Brenda Knight Graham's Blog, page 24

A Curse in the Morning

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One early south Georgia morning

I know. That’s a startling title. But you’ll see why I used it in a minute.

In the old days, while I was cooking breakfast Charles often was the one who went upstairs on school mornings to call the children. Being a very upbeat cheerful guy, he would climb the steps singing, “Oh, what a beautiful morning, oh, what a beautiful day…” He was always mystified at the utterly negative responses he got, not only from our two, but later from our grandchildren as well.

As adults our children still laugh about how awful it was when Daddy came up the stairs singing or whistling. “Why did you have to be so cheerful?” they ask.

Until recently he still didn’t understand. Then one day he came in the kitchen chuckling.

“I just read Proverbs 27:14 which says, ‘He that blesseth his friend with a loud voice, rising early in the morning, it shall be counted a curse to him.’ All this time I wondered why my good cheer didn’t rub off on the kids. Now I guess I’m learning good cheer is not always an appropriate attitude.”

Dear insightful author Eugenia Price wrote a book years ago titled “No Pat Answers” in which she addresses the problem of how to relate to folks who are unhappy. It doesn’t help a very sad person, she said, to have someone slapping him on the back and telling loud jokes, or recounting to him what he needs to do to fix his problem. Instead, it’s better to be sad with them, help them bear their sadness by sharing it. Maybe that means even the short lived “sadness” of extricating oneself from the cozy bedsheets should be met with a similar mood.

Back to the title “Curse in the Morning”—Some folks rise every morning with energy and enthusiasm viewing even cloudy or foggy mornings as “beautiful.” Others are slower to reach high gear and just need a little time to coast toward being cheerful. Some like eggs sunny side up, others want only a bagel or nothing. Some start their day with a whistle, others long for blessed quietness or, in the case of teenagers, a loud radio, not loud parents.

According to Ecclesiastes, there is a time for mourning and a time for joy. To use a homonym, there’s also time for “morning” and time for noon.

So what is a cheerful soul to do when meeting faces of gloom and doom? I guess you spend your whistles and buoyancy on the pets. Cats and dogs are always ready for good cheer. They’re always ready for breakfast too! Anyway, they can’t read Proverbs and don’t know about that “curse in the morning” so, for them, anytime is a good time for joy.

Lest you read this article as putting down optimism, know that one of my favorite verses is “This is the day the Lord has made. I will rejoice and be glad in it.” (Psalm 118:24) The Lord wants us to rejoice but also to be compassionate towards those who can’t.

I love sunrises. Songs of birds and whistles of cheer are uplifting to us any time of the day–well, maybe not in the middle of the night. Is that the consideration here? Maybe some folks just don’t switch from night to day as quickly as others.

I think I’ll grab a cup of coffee and go talk to the cats.

 

 

A Turtle Came Visiting

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Kaison and the turtle

Our children are learning new words: coronavirus, quarantine, social distancing, sanitizers and pandemic, words a few weeks ago were not on the tongues of any of us. But now that the weight of this disease has fallen upon our planet let’s look for some positives.

We thought we were leaving for Ireland on Friday, a long expected trip with our Birmingham children and grandchildren. But the coronavirus changed all that. Suddenly our priorities are turned to finding toilet tissue and sanitizers,  canceling hotel reservations and trying to get refunds on cancelled flights, and–taking care of children on prolonged school vacations.

That’s where the positives begin. This morning on national television, I heard a father of six or seven, a retired athlete, expressing his thanks for the special opportunity of spending quality time with his children. I feel the same way. The days will stretch long as the weeks go by. But we’re going to have just as much fun as we can!

So far, we’ve done leaf rubbings, a scavenger hunt, and created art work to send to Aunt Jackie who has to stay home. We’ve played several games (I’m holding some in reserve!), climbed trees, and spent lots of time swinging on the porch.

Inevitably boredom does settle in and it takes a lot of energy for an old great-grandmother to keep things lively. So there for a bit I was at a loss. I was considering whether we might set to and clean the splattered floor or maybe cut the mint for making a jelly fusion. Suddenly there was a rustle in the deep monkey grass beside the porch. The children began cautiously investigating and then let out piercing screams of terror, then delight. There was a turtle in the grass.

Now, this is not just any turtle, as I explained to the two. I know this turtle by name. This tortoise/woods turtle has lived at this house as long as we have. Charles smeared one dollop of red paint on his shell when first he appeared six years ago. At rare intervals he will show up, sometimes eats cat food, basically turtles around as if curious and maybe a little lonely. Red, as we call him, had not been to see us in a long while but he showed up on a very good day, perfect timing.

The children welcomed Red ecstatically. They wanted to pick him up, then squealed and jerked back, asking me to pick him up, which I did. Soon they were taking turns holding him and wishing he would stick his head out. We let Red visit on the porch for a while so we could observe his movements. We talked about his interesting shell of a home and about his only defense being to draw into that home. As we waited quietly, a very hard thing for Kaison to do, Red finally edged his head out and then put down his leathery legs and began to move.

The whole episode from wild discovery to wistful turning loose was far better than any movie.

Today Kaison said, “I wish I could find Red again.”

“Red will come when he gets ready,” I told him. “You probably scared him so he’s gone into permanent hiding.”

Not long after that, we heard screams and babbling. The children ran to the house fearlessly carrying Red. They had found him near the blueberry bushes. I didn’t feel sorry for the old turtle. He had definitely asked for it this time. I could only think he was lonely and bored and needed some excitement like the rest of us.

Red had another good visit on the porch during which he hid his face for a while before clicking about and showing that turtles are not as slow as they’re given credit for. It was with great compassion and some sadness that the children delivered Red to a space of lawn from whence he could find his way home. We watched as he slowly realized he was free and began his journey.

At a time when friends are advised to stay home, when churches can’t have meetings, when schools are closed and restrictions abound, a turtle came to visit. I can only think that God daily watches out for bored children and tired great grandmothers.

Kids and Kids

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One Mother with Kids

Amanda sat at our breakfast table enthusiastically and with body language describing the antics of her new kids, goat kids. The babies were born just a few days ago but are already leaping and cavorting with amazing energy around their pasture. In fact, I saw the kids only an hour after they were born and watched them nursing hungrily and playing with each other. Amanda’s own “kids” greatly enjoyed cuddling the new offspring.

“The most amazing thing, though,” continued Amanda, “is what a very good mother Hershey is.” Hershey, a beautiful black nanny, knows how to place her young and keep them safe while she grazes and browses. When she’s ready for them she gives a call that they instantly recognize and up they leap.

How does she do it, Amanda wondered out loud. “If only I could get such total and instant obedience from my children.”

I thought back to many years of owning goats and remembered so many times seeing babies “planted,” as I described the situation, beside the trunk of a tree or in a safe corner of the barn. I called these little settings of kids “goat nurseries.” More than once, a mother not only “planted” her baby but hid her kid so well, we spent hours hunting for it. There were other signs of a mother’s love and care. If one strayed and found itself on the wrong side of the fence that mother didn’t rest until, by repeatedly bleating and nudging, she corralled her young back to its proper place. I’ve seen a loving nanny goat patiently walking with her two or three kids, stopping every few feet to let one or the other nurse.

But, Amanda and other young mothers, you, too, are showing yourselves to be very good mothers.

When you can’t be with them, you “plant” your children in safe care. You teach them day by day. You keep in touch with teachers. You scan the homework papers. You discern what illnesses need a doctor’s attention. You nurse their bumps and bruises. You urge them to brush their teeth and you celebrate each lost pearly white and its new tooth. You make quality time for each one with their different emotional, spiritual, and physical needs. You feed them. Oh, my, do you feed them! It may be pizzas, macaroni and cheese, hamburgers and hotdogs. Or cabbage and roast beef, or chicken and rice, and oh, lots of delicious fruit. And broccoli and carrots and corn on the cob.

You correct and push and prod them to do their best. That’s a hard daily job.

Maybe they don’t leap up at your call and rush to obey you every time. But they listen far more than you give them credit for. Could even be, they’re listening when you wish they weren’t!

You are thrilled over their every achievement. You celebrate lavishly every birthday. You plan fun events. You know all their sizes and their various preferences and you shop diligently for the best clothing buys. If you have five children to shop for, that can be quite an undertaking.

You stand strong on such things as cleaning their rooms, minding their manners (of course they’re not perfect, you realize that!), washing dishes, quite a number of things nanny goats don’t have to worry about.

A big all-important thing that you do is to go to church with your children on Sunday and other times. When they see you worshiping God, they will often want to follow. Which is not to say that all is calm and sweetly peaceful in the pew. Our youngest great grandchild requires much shushing as he draws pictures and tries to explain them or attempts to fly a paper airplane. I love to see young families in church. When a mother takes one to the bathroom the whole troop of three or four follow her up the aisle and two thoughts flash through my mind: “How blessed she is!” and “Bless her heart!”

Sometimes it sounds as if a nanny is laughing, whether at her young or at herself. Whether or not she is, it’s a good thing for any mother to recognize the humor in family situations and lighten everything with a good laugh. Did you hear about the little girl who exclaimed concerning a half moon, “Mommy, look at the moon! It’s broked.” Or there was the child who interrupted his spanking by turning to ask “Did that hurt your hand?” And there was a Ruth Graham story about her daughter Anne giving her younger sister a biblical lesson. Ruth discovered the two when little sister Bunny cried out. When asked what in the world was going on, Anne explained that she was teaching her sister to turn the other cheek. She would slap one cheek and Bunny was to turn the other one. Bunny wasn’t enjoying the lesson.

All else aside, young mothers do have a huge challenge, and we need to take every opportunity to encourage them. Amanda is wistful about the care of her children as she starts a new job. She’s worried about not being as close by when they might need her. Her comment about Hershey’s being such a good mother reminded me of how much we need to pray for all our young families, the mothers and the fathers. Their job raising up their “kids” is more important than any other! Raising kids and coping with a job away from home makes life more challenging. The key is to lean on God day by challenging day. And I’m glad Amanda’s Nana (me!) can be a safe place for her to “plant” her young ones at times.

Kids and kids, alike and different, and so cute together!

Time With Miss Marjorie

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Camellias in Miss Marjorie’s crystal basket

When I think of elegance and fun wrapped in the same package I think of “Miss Marjorie.” Marjorie Mayfield was one of several ladies I looked up to when my husband and I joined First Baptist of Cairo in 1968. She wouldn’t have considered me one of her “close friends,” yet she made me feel like one. She exhibited a spirit of quiet joy and it was simply a delight to spend time with her. Though she was a grandmother at that time, she was as vivacious as a teenager, her face alive with interest in everything.

Whether it was a New Year’s Eve party at the Mayfields’ house in town or a Sunday school party at their farm, Marjorie was a charming hostess. On one occasion Charles and I went on a hayride to the Mayfield farm. It was a Sunday school class outing and there must have been thirty or forty of us. That was my introduction to the farmhouse and beautiful grounds near Calvary, Georgia. Charles had been many times to see cows and horses needing veterinary attention but that was my first time to visit. A giant live oak between the house and the swimming pool was circled by a generous table Mr. Judson had made. The best thing on that table laden with vegetables, sandwiches, salads, and cakes was Miss Marjorie’s egg salad. I’ve never tasted any egg salad anywhere that even compared. Miss Marjorie and Mr. Judson seemed personally interested in each of us, inviting us with genuine persuasion to come anytime to swim, to visit, to enjoy the country sights and sounds.

One year we were invited to the Mayfields’ home in town for a drop-in New Year’s Eve party. “Bring little William with you,” Miss Marjorie insisted, her brown eyes sparkling. “Little William” was about four then and looked forward with great anticipation to this party. Soon after we arrived Miss Marjorie came to me inviting me enthusiastically to try the eggnog. When I said, “Oh, William loves eggnog,” she looked doubtful but urged me still to follow her to the beautiful crystal punch bowl. “Maybe you better try it first,” she suggested but I, being a good mother, gave the treat to my son first. Miss Marjorie had turned away and missed seeing William splutter and make a sour face. This was not the dairy product eggnog we loved; it was laced generously with something quite strong.

Miss Marjorie was a passionate history buff. She wrote our church’s history for its centennial celebration in 1974. She visited charter members and other longtime members, gleaning as many of their memories as she could. She studied church records and pored over ledgers. The result was a beautiful copy including many pictures. I was thrilled to be chosen to serve on a committee to write a pageant using her history as a source. It was a great honor to work alongside this imaginative lady.

Many times the phone rang and I would hear Miss Marjorie’s bright voice inviting me to bring the children swimming. Those were such pleasant afternoons with the children (my two plus a couple of their friends and sometimes some of Miss Marjorie’s grandchildren) happily diving, doing stunts, and playing Marco Polo. Miss Marjorie always put on her suit and she and I swam a few minutes, then sat in the shade of the live oak tree chatting away. She shared wisdom in such a humble, non-assuming way that it was as if we were the same age. I can still hear the click of the old windmill, feel a summer breeze, smell gingerbread cookies, and taste the sweet tea she always made.

One of Miss Marjorie’s passions was recycling. It troubled her when she saw young people disposing of pieces of tinfoil after only one use or throwing away plastic containers. She was always dressed beautifully and enjoyed giving good parties but it was very important to her to use resources wisely. Even now when I wipe a piece of foil for future use, I think of Miss Marjorie. I feel her unhappiness when I hurriedly toss a reusable item.

Along with her conservatism was a sweet generosity that extended beyond entertaining or giving of her time to her church. I was so amazed one afternoon when Miss Marjorie came to visit and presented me with a charming small crystal basket, a beautiful candy dish. It wasn’t Christmas, my birthday or anything. As my little son would say, it was “just a plain old day.” Yet there was Miss Marjorie giving me such a unique gift that I’ve enjoyed ever since.

After Mr. Judson died Miss Marjorie was still bright as a sunny morning but, in time, she began to falter some. One of the first times I noticed any problem was the day she invited me to go shopping with her in Tallahassee. She offered to let me drive her car but I wasn’t eager to drive another’s vehicle and climbed into the passenger seat. I promptly realized my mistake. Miss Marjorie drove over curbs, ran a stop sign, raced through speed zones and generally scared me so I wondered if my children would have their mother any longer. When we stopped for gas I said as nonchalantly as I could that, after all, I thought it would be fun to drive her car. She was the passenger from then on.

It became our joy to take Miss Marjorie to church every Sunday. We noticed her speech changing. She referred to any item as “that thing” so it was hard to follow her train of thought. She called one of her sons her brother and sometimes spoke out in church. She was still a considerate and merry person as she moved into a different world where her memories were garbled and she couldn’t make good judgments. I was very touched by the way Miss Marjorie never forgot the name of Jesus and often whispered His name.

She was the first Alzheimer’s patient I knew closely. I hated the disease that took her away even before she died. Since then I’ve known many beautiful people, men and women, who have faded into a different world even while their bodies were whole.

But Miss Marjorie would want us to remember the good and the beautiful, the merry and the bright. As I drive near her country home my mind restores the sights and sounds of those good days when, unknown to her, she was my mentor. I hear the windmill creaking as it made its turns, hear the occasional low moo from the nearby pasture, smell the leafy ferns over by the outdoor dressing room, hear the mourning dove or a raucous crow. When I drive by her big two-story house in town, now occupied by another wonderful family, I remember her gracious teas and how she always looked so nice but was slightly flustered as if she’d packed too much into each hour.

 

 

My Best Mistake

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I’m knitting using a pattern called “Mistake Rib Scarf.” How could I go wrong with a pattern that is made up of mistakes? Well, it was easy for me to go wrong.

It’s like playing tennis without a net or traveling on a road with no speed limits or writing an essay with no grammatical restrictions. Without restrictions or rules, there is no rhyme or reason. The “freedom” soon produces chaos. The “Mistake Rib Scarf” is a pattern, and if I don’t follow it step by step, stitch by stitch, my scarf is not going to be as it was intended. This pattern is called “Mistake Rib Scarf” because a knitter made mistakes and realized she could turn her flawed scarf into a thing of beauty. She changed the pattern and used a new plan.

Mistakes can be very valuable.

Edison made 2,999 errors before he finally arrived at the right design for a light bulb in 1880. I’ve often wondered how discouraged he must have been after fifty, one hundred, two thousand mistakes. I’m glad he didn’t give up after 2,998 times of fiddling with that filament.

Ben Franklin accidentally shocked himself in 1746. That mistake led to the discovery of a way to protect buildings from lightning. It’s called a lightning rod.

“Be very careful how you step in them pies,” was the injunction of the mother in a favorite old childhood story, “Apaminondous.” Apaminondous took her literally and, while she was gone, stepped right in the middle of each pie she’d left cooling on the steps. I can’t remember whether the family still ate the six pies or whether they let the dogs have them. It’s a hilarious story poking fun at a little boy who, time after time, misunderstood the instructions of his mother. When you think about it, you wonder who really made a mistake, Apaminondous or his mother. Why would she leave pies cooling on the steps? And why wouldn’t she have realized how literal-minded her child was? She should have rephrased her command to: “Do not step in them pies.” But what fun would that story be? No publisher would have taken that on.

Back to my scarf–I was following the “mistake” pattern just fine, I thought. Then I realized I had consistently goofed on one side of my scarf so that it has a different edging. I had made a mistake on the “Mistake Rib” scarf and now had a choice of unraveling the whole project and starting over, or going ahead, making sure to keep my mistake consistent, thus a new pattern. I’m telling myself, as I continue knitting, that my scarf will be unique, one of a kind, a true “Mistake Rib” scarf!

There are horrible mistakes that wreak long lasting damage. The young man on the Titanic who didn’t stay alert caused a huge tragedy. The person who panicked and hit the accelerator when it should have been the brake, the people who put their confidence in Hitler, the bus driver who changed lanes at the wrong time, the air controller who gave the wrong instructions to an incoming pilot–these mistakes have consequences that go on and on.

There are humorous mistakes. My mother got mixed up once and used salt instead of sugar when serving tea to guests. At the time, she was terribly embarrassed but later was able to enjoy laughing at herself. The football player who ran the ball the wrong direction gave fodder for many laughs. Filmers win prizes for making the “funniest” videos, like the one where a biker goes airborne and lands in the swimming pool or a cook flips a pancake that falls on the head of her little dog who then runs in circles trying to shed it.

A day doesn’t go by that we don’t make mistakes, whether good or bad. But some are far more memorable than others. I made my best mistake while a student at the University of Georgia.

I was the editor of the Baptist Bulldog, a small monthly paper published by the Baptist Student Union. We had a brand new BSU president that year named Charles Graham and I wrote an article about him. One night at vespers I saw him coming towards me and I put on my best smile. My hopes for a friendly conversation with this man I’d been admiring from a distance were dashed as he began to point out my serious mistake in the article. I had stated in that story that he was a senior in the School of Veterinary Medicine when, as he pointed out, he was a senior at the university but only a freshman in veterinary medicine. I ran a correction in the next issue and thought he would never speak to me again. Weeks later when I saw him again coming toward me in a crowded room I felt my heart rate go crazy. What had I done this time? But that time he had a warm twinkle in his eyes and asked me out on a date. We have been married now for 54 years.

Some mistakes are valuable. And all our mistakes can be used for good in the hands of Jesus.

I love the song, popular several years ago as sung by the Gaithers: “Something beautiful, something good. All my confusions He understood. All I had to offer Him was brokenness and strife, But He made something beautiful of my life.”

And we know that all things work together for good to them that love God, to them who are called according to His purpose. Romans 8:28

Tree Climbers

 

[image error]When Charli hoisted herself onto a limb of a Japanese maple and happily requested her book be handed up so she could read up there, I was reminded of many other tree climbers and situations.

Since Hurricane Michael whipped through Grady County in 2018 we’ve seen a lot of serious tree climbers. Well, they don’t actually climb the trees but they climb to the treetops in their buckets. I am in awe of the skill and the daring of the tree service men.

But I’m thinking more of climbing trees for fun–like Charli.

My sister Jackie remembers a time when she and several siblings were in “The Big Redpine” the afternoon a great announcement was made. She said she didn’t dare climb as high as some of the others but was far out on one of the lower limbs. The tree was remarkably good for a lot of climbers as it had many long sturdy limbs, lower ones that brushed the grass, higher ones easy to scramble up to. The tree was shaped like a huge Christmas tree and stood on a grassy knoll in the pasture. The whole tree was thick with Knight kids that day because they’d been strictly forbidden, for some reason, to enter the house. The reason finally became known when our oldest sister, Pat, called out from the top of the next hill that a new baby brother had been born and the children could now come see him. Jackie remembers seeing the doctor’s car head down the driveway and wondering why he had come to see the baby.

I really identify with Charli in her love for climbing trees because that was one of my favorite things to do. I’m sure having all those brothers and sisters scaling trees influenced my yearning to go up high and to hide in leafy treetops. One of my favorite trees was a dogwood near the kitchen door that was so tall it reached above the roofline of the house. From a comfortable spot high in that tree I could see but not be seen. It was a little hard to carry my book up there with me but sometimes I managed. I felt almost free as a bird up there. But the day I put my weight on a spindly limb and crashed earthward I had no wings to help me out. In fact, I landed on my little sister, Suzanne, who was sitting on a stone under the tree. Somehow she broke my fall and neither of us was hurt.

Another time Suzanne and I both were aloft in a very tall white pine.

I had to stretch pretty hard to pull myself up one limb to another as they were so far apart. Suzanne followed behind me but she was having to stretch harder with her short legs. We were intent on reaching a squirrel’s nest where we were sure there were tiny babies. When I realized I couldn’t climb as high as the squirrels did, I looked down and saw earth far, far below. The chickens eating their evening corn even looked tiny. After surveying the whole yard from my lofty height I admitted to Suzanne that we weren’t going to see the squirrel babies and that we’d better start down. Suzanne balked. She had climbed up but she wasn’t going to climb down. No amount of urging her did any good and night was falling fast. We both yelled until dear Jackie came to the rescue. She climbed up close to Suzanne and gave careful encouraging instructions to guide her down, step by step.

My children enjoyed climbing one of two tung oil trees in our pasture. Its limbs were sturdy and generous. It even had good limbs for building a level tree house. William and Julie hauled sandwiches and books to their platform using a bucket and a rope. It was always more fun when they had friends Mike and Kimberly with them. It’s amazing how a little elevation can give you a different perspective, a feeling of detachment and maybe a little power. Once you were safe in the tree house, the cow couldn’t chase you nor any imaginary monsters.

Our grandchildren spent hours in an old overgrown Ligustrum tree in our backyard, the tung oil tree being long gone. The Ligustrum was so leafy and wonderful for hiding in, climbing to various levels, for playing war, jungle living, or trying out roping skills. The fig tree, an ancient one with sloping limbs thrusting in various directions, was not as good for hiding but was excellent for a quick perch with a cookie in hand.

One of the best climbers I’ve known is our great granddaughter Candi. She could “walk” her way up the trunks of a pine tree and magnolia. When she reached the high limbs of the magnolia she would swing herself over and perch in the top story of that tree for a long time. “Where is Candi?” we would wonder and one of the other children would report that she was up in the trees.

One tree I remember so fondly from my tree climbing days was an oak far back in the woods. Its limbs were all too high for us to reach except for one that was thick as a tree itself and grew horizontally some twenty feet from the trunk. It was high enough from the ground that our tallest brothers could just walk under it. They could jump up and get a hold for pulling themselves up. It seemed an eternity before I was able to climb up. But once up in that tree, one had a wonderful view of the woods, a little brook bubbling by, and smaller children and dogs who couldn’t go so high. Balancing oneself for a walk along the limb was a competitive sport as was the daring jump back down to the ground. In spite of all our tree climbing and many falls, none of us ten children ever suffered a broken bone until after we left home.

I’m encouraged when I see Charli and others enjoying tree climbing. With all the playground equipment available and with trampolines and go-carts and gymnasiums, children still find great pleasure in the simple sport of tree climbing.

Needless to say, I no longer climb trees. But this I can do. When things get a bit dicey or overwhelming, when I find myself in an MRI tunnel or facing problems that seem unsolvable, I can take just a moment and “project” myself into a tall, gently swaying pine. It is important, of course, to come back down, hopefully with a better attitude. I’ve always enjoyed hearing and telling the story of Zacchaeus up in that sycamore tree. The best part of the story was when he came down and Jesus went with him to his house for dinner.

 

Pink Rain/Blustery Wind

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The day after the storm–all blue skies and pink petals still clinging!

Charles looked out the breakfast room window and said, “It’s raining pink petals.”

The Japanese magnolias were dropping petals in showers as the wind picked up. You probably know the wind I’m referring to. The storm, Thursday, February 6, brought rain, wind and snow to a large portion of our country. It affected nearly all the lower 48 in some way or other.

I know the wind causes harm to so many. I ache for those who suffered from the brutal tornadoes and flooding rains. But I do love to hear blustery winter wind chasing itself around corners of the house, whining in the pines, roaring like a lion on the warpath, then dying down to a hum.

Since I have no control over the weather (thank You, Lord!) I simply intend to enjoy it.

So the day of the storm I got out my knitting and my book, turned on the gas logs, put a load of clothes in to wash so I’d seem a little less lazy–and settled in. Soaking and then cooking a pot of dry lima beans added to the coziness of the “inside day”.

The wind kept the chimes tinkling all day long. At times the rain came down in torrents. I kept my television on the weather channel so I’d be aware if a tornado were coming. If the siren went off downtown I’d go to my safe place with pillows and blanket. Otherwise, I’d keep track of how the storm was hitting other parts of the country, I’d watch the sheets of gray cold rain and be glad I wasn’t trying to herd a flock of sheep to safety.

I was glad to know our grandchildren were out of school because of the threat of tornadoes. Aside from being glad they were safe, I was just glad for them to have a holiday. There’s something very special about a weather holiday, definitely a gift out of season. Of course parents might not be so happy!

Whenever the storm abated even for a few minutes, birds flocked to the feeders. Poor little guys, I guess they get mighty hungry when the wind and rain comes on strong. And where do they find refuge to hide from the storm?

Charles came in for lunch and reported he had been so busy treating animals for various maladies, he hadn’t had time to see what was going on outside. But he had heard the pounding rain. We heard from Will that Birmingham had areas of flooding. We were thankful that he and his family, though they’d spent a large portion of the night in their basement, were now safe. Our folks in north Georgia were safe, just dealing with rain, rain, and more rain.

All afternoon the rain came down and the wind was like an angry witch who just couldn’t throw a strong enough tantrum. Our thick bamboo barrier along the driveway looked at times like a huge green ocean wave, at others reminded me of a swaying, whipping curtain. When the wind subsided between fits, I could hear the German shepherds next door barking and baying at the storm. They don’t even like regular calm rainy days, much less such stormy ones.

For supper the lima beans tasted so good along with baked chicken, sweet potatoes and turnip greens. The chimes were still frantically ringing. The cats curled into their cozy comfort spots. Bird feeders swayed in the wind, no birds brave enough to fight the weather any longer.

Into the night the wind still roared in fits of unrest. But by morning all was calm. I looked out, dreading to see the Japanese magnolias stripped of their blooms but was cheered to see them still clad in pink, though the ground at their feet and across the lawn was also carpeted in pink. The bamboo was strong and sturdy. No trees had fallen. All was well.

The sun came out strong as if to say, “Did you have a nice day of darkness? Never fear, I’m back!”

Saturday my sister in north Georgia sent me pictures of their beautiful snow–horses in a field of white, branches with tiny snow drifts on them, jonquil blooms half buried in freezing fluff, and the Dovers’ log house surrounded by white right up the porch steps. They had rain the day we did, then a day of sunshine, then an all day snow-fall accompanied by freezing temperatures.

I’m reminded of the little song we used to sing: “We’ll weather the weather whatever the weather whether we like it or not.”

He has made everything beautiful in his time…  Ecclesiastes 3:11

Time for Laughter

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Christine Clark Mission Group on our sewing day

There were ten of us. We were all taking part in a sewing venture, making small pillows for mastectomy patients and shirt front bibs for residents of a veterans’ home. We were women with a good cause. But I think we all agreed afterwards that the best thing about our working together was the fun we had, the laughter we shared. Women need girl time, just as men need those hunting trips and sessions around a paused tractor.

In our busy, fast paced culture there’s far too little time for friendly banter, for catching up on each other’s needs and wants, for simply laughing over nothing.

In pioneer days families were separated by miles of wilderness or weary stretches of prairie. A highlight of their existence was the rare occasion when they all came together for a quilting party or a picnic, a barn raising or a spelling bee. At those times, inevitably, men would cluster to share their latest successes and failures. And women would find a chance to chat as they laid out precious scraps of material for quilting or organized delectable dishes on the church’s long dinner-on-the-grounds table.

Our lives are so different from that of the pioneer families. We’re surrounded by people all the time. We go to church, to Walmart, to the library and the post office, to our places of work. We pick up the phone and call our wonderful family members and friends. We turn on the television and hear the latest news. We turn on our computers and catch up on social media notes or play You Tube videos, or study some ponderous subject.

None of those contacts takes place of simply getting together for the common goal of getting together.

At our sewing gathering there were comments like “Pass me the other scissors. These won’t cut.” or “Did you mean to leave this seam open?” and “What did you say these pillows are for?” Or there was a question like “Have you heard how ____________is?” One of the “girls” (we’re all over fifty but still girls) told a hilarious story on herself which reminded others of their own tales.

We were working in two adjacent rooms but couldn’t hear everything that was said at each table. At one time those at one table erupted into gales of laughter. When the other group demanded to know what was so funny all we could say was “It’s not what she said, it’s what she didn’t say.” Then someone added, “It’s how she said what she didn’t say.” In the ensuing laughter it’s a wonder any of the seams turned out right!

We all got very serious talking about troubles in our world–fires in Australia, the new strain of flu, conflict in Washington, and various ideas for removing stains. We considered the patients who would be using the pillows we made and hoped they would be comforted. We talked about the veterans and how they might find the shirt front bibs helpful. We wondered out loud how those in trouble can survive without the sustaining power of the Almighty–and friends.

But laughter is what I remember most from that afternoon of sewing. When my two young grandchildren came from school, they helped me serve light refreshments. I hope they, too, will remember the laughter and fun of that workday. I hope they’ll realize that gray hairs may be a sign of wisdom, but they don’t mean we can’t have a good time.

As I picked up loose threads and straight pins and stowed away the sewing machine I smiled again at the memory of each one who was here. We are all better, I think, for talking and laughing and working together.

Then was our mouth filled with laughter, and our tongue with singing: then said they among the heathen, The Lord hath done great things for them. Psalm 126:2

Afternoon With Artists

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They could have been playing video games, taking a nap, watching a movie, baking, or doing their nails. There were many choices a mother and daughter could apply themselves to, either together or separately, on a holiday. Only a year or two ago Mattie would have been contentedly playing with her dolls. But on New Year’s Day Christi and her daughter, Mattie, decided to paint.

They invited me to paint with them but I preferred to drop in and out of their breakfast room “studio.” I didn’t have any idea what I might try to paint and they looked so cozy, just the two of them. By dropping in and out I could watch their progress as well as participate some in the doings of the rest of the household. The guys were all engaged in watching football games. William and Thomas took time at interludes to ring a few basketball hoops. Kate, the dog, needed a rub between the ears every now and then. And besides all that, I was absorbed in the book I was reading.

Interestingly, the book demanding my attention was Tracy Chevalier’s “Girl With a Pearl Earring.” It is a novel about Dutch artist Johannes Vermeer, born in Delft, Netherlands in 1632.  The author has described skillfully and beautifully the artist’s methods of acquiring colors, his moods and those of his household. He and his wife had many children. The story is told from the viewpoint of the maid who became entrusted with such tasks as grinding bits of bone into a fine dust to make the very shade of gray her master wanted.

The colors my daughter-in-law and granddaughter were using might have astonished Vermeer. The bright acrylics, the wonderful display of crayons and color pens, the rainbow of purple, pink, orange, mauve, emerald, chartreuse and ocean’s blue are so exhilarating. But, from reading this very thoroughly researched story, I have a feeling Vermeer would still be hunting the very gray he envisioned or the absolutely right shade of blue concocted from some rare substance purchased by the maid at the apothecary shop.

I heard giggles from the “studio” and found the girls admiring Mattie’s painting, a beautiful background of blue with emerging off-white shapes that could be clouds or birds. They asked Siri to play a song and then sang along. At times they were so diligently working they were each in their own world, others they were exchanging opinions about colors and sharing ideas.

The maid, Griet, who was hired specifically to clean Vermeer’s studio, became a valuable asset. She followed instructions meticulously. The props for his models, such as a brush and a cloth on a table, must be cleaned and left precisely as they were, even to the folds of the cloth. Griet did her job so well she was given more and more responsibility leading to jealousy among the other servants and Vermeer’s wife, Catharina. Griet’s tiny salary was supporting her mother and her blind father so, no matter how painful and uncomfortable life became, leaving the Vermeers was out of the question. Her aptitude for making colors and keeping things clean while keeping Vermeer’s secrets close, along with her interesting face, led to her becoming one of his models herself. Vermeer’s portrait, “A Girl With a Pearl Earring” (pictured on the cover of the book) inspired Tracy Chevalier to write this fascinating novel. She is the author of seven other books.

But, back to my own artists, Christi had developed an interesting geometrical face that reminded me of a mask one might wear for Mardi Gras, very colorful and impressive. Mattie had completed her study in swirls on a background of blue. Instead of birds or clouds, I see a striking resemblance to the Hawaiian islands. The two let me snap their picture to commemorate a lovely afternoon.

Shadows lengthened as the afternoon waned. Excitement built towards the time when we would all load up and drive to Cheesecake Factory for William’s 16th birthday celebration. Books and art supplies and even football were abandoned.

Kate, the family’s loving Norfolk terrier, whimpered wistfully as we all trooped out leaving her with a suddenly very quiet house.

Seasoned With Salt

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Soup and conversation both need salt!

Winter has finally touched down in South Georgia. There was ice in the bird baths this morning and a chilly 26 degree wind plays in the Japanese magnolia blooms. A wonderful day for soup!

One of my favorite things to cook is a good big pot of soup. There is something healing to me in the process of cutting up, accumulating, mixing all those vegetables and meat in a pot along with broth and letting the whole simmer for hours, wafting invigorating aromas throughout the house. Even if I use canned vegetables, the process is still fun. My younger sister cans all her soup ingredients every summer so she’s pulling her own beautiful jars of beans and potatoes and carrots out of her pantry. I think about her as I open cans from the store.

My soups are usually delicious, “if I do say so.” Pot Roast Soup is one of my standbys but Broccoli Cheddar or Potato are favorites too. Recently I made Chicken Pot Pie Soup with broken spaghetti noodles for the thickening. I enjoy using homegrown herbs like rosemary and basil. A few drops of tabasco sauce in meaty soups adds zest and there’s hardly any soup that isn’t better with some onion!

But there’s one ingredient no pot of soup can happily do without. That’s salt.

I was thinking about that as I added Rotel tomatoes, kernel corn and lima beans to my pot. Some of us are not supposed to have a lot of salt. I say a little bit goes a long ways but don’t leave out that little bit.

The Bible says a lot about salt, that we as Christians should be salt and light, that salt that has lost its flavor has to be thrown away, that salt is good but can kill too. And then there’s this “salty” little verse in Colossians 4:6: Let your speech be always with grace, seasoned with salt, that ye may know how ye ought to answer every man.

Just as soup is woefully bland without salt, so our conversations, void of grace and “spices,” will be bland. Just what is a conversation full of grace and seasoned with salt?

I think it’s dialogue backed by prayer. It’s words issuing from a mouth schooled by the Holy Spirit. It’s thoughtful language stemming from a heart of love. Such conversation flows freely from one who is in close connection with the Master, who has done their Bible homework, and been well prayed up. It shouldn’t be necessary for one to check a dictionary in the middle of such conversation to see if the words he’s using are appropriate. One shouldn’t be on pins and needles hoping they’re not going to say the wrong thing. It should be natural–“seasoned with salt” like a nice pot of soup

The end of this verse holds the key to the “reasoning for the seasoning”! It says “so that you may know how to answer everyone.”

Think of the many odd questions one may run into on any one day. There may be requests you never dreamed of coming at you when you have no tools handy, such as a Bible, concordance, or dictionary. You may be in your living room, or in an airport, in line at the grocery store, talking to an appliance repairman or a roofing man. We need to salt our conversations with thanksgiving and praise wherever we are. We need to be “full of grace” as we ask about our neighbor’s health, or answer strange questions like “Where did Cain get his wife?”

Ready for conversation? Happy, purposeful talking?  Subjects like raising children, a new bird sighting, growing orchids, our nice winter weather and, yes, even politics, are fun and invigorating, especially if you remember to add salt!

About that soup–it’s hamburger vegetable today with chunky tomatoes, corn and beans. Come on over and let’s have some seasoned conversation over our soup!

Lord, guard my mouth. Save me from bloopers! Make me conscious of others’ needs. Please give me grace in my conversations, and just the right touch of salt.