Dance. I loved it all.
Later in college, much to my mother's dismay, oftentimes my social life consisted of watching Hawaii Five-0 with my dad. College dating consisted of 2 or 3 dates with whatever guy was looking for a wife and figured I might do. Usually it only took 2 or 3 dates for him to figure out that, perhaps, I wouldn't do. There was the time that I dated a guy known at my house as "Harry the Bastard," but really he was a pretty nice guy, just not terribly interested in me. Then along came Mr. Lincoln who offered to take me dancing, oh, wait, "you have a cast from your thigh to your ankle, maybe dancing isn't such a great idea." Well, duh. But movies, and dinners and dates to church turned, more rapidly than might be advisable, into conversations of marriage and forever.
Early in our marriage, we had a social life. Dinner out with friends, church, movies, the horse races, UK football and basketball games, all manner of wonderful, exciting social activities. As our family grew, so did our social life. We had friends who were the parents of our children's friends, football games, dinners in our homes, trips to Lexington, Gatlinburg and Captiva, evenings spent with dinner out and dancing, concerts, tacky parties, and 30 Something events, Halloween Masquerade parties, Christmas at Belle Meade Mansion. It was all fun stuff.
Last night as I sat on my sofa with a freshly bathed Simeon in my lap giggling and giggling as he zipped and unzipped a compartment on my purse, the thought occurred to me, "now this is a social life I can really enjoy!" There is no movie more entertaining than the live action that we enjoyed yesterday of Max walking around on his knees jabbering in his little boy language. There is nothing that even remotely compares to the big grins those boys toss our way...Simeon's with his large "Chiclet" teeth, and Max with that most familiar genetic space between his two front teeth. There is no movie, no dinner, no dancing, no ball game, no party, no anything that compares to the contentment and joy of a Saturday afternoon and evening spent watching Mr. Lincoln and Max touch fingertips in the vein of Michelangelo's Creation of Adam, or to look out the living room window and see Simeon walking up the driveway with one hand in Fizzie's and the other holding a "big stick." "You want me to read the Gingerbread Man again...okay, how ever many times you want."
So, I embrace this new social order, if you will. It is the best, and whenever I feel like the world is passing me by and I'm missing all the great movies and I haven't danced a step in quite some time and the leftover half of my lunch hamburger is what I have for dinner, I will be most grateful that most of my movies are happening live, and my dancing is now with a little guy in my arms as we move to the beat of "Five Little Monkeys," and my leftover hamburger is nectar from the gods because I am sharing it with Simeon or Max. Ah, I love this grandparent social life. It is the best. Robert Browning was on to something when he said, "Grow old along with me! The best is yet to be..."
So for today, I wish you the social life for which you long, I wish you joy in the moment, and I wish you,
blessings
I had quite the social life in high school; Friday nights were for ball games, sometimes with a date, but more often with a group. Saturday nights were youth group activities, or games of Pit or Spoons and Toll House Cookies at the Murphy's. There was prom and Sadie Hawkins Dances, and Homecoming and the Lionettes Christmas Dance. I loved it all.
Later in college, much to my mother's dismay, oftentimes my social life consisted of watching Hawaii Five-0 with my dad. College dating consisted of 2 or 3 dates with whatever guy was looking for a wife and figured I might do. Usually it only took 2 or 3 dates for him to figure out that, perhaps, I wouldn't do. There was the time that I dated a guy known at my house as "Harry the Bastard," but really he was a pretty nice guy, just not terribly interested in me. Then along came Mr. Lincoln who offered to take me dancing, oh, wait, "you have a cast from your thigh to your ankle, maybe dancing isn't such a great idea." Well, duh. But movies, and dinners and dates to church turned, more rapidly than might be advisable, into conversations of marriage and forever.
Early in our marriage, we had a social life. Dinner out with friends, church, movies, the horse races, UK football and basketball games, all manner of wonderful, exciting social activities. As our family grew, so did our social life. We had friends who were the parents of our children's friends, football games, dinners in our homes, trips to Lexington, Gatlinburg and Captiva, evenings spent with dinner out and dancing, concerts, tacky parties, and 30 Something events, Halloween Masquerade parties, Christmas at Belle Meade Mansion. It was all fun stuff.
Last night as I sat on my sofa with a freshly bathed Simeon in my lap giggling and giggling as he zipped and unzipped a compartment on my purse, the thought occurred to me, "now this is a social life I can really enjoy!" There is no movie more entertaining than the live action that we enjoyed yesterday of Max walking around on his knees jabbering in his little boy language. There is nothing that even remotely compares to the big grins those boys toss our way...Simeon's with his large "Chiclet" teeth, and Max with that most familiar genetic space between his two front teeth. There is no movie, no dinner, no dancing, no ball game, no party, no anything that compares to the contentment and joy of a Saturday afternoon and evening spent watching Mr. Lincoln and Max touch fingertips in the vein of Michelangelo's Creation of Adam, or to look out the living room window and see Simeon walking up the driveway with one hand in Fizzie's and the other holding a "big stick." "You want me to read the Gingerbread Man again...okay, how ever many times you want."
So, I embrace this new social order, if you will. It is the best, and whenever I feel like the world is passing me by and I'm missing all the great movies and I haven't danced a step in quite some time and the leftover half of my lunch hamburger is what I have for dinner, I will be most grateful that most of my movies are happening live, and my dancing is now with a little guy in my arms as we move to the beat of "Five Little Monkeys," and my leftover hamburger is nectar from the gods because I am sharing it with Simeon or Max. Ah, I love this grandparent social life. It is the best. Robert Browning was on to something when he said, "Grow old along with me! The best is yet to be..."
So for today, I wish you the social life for which you long, I wish you joy in the moment, and I wish you,
blessings
Thursday, July 11, 2013
Upon Second Glance
It has been re-brought to my attention in the past few days, that in life often a second glance is needed.
A few days ago, a friend, really an acquaintance whom I admire because I know the company she keeps and "her children arise and call her blessed; her husband also...," shared a post on FB. It was a picture of a man holding a sign that said "if I get a million likes, my son will go to church." On first glance I thought, "I like church. This is probably some friendly bet the dad and son have where the son said 'yeah, I'll go to church if you can get a million likes on FB,' sort of in the vein of 'I'll go to church when pigs fly.'" So I hit the "like" button?
Then, I read some of the comments following the post. I was struck all over again (I can be a really slow learner) how hurtful church has been for some. While many of the comments were accompanied by the "f" word multiple times and, what seemed to me, extreme vitriolic statements, I have to know that those feelings were born of some form of abuse and/or perversion by people connected to church. Rarely, if ever, does a person feel that strongly about something without reason. So, upon second glance, I hit "unlike."
I get that father's desire for his son to go to church. For me, it is a community of people with similar beliefs who help me grow in my theology, who set wonderful examples of service, who encourage me in my efforts to follow a Christ-like path, who are flawed and annoying and stubborn and imperfect (wait...an apt description of myself) and redeemed. So, I get that dad. Upon second glance, I am learning to understand a bit better those who are offended by that post.
Recently, a young woman shared her story with a group. On one level, it is a story hard to hear. It is a story of severe family dysfunction followed by a series of self-destructive choices. She is completely transparent concerning her life then and her life now. Her story was told most eloquently, woven with threads of humility and gratitude. She blames no one. She is an amazing woman. In her talk, she did not share her accomplishments brought about by hard work and determination. I happen to learn of those through others who know and love her. I was moved to tears as she shared her story. I heard a wise man say afterwards that we can read all the philosophers and theologians we want, no one can tell the story like this young woman.
Later, someone came to her and told her that she had done a nice job (huge understatement), but that her dress was too short (not in my opinion). What? Oh, my goodness I was furious when I heard this. It seemed such a cruel comment. I cannot judge in what spirit it was delivered. The young woman had bought the dress the day before so that she would be nicely and appropriately dressed. I really wanted to slap someone.
However, upon second glance, I found myself sorrowful for the person who walked away from that time of testimony with "your dress is too short." They completely missed the beauty. Let me say here that I am capable of doing exactly the same thing. I can totally discount great lessons because I do not particularly care for the messenger or I have a headache or countless other reasons. Often, I am able to see how my bias causes me to misjudge. Probably, just as often I do not see. Perhaps, a second glance is always needed.
I hope that upon second glance in this young woman's heart the "your dress is too short" will be drowned out by the comments that praised her honesty, her courage, her tenacity, and her humility. I do not know why it is, but often we humans cling to the negative others toss our way rather than the positive. I guess Julia Roberts was right in "Pretty Woman" when she said "the bad stuff is easier to believe."
I hope that upon second glance the person who made the comment will realize how unkind it was. I hope, upon second glance, they discover the essence of love and joy and gratitude present in that testimony rather than being blinded by a skirt that might have been (it was not) too short.
I hope that upon second glance those who have been wounded by church will see the flaws in the people but not in the plan. Church done well is a wonderful thing. I hope they won't stay away from lack of a second glance.
I hope that those who love church and find it a blessed place of refuge will, upon second glance, be honest about the failures that have caused damage to others.
So for today, I wish you second glances, deeper understanding, and I wish you
blessings
A few days ago, a friend, really an acquaintance whom I admire because I know the company she keeps and "her children arise and call her blessed; her husband also...," shared a post on FB. It was a picture of a man holding a sign that said "if I get a million likes, my son will go to church." On first glance I thought, "I like church. This is probably some friendly bet the dad and son have where the son said 'yeah, I'll go to church if you can get a million likes on FB,' sort of in the vein of 'I'll go to church when pigs fly.'" So I hit the "like" button?
Then, I read some of the comments following the post. I was struck all over again (I can be a really slow learner) how hurtful church has been for some. While many of the comments were accompanied by the "f" word multiple times and, what seemed to me, extreme vitriolic statements, I have to know that those feelings were born of some form of abuse and/or perversion by people connected to church. Rarely, if ever, does a person feel that strongly about something without reason. So, upon second glance, I hit "unlike."
I get that father's desire for his son to go to church. For me, it is a community of people with similar beliefs who help me grow in my theology, who set wonderful examples of service, who encourage me in my efforts to follow a Christ-like path, who are flawed and annoying and stubborn and imperfect (wait...an apt description of myself) and redeemed. So, I get that dad. Upon second glance, I am learning to understand a bit better those who are offended by that post.
Recently, a young woman shared her story with a group. On one level, it is a story hard to hear. It is a story of severe family dysfunction followed by a series of self-destructive choices. She is completely transparent concerning her life then and her life now. Her story was told most eloquently, woven with threads of humility and gratitude. She blames no one. She is an amazing woman. In her talk, she did not share her accomplishments brought about by hard work and determination. I happen to learn of those through others who know and love her. I was moved to tears as she shared her story. I heard a wise man say afterwards that we can read all the philosophers and theologians we want, no one can tell the story like this young woman.
Later, someone came to her and told her that she had done a nice job (huge understatement), but that her dress was too short (not in my opinion). What? Oh, my goodness I was furious when I heard this. It seemed such a cruel comment. I cannot judge in what spirit it was delivered. The young woman had bought the dress the day before so that she would be nicely and appropriately dressed. I really wanted to slap someone.
However, upon second glance, I found myself sorrowful for the person who walked away from that time of testimony with "your dress is too short." They completely missed the beauty. Let me say here that I am capable of doing exactly the same thing. I can totally discount great lessons because I do not particularly care for the messenger or I have a headache or countless other reasons. Often, I am able to see how my bias causes me to misjudge. Probably, just as often I do not see. Perhaps, a second glance is always needed.
I hope that upon second glance in this young woman's heart the "your dress is too short" will be drowned out by the comments that praised her honesty, her courage, her tenacity, and her humility. I do not know why it is, but often we humans cling to the negative others toss our way rather than the positive. I guess Julia Roberts was right in "Pretty Woman" when she said "the bad stuff is easier to believe."
I hope that upon second glance the person who made the comment will realize how unkind it was. I hope, upon second glance, they discover the essence of love and joy and gratitude present in that testimony rather than being blinded by a skirt that might have been (it was not) too short.
I hope that upon second glance those who have been wounded by church will see the flaws in the people but not in the plan. Church done well is a wonderful thing. I hope they won't stay away from lack of a second glance.
I hope that those who love church and find it a blessed place of refuge will, upon second glance, be honest about the failures that have caused damage to others.
So for today, I wish you second glances, deeper understanding, and I wish you
blessings
Monday, June 24, 2013
"Bad Theology"
Every day, I am reminded of my "bad theology." In my own defense, I was raised with bad theology. I trusted the adults in my life to know what they were talking about, and sometimes maybe they did and sometimes maybe they did not. In defense of those who shared it, they were definitely doing what they thought was good and right and best for those they taught. That does not excuse me for getting almost to my 61st birthday without a better realization that some of what I was taught was bad theology. It does not excuse me for my spreading of bad theology.
I was taught, and still know people who believe that it is wrong to read what others say about the Bible. "We are to read it for ourselves and the Holy Spirit will guide us." I believe that, but I have to wonder, if I believe in a transcendent God who is active and alive, why can he not "inspire" people now to a deeper understanding of the meaning of His word? Why can He not use the intelligence and hunger for understanding of someone like N.T. Wright to help me gain a deeper insight? Believing otherwise, seems, if not bad theology, at least a very limited boxed-in theology.
So much of what I was taught was black and white. I am not sure what we did with the scripture about not judging because we certainly had a refined sense of who was in and who was out. Even I figured out at an early age that not only people who attended the church of Christ were going to heaven. I remember in college, sitting in the balcony of Alumni Auditorium at David Lipscomb College before chapel, a good friend from my church informing me that my next-door-neighbor, one of the kindest most spiritual people I ever knew, was going to hell because she attended the Baptist church. Really? Please, God, tell me that nobody is living today who believes that....please. I figure that person has lived enough life at this point to realize, himself, what a ludicrous thought that was.
Absolutely, there was no possibility that Christ's sacrifice on the cross was far-reaching or strong enough to cover people who danced or "mix-bathed" or listened to rock and roll, or had premarital sex or drank or were attracted to the same sex. His sacrifice only covered those of us who said the right things and believed the right things and who occasionally might utter a curse word, or play solitaire with "playing" cards (Old Maid was fine), or overeat, or tell a little "white" lie, or spread a little gossip. We certainly cannot be having guilty people walking around with their struggles thinking God loves them anyway. That might excuse them for their unacceptable behavior. And, we cannot be culpable in their sin by not setting them straight and letting them know what they are doing that is dooming them to eternal hell. Seriously, we might be responsible for their salvation as if God is incapable to handling it. So, we did not mind letting people we barely knew or knew not at all how to straighten out their lives through tracts, "gospel" meetings that were anything but "good news," and door-to-door canvasing.
We have many seeking, thinking, loving, questioning young people in our church family. I love them. I need them. We have a series of classes on movies and how to find God and Christ and the Holy Spirit in those movies. Some of them are rated "R." It is an adult class. Some of them are violent and dark and have "language." Some of my generation take exception to discussing these movies at church. I do not attend the class because it is on Wednesday night, and those who know me know that I keep the boys on Wednesdays, and am usually too tired to stir from the sofa when they go home. My not attending would be enough to convince me that I really need not express any criticism of the class. But, I know the young man who teaches it. I trust him to not present anything salacious. He is much wiser and has a much better sense of what is acceptable in a church setting than that.
Once again, I was just living life, and not concerning myself about what anyone thought about that class. I did chuckle to myself when I saw that one Wednesday night the movie to be discussed was No Country for Old Men, and the next week on the schedule was "An Old-Fashioned Hymn Sing." I love a bit of irony...or is that a paradox - Betsy, Sandy...anyone? As usual, I digress.
Yesterday, as part of communion, another young man who is known to be extremely thoughtful, shared a few words. He started out talking about, of all things, a movie; Man of Steel. As I listened to him, I had an epiphany. Those of my generation who are so opposed to the viewing or discussion of these movies were raised with a pounding in their heads of the importance of remaining unspotted by the world. We often are unable to get past the violence and the language to see the point. We are working so hard to remain unsoiled that we miss the cleansing lesson of redemption and salvation that these young people see. We see sin marring a perfect world (which it is), and they see Kingdom springing up in very unexpected ways in a struggling world. I do not want to excuse sin, my own in particular, but I do want to see Kingdom.
For today I wish you love and joy and
Kingdom life.
blessings,
I was taught, and still know people who believe that it is wrong to read what others say about the Bible. "We are to read it for ourselves and the Holy Spirit will guide us." I believe that, but I have to wonder, if I believe in a transcendent God who is active and alive, why can he not "inspire" people now to a deeper understanding of the meaning of His word? Why can He not use the intelligence and hunger for understanding of someone like N.T. Wright to help me gain a deeper insight? Believing otherwise, seems, if not bad theology, at least a very limited boxed-in theology.
So much of what I was taught was black and white. I am not sure what we did with the scripture about not judging because we certainly had a refined sense of who was in and who was out. Even I figured out at an early age that not only people who attended the church of Christ were going to heaven. I remember in college, sitting in the balcony of Alumni Auditorium at David Lipscomb College before chapel, a good friend from my church informing me that my next-door-neighbor, one of the kindest most spiritual people I ever knew, was going to hell because she attended the Baptist church. Really? Please, God, tell me that nobody is living today who believes that....please. I figure that person has lived enough life at this point to realize, himself, what a ludicrous thought that was.
Absolutely, there was no possibility that Christ's sacrifice on the cross was far-reaching or strong enough to cover people who danced or "mix-bathed" or listened to rock and roll, or had premarital sex or drank or were attracted to the same sex. His sacrifice only covered those of us who said the right things and believed the right things and who occasionally might utter a curse word, or play solitaire with "playing" cards (Old Maid was fine), or overeat, or tell a little "white" lie, or spread a little gossip. We certainly cannot be having guilty people walking around with their struggles thinking God loves them anyway. That might excuse them for their unacceptable behavior. And, we cannot be culpable in their sin by not setting them straight and letting them know what they are doing that is dooming them to eternal hell. Seriously, we might be responsible for their salvation as if God is incapable to handling it. So, we did not mind letting people we barely knew or knew not at all how to straighten out their lives through tracts, "gospel" meetings that were anything but "good news," and door-to-door canvasing.
We have many seeking, thinking, loving, questioning young people in our church family. I love them. I need them. We have a series of classes on movies and how to find God and Christ and the Holy Spirit in those movies. Some of them are rated "R." It is an adult class. Some of them are violent and dark and have "language." Some of my generation take exception to discussing these movies at church. I do not attend the class because it is on Wednesday night, and those who know me know that I keep the boys on Wednesdays, and am usually too tired to stir from the sofa when they go home. My not attending would be enough to convince me that I really need not express any criticism of the class. But, I know the young man who teaches it. I trust him to not present anything salacious. He is much wiser and has a much better sense of what is acceptable in a church setting than that.
Once again, I was just living life, and not concerning myself about what anyone thought about that class. I did chuckle to myself when I saw that one Wednesday night the movie to be discussed was No Country for Old Men, and the next week on the schedule was "An Old-Fashioned Hymn Sing." I love a bit of irony...or is that a paradox - Betsy, Sandy...anyone? As usual, I digress.
Yesterday, as part of communion, another young man who is known to be extremely thoughtful, shared a few words. He started out talking about, of all things, a movie; Man of Steel. As I listened to him, I had an epiphany. Those of my generation who are so opposed to the viewing or discussion of these movies were raised with a pounding in their heads of the importance of remaining unspotted by the world. We often are unable to get past the violence and the language to see the point. We are working so hard to remain unsoiled that we miss the cleansing lesson of redemption and salvation that these young people see. We see sin marring a perfect world (which it is), and they see Kingdom springing up in very unexpected ways in a struggling world. I do not want to excuse sin, my own in particular, but I do want to see Kingdom.
For today I wish you love and joy and
Kingdom life.
blessings,
Saturday, June 15, 2013
Could It Be?
WARNING: Gross picture below!
It all started last Friday. Sometime in the night, my son got up, slipped on a pillow on the floor, fell backwards and landed on his child's toy. He said to himself, "wow, that is going to leave a bruise" (paraphrased). When he woke up, there was blood all over his sheets, and while trying to figure out the cause, he discovered a cut in his back approximately two inches long and an inch deep. His wife felt that he needed stitches, and asked if I could take him as she needed to get to work. My son, of course, felt it was a lot of hoopla for nothing. Nurse Henderson was here (I know she gets so sick of us asking her all our medical questions....just like Mr. Lincoln gets asked legal questions all the time...funny, no one ever seems to need my Tennessee history advice), so it was suggested that he send a picture of the cut, so that Nurse H. and I could offer our expert and non-expert opinions concerning the need for stitches. Below is the picture he sent:
It all started last Friday. Sometime in the night, my son got up, slipped on a pillow on the floor, fell backwards and landed on his child's toy. He said to himself, "wow, that is going to leave a bruise" (paraphrased). When he woke up, there was blood all over his sheets, and while trying to figure out the cause, he discovered a cut in his back approximately two inches long and an inch deep. His wife felt that he needed stitches, and asked if I could take him as she needed to get to work. My son, of course, felt it was a lot of hoopla for nothing. Nurse Henderson was here (I know she gets so sick of us asking her all our medical questions....just like Mr. Lincoln gets asked legal questions all the time...funny, no one ever seems to need my Tennessee history advice), so it was suggested that he send a picture of the cut, so that Nurse H. and I could offer our expert and non-expert opinions concerning the need for stitches. Below is the picture he sent:
Uh, yeah, I think you need stitches. I got the baby, my son called his doctor, who in about 2 seconds of seeing the cut said, "wow, you need stitches!" So after a couple layers of stitches, and a prescription for antibiotics, he went home. Except for soreness in his back, the weekend seemed to go fairly well for my son and family.
Fast forward....Monday morning. Complaints of a raging headache and a general feeling of unwellness began. I offered to let the baby play, nap and lunch at my house so my son could rest. He rested and seemed to be much better. Seems all is well, or at least on the road to well.
Tuesday morning....My daughter-in-law calls. Her hubby, my son, has a fever of 102, she has to get to work, he needs to stay away from the baby. I inquired as to whether they had checked for infection in the cut on his back. She thought it looked okay, but with such a deep wound we figured an infection could be there and not noticeable on the surface. When I picked up the baby, I asked him to please go to the doctor and have his back checked. He was so miserable that he just felt like he could not get out of bed, but conceded that if someone would work it out, he would go. Mr. Lincoln to the rescue!! He called the doctor who said to take our son to the emergency room immediately. Mr. Lincoln did. Yay!! No infection in wound, but there was definitely something going on. Tests were run.
Wednesday....Tests are back. Apparently hepatitis caused by either mono or medicine is what is causing all this misery. Temperature is still 102. He is miserable. Further testing to be done.
Thursday...It is not mono. By process of elimination, the doctor has concluded that he has Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever, caused by the bite of an infected tick. What? DO NOT GOOGLE such things. Oh, my word! There is one antibiotic designed specifically for RMSF, and it is prescribed.
Friday...Our son is feeling better this morning, and much better by this evening. Improving from the antibiotic seems to confirm the diagnosis. Mr. Lincoln informed me he read that only about 800 cases of RMSF are reported each year in the U.S. Wow, I bet he is feeling really special.
Saturday morning...I have not heard anything this morning, so I am assuming the improvement continues.
The real danger of Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever is a late diagnosis. The sooner it is caught, the better chance of treating it. My son is like a lot of men; he does not go to the doctor often. People, die of RMSF because doctors do not recognize it, patients do not remember being bitten by a tick, symptoms are compatible with many other things.
So I ask: could it be that our son's fall in the wee hours last Friday was the beginning of events that would literally save his life? (I know and love a few people who at this point are thinking, "I love her, but she's an idiot. She cannot really believe this stuff!) I cannot help but think that if he had not fallen, when he woke up with a fever of 102 degrees 4 days later he would not have gone to the doctor in fear that his wound was infected, tests would not have been run, and while an eventual diagnosis may have been made as symptoms increased, perhaps it would have been too late.
I am not saying this is how it is, I am asking, "could it be?" I believe it could.
So for today, I wish you belief in possibilities, good health, and I wish you
blessings
Saturday, June 1, 2013
Day three...and home
This morning I bid a fond farewell to the Country Inn and Suites and headed up Lookout Mountain to Rock City. Barns with "See Rock City" dot the countryside, and I have seen them all my life, but I have never been there. It was lovely...a little hokey and commercial, but the rock formations and the flowers were incredible. I will admit that I sort of attached myself to a couple (they didn't know, but I kept them in view) as we went through the caverns. There were a lot of creepy Mother Goose characters lit with black lights in the caverns and it felt scary and I felt a bit claustrophobic. I went through Fat Man's Squeeze, and seriously, a fat man could not have made it through. I saw 7 states from Lover's Leap Lookout, but I saw them away from the edge. I was transported to the waterfall with Daniel Day Lewis in Last of the Mohicans.
After my walk through the gardens and rocks, I had two white chocolate covered graham crackers to keep my strength up as I contemplated driving back down the mountain. I seriously thought about getting a room at The Chanticleer which is a fabulous B&B across the street from Rock City, but I decided that I wanted to come home instead. 41A was to be the route I followed, except for the brief stretch at Nickajack where the bridge is closed. I saw lots of men fishing there.
I was really surprised at how desolate the area was, especially, along the Tennessee River. I expected to see more vacation homes and resorts. Lunch was at the Dutchmaid Bakery in Tracy City. After lunch, I went to Sewanee and the University of the South. In our next life, Mr. Lincoln and I are going to be history professors at Sewanee and live in a yellow clapboard house with a big front porch on University Avenue. We will walk around town after dinner each night, then sit on the porch. Our students will walk by and stop and chat and then wander off thinking how eccentric, and tough, and fair we are as professors. Sounds lovely to me.
A lot of driving through some torrential rain, then sun, then rain led me to Nolensville where I did a little window shopping, bought some Martin's barbeque, and came home. It was a nice weekend. Maybe I could have stayed longer, but the pull home was greater than the need to be away. Simeon dropped by to see us for a few minutes, and the phone has rung several times since my return. I am sure I will sleep well, in my own bed tonight. I need to thank Zoe, for their "Faithful" CD was a dear companion on my drive.
I do not know if my head is straightened out or not, but I did enjoy my bit of solitude. I am also very glad to be home.
So for today, I wish you a pull to home when you are away, safe travels, and
blessings
After my walk through the gardens and rocks, I had two white chocolate covered graham crackers to keep my strength up as I contemplated driving back down the mountain. I seriously thought about getting a room at The Chanticleer which is a fabulous B&B across the street from Rock City, but I decided that I wanted to come home instead. 41A was to be the route I followed, except for the brief stretch at Nickajack where the bridge is closed. I saw lots of men fishing there.
I was really surprised at how desolate the area was, especially, along the Tennessee River. I expected to see more vacation homes and resorts. Lunch was at the Dutchmaid Bakery in Tracy City. After lunch, I went to Sewanee and the University of the South. In our next life, Mr. Lincoln and I are going to be history professors at Sewanee and live in a yellow clapboard house with a big front porch on University Avenue. We will walk around town after dinner each night, then sit on the porch. Our students will walk by and stop and chat and then wander off thinking how eccentric, and tough, and fair we are as professors. Sounds lovely to me.
A lot of driving through some torrential rain, then sun, then rain led me to Nolensville where I did a little window shopping, bought some Martin's barbeque, and came home. It was a nice weekend. Maybe I could have stayed longer, but the pull home was greater than the need to be away. Simeon dropped by to see us for a few minutes, and the phone has rung several times since my return. I am sure I will sleep well, in my own bed tonight. I need to thank Zoe, for their "Faithful" CD was a dear companion on my drive.
I do not know if my head is straightened out or not, but I did enjoy my bit of solitude. I am also very glad to be home.
So for today, I wish you a pull to home when you are away, safe travels, and
blessings
Friday, May 31, 2013
Day two
This morning dawned full of promise for a great day. The plan was to go to Chickamauga Battlefield, take lots of pictures, go to the town, have lunch at a quaint spot, do a little antiquing and end the afternoon with a train ride. Perfection!
I have driven to Chickamauga before. In fact, I have driven there from the very spot from which I departed this morning. There were a few steps I must have forgotten along the way, like BOTH right lanes at exit 178 dump one off the interstate. Not to worry, there must be another on ramp close by. Not really. Finally, after several turns, I am back in business. There is even a sign that says " Chickamauga Battlefield exit 180. No problem...is that 180A or 180B? Well exit 180A is first so that must be it. No, no, it is not. No problem, there must be an on ramp very nearby. No, there is not. Okay, so I have gone East, then North, then West, so South must be the proper direction. Of course it is. I am going to Georgia from Tennessee after all. A few twists and turns, I am back on I24, headed West, take exit 180B and I am cooking!
Everytime I worried that I was lost, I would see a confirmation that I was on the right path to the battlefield. And, sure enough, after about 20 minutes or so I am there. The park rangers were lovely. I watched an excellent film on the battles for Chattanooga. It just reiterated the futility of war...the fighting and killing of people that if known personally would probably be friends. I set out for a marathon picture-taking morning. After about 6 pictures, my camera just cut off, and would not work at all. I knew I had fully charged the battery, but a $1,000 18-month-old camera could not just stop working, could it. Apparently, it can. To say I was not happy is a huge understatement.
Nothing to be done but return to the hotel, try to charge the battery, and see if I can get it working. I'll be dadgum if those 2 right lanes at exit 178 don't dump you off headed West too. I could not get my camera to work, so I called the manufacturer, but they were not willing to overnight me a new one (seriously, I did not ask) so what should I do. I mean I take pictures every day. I love that camera. I understand all its eccentricities. Almost every picture I have taken of Simeon and Max, all approximately 3 million of them, have been taken with that camera. So, I did what any upset person would do. I went to Sonic to contemplate my next move. The decision was made to go to WalMart nearby and buy another camera....a cheaper, but not cheap camera, and to figure out what to do about the other one when I get home.
So, off I go to get my day back on track, just several hours later than planned. Chickamauga is very moving. Dozens of monuments representing thousands of men who served, including a monument to Abraham Lincoln's brother-in-law who was mortally wounded. I got my pictures, even though I do not love this camera, and will have to figure out a way to repair or replace my good one.
The little town of Chickamauga, GA is lovely. I bought 2 vintage/antique/new-but-dirty vases (?) for the grand total of $7.00, passed a shop called "chocolate therapy cafe." Yes, please. I walked all around town, and even though it was warm, there was a lovely breeze. The train come through...the train I hoped to ride today, but, alas, that did not happen. It was a day of ups and downs, of back and forths, but it is a day about which I will not complain.
Favorite signs seen on my travels today: on stone entrance - "welcome to historic Ft. Oglethorpe, established 1949" I must be bordering on 'historic') on the Chickamauga church of Christ - "if little
ears shouldn't hear it, big mouths shouldn't say it!" On the front of a secondhand store - "too good to be threw" seriously. And my favorite of the day...ta da....on the sign at a hair salon - "Gelus Hair Designs, " I promise.
So now after having had my "earlybird special" for the second night in a row at Cracker Barrel with all the other old folk, I am safely ensconced in my 55 degree (how I like it) hotel room thinking about my plans for tomorrow. What adventures await, I wonder.
For today, I wish you minor frustrations, good times, and I wish you
Blessings
I have driven to Chickamauga before. In fact, I have driven there from the very spot from which I departed this morning. There were a few steps I must have forgotten along the way, like BOTH right lanes at exit 178 dump one off the interstate. Not to worry, there must be another on ramp close by. Not really. Finally, after several turns, I am back in business. There is even a sign that says " Chickamauga Battlefield exit 180. No problem...is that 180A or 180B? Well exit 180A is first so that must be it. No, no, it is not. No problem, there must be an on ramp very nearby. No, there is not. Okay, so I have gone East, then North, then West, so South must be the proper direction. Of course it is. I am going to Georgia from Tennessee after all. A few twists and turns, I am back on I24, headed West, take exit 180B and I am cooking!
Everytime I worried that I was lost, I would see a confirmation that I was on the right path to the battlefield. And, sure enough, after about 20 minutes or so I am there. The park rangers were lovely. I watched an excellent film on the battles for Chattanooga. It just reiterated the futility of war...the fighting and killing of people that if known personally would probably be friends. I set out for a marathon picture-taking morning. After about 6 pictures, my camera just cut off, and would not work at all. I knew I had fully charged the battery, but a $1,000 18-month-old camera could not just stop working, could it. Apparently, it can. To say I was not happy is a huge understatement.
Nothing to be done but return to the hotel, try to charge the battery, and see if I can get it working. I'll be dadgum if those 2 right lanes at exit 178 don't dump you off headed West too. I could not get my camera to work, so I called the manufacturer, but they were not willing to overnight me a new one (seriously, I did not ask) so what should I do. I mean I take pictures every day. I love that camera. I understand all its eccentricities. Almost every picture I have taken of Simeon and Max, all approximately 3 million of them, have been taken with that camera. So, I did what any upset person would do. I went to Sonic to contemplate my next move. The decision was made to go to WalMart nearby and buy another camera....a cheaper, but not cheap camera, and to figure out what to do about the other one when I get home.
So, off I go to get my day back on track, just several hours later than planned. Chickamauga is very moving. Dozens of monuments representing thousands of men who served, including a monument to Abraham Lincoln's brother-in-law who was mortally wounded. I got my pictures, even though I do not love this camera, and will have to figure out a way to repair or replace my good one.
The little town of Chickamauga, GA is lovely. I bought 2 vintage/antique/new-but-dirty vases (?) for the grand total of $7.00, passed a shop called "chocolate therapy cafe." Yes, please. I walked all around town, and even though it was warm, there was a lovely breeze. The train come through...the train I hoped to ride today, but, alas, that did not happen. It was a day of ups and downs, of back and forths, but it is a day about which I will not complain.
Favorite signs seen on my travels today: on stone entrance - "welcome to historic Ft. Oglethorpe, established 1949" I must be bordering on 'historic') on the Chickamauga church of Christ - "if little
ears shouldn't hear it, big mouths shouldn't say it!" On the front of a secondhand store - "too good to be threw" seriously. And my favorite of the day...ta da....on the sign at a hair salon - "Gelus Hair Designs, " I promise.
So now after having had my "earlybird special" for the second night in a row at Cracker Barrel with all the other old folk, I am safely ensconced in my 55 degree (how I like it) hotel room thinking about my plans for tomorrow. What adventures await, I wonder.
For today, I wish you minor frustrations, good times, and I wish you
Blessings
Thursday, May 30, 2013
Day one
As I suspected, not a lot of excitement today. I got away from town later than I would have liked, but earlier than I anticipated. Some observations from my day in no particular order.
Going 41A to Monteagle Mountain adds about an hour to the trip. By the time I arrived at Lookout Mountain, in my head I was hearing the "melodious" voice of Jean Eisenhower who had a colorful way of expressing the fact that she had been sitting too long. I was ready to get out of the car.
Tennessee is a beautiful state, and there is a lot of country on the back roads. When driving the less traveled road, one wonders about the cry of overpopulation.
Getting over Monteagle Mountain the back way is much, much curvier than the interstate. Whew, almost enough to make even the driver carsick.
I am glad that I do not live in Rover or Estill Springs, but I can see why people might love their small towns.
Decherd has cheap gas.
Tullahoma has a WalMart with a bathroom that was a glorious sight.
Rose's is not a grocery store with fresh apples. I am not sure what it would be called. Sort of a combination of Aldi's, Big Lots and a Vanity Fair outlet store. Also, Rose's does not have a bathroom.
Lynchburg actually has a sign on the highway that says, "Entering the Metropolis of Lynchburg, TN." Talk about hyperbole!!!!
I saw a truck speeding, and I do mean speeding down I24 (I caved and got on the interstate at Monteagle since I had already been driving 3 hours to get 1 1/2 hours down the road) that had "Even a brick wants to be part of something." I thought that a very fitting metaphor for life. I think we all want to be part of something. Actually, we all are or will be part of something. I guess we need to be wise about what we choose. I assume the driver of the truck was either a maker or layer of bricks.
I really can eat a meal by myself in a restaurant. Perhaps, there were people who noticed me there alone and wondered about my story. They might have been surprised at the wonderful life I have at home. Most likely, no one even took note of my presence.
Some things that are humorous are also quite sad, like the loud middle-aged, overweight, bespectacled, balding man on a date at Cracker Barrel with a beautiful younger woman. It seemed as though he was trying desperately to impress her with his refined gourmand palate that was insulted by the undercooked grits, and his periodic poorly executed Italian accent.
That blogger does not seem to work as I wish on the iPad, so I have no idea how this is going to turn out.
For today, I wish you safe travels wherever you may go, a family who loves you, and I wish you
Blessings
Going 41A to Monteagle Mountain adds about an hour to the trip. By the time I arrived at Lookout Mountain, in my head I was hearing the "melodious" voice of Jean Eisenhower who had a colorful way of expressing the fact that she had been sitting too long. I was ready to get out of the car.
Tennessee is a beautiful state, and there is a lot of country on the back roads. When driving the less traveled road, one wonders about the cry of overpopulation.
Getting over Monteagle Mountain the back way is much, much curvier than the interstate. Whew, almost enough to make even the driver carsick.
I am glad that I do not live in Rover or Estill Springs, but I can see why people might love their small towns.
Decherd has cheap gas.
Tullahoma has a WalMart with a bathroom that was a glorious sight.
Rose's is not a grocery store with fresh apples. I am not sure what it would be called. Sort of a combination of Aldi's, Big Lots and a Vanity Fair outlet store. Also, Rose's does not have a bathroom.
Lynchburg actually has a sign on the highway that says, "Entering the Metropolis of Lynchburg, TN." Talk about hyperbole!!!!
I saw a truck speeding, and I do mean speeding down I24 (I caved and got on the interstate at Monteagle since I had already been driving 3 hours to get 1 1/2 hours down the road) that had "Even a brick wants to be part of something." I thought that a very fitting metaphor for life. I think we all want to be part of something. Actually, we all are or will be part of something. I guess we need to be wise about what we choose. I assume the driver of the truck was either a maker or layer of bricks.
I really can eat a meal by myself in a restaurant. Perhaps, there were people who noticed me there alone and wondered about my story. They might have been surprised at the wonderful life I have at home. Most likely, no one even took note of my presence.
Some things that are humorous are also quite sad, like the loud middle-aged, overweight, bespectacled, balding man on a date at Cracker Barrel with a beautiful younger woman. It seemed as though he was trying desperately to impress her with his refined gourmand palate that was insulted by the undercooked grits, and his periodic poorly executed Italian accent.
That blogger does not seem to work as I wish on the iPad, so I have no idea how this is going to turn out.
For today, I wish you safe travels wherever you may go, a family who loves you, and I wish you
Blessings
Tuesday, May 28, 2013
Walkabout
In 2 days, I am going on a "walkabout." Actually, since I am neither Australian nor will I be walking, perhaps a better moniker would be "driveabout." I have a vague notion of where I will be going. No reservations for lodging have been made. The interstate will be avoided as much as possible. Back roads will be my friend.
In the almost 61 years of my life, I have never done such a thing. I have gone to places with Mr. Lincoln, and while he ran a marathon or attended a seminar, I have explored cities on my own, but I have never actually traveled anywhere for any length of time by myself. But, I need some time to myself, and with Mr. Lincoln's almost frighteningly enthusiastic encouragement, I will travel to find it.
Life is wonderful. My children and grandsons are great lights in my life. My mom is recovering well, although slowly, from her surgery. Mr. Lincoln and I get along famously. I have wonderful friends. But, my head is not on straight. I find myself more easily frustrated with people and things than I normally am. I find myself on the receiving end of others' anger, and I find it confusing. I say I love the quote, "what others think about me is none of my business," but I find myself in my head giving people "what for." I do not like it.
So, I will leave the familiar surroundings of home for a few days. I have as many as 6 days that I can be gone, but I do not see that happening. I am certain I will miss family, home, my wonderful Egyptian cotton sheets, and will make my way back in a couple or three days; hopefully with my head on a little straighter.
I may blog about each day. I may not blog about each day. I suspect they won't be all that exciting. I hope they will be spent communing with nature and God. I hope that I will return home filled with the Spirit, and exhibiting the fruit of the Spirit a bit better than I have been recently.
So for today, if you are a praying person, I solicit your prayers for safe travels and a successful "straightening of my head," and I wish you
blessings
In the almost 61 years of my life, I have never done such a thing. I have gone to places with Mr. Lincoln, and while he ran a marathon or attended a seminar, I have explored cities on my own, but I have never actually traveled anywhere for any length of time by myself. But, I need some time to myself, and with Mr. Lincoln's almost frighteningly enthusiastic encouragement, I will travel to find it.
Life is wonderful. My children and grandsons are great lights in my life. My mom is recovering well, although slowly, from her surgery. Mr. Lincoln and I get along famously. I have wonderful friends. But, my head is not on straight. I find myself more easily frustrated with people and things than I normally am. I find myself on the receiving end of others' anger, and I find it confusing. I say I love the quote, "what others think about me is none of my business," but I find myself in my head giving people "what for." I do not like it.
So, I will leave the familiar surroundings of home for a few days. I have as many as 6 days that I can be gone, but I do not see that happening. I am certain I will miss family, home, my wonderful Egyptian cotton sheets, and will make my way back in a couple or three days; hopefully with my head on a little straighter.
I may blog about each day. I may not blog about each day. I suspect they won't be all that exciting. I hope they will be spent communing with nature and God. I hope that I will return home filled with the Spirit, and exhibiting the fruit of the Spirit a bit better than I have been recently.
So for today, if you are a praying person, I solicit your prayers for safe travels and a successful "straightening of my head," and I wish you
blessings
Thursday, May 9, 2013
Hell
It is interesting to me that I woke up early this morning contemplating Hell. This afternoon, after skimming through FB, I saw that our teaching minister blogged about Hell. I have not read his blog because I want to neither plagiarize nor seem that I am somehow passively aggressively disagreeing with him. So, I will wait to read it until I am finished. There is one thing I know for sure, and that is whatever he has written, it will be much more intellectual and well thought-out than this little blurb.
There was a time in my life when I was often reassessing what hell would be. I once was convinced that it would be the late Saturday night show at the Grand Ole Opry with Hank Snow on stage. If you have experienced that event, you know exactly of that which I speak. Once on a tour someone asked me if Hank Snow was dead. My less-than-gracious reply was, "yes, but no one has told him so you will be seeing him at the Opry tonight."
One evening years ago, I was fairly certain that hell was the tiny nursery at church filled with babies of all ages on a hot summer night during a thunderstorm with no power. I still get the shudders and consider how seriously I need to straighten out my wicked ways in order to avoid such an eternal fate.
When I was twelve years old, about six months after my baptism, our preacher offered up a sermon on hell. He was very graphic as he told us to go home, turn the burner on the stove and set our hands on it. He described the gradual heating up of the burner, how the flesh would begin to smoke and how the blood in our veins would begin to boil. He had a way with words as he described the smell of burning flesh and the complete agony that accompanied such a deed. Then, his denouement...he said that was only a fraction of what hell would be like. Holy cow, I could not get out of my pew and down that aisle to ask for the prayers of the church so I could be "restored" fast enough. I did not want to go there, and if staying out of there meant being "restored" every church service, then I was prepared to comply.
Frankly, I think there are very few of us, no matter what heinous acts we have committed, who would ever think we deserved such a hideous eternity. If sent there, we would not be contrite and broken hearted, we would be furious and self-righteous and looking for someone to blame for this terrible injustice we were suffering.
I think all church goers have heard the story about the people in hell starving to death at a table laden with food because the spoons they were given had handles too long for them to feed themselves. Heaven had the same circumstance except the people were happy and well-fed because they fed each other. Perhaps, this is getting a little closer than a horned, long-tailed, pitch-fork carrying demon to whom God, the Father has sent all of us who have more black marks than stars in the Lamb's Book of Life.
Perhaps, this last view is a bit closer to what hell is. I have come to think of hell as where God is not....in our need to be angry at our fellow man, in our addictions, in our hatefulness, in our selfishness, in our need to exact revenge on those whom we perceive have slighted us, in our lack of sympathy and empathy, in our sense of entitlement, in our looking for a fight, in our enjoyment of the base and obscene, in our prejudice. These things are not of God. These things lead to a burning hell in our hearts in our minds and in our relationships. And, when, in honesty we look at ourselves, and know we are guilty of such behavior, our hearts are broken, we understand our culpability, and then we are ready to accept the saving grace of Jesus, not as something to which we are entitled, but rather as the gift that it is.
So, hell...is it a place? I do not think so. It is so much more than that. Is its landlord a despicable red man? I do not think so. I am the landlord of my hell. I do not profess to know where a spirit or soul goes after the body has died in this realm. It is all too wonderous and mysterious for my feeble mind. So, I choose to trust God, to accept Jesus's sacrifice, to try and fail and try again to live my life in a way that reflects those choices.
For today, I wish you blessings
There was a time in my life when I was often reassessing what hell would be. I once was convinced that it would be the late Saturday night show at the Grand Ole Opry with Hank Snow on stage. If you have experienced that event, you know exactly of that which I speak. Once on a tour someone asked me if Hank Snow was dead. My less-than-gracious reply was, "yes, but no one has told him so you will be seeing him at the Opry tonight."
One evening years ago, I was fairly certain that hell was the tiny nursery at church filled with babies of all ages on a hot summer night during a thunderstorm with no power. I still get the shudders and consider how seriously I need to straighten out my wicked ways in order to avoid such an eternal fate.
When I was twelve years old, about six months after my baptism, our preacher offered up a sermon on hell. He was very graphic as he told us to go home, turn the burner on the stove and set our hands on it. He described the gradual heating up of the burner, how the flesh would begin to smoke and how the blood in our veins would begin to boil. He had a way with words as he described the smell of burning flesh and the complete agony that accompanied such a deed. Then, his denouement...he said that was only a fraction of what hell would be like. Holy cow, I could not get out of my pew and down that aisle to ask for the prayers of the church so I could be "restored" fast enough. I did not want to go there, and if staying out of there meant being "restored" every church service, then I was prepared to comply.
Frankly, I think there are very few of us, no matter what heinous acts we have committed, who would ever think we deserved such a hideous eternity. If sent there, we would not be contrite and broken hearted, we would be furious and self-righteous and looking for someone to blame for this terrible injustice we were suffering.
I think all church goers have heard the story about the people in hell starving to death at a table laden with food because the spoons they were given had handles too long for them to feed themselves. Heaven had the same circumstance except the people were happy and well-fed because they fed each other. Perhaps, this is getting a little closer than a horned, long-tailed, pitch-fork carrying demon to whom God, the Father has sent all of us who have more black marks than stars in the Lamb's Book of Life.
Perhaps, this last view is a bit closer to what hell is. I have come to think of hell as where God is not....in our need to be angry at our fellow man, in our addictions, in our hatefulness, in our selfishness, in our need to exact revenge on those whom we perceive have slighted us, in our lack of sympathy and empathy, in our sense of entitlement, in our looking for a fight, in our enjoyment of the base and obscene, in our prejudice. These things are not of God. These things lead to a burning hell in our hearts in our minds and in our relationships. And, when, in honesty we look at ourselves, and know we are guilty of such behavior, our hearts are broken, we understand our culpability, and then we are ready to accept the saving grace of Jesus, not as something to which we are entitled, but rather as the gift that it is.
So, hell...is it a place? I do not think so. It is so much more than that. Is its landlord a despicable red man? I do not think so. I am the landlord of my hell. I do not profess to know where a spirit or soul goes after the body has died in this realm. It is all too wonderous and mysterious for my feeble mind. So, I choose to trust God, to accept Jesus's sacrifice, to try and fail and try again to live my life in a way that reflects those choices.
For today, I wish you blessings
Wednesday, April 24, 2013
An Epic Kerfuffle
So, Mr. Lincoln decided several months ago that he had not been pushing himself lately (guess he forgot that hellish day last December when he ran 60 miles) so he would train for and run in the Salt Lake City Marathon. I was pretty excited as I really love Salt Lake City, and invited myself along for the ride. We began to plan...in our heads...for the trip, delaying making the necessary arrangements such as flight, rental car, and lodging. Finally, we did get online looking for our preferred hotel, the one in which we stayed the last time he ran this marathon. We thought it was the Radisson, which, alas was filled. Due to our delayed planning, we scouted around and found a place to stay. Shortly after making the arrangements, we both forgot where we had made reservations. We were a tad puzzled about how to remedy the situation, but we figured it would work out some way; which it did. We are usually much more efficient.
Periodically, MP would ask if we had made our flight reservations, which we had not. Finally, she could not take it any more, came over, and forced me to buy plane tickets. We greatly appreciated her "gentle" encouragement. Also, about a week before our trip, we decided to rent a car. We got a Nissan Versa, and despite multiple efforts to have us "upgrade," we were quite happy with it.
Thursday, April 18 my alarm went off at 3:30 am letting me know it was time to get up and get ready to go to the airport. Our plan was to leave the house by 4:30 in order to catch a 6:00 flight. MP was gracious enough to pick us up and take us to the airport. Mr. Lincoln had encouraged me that we could make it with only one suitcase, and since, after all, I had invited myself on the trip, I complied. All I really needed were a couple pair of pants and several tops, perhaps a jacket. Mr. Lincoln assured me that the weather was to be sunny and cool, no chance for rain, so I did not pack my raincoat; too bad. I also forgot one pair of those pants.
Getting through security was pretty much a breeze, and as we smugly strolled through the airport thinking to ourselves what a cinch travel is, I got a text message. How weird is that at this time of the morning? It was Southwest Airlines letting me know that our flight had been cancelled due to weather. We were supposed to fly to Chicago and then on to Salt Lake. We continued to our gate, only to see a line about 20 people deep. Mr. Lincoln went to a relatively empty gate, and our flight was changed. Now we were to fly out of Nashville at 9:30 (six hours after I had gotten up) and go to Baltimore then to Salt Lake. The ticket agent assured us that we would not have to change planes. Really, does that matter at this point? Even I, in all my geographically challenged idiocy, know that Baltimore is not on the way to Salt Lake City from.....well, anywhere. I was at least grateful that I had not already taken the Dramamine which is essential in my having a successful trip on any moving conveyance.
Of course, the IPad would not connect to the internet at the airport, so Mr. Lincoln read Life of Pi while I played Bejeweled Blitz. Finally, our flight is called and we board the plane, fly to Baltimore, wait not very long for others to board who are also going to Salt Lake. As we get to 1,000 feet and "all approved electronics can now be turned on," we were informed that the WiFi on the plane was down. Okay, no big deal. By now, the Dramamine has taken effect and I am somewhat unconscious. A few more feet in the air, and the pilot comes on to inform us that our flight is being directed south of Little Rock in order to avoid the bad weather. Even I know that Little Rock is not on the way to Salt Lake from Baltimore. Also, a minor detail...our 4 1/2 hour flight (a hellish thought) will now be 5 1/2 hours. What? 5 1/2 hours in a plane...needless to say, I doubt I would be a successful traveler to, say, Fiji, Africa, or California...from Baltimore. And, thank Goodness we "missed the weather" because it was pretty much like 5 hours on a roller coaster. No amount of Dramamine can disguise the nausea produced by that.
Finally, we land at Salt Lake City; not at the 11:00 am time we anticipated when we left home looking forward to a leisurely afternoon enjoying the sites, but more like 4:30 pm. We got the Versa, again, resisting the pressure to "upgrade," and set out to find our hotel. As we passed the Hilton (not our hotel, but turns out it was the Hilton, not the Radisson where we stayed before) for about the 5th time, I gave Mr. Lincoln the phone number to our proper hotel so we could get some directions. If you have never been to Salt Lake, let me tell you that all the streets are numbered according to their distance from Temple Square and in what direction. So, you can be on the corner of 600S and 700 W. I like names, you know, like Old Hickory Boulevard, Main Street, Maple Drive etc... I do not remember numbers well. I have never been so happy to see a Residence Inn in all my life. A Motel 6 would have been a welcome sight at this point. Instead of dinner in Park City as we had thought, we ate at the Olive Garden right next to the Hilton!
Shortly after returning from dinner, I got a phone call from my sister. She was crying. She told me that our mother had been taken to St. Thomas hospital with a 103.9 fever and very low blood pressure. Granted, Mom has not been feeling well since shoulder surgery on April 4, but certainly she was not in such a dire condition when I left town. Otherwise, I would not have left. Doree was headed to St. Thomas. I talked to my brother, Sam, and he also was headed to the hospital. I told them to let me know what was going on. That is such a helpless feeling. Mr. Lincoln and I discussed if I should fly back home. Oh, good, heavens, the thought of getting back on a plane was almost more than I could bear, but I told him I would wait until I had more information. It turns out that at St. Thomas was Doree, her husband, my brother Sam and his girlfriend, but NOT Mom. She was resting peacefully (translated knocked out from pain meds) at the rehab center where she is staying for a few weeks following surgery. Seems like another poor lady was at St. Thomas with a raging fever and plummeting blood pressure. I still do not know if that lady was taken to the hospital because Mom's doctor said for Mom to be taken if she took a turn for the worse. Crisis averted, for our family. After that, we both fell into bed and slept like the dead.
Friday morning dawned somewhat cloudy, but that is fine. We drove to the convention center (right across the street from the Hilton), parked the car and walked in so Mr. Lincoln could get his race packet and enjoy the expo that is always connected to a race. You may think I am exaggerating, but I promise I am not, by the time we walked the distance from the door in which we entered until we found the expo, we were much closer to our hotel than we were to where we parked the car. That convention center is gargantuan. The expo was tiny tucked into about 3000 square feet of a room that was probably 30,000 square feet. Mr. Lincoln got his number and we went sightseeing. We saw the University of Utah and its beautiful campus. We never did (that day) find the bookstore, we went to the capitol, we went to the finish line of the race. I spent some time at Temple Square taking pictures. Mr. Lincoln scouted out which light rail station he needed to go to in order to get to the start line. We did a dry run so that I could find my way back to the hotel after I dropped him off on Saturday morning at 5:30. It was 2 turns. What could go wrong? After a burger and sweet potato fries at a restaurant within walking distance of the hotel, Mr. Lincoln got all his stuff together for the race and we slept.
Saturday morning, it is raining. I drive Mr. Lincoln to the station, wish him good luck, tell him I might see him at the finish line, which we both knew is not true because there was no way I will find it, and I head back to the hotel. Of course, I need my McDonald's diet Coke, and the Mc Donald's is only a block from the hotel. I get my drink head back, and lo' and behold, I get lost. I am passing 200 S and 400 W and the Hilton, and for someone who cries rarely, I was very close to tears. Then I see the burger restaurant where we had eaten the night before and figure surely I can find the Residence Inn...surely. I do!! I watch the start of the race on TV, actually see Mr. Lincoln there and at mile 5, then coverage of the race is over for the day. They did not even show the elite runners finish....not that I would have seen Mr. Lincoln then. Periodically, he called me to let me know how he was doing. I began to worry as the last 6 miles were taking an inordinate amount of time. Finally, he's finished. Worst time he's ever had, but a personal best for a marathon since he turned 60, so, good for him!! He was soaked to the bone, glad the race was over and ready to keep walking (at the mall) so his muscles did not stiffen. I won't go into details about that trip and the hour I waited in line at H&M to buy 2 blouses and a pair of pants. The cashier in my line had no sense of urgency nor modicum of efficiency. When we walked to dinner that evening, hoping to eat at the burger restaurant again, we found it empty...open, but no one working there..so we assumed it was closed. After checking out another diner, which was closed...on a Saturday night...oh, wonder if they are run by Latter Day Saints? Hmmmmmm, that just dawned on me. We ended up eating at the Hotel Monaco, and it was delicious!!
Sunday morning dawned. Our trip home was uneventful. While reluctant to leave, we were glad to get home. It is always nice to get away, but we are blessed with a lovely life at home. All this epic kerfuffle was taking place with the backdrop of the explosion in West Texas, the manhunt and capture of one of the Boston Bombers, and horrific weather all over the middle portion of the nation. It was disquieting and stressful, but we experienced it together. You can decide for yourselves, if you have possibly managed to get through this ridiculous epic, if we have a good story to tell.
I love Mr. Lincoln, and I love spending time with him. Life in town gets hectic with family and work and church and other wonders that life offers. It is just nice to get away together, even if things do not work out quite as anticipated.
So for today, I wish you love, safe travels, and I wish you
blessings
Periodically, MP would ask if we had made our flight reservations, which we had not. Finally, she could not take it any more, came over, and forced me to buy plane tickets. We greatly appreciated her "gentle" encouragement. Also, about a week before our trip, we decided to rent a car. We got a Nissan Versa, and despite multiple efforts to have us "upgrade," we were quite happy with it.
Thursday, April 18 my alarm went off at 3:30 am letting me know it was time to get up and get ready to go to the airport. Our plan was to leave the house by 4:30 in order to catch a 6:00 flight. MP was gracious enough to pick us up and take us to the airport. Mr. Lincoln had encouraged me that we could make it with only one suitcase, and since, after all, I had invited myself on the trip, I complied. All I really needed were a couple pair of pants and several tops, perhaps a jacket. Mr. Lincoln assured me that the weather was to be sunny and cool, no chance for rain, so I did not pack my raincoat; too bad. I also forgot one pair of those pants.
Getting through security was pretty much a breeze, and as we smugly strolled through the airport thinking to ourselves what a cinch travel is, I got a text message. How weird is that at this time of the morning? It was Southwest Airlines letting me know that our flight had been cancelled due to weather. We were supposed to fly to Chicago and then on to Salt Lake. We continued to our gate, only to see a line about 20 people deep. Mr. Lincoln went to a relatively empty gate, and our flight was changed. Now we were to fly out of Nashville at 9:30 (six hours after I had gotten up) and go to Baltimore then to Salt Lake. The ticket agent assured us that we would not have to change planes. Really, does that matter at this point? Even I, in all my geographically challenged idiocy, know that Baltimore is not on the way to Salt Lake City from.....well, anywhere. I was at least grateful that I had not already taken the Dramamine which is essential in my having a successful trip on any moving conveyance.
Of course, the IPad would not connect to the internet at the airport, so Mr. Lincoln read Life of Pi while I played Bejeweled Blitz. Finally, our flight is called and we board the plane, fly to Baltimore, wait not very long for others to board who are also going to Salt Lake. As we get to 1,000 feet and "all approved electronics can now be turned on," we were informed that the WiFi on the plane was down. Okay, no big deal. By now, the Dramamine has taken effect and I am somewhat unconscious. A few more feet in the air, and the pilot comes on to inform us that our flight is being directed south of Little Rock in order to avoid the bad weather. Even I know that Little Rock is not on the way to Salt Lake from Baltimore. Also, a minor detail...our 4 1/2 hour flight (a hellish thought) will now be 5 1/2 hours. What? 5 1/2 hours in a plane...needless to say, I doubt I would be a successful traveler to, say, Fiji, Africa, or California...from Baltimore. And, thank Goodness we "missed the weather" because it was pretty much like 5 hours on a roller coaster. No amount of Dramamine can disguise the nausea produced by that.
Finally, we land at Salt Lake City; not at the 11:00 am time we anticipated when we left home looking forward to a leisurely afternoon enjoying the sites, but more like 4:30 pm. We got the Versa, again, resisting the pressure to "upgrade," and set out to find our hotel. As we passed the Hilton (not our hotel, but turns out it was the Hilton, not the Radisson where we stayed before) for about the 5th time, I gave Mr. Lincoln the phone number to our proper hotel so we could get some directions. If you have never been to Salt Lake, let me tell you that all the streets are numbered according to their distance from Temple Square and in what direction. So, you can be on the corner of 600S and 700 W. I like names, you know, like Old Hickory Boulevard, Main Street, Maple Drive etc... I do not remember numbers well. I have never been so happy to see a Residence Inn in all my life. A Motel 6 would have been a welcome sight at this point. Instead of dinner in Park City as we had thought, we ate at the Olive Garden right next to the Hilton!
Shortly after returning from dinner, I got a phone call from my sister. She was crying. She told me that our mother had been taken to St. Thomas hospital with a 103.9 fever and very low blood pressure. Granted, Mom has not been feeling well since shoulder surgery on April 4, but certainly she was not in such a dire condition when I left town. Otherwise, I would not have left. Doree was headed to St. Thomas. I talked to my brother, Sam, and he also was headed to the hospital. I told them to let me know what was going on. That is such a helpless feeling. Mr. Lincoln and I discussed if I should fly back home. Oh, good, heavens, the thought of getting back on a plane was almost more than I could bear, but I told him I would wait until I had more information. It turns out that at St. Thomas was Doree, her husband, my brother Sam and his girlfriend, but NOT Mom. She was resting peacefully (translated knocked out from pain meds) at the rehab center where she is staying for a few weeks following surgery. Seems like another poor lady was at St. Thomas with a raging fever and plummeting blood pressure. I still do not know if that lady was taken to the hospital because Mom's doctor said for Mom to be taken if she took a turn for the worse. Crisis averted, for our family. After that, we both fell into bed and slept like the dead.
Friday morning dawned somewhat cloudy, but that is fine. We drove to the convention center (right across the street from the Hilton), parked the car and walked in so Mr. Lincoln could get his race packet and enjoy the expo that is always connected to a race. You may think I am exaggerating, but I promise I am not, by the time we walked the distance from the door in which we entered until we found the expo, we were much closer to our hotel than we were to where we parked the car. That convention center is gargantuan. The expo was tiny tucked into about 3000 square feet of a room that was probably 30,000 square feet. Mr. Lincoln got his number and we went sightseeing. We saw the University of Utah and its beautiful campus. We never did (that day) find the bookstore, we went to the capitol, we went to the finish line of the race. I spent some time at Temple Square taking pictures. Mr. Lincoln scouted out which light rail station he needed to go to in order to get to the start line. We did a dry run so that I could find my way back to the hotel after I dropped him off on Saturday morning at 5:30. It was 2 turns. What could go wrong? After a burger and sweet potato fries at a restaurant within walking distance of the hotel, Mr. Lincoln got all his stuff together for the race and we slept.
Saturday morning, it is raining. I drive Mr. Lincoln to the station, wish him good luck, tell him I might see him at the finish line, which we both knew is not true because there was no way I will find it, and I head back to the hotel. Of course, I need my McDonald's diet Coke, and the Mc Donald's is only a block from the hotel. I get my drink head back, and lo' and behold, I get lost. I am passing 200 S and 400 W and the Hilton, and for someone who cries rarely, I was very close to tears. Then I see the burger restaurant where we had eaten the night before and figure surely I can find the Residence Inn...surely. I do!! I watch the start of the race on TV, actually see Mr. Lincoln there and at mile 5, then coverage of the race is over for the day. They did not even show the elite runners finish....not that I would have seen Mr. Lincoln then. Periodically, he called me to let me know how he was doing. I began to worry as the last 6 miles were taking an inordinate amount of time. Finally, he's finished. Worst time he's ever had, but a personal best for a marathon since he turned 60, so, good for him!! He was soaked to the bone, glad the race was over and ready to keep walking (at the mall) so his muscles did not stiffen. I won't go into details about that trip and the hour I waited in line at H&M to buy 2 blouses and a pair of pants. The cashier in my line had no sense of urgency nor modicum of efficiency. When we walked to dinner that evening, hoping to eat at the burger restaurant again, we found it empty...open, but no one working there..so we assumed it was closed. After checking out another diner, which was closed...on a Saturday night...oh, wonder if they are run by Latter Day Saints? Hmmmmmm, that just dawned on me. We ended up eating at the Hotel Monaco, and it was delicious!!
Sunday morning dawned. Our trip home was uneventful. While reluctant to leave, we were glad to get home. It is always nice to get away, but we are blessed with a lovely life at home. All this epic kerfuffle was taking place with the backdrop of the explosion in West Texas, the manhunt and capture of one of the Boston Bombers, and horrific weather all over the middle portion of the nation. It was disquieting and stressful, but we experienced it together. You can decide for yourselves, if you have possibly managed to get through this ridiculous epic, if we have a good story to tell.
I love Mr. Lincoln, and I love spending time with him. Life in town gets hectic with family and work and church and other wonders that life offers. It is just nice to get away together, even if things do not work out quite as anticipated.
So for today, I wish you love, safe travels, and I wish you
blessings
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