Brenda Knight Graham's Blog, page 23

Where Do You Run?

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Jared Evans and wife Amanda at a Republican forum in February

The following story is true, though I may have missed a few details. My grandson-in-law, Jared Evans, who is running for sheriff of Grady County, told it to me.

Here it is:

Jared was working at his family’s business (Cairo Paint and Body) one morning when a man came running up totally out of breath. “Give me a ride,” he gasped.

Jared asked where he was trying to go.

“Anywhere,” the man huffed, “just anywhere.”

Jared, who has been in law enforcement for many years, began to smell something fishy. “What is your hurry?” he asked.

“I’m running from the sheriff, man, just get me out of here.”

By this time, Jared could see deputies turning in the driveway. Getting a firm grasp on the man, Jared said “I’m a policeman. You’ve come to the right place.”

It seems this man has been running from the law twenty years for having set fire to a church in Tallahassee. The sad “rest of the story” is that, because of Covid-19, the man could not be extradited back to Florida and now is working in Grady County.

The moral of the story? Be careful to whom you run.

VOTE  JARED EVANS FOR GRADY COUNTY SHERIFF

Annie’s Chapel

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You never know when you’re going to round a corner and plunge right into a refreshing surprise. It happened to us last week. Our plan to “drive by” Annie Parks’ yard to see her multiple lily beds became an introduction to a very unusual Covid-19 ministry.

Charles and I had delivered a book to a friend near Old Egg Road. Driving on from there, I realized we were very near Annie’s house and proposed we go by just to see her pretty flowers. When we turned the corner onto Elkins Road I spied Annie down on the ground under an azalea pulling weeds. We stopped to wave but Annie jumped up and called out, “Come on, let me show you my chapel. You can drive right to it. You’ll be safe.”

In amazement we followed this spry little woman who called out and pointed to this flower and that bush, even adding bits of history as we crept along. Annie was born in the big frame house she now lives in and has fond memories of growing up there. She stopped along the way to tell us about a tree now gone under which she kept the babies and children of the cotton pickers. “Some of the mothers wanted me to make frocks (dresses) for their little girls so Mama let me have the pedal sewing machine out here under that tree.”

But it’s another tree past that spot, a wide spreading oak tree, that is the setting for Annie’s present ministry. It’s what she calls her chapel. Under the tree spaced at least six feet apart are five wire “baskets” turned upside down to serve as seats. These baskets, Annie explained, were covers for tobacco barn heaters. Annie discovered a neighbor about to throw these old things away and claimed them, not knowing what she would do with them. But then the Lord gave her the idea of having an outdoor prayer chapel during the pandemic and very soon she knew what she could do with those old wire baskets. Next to the trunk of the tree is a large tight cooler holding towels to make the seats more comfortable and a stack of paper plates. The plates are not for serving food. Annie laughed and said, “I don’t feed the people who come. We just read scripture I’ve printed on the plates and then we pray. That’s all.”

Annie, who is “going on 88,” is the only family member left in her generation. But she has no spare time for being lonely or taking her rest. Under normal times she is organist at her church, teaches Sunday school as well as an ESL class, crochets, grows and preserves vegetables, and keeps a colorful yard year round. If mayhaws are ripe, Annie will be harvesting. If the lemon tree is bearing, Annie will be picking every one to share with friends and to freeze for making her own lemonade.

The Lord is Annie’s constant and “ever present” help when things are good and when they are bad. When the “home shelter” started she suddenly couldn’t go out to work at her ministries in town. She explains that she didn’t really beg the Lord to show her what she should do. “He took the initiative,” she says. “I just felt this warmth in my chest and I thought about those tobacco covers and my tree and I knew what to do. I don’t advertise it. Folks find out by word of mouth.”

Folks pull up to Annie’s house and blow their horn. Annie leads them to her chapel just as she did us that day. “I never know who’s coming,” she says, “but friend or stranger they are all welcome. We just talk to the Lord and then they’re on their way.”

Speaking of the tree, the home of her chapel, she says her grandfather, Christopher Columbus Miller, told her it was as old as the historic Big Oak in Thomasville. It has been through many storms including last year’s hurricane but, having lost only one limb, is sturdy as ever and makes a wonderful canopy of shade for the pray-ers.

We didn’t sit on Annie’s wire seats but she gave us each Bible verse plates which we read out loud. Then, standing safely back from our car window, she prayed for us that we would be blessed and be a blessing, that we would stay healthy and strong. Charles prayed for her too, thanking God for this special praying lady. There were three of us there under the oak tree, no four. Jesus was there!

We left feeling refreshed and ready for the next thing. I think Annie returned to pulling weeds. I’m sure she was talking to the Lord while she worked. She told us she had even asked God one day for a dog she wouldn’t have to take to the vet. And right soon Rufus, a sweet black mutt, showed up. He stays at Annie’s during the day, then goes home to his “other family” at night.

When I called to ask Annie if I could write about her and her chapel this week, she readily agreed. “But it isn’t my chapel; it’s the Lord’s. Be sure you give Him the honor and the glory. He’s the one who sends me folks needing prayers, like the couple down the road who left a few minutes ago.”

As I said, you never know when you’re going to turn a corner and find a wonderful surprise. Maybe you’ll turn Annie’s corner one day.

The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom then shall I fear? the Lord is the strength of my life; of whom shall I be afraid? Psalm 27:1

 

Christmas Shepherds in May

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While cutting out and painting two shepherds and two sheep during “home shelter,” we’ve had a lot of time to think about what life might have been like for these men. We may often think about shepherds during December when we hear the dear account of Jesus coming to earth as a tiny baby. But what about the rest of the year? Could we catch a glimpse of a shepherd’s life, what he might have endured, how he may have thought?

The first day we worked on painting the shepherds we only did their cloaks, sashes, and headdresses. As we left them that evening they were still just cut out boards with paint on them. But the next day we painted their faces. Suddenly they became real, no longer just plyboard, but people.  One tall shepherd in gold caftan and green sash is holding a staff (that staff with its crook took some fine sawing on Charles’ part!) and has a look of awe on his face. The other shepherd is kneeling with eyes closed in worship. Even our feeble attempts at painting eyes, noses, hands and feet brought forth in us a feeling that these men could (almost) talk.

What might they say?

Shepherds are often cast as the lowliest of the low because of their grimy smelly job. As former sheep owners ourselves we can vouch for how messy and oily sheep shearing is. But shepherds were due a great deal of respect. They were the ones who raised those perfect lambs for temple sacrifices. One online source, Father Dwight Longenecker, declares the shepherds were not mere “country bumpkins” who would have only the vaguest idea of what the Angel’s announcement meant. After all, these shepherds and others in the fields raised up to 265,000 lambs for the Passover sacrifices each year.

Did you know that a Passover lamb was actually called “The Lamb of God”? Shepherds had to raise lambs that met very strict legal-religious regulations. Lambs could be no more than a year old when sacrificed. They had to be male with no spot or blemish. They had to be born within five miles of Jerusalem, Bethlehem being exactly that. When a lamb was born, if it were male and appeared to be perfect, the shepherd wrapped it in strips of cloth and laid it in a stone feeding trough until the priest could pronounce it worthy to be raised for sacrificing.

The shepherds would have understood better than most what the Angel meant when he said, “You will find the Babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger.”

Shepherds lived in the fields with their sheep all year, 365 days and nights, with no tent, no roof over their heads. They would have been so familiar with the seasons, with the sky at different times of year, as well as where the best grazing might be, and what predators might attack. A shepherd was veterinarian, shearer, husbandman, and trainer of bellwethers (lead sheep). He also tied the ewes onto lengths of rope for milking, usually done by women.

I have always treasured Luke’s account of the shepherds on Bethlehem’s hillside who were the first to hear the wonderful Good News. I’m grateful for the Sunday school teacher who prodded me to learn the passage that begins “There were in the same country shepherds abiding in the fields keeping watch over their flocks by night.” But working with these figures has made me want to know more about these common men who were chosen above the elite to receive God’s message that night. They had to be men of great wisdom, God’s wisdom, who believed and followed the Angel’s directions, who worshiped in awe, and returned to the fields rejoicing, telling everyone they met what had happened.

What might these weathered men of the field have thought and said? I can imagine such broken sentences as: “Oh, God…” “Can this be?” “This–what just happened?” “Oh, dear Lord, the sounds, the lights…” “Praise be!”

As they walked to that stable or cave they may have been silent in stunned wonder. As they knelt before the King of Kings, I cannot think what they might say except “Oh, God!”

Our wooden, silent shepherds stand now under the eave of our green barn ready to be stored with other Nativity figures until December. It is raining but I can see them from my sewing machine window. It seems appropriate that they experience a good rain before they go into hiding. Shepherds of long ago would have rejoiced at receiving such a rain that would bring forth tender herbage for their sheep, as would present day shepherds in the same area.

A couple more morsels I gleaned from reading about shepherds and their sheep:

Skeptics say lambs were born in spring, not winter. In northern Europe and North America that is true. But in the Mideast, the Awassi sheep most common to the area, lambed in December.

The Awassi sheep have fat tails from whence they receive sustenance during the meagre grazing times.

As pointed out by Father Longenecker, Jesus was born in the same time, place, and with the same treatment (swaddling clothes, lying in a manger) as lambs that would be sacrificed.

I look forward to Christmas when we can add these figures to our Nativity scene. But–right now–I thank God for sending Jesus as a Babe and then as our sacrificial Lamb so that we can have abundance of life now and the prospect of eternal life in the glorious place He has reserved for us called Heaven. Maybe I’ll be able to talk to one of those rugged shepherds and find out more about how it was that starry night on a hill near Bethlehem.

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Family Picture

 

[image error]Last week we stood on the boardwalk at Cherokee Lake and watched two families of Canada geese gliding across the water, feeding on tender at the edges, all the time in perfect formation. I couldn’t help noticing a few similarities to human families. Could it be they get their pointers from the same Creator?

About once a week Charles and I go to Thomasville to deliver two hundred completed masks and pick up more for our team to sew. We make a fun excursion out of the errand, usually taking the opportunity to walk the mile around Cherokee Lake. We have always enjoyed watching Canada geese–flying in formation over our house from one lake to another, grouping in their black and white on the shores, flying in for such dramatic entries onto the water. But this time of the year is the best when the goslings are newly hatched. On that recent visit to Cherokee Lake we saw goslings out with their parents learning how to forage, how to follow directions, how to swim away across the lake staying together as a family.

The first family of geese was made up of the gander, the goose, and six downy teenage goslings. The second family had only five goslings and they were very young. I wished I could pick one up and feel its soft golden feathers but I knew that if I were so stupid as even to try such a thing I would be attacked viciously by both parents.

As we watched, the first family glided smooth as silk under the bridge where we were standing and went straight to the grassy shore. One goose was in front and one behind, consistently the same ones. We decided the one in front with the longer neck was the gander. He seemed always to be in charge, the goslings in a row behind him, then the goose swimming at the end of the line. On the shore, the goslings went greedily to work feeding on tender water grass while the parents stood guard, one on either side of their gaggle. Those parents were so alert.

The second family came quietly along crossing the water so effortlessly. They, too, swam under the bridge and the gander chose a different shore landing where they wouldn’t invade the first family in their feeding place. As the others had done, these parents stood watch over their young, necks stretched in alertness, one on either side of the foraging goslings. When it was time to move on, the gander gave a command in goose language that was quickly obeyed and all the family took to the water again.

Canada geese are some of the fowl that mate for life, or so I’ve read. (By the way, I always thought they were Canadian geese until some authoritative source made it clear they are Canada geese, a common name for Branta canadensis, not necessarily from Canada.) We were blessed to have a pair nest at our Pinedale pond years ago. As different ones of us went to stay with my mother who was in declining health we focused a lot of attention on the pair of geese and their nest. Someone, somehow, looked in the nest before the gander could attack and said there were three eggs.

Mamma enjoyed more than any of us the prospect of the eggs hatching, though she couldn’t go to the pond and see them. She loved to hear reports of how faithfully and zealously the goose parents watched their nest. Finally the eggs hatched and phone lines buzzed with the news as if a new heir to a kingdom had been born. Unfortunately, there were some mighty hungry and aggressive turtles in that pond so only one of the three downy goslings survived and he only lasted a couple of months. We were all so disappointed but still the goose and gander had each other, at least for a time.

We don’t know what happened to the gander but one day he was swimming with his mate making rippled reflections in the water. The next day she alone was there. We saw her swim around and around the small pond, then walk the shore, as if she were hunting for her sweetheart. After a few weeks she disappeared too. We found no pile of feathers so the hope was that she flew to another pond where other geese congregated. Did she really never mate again, never have more cute little goslings?

Watching those geese with their young at Cherokee Lake, I shuddered at the thought of the dangers they face. The predators of geese listed in a National Geographic article are such as eagles, coyotes, man, even skunks. But at this lake, as at our Pinedale pond, they also include turtles. There are a lot of turtles and they can sneak up from below and grab unsuspecting goslings by the legs. No wonder those geese are so protective of their young.

The next time we went to the lake I looked for those two families. I saw the family of five goslings. This time they were obviously a week older. Still, the young swam in a row with the gander in front and the goose behind. But this time one gosling dropped back and was swimming behind the mama, as if beginning to want his freedom. Watch out for turtles, little gosling! The family of older goslings seemed to be separated so we could hardly pick them out. The teenage goslings were experimenting life on their own.

As geese watch so carefully over their young, so do humans. The natural leader of the family is the father who may bark orders to the “gaggle” behind him, or more likely in their rooms, down the street, or trying out the refrigerator. The mother is like a bookend making sure the flock minds their manners and keeps their feathers preened (and their teeth brushed). There is an orderliness in the family when each knows his or her place. But sometimes, with the best of instructions from parents, one young one may creep out of safety, lag behind, try its freedom before it is quite ready to face danger. The little ones follow along observing every move their parents make. The older ones begin to try their own choices.

That family picture I took was a moment in time. Next time I see them those teenagers may be handsome beautiful geese with long sleek necks, strong legs, and sleekly perfect wings, all dressed up in black and white. Next year they may be the ones shepherding their young.

Consider the Lilies

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Lilies of numerous varieties are blooming all around town. Friends have sent me gorgeous and amazing pictures. Lilies in our own yard are smiling and reminding us that, no matter how horrible the national news may be, God’s still on His throne. The day lilies right now are making a show. Several observations come to mind concerning these lilies.

Day lilies, as their descriptive name indicates, bloom only for a day. I brought some blossoms in the house, purposely picking stalks that had nice buds as well as blooms so there would be new ones the next day. I made the mistake years ago of using day lilies for a centerpiece at an evening supper party. They drooped way before the guests went home. But, I learned, this is not always the case. The ones I cut this week were still beautiful at 10:00. Then, the next morning, I walked into the kitchen and there were the spent yesterday’s blooms but, at 6:00 a.m., the new ones had already opened up bright and perky. Think about it. From 6:00 a.m. to 10:00 p.m. is a pretty long work day.

Still–it was only a day. I’m amazed at the intricate detail in each blossom, each petal, the vivid colors, and the designs that outshine any dressmaker’s creations. Our Master spent that much attention on flowers that would only bloom for one day? How much more attention he spends on the “apple of his eye,” humans!

Another observation on the short-lived lily. It does exactly what it was made to do during that one day. It blooms even on cloudy days. It puts forth knock-out perfection. It doesn’t talk or walk, worry or whine. It just blooms.

Did I say it doesn’t worry? That’s what Jesus said about the lily: “Consider the lilies; they toil not, neither do they spin. Yet Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these.”

The lily, you say, has nothing to worry about. It has rain and sunshine and soil, it has daylight and dark, winter and spring. We, on the other hand, have many things to worry about–food, shelter, health, jobs, children, the state of the world, the future. But Jesus told his disciples not to worry, but to make their requests known to the Father, to forget trying to solve everything on their own and lean instead on the all-wise, all-powerful King of all Kings. Planning is good. Striving to do our best is good. Caring for one another is good. But worry? Worry causes deep wrinkles in our faces and in our health. I Peter 5:7 says: “Casting all your care upon him, for he careth for you.”

The casting of our cares on Him is a daily exercise; it doesn’t come naturally. Case in point, yesterday while I was writing this, I became drawn into a troubling situation and, yes, I worried! Then I looked at what I’d written in this blog and had to laugh. Leaning on Him is a daily and even hourly discipline.

Which leads me back to the day lilies. We plant the bulbs in beds, or rows, or just scattered about beside trees or bird baths. We put them where we want them. We divide the bulbs some years which makes them thrive. We share them with others or replant them to increase the number of gorgeous blooms. I remember my mother and her sister giggling in delight as they exchanged bulbs and other plants and vegetables. We brought some of our favorite lilies to our new home when we moved. If a friend, or relative, gives you a bulb, you remember that friend when your lily blooms.

As God, our Master Gardener, cultivates us we, too, can bloom where He plants us or be moved to other places. We can be used to spread the message of His goodness abroad. Sometimes the cultivation can be painful. But in God’s hands it can always bring forth beautiful blossoms.

Even in a pandemic, whether caused by Heaven or Hell, God is in the business of cultivating His human “lilies” to produce more beauty, to spread His mercy.

There is one other consideration of the lilies I want to mention. Charles is very good at discovering lilies forgotten in a thick growth of shrubs or hiding in a scramble of vines and rattlesnake weed. He so tenderly rescues the poor forgotten lilies and brings them to a safe garden with the others or plants them in a spot where a dash of color is needed. He has had a lot more time lately to clear overgrown corners and discover forgotten lilies.

God cares for the “forgotten” humans, too, more than they will ever know, especially if no one tells them.

I have always been enthralled with the majesty and mystery of day lilies. Years ago when I was “into” writing haikus, I penned this poem: If anything awes me more/Than a towering snow peak/It’s the golden heart of a lily.

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Story of a Table

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We’re accustomed to having children and grandchildren around our large dining table often. But these pandemic days we are just the two of us so we eat every meal at our breakfast table. Now this table hasn’t always been a breakfast table. If it could talk it might tell us even more than we know. But we do know some of its background.

When Daddy Graham began downsizing his workshop he offered this sturdy old table to us. He disposed of the clutter that was on it in various ways. He seldom threw anything away so every item in his possession had to find  either another use or be given to someone who would give it a second life. Buckets of paint remainder, rolls of hay twine, coffee cans of used nails, even an old pair of boots, all were carefully passed on. When he had unearthed the 4’X3′ pine table he helped load it onto Charles’s truck. A man of few words, he simply mumbled something about that this table was his and Mama Graham’s first table.

We used the table sometimes out in the yard when we had big family cookouts. But gradually it became a fixture in our storage shed, a place for various tools, work gloves, cans of used nails, a broken lamp that was too good to throw away.

We renovated our grandson’s upstairs room and with the changes came a need for a computer desk. We looked around and decided we could use that old table for his desk. A few years later we moved across town. Charles D, though he had acquired a desk, really wanted that table in his room but there was no space for it. He tried to make it work because he had become attached to that old table. When it just wouldn’t fit, suddenly I had to direct movers where else to place it. This new house had a breakfast room as well as a dining room but we had no breakfast table. So–temporarily, we said–we put that old table in the vacant spot.

It wasn’t long before we all realized that table was just right for our breakfast nook. The knotty pine boards gave us a sense of contentment, the rustic nature fitted our taste. We wondered why we hadn’t thought of using it there sooner. We used odd chairs and stools until we could start looking for the most appropriate ones for this table.

I was being dismissed from the hospital following a painful surgery when my friend Sally called in great excitement. She’d found the perfect chairs for our table, four of them, at Goodwill for $5 apiece. I groaned at the very thought of walking into Goodwill that day but my nephew, Rick Eastham, had come to take me home and I asked him and my sister Jackie to go in and look at the chairs. The chairs were in good shape, they said, except for the seats which needed re-rushing. Rick was just beginning to weave chair bottoms and took on the job of doing these for us. I know nothing of the former life of these chairs but they are happily settled in with us now.

So there we were eating every day at Mama and Daddy Graham’s first table sitting in nicely resurrected rush-bottomed chairs. Daddy G was not a furniture maker but a very resourceful farmer. He made this table from whatever he could find in 1943. The edges were rough. The four corners he sawed off so there wouldn’t be any sharp edges. Charles imagines his mother may have instructed Daddy to do that for the safety of the children. One corner has a “boo-boo” cut as if Daddy had begun to cut more of a corner and Mama had said, “No, no, JB, not that much!” The legs are the same length but one is slimmer than the others. In addition to these characteristics, there were the scars and marks from all those years as a thrown away table.

A skilled acquaintance took on the job of sanding our table and coating it with many layers of see-through protection. Now the beautiful grains and knots in the wide boards are clearly visible but the surface is smooth and cleanable.

Charles doesn’t remember much about the table as he was growing up. Probably by the time he would have really noticed it his parents had acquired a new table for their growing family and moved this one to the back porch where people could set buckets of freshly picked beans and squash. But we imagine Mama making her biscuits on its surface when it was in her kitchen, maybe cutting vegetables and tallying farm records in a meticulously kept ledger. I can picture her sitting there as she read her Bible.

As is true of most treasures, someone else might not see the beauty of our old table and chairs but to us they are very special. Their value is not just in their history but also in the new story they are writing.

Our breakfast nook is a favorite place for grandchildren to draw pictures and play games. When we have a crowd too big for the dining table several children can happily settle around that table. It’s a friendly place for a cup of tea with drop-in friends or for spreading out a map as we plan a trip. And it’s a wonderful place for two to four to enjoy a meal while watching birds at feeders and bird bath just outside.

Charles’s thanks to the Lord as he “says grace” often begins with, “Thank You, Lord, for bringing us to this table again.”

Psalm 103:5 comes to mind. The psalmist lists some wonderful benefits God blesses us with. It says: “Who satisfieth thy mouth with good things so that thy youth is renewed like the eagle’s.” He gives us what we need–and extras too!

Sewing Masks

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As I feed another mask under the sewing machine needle, I pray for the one whose face it will protect. Lord, heal this person if they’re sick, protect them if they’re not sick, give them a heart for seeking You.

When Sally asked me if I’d like to join her in sewing masks for Archbold Memorial Hospital, I was delighted. Yes! Some way to help in this awful time. I’m not a seamstress but I have a sewing machine. I could do this!

The masks those on my team are making are strictly utilitarian, designed to be passed out in hospitals and doctors’ offices when someone shows up with no protection. They are very simple, though I took all day figuring out how to make the first one, using advice of Mary Alice who, early on, said beware of the rubber bands. My machine didn’t like the rubber bands used to go around ears. In fact, after nineteen masks, that machine made a very horrible sound and, like an old mule in the middle of a corn row, it said “Not a stitch farther.”

I learned “Jimmy’s Sew and Vac” was open in the afternoons, curbside service. So Charles loaded the sewing machine into the car and we took off to Thomasville. There, Glenn kindly said that since I was sewing masks, he would quickly look at my machine and, hopefully have it ready in an hour. When we went back he came out with a sad look and informed me my machine was hopelessly broken. Seeing my disappointment, he suggested that he had a used machine in his shop I might like for a reasonable price.

Back home, with a new old machine, I began again. That machine, a Kenmore, worked sweet as pumpkin pie–until the bobbin gave out. Faced with a different machine, directions like a Chinese puzzle, I struggled. I longed for my “sewing machine whisperer” friends who would have wound that bobbin and rethreaded the machine quicker than the snap of Mary Poppins’ finger. Problem was, my friends were all social distancing.

I took a deep breath, several deep breaths. I prayed. Charles, my veterinarian husband whose sewing is of a different nature, tried to help. Miraculously, the bobbin did finally spin neatly and we rethreaded the machine almost correctly. The machine sewed like a dream then and I knew I was blessed to have one that made prettier stitches than my old one ever had.

I think I’m starting on my 140th mask. I’ve lost track. This I know. It is wonderful to be part of this tiny force of help for our hospital whose brave and faithful doctors, nurses, custodians and all are working long hard hours to fight this war.

Though we are blocks and miles apart, there is a feeling of happy togetherness amongst those of us sewing. On my team are Sally Whitfield, Mary Alice Teichnell, Jane Poole and Pat Orr whose daughter Julie Padget in Valdosta gave us a good clear video showing how to sew these masks more efficiently. There are many, many other mask makers as well. When I called Jimmy’s with a question I was told he had 25 sewing machines waiting for repairs, all belonging to mask makers. Seems some other machines didn’t like those rubber bands!

Some people are sewing using their own materials. I’ve done a few of those, but I can’t make the pretty tailored masks like the ones our friend Myra Easom made for us. On a rare trip to Wal Mart I saw patriotic masks, camouflage masks, bandanas, some kind of sock get-up, all kinds. I’ve even heard one might turn a bra insert into a good breathable mask!

As I sew I think also of sewing machines humming around the world as we all try to make folks a little safer. I even feel a kinship with those who have so willingly served in multiple ways on the home front during many wars. I think of my mother who knitted sweaters for soldiers of two world wars. During WWI she was only a slip of a girl. During WWII she had nine children and would have one more.

I just heard the good news that many states, including Georgia, are “opening” back up. But we’ll still be practicing social distancing for quite some time. That includes wearing masks wherever we go. So I don’t think Archbold Memorial Hospital is about to tell us “No more.”

A wise person said if you see the light at the end of the tunnel you’re still in the tunnel. So keep wearing those masks–tailored, camouflaged, or just plain utilitarian.

Enough talk about masks. I better start my sewing machine humming.

 

 

What Are You Doing?

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Sassy says, “Stop and smell the roses.”

I love to hear what folks are doing with their time during these Covid-19 days. The question “What are you doing?” brings some interesting answers revealing inventiveness, resilience, courage, obedience, imagination, perseverance, and a host of other qualities. For instance, I heard that residents in a neighborhood near us formed a parade of children waving palm branches on Palm Sunday. The children and their parents walked around the block, keeping their six feet of distance, a quiet joyful remembrance of that day when Jesus rode into Jerusalem. I’m told eager observers waved from patios and windows.

Let me share some other isolation activities as gleaned from phone, text, e-mail, and snail mail. I didn’t start out doing a survey to see what everyone was up to. These are simply off-the-cuff reports from folks I know as we experience “togetherness from afar.”

From Birmingham came the news that Will and Christi, her dad, and their three children held a very special Maundy Thursday service last week. They used their breakfast table as an altar and each member participated in some way, reading scripture, praying or singing. Christi printed out a program for them to go by. They had communion and even a foot washing ceremony. Then Friday found them painting a wooden cross to place on their front lawn and coloring eggs to hide.

Suzanne and Bill in Clarkesville, Georgia went to our old home place to have their sunrise service for two on Tulip Hill. She sent pictures of purple myrtle completely mounding over the stump of our dear old maple, a picture of resurrection.

Joan in Plantation, Florida wrote of her family’s way of handling social distancing. She said her daughter Lindsay and her family come over every day to visit. They sit in chairs in their driveway six feet from Joan and Donald and talk for ten or fifteen minutes. Joan and Donald love this interaction but long, I know, for the day when they can start hugging again.

I talked to Beth Knight-Pinneo in Colorado. It was beautiful that day, she said, with birds singing, a blue sky, sunshine. She is working at home and finding many good things about this time. She has extra time with her family, takes nice long walks during her breaks, and her husband prepares lunch for them all. She said she prays Psalm 91 for her family and loved ones every day.

My country singer nephew, Neil Dover, in Fairhope, Alabama, was so cheerful when I talked to him. What was he doing? Same as other musicians everywhere, he said, at a standstill because of cancelling all gigs and concerts. He is still doing his Facebook live shows from time to time. He said he and Katie decided they would plant some flowers so went to Lowe’s to find some. The lines of people six feet apart were very long, he said. Everyone was planting flowers!

When communicating with Charles’s sister Revonda in Thomasville, Georgia, she talks about walking their family dogs, Buck and Piper. Buck is somewhat stricken in age so doesn’t go very far, Piper walks a mile. Thinking of them reminds me of a comic strip Charles shared the other day. Two dogs on leash were walking and looking very tired. One said to the other, “I’ll be so glad when we get back to just two or three walks a day.”

Lorna, in San Diego, working at home, took time to describe her pretty view from spacious windows, of nearby grass and flowers and tall buildings in the distance. But her days right now, aside from answering tons of tough research questions all day, are filled with expectation. Any day the phone will buzz and she’ll hear that her daughter has birthed Lorna’s second grandson.

As our friends Ron and Carol Collins remind us, this waiting time is a good opportunity to talk to–and listen to–God. Their wonderful organization in Columbus, Georgia, called International Friendship Ministries, has adapted to the crisis. Instead of art classes for the children, they’re inviting children to send work in online. Instead of Bible classes in person, they’re making lessons available electronically. They really miss, though, the social interaction with military and college groups. This organization has made an impact for Jesus in the last year to folks from 102 countries without ever leaving Columbus.

We got word the other day that Charles’s Uncle Ellis had died, not from coronavirus, just because his body was worn out and it was time to go to heaven. There were thirteen children in that family and now only one is left. Normally, Uncle Ellis would have had a funeral attended by a crowd of nieces and nephews. As it was, only ten people could be there for his graveside service.

The big little word is wait. We wait. Our hair grows long and our patience grows thin. But let’s keep sewing, cleaning, pruning (azaleas are getting short “hair” cuts!), cooking (minimal jaunts to the store make for some interesting substitutions in the culinary department!), watching birds, discovering rare blossoms and sharing stories with each other. In the words of Henry W. Longfellow, “Let us, then, be up and doing With a heart for any fate, Still achieving, still pursuing, Learn to labor and to wait.”

And we must keep laughing. One day when I called a dear friend and sked her what wonderful things she’d been doing, she chuckled and said, “I just had a really nice nap.” Now that is a great idea!

BREAKING NEWS!!! Lorna’s grandson was born April 14, weighing nine pounds, a healthy little boy. Grace was only allowed to have her husband, David, with her for about an hour after the baby’s arrival because of the coronavirus danger. A new baby! A sign of hope in a broken world.

The Sun Will Always Rise

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On a vacation at the coast a few weeks back my granddaughter Mattie eagerly asked me to get up our first morning to watch the sun rise with her. She faithfully woke me for the event and we padded out on the deck to watch the beautiful show that God puts on every day whether or not anyone is paying attention.

These days coronavirus has us in its ugly grip. We can’t gather for church, we can’t shop except for necessities, we can’t even visit our families in our usual lighthearted way. Many are working from home. The internet is overloaded. The streets are empty. When I see new clips showing Wall Street and Bourbon Street I shudder at the lack of traffic by foot or auto. We seek curbside service even for a watch repair. At Cairo Animal Hospital clients call from the parking lot, a tech comes out to receive the patient and brings it back when treatment/shots/exams are complete. Everywhere we go, which is only by necessity, folks are wearing masks. It makes me feel as if we got dumped into a science fiction movie.

BUT–the sun rises and sets every day right on time. Birds are singing and nesting. The wind stirs leaves of magnolia and maple. The grass is green, rosemary lends its calming scent, and children play their games. The mulberry tree has an abundant crop of berries developing and the birds are discovering the tasty morsels, shaking the boughs with their foraging. No squirrels as yet. Bluebird scouts splash happily in the bird bath.

While sewing masks for Archbold Hospital, I pray for those who will wear them. I worry about my friends in nursing homes and then realize the mail is still running so we can all send cards and letters. The phones work too. We can call family members in California, Florida, Alabama as well as friends down the street. We are so blessed!

We’re told by authorities that this will be “a very hard week.” Families all over the globe will face illness and death. My friend Lisa just reminded me that this was “a very hard week” for Jesus too. Yes, it’s Easter week, the holiest week of the year, when we remember Christ’s sacrifice and celebrate His resurrection.

It will be a very different Easter. Revonda says her church will be participating in virtual communion Thursday night. Members will gather at their computers with whatever elements they can use, whether wine, grape juice, unsalted crackers or bread, and share the “Last Supper.” We have already experienced several weeks of “virtual church” on Sunday mornings. We had hoped to be back in our pews for a literal time of rejoicing on Easter. But we will just have to sing “Hallelujah” in our homes. We realize more than ever before that the church is God’s people, not a building.

We have always enjoyed big family dinners on Easter Sunday as I’m sure you have too. After dinner some would hide the eggs for excited children to hunt. Well, we may have virtual baby showers and virtual doctor appointments but I haven’t thought of any way to have a virtual egg hunt. I’m planning to boil some eggs nonetheless. Maybe I’ll even color a couple of them with a cross on one side and “He is risen” on the other.

Charles has just finished planting wildflowers in and around an old wheelbarrow. We saw our neighbors unloading a huge pile of branches they’d cut and we went over to chat a minute, standing at least six feet apart. Our days are full but not hectic, definitely slowed from the fast pace of a few weeks ago. We get excited about small things like lunch, a new bird at the bird bath, a flower we hadn’t noticed before.

I know “this too shall pass.” I know that “weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning.” (Psalm 30:5)

And I know the sun will rise until Jesus comes.

I remember that beautiful sunrise Mattie and I enjoyed so much. One other morning Charles and I watched a sunrise while sitting in a swing looking out over the bay. The colors are different every day. Sometimes the colors are soft and muted, others so vivid and rich. Sometimes the mist shrouds the brightness or the sun doesn’t appear at the horizon but in full force above a cloud. Sometimes the sun comes up like a huge egg yolk and sometimes it reminds me of a child throwing back the covers in passionate eagerness to see what the day may bring.

No matter what, the sun does rise, even if we can’t see it. It is a daily reminder that God is at work. He hasn’t forgotten us. As an old song says, “He has the whole world in His hands.”

 

Stand Up and Be Counted

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Poster by Charli, third grade

In the midst of staying close to home during this coronavirus pandemic, we should have plenty of time to fill out our 2020 census form. To me, filling out this simple form feels like one tiny way of showing loyalty to my country.  My mind tracks back to 1970 when I was a U.S. census taker.

I just filled out our census form online. Easy! The forms a census taker will need to collect this year are from those who don’t respond. In 1970 it was different.

My son was not two years old yet. I left him each morning with my friend Barbara Smith who had a little boy almost the same age. After training, each one on our team was given an assignment. Mine was the northeast section of Cairo, Georgia. Later, one of the other team members had to leave us and I was gifted part of her southeast quadrant.

The day began at 9:00. I’d park our good old Buick at a southwest corner of a block, then walk door to door clockwise as stipulated. I picked up short forms at every house, helping those who had not yet filled them out. Then at every fifth house I was required to give the occupant a long form to fill out. Fortunately, for me, the first few long form houses went pretty well. But I soon learned that there were folks who highly objected to giving the government any information.

My mother had worked as a census taker in 1940 and I’d heard some of her stories of her experiences. She couldn’t drive so my oldest brother drove her in the family’s Packard. This was in Habersham County where some country roads rose steeply upward. Once, she and Orman were approaching a house far up a hillside. It was hot weather, the car windows were down, so they could hear voices as they drew near. As Mamma climbed out of the car she heard someone yell, “There come some of them lowlanders. Better watch out!”

I wasn’t ever called a lowlander but I was greeted with far less than enthusiasm a number of times. This was especially true at the fifth houses. I began to dread them. Not only were some folks grumpy about answering questions, but it was a time-consuming process. There were numerous questions on the long form, such as number of rooms in the house, number of square feet, and even the annual salary of those in that household. That last was the question that angered some citizens.

One person in particular gave me  a very hard time, in fact refusing to give me the information, resorting to yelling at me that I had no right to ask how much they made per year. Both occupants of the house were angry and abusive in their response. My superviser went back with me the next day and, with her more authoritative voice, persuaded the householder’s compliance. If they’d only realized how many forms I had to deal with and what a poor memory I had they would have known I couldn’t remember any of their figures.

It was hot walking from house to house. The dogs sometimes threatened to eat me up. Sprinklers were a challenge to dodge. In some homes smells of frying chicken or pork chops assailed my nose making me long for something more than my peanut butter sandwich. I ran out of gas one day and had to call Charles to come get me going again.

In spite of snags, though, I remember the whole experience fondly for two reasons: I was happy knowing I was doing something for my country and I met some really sweet interesting people I never would have met any other way.

One of those whom I remember with pleasure was a little old lady (probably about the age I am now!) who was making a quilt in her tiny living room. The quilting frame filled the room so that, it seems to me, I had to sit opposite her and question her across her colorful quilt. She lived alone and was lonely. By the time I left, after about an hour, I felt like hugging her. Taking note of where she lived, I went back near Thanksgiving to take her a meal and had a really good visit. Soon after that, I saw her obituary in the paper.

One lady and her husband were belligerent about filling out a long form. They finally did so very begrudgingly. I left there hoping I’d never see them again. But God works in mysterious ways! A few months after that when Charles and I moved across town I discovered that my neighbor across the street was that same couple. Turns out, they loved watching our little blond boy playing and I learned they enjoyed growing exotic flowers in their house.

There were many more friendly people than grumpy ones. There was a minister just getting ready to go on hospital visits who cheerfully stopped to answer my questions. There were those who expected me and quickly handed me their forms all filled out. There were those who had forgotten all about the form and had to dig it out from under stacks of mail and magazines. Some even offered sympathy realizing how tired and hot I was by 4:00 in the afternoon.

By the way, the pay I received as a census taker was 50 cents per short form and $1.00 per long form. I didn’t strike it rich.

I don’t know how the additional data collected on long forms will be acquired this year. Should a census taker come to my door and ask to interrogate me for “long form” information, I plan to fall into the category of a cheerful citizen rather than a grumpy one.

Lee Greenwood sings about his pride in being an American. Let’s sing with him. “I’m proud to be an American where at least I know I’m free, and I won’t forget the men who died to give that right to me, and I’ll gladly stand up next to you (six feet apart!!!) and defend her still today ’cause there ain’t no doubt I love this land. God bless the USA.”

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Poster by Kaison, first grade