Rebecca S. Ramsey's Blog, page 3

The Friendly Giant I Met at Starbucks

I was minding my own business at Starbucks yesterday morning, hiding away in a little niche near the pick-up counter, working on my latest writing project, and it was going well. Earphones in, Calm app drowning out distracting conversations with the soundscape of “Snow White’s Gem Mine.” (Don’t judge. I know I’m a grown woman, but there’s nothing like the soft blend of white noise, random magic chimes, and the pings and pongs of dwarfs’ pick-axes to make me heigh-ho, it’s off to work I go.)

And then he caught my attention.

He was standing close to me, waiting on his coffee, snapping his fingers to himself. Hmm. Interesting. There was no music playing.

He was kind of a giant. Big and tall, with a baby face and curly black hair, his hat on backwards, He stood there, half-smiling at no one in particular. Something was sticking out of the back pocket of his frayed camouflage pants. I looked closer. It was a tag–a flap of fabric with Low-Rise printed on it–the kind you rip off when you get home from a store. Aww. Poor guy. He’s been walking around for months like that.

Stop staring at strangers, I told myself. Heigh-ho, heigh-ho. Get back to work.

But then he rubbed his back against the corner, like a bear against a tree. Todd does that sometimes, so maybe I smiled to myself. People are so funny with their idiosyncrasies.

But then he started talking to me. Well, not just me, to me and the lady beside me. I hadn’t expected that.

It was hard to hear with the mining dwarfs, but it was something like “What are y’all doing?”

“Pardon?” I took out an earbud.

“Sorry.” He smiled at me and the lady at the next table, his eyes hopeful. “I’m just curious. What are y’all working on?”

She ignored him, scrolling on her phone.

He smiled again and blinked.

“I’m just working on a story,” I said.

“Oh!” he said with a grin. “Okay! I hope you do good on that!”

“Thanks!” I said.

His drink was ready so he took it and walked off.

I returned to the dwarfs, and to Penn, my ten year-old protagonist, feeling light, my heart happy. How nice to have met a friendly giant, one as curious about me, an old-ish lady typing away at a coffee shop, as I was about him.

Then I got back to work, trying my best to do good on that!

 

 

 

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Don’t Worry. God’s in Control. Right?

Don’t worry. No matter what happens, God is in control.

With the coming election, I’ve heard that a lot.

I hear it…and I want to say yes.I want to say God is in control. Of course I want to say it. I’ve loved God and believed in God all my life, with my whole heart. For years, I devoted my working life to God in the church, helping children learn the sacred stories of Jesus, how he loved and listened and healed and welcomed. Saying over and over what I believe to my core, that nothing—NOTHING—can separate us from God’s love.

But I can’t say God is in control. I won’t say it because I don’t think it’s true.

God is in control—of me, of you, of people individually—when we allow God to be.

You may feel differently, and I won’t argue. God is a mystery, no matter how hard we try to pin God down.

But God wasn’t in control during Helene last month when rushing waters washed families out of their homes and buried them in sludge. God wasn’t in control during the fifty-eight school shootings that have happened just this year. God wasn’t in control during the Holocaust long ago or today, while the least of these are being abused right in our own backyards. God is with the victims, staying close and comforting—and God is with us, whispering in our ears. Do something.

Bad things happen and people get hurt. Sometimes we could’ve done something. I’ve certainly been guilty of looking the other way.

So, when a friend says, “Don’t worry. No matter what happens, God is in control,” I have to say no. We can’t take ourselves off the hook. God asks us to look pain in the face, to see who will suffer if we make the wrong choice.

Look at pregnant women who may miscarry and need abortion care.

Look at people who will struggle financially, as the ultra-rich get richer.

Look at immigrants, who will face more abuse.

Look at children who will continue to die at school because nothing is done about gun control.

Look at your friends who are people of color, who will face heightened racism, as their president eggs the voices on.

Look at your gay and trans friends and their families who will suffer.

Look at the children. As their president speaks, they listen. Do we want them to hear his words?

As for me, I won’t forget kids in cages. I won’t forget his desire for our own military to shoot people peacefully protesting. I sure won’t forget what happened January 6. That alone should disqualify him.

I’m so grateful that we have another candidate with solid experience and good ideas, someone we can admire, who will unite instead of divide. If we can look past the flood of fear that is being pushed towards us as violently as Helene’s rushing waters, if we can follow the voice inside us that calls us to respect each other and the freedom our country values, I believe we can get closer to the kind of life God wants for us.

During this anxious season, may we draw close to God who always draws close to us and may we give grace freely to everyone around us.

 

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Miss Betsy and the Rope

Miss Betsy’s* house is my last stop on my Meals on Wheels route, so I can stay and chat without needing to rush. She’s always in the mood to talk, whether I find her sitting on her porch with a book or she meets me at the door, gripping her walker on wheels. First, I set everything down—the hot meal and the frozen one, the milk and the baggie of bread—and then she thanks me with words and stories.

Sometimes the stories are hard—how cancer took her husband and then it took her older daughter and it nearly took her too— “but I’m still here!” Every week, she tells me about the time she fell out of bed (“Lord knows how that happened! I don’t even remember.”) But the ambulance people were so nice, so kind, and Lucille*, her youngest, managed to get up all the blood. Betsy’s doing much better now, not as energetic as she used to be, but good enough to enjoy things, like the ceramic rabbits Lucille put out on a table.

Sometimes the stories are happy, like the one about the Christmas wreath still setting on her couch. When I mentioned how pretty it was, she grinned big and her eyes sparkled and she said that she and this girl—her occupational therapist—they’d made it themselves. “I told her I needed a new wreath and how I loved the ones with ornaments on them, and don’t you know, that girl made it part of our therapy plan!” She made Betsy do all the gluing—”I’d never used a hot glue gun before—but I did it.” She knows she needs to put it away. “Lord, it’s nearly Easter already. But it’s so pretty to look at, and I miss that girl. I think about her all the time, but now that I got my hands working again, she’s not allowed to come see me anymore.” I nod. “But she says that if anything happens again to me—not that she wants it to—I just tell my doctor and she’ll start coming again.”

Sometimes the stories are hard and happy—and kind of funny. Like the time a nurse came to visit after she got out of the hospital, AND THAT NURSE WAS A MAN! “I’d never seen a man nurse before, but that boy was so sweet and so gentle and so kind that I got used to him quick. He was so determined to get me walking again that one day he said, ‘Miss Betsy, today you’re going to walk down your road.’ Well, I didn’t know how I was gonna manage that, but then HE GOT OUT A ROPE!” He tied that rope around his waist and then he tied it around her waist, and “WE WERE HITCHED TOGETHER!” It was right comical, she said, the two of them hobbling down the road together, a man nurse tied to a broken-down old lady. He wasn’t going to let her fall, no sir. They walked quite a ways, and boy, she slept good after that.

It’s Good Friday today, so maybe that’s why Miss Betsy’s helpers remind me so much of the One who came to hitch his life to ours, if we’re willing. To meet us where we are, no matter our brokenness, and walk beside us through our lives. To lift us off the floor when we can’t do it on our own. To show us how to love each other and care for each other, with mercy, grace, gentleness, and bravery, all the way to the end.

You can’t kill that kind of love.

No matter how dark things get, it blooms.

 

*Names have been changed for privacy.

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Super Powers, Tub-side

Did you know that when kids are about to turn four, they get amazing powers?

Daniel can hear the ocean from his chip bowl, turn his jammies into daywear (because it’s the weekend,) and fight off sleep with questions like Why do everybody have hair and a head? When exactly did Rudolph the Red-Nosed-Reindeer die? What if somebody did die and then I did cut their heart out and tie it to myself? What about dat, Mommy?

So when his big brother came home from school recently with two splinters in his hand, it was a lucky thing Daniel was there.

“Is he going to die?” Daniel asked.

“No, honey,” his mother said. “He’ll be just fine. I’m going to take the splinters out.”

Josiah had already consulted his buddy at kindergarten, a world renowned splinter expert. “He says warm water is the way to go. Whatever you do, don’t use tweezers. Tweezers hurt!” So, Mom poured a warm bath, Josiah settled in, and Daniel stood tub-side. Everyone waited for the magic to work.

Unfortunately, the splinters were stubborn. Mom had to get out the tweezers.

“Don’t worry, buddy,” Mom said. “Everything is going to be okay. Just put your hand out here, on my leg.”

“Wait,” Daniel said.

What was he going to do?

Like most brothers, their relationship can be volatile. One minute, Daniel loves his brother fiercely, and the next, he steals the Pez dispenser Josiah got for Valentine’s Day and eats the candy right in front of him. He yells if Josiah sings songs that are rightly his, and just yesterday, he bopped his brother on the head with Super Dog, his favorite crime fighter. (Super Dog is currently serving time on top of the bookshelf.)

“Here, Josiah,” Daniel said. “Let me hold your other hand.”

Josiah let him.

Sarah operated on one hand while Daniel held the other. She got the splinters out, and Daniel used his powers for good! Hooray for brotherly love! Hooray for supportive hand-holding!

And then Daniel poured cold water on his brother’s head. And life felt normal again.

 

 

 

 

 

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Super Powers in Action, Tub-side

Did you know that when kids are about to turn four, they get amazing powers?

Daniel can hear the ocean from his chip bowl, turn his jammies into daywear (because it’s the weekend,) and fight off sleep with questions like Why do everybody have hair and a head? When exactly did Rudolph the Red-Nosed-Reindeer die? What if somebody did die and then I did cut their heart out and tie it to myself? What about dat, Mommy?

So when his big brother came home from school recently with two splinters in his hand, it was a lucky thing Daniel was there.

“Is he going to die?” Daniel asked.

“No, honey,” his mother said. “He’ll be just fine. I’m going to take the splinters out.”

Josiah had already consulted his buddy at kindergarten, a world renowned splinter expert. “He says warm water is the way to go. Whatever you do, don’t use tweezers. Tweezers hurt!” So, Mom poured a warm bath, Josiah settled in, and Daniel stood tub-side. Everyone waited for the magic to work.

Unfortunately, the splinters were stubborn. Mom had to get out the tweezers.

“Don’t worry, buddy,” Mom said. “Everything is going to be okay. Just put your hand out here, on my leg.”

“Wait,” Daniel said.

What was he going to do?

Like most brothers, their relationship can be volatile. One minute, Daniel loves his brother fiercely, and the next, he steals the Pez dispenser Josiah got for Valentine’s Day and eats the candy right in front of him. He yells if Josiah sings songs that are rightly his, and just yesterday, he bopped his brother on the head with Super Dog, his favorite crime fighter. (Super Dog is currently serving time on top of the bookshelf.)

“Here, Josiah,” Daniel said. “Let me hold your other hand.”

Josiah let him.

Sarah operated on one hand while Daniel held the other. She got the splinters out, and Daniel used his powers for good! Hooray for brotherly love! Hooray for supportive hand-holding!

And then Daniel poured cold water on his brother’s head. And life felt normal again.

 

 

 

 

 

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Is This the Last Day? A Big Question from a Little Person

“Is this the last day?” my nearly four-year-old grandboy asked his mommy, “and then we will die?”

“No, we are not dying,” Sarah told him.

“…yet?” Daniel added.

There’s been some darkness around here, lately.

A few days ago, I learned that one of the most lovely women I know, full of light and joy and a twinkle in her eye passed away from cancer on Valentine’s Day. If a person could be called a sparkle, it was Lee.

I didn’t even know she’d been sick.

I’d taken a year or so away from my church congregation, just to give myself time to adjust from leaving a job I loved so much, to have the freedom to travel on the weekend, and to try some new things. A lot can happen in a year. Good things and tough things.

A lot can happen in an hour, too.

“What was that noise?” I called from my desk. Nobody answered. Todd must be in the garage, working on the car. 

I heard it again. And again. THUD.

Was it Rosie? Sometimes my goofy golden retriever will stretch out on her back and hang her head off the couch. One good yawn and she’ll fall to the floor.

Nope, Rosie was in the garage with Todd.

But then I saw three smudges of tiny feathers on our big picture window.

We’d just had our windows cleaned, and while the guys worked, I’d spied on them. Rosie stands at that window much of the day, slobbering all over it while she watches the world, but when I clean it up there are always streaks. I wanted to see how the pros do it. I watched and learned. I bought a squeegee. I made that window shine, unfortunately for a flock of cedar waxwings on their way to Florida.

Maybe they’re okay, I told myself. Maybe they got up and flew off, a little dizzy. No. At least one of them didn’t make it. Todd found it beside Festus’s heating pad on the floor of the garage. That cat might be old and deaf and take thyroid medicine twice a day, but he had enough pep to carry in a bird. Not to eat it–just to admire it at his bedside.

We’re in the season of Lent now, forty days to go deeper with God and get ready for Easter. It starts on Ash Wednesday, which, this year, collided with Valentine’s Day. In case you don’t know, Ash Wednesday’s the day we acknowledge our need for God. We remember that we started from dust and we’ll be dust again one day. I had to miss the service, but I put an app back on my phone that my dark heart loves. It’s called WeCroak. (I’m not making it up.) It’s based on a Bhutanese folk saying that to be a happy person, you must contemplate death five times a day. So, five times a day, it sends me quotes about living and dying. It may sound weird–and it is–but it reminds me to live my life and love it. And I do!

Sarah and the boys came over for dinner last night. Right away, they noticed the bird silhouette I’d taped to the window. “What’s that for?” Daniel asked. I told them about the birds as they climbed a chair to touch it. “Where are they?” they asked, wanting to see them. “We only found one,” I said. “We buried it.”

Daniel raised an eyebrow. “Where did the other ones go?”

“I don’t know,” I shrugged.

He patted the construction paper bird and we went to wash hands.

Maybe they’ve made it to Georgia by now. I hope they’re enjoying the view.

 

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Dead Pony…And Other Weird Games Kids Play

What’s the weirdest thing you’ve seen kids play? Or played yourself, maybe?

I collect weird play stories, so I’d love to hear! Really, tell me! It’d make my day. I just love thinking about how kids work out their fears and curiosity in play.

Like the happy little girl who ALWAYS made me play Dead Pony whenever I came to babysit. The second her parents were out the door, she’d run behind the living room couch and die. She’d raise her four rigid legs in the air, stick out her tongue, and snap her eyes shut. If I didn’t transform into the stable girl, walking through the field of her living room, minding my own business when I came upon her, she’d flick open her eyes and yell, “YOU’RE NOT DOING IT RIGHT!” We’d have to start over. I’d seize my hand to my heart, and say, “OH NO! MY PONY IS DEAD!” It was important to use the word dead. She wanted to hear it again and again. I’d cradle that pony in my arms, her legs a bundle of sticks. I’d dig a pretend grave and end with a lovely funeral. And maybe start all over– if there was nothing good on TV.

I earned my money those nights!

Dead Pony makes me think of Skeleton Town, a game me and Steve and Patricia would play. We’d climb up into our stagecoach (my grandparents’ porch swing) and take off for Skeleton Town. When Patricia yelled, “ALL OUT FOR SKELETON TOWN,”  we’d have to run across the yard and back to the stagecoach before the skeletons (or the occasional ghost) murdered us.

 

My grandboys love to play Lumps In My Bed. It happens every time they sleep over. I try to make up my bed, but there are all these pesky lumps in it! I push on them to smooth them out, but darn it if those lumps don’t move!

I love how play just happens with kids. No one plans it.

You can just be minding your own business one Saturday, heading to Carl Sandburg’s home to visit the goats, and the next thing you know, The Incredible Hulk shows up! He’s great with a brush and surprisingly gentle.

And BONUS! If any skeletons or ghosts appear, he’s there to save the day!

He’s probably good with dead ponies too.

Here’s hoping your day has plenty of play!

Love, Becky

 

 

 

 

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What Slipped Under Your Skin? Vines, Voices, and Grandma Creech

I walk by this fence at least once a day and see the old vines hanging there, long dead but still woven into the links, cut off at the top and bottom. I don’t know what kind of vine it used to be, but man, that thing was hardy! It flat refuses to let go! I hope my neighbors leave it there. It’s kind of a wonder.

I see those old vines and I think of Todd’s Grandma Creech and the afternoon many years ago when Sarah and I were up in her sewing room, getting a needle and thread to fix a button on Sarah’s shirt. I should tell you first that Grandma Creech spent her working life in a BarkaLounger factory, wrestling heavy upholstery fabrics onto sectionals and sofas. (Beware her Hulk-strong pinch, Todd says, having sat beside her in church occasionally as a rambunctious boy.) Anyway, the designers considered Grandma their in-house magician. Just show her a sketch of what you want, lead her to the frame and padding, and she’d transform it into a work of art. Her sofas lasted forever.

As Grandma Creech opened her sewing basket, Sarah went in for a needle. “Be careful there,” Grandma said. “Needles are tricky things. They don’t have a head on them, so they’ll slip under your skin. Then you’re stuck with a needle traveling around your body your whole life long. You won’t ever know where it is.”

No wonder Sarah let me sew on the button!

So I’m wondering, what’s slipped under your skin?

Not needles, but other things. Things people said to you. Things you’ve seen. Comments long dead, cut off from the roots, but still traveling around your body and brain. Waiting quietly in the background, creeping up behind your conscious thought, working themselves into your confidence or fear. What you think you can do or can’t do.

They can be good or bad. And POWERFUL, sometimes.

I’ll share first, but I’d love to hear yours.

Better to end on a happy note, right?

Growing up, no one ever stopped me on the street and said, “Wow! You are so coordinated! So graceful!” I didn’t do dance, except once in preschool, and I tended to hide in gym class. But I remember once getting ready for some kind of dance or school event at a friend’s house, and her mother saw me walking in heels. “Aww,” she said, reaching out as if to catch me. “You’re like a newborn horse stumbling around.”

A newborn horse? That’s not the look I was going for.

I’m sure she was right! Today I laugh about it, but you know what? The image she accidentally planted in my brain has haunted me ever since! For the eleven years I worked at church, I walked down the aisle in front of our big congregation every Sunday morning and thought about stumbling! It’s ridiculous! I’m a full grown woman and that hardy comment still travels around my body.

But on the up side, comments have also changed me in beautiful ways!

Many years ago, when my kids were little and I was searching for what to do with my life, besides mothering them, I talked with a minister friend of mine. “Becky,” she said, “I see God’s fingerprints all over you.”

She had no idea what that simple comment did for me. What it did TO me.

It slipped under my skin and traveled through my body. I began to think that maybe I had the right to consider doing things I wanted to do, things I felt called to do. I mean, I knew God loved me. God loves everyone. God’s fingerprints are all over all of us. Yada yada yada. But for her to pronounce this, to say it specifically to me? It changed me and the way I saw myself.

I know we want to raise kids to listen to their own inner voices–and God’s voice–to know and love who they are. But the world is so loud! Outside voices have sharp ends, sometimes. They get in easy.

It makes me want to watch my mouth.

What about you? What’s slipped under your skin? I’d love to hear if you want to share.

Love, Becky

 

 

 

 

 

 

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My New Nurse–and What My Doctor Doesn’t Know

I’d been dreading the appointment.

At least I knew what to expect. Thanks to my fair skin and the countless hours I spent back in the 1970’s and early 80’s, marinating myself in baby oil and air-frying myself on an aluminum foil blanket, my dermatologist and I are buddies. She’s removed so many skin cancers from me that Todd and I joke that her lake house must have a Becky Ramsey suite.

“It’s no biggie,” I told myself as I drove to her office. The procedure was nothing, really. It’d take a few minutes and then it’d be over. The End. No worries.

But my brain is really, really good at imagining things. So good that I’ve ended up on the floor in all sorts of medical facilities, my head between my knees. Ask my grown kids. Each time one of them had to get their wisdom teeth removed, I’d warn the nurse at pre-op, “I’m squeamish, so just give me the information on paper. I’ll read it at home. Don’t actually say the words.” But they’d always say the words. I’d slide down their wall while they’d scurry around, searching for a wet cloth. One day I’ll write a book called SQUEAMISH. I’ve got plenty of stories to share.

Thankfully, I’ve learned how to keep myself safe. I tell the nurse I’m squeamish — and I don’t count on her believing me. “I need to lie down during the procedure,” I say before we even get started. “I need a cold pack and a fan pointed at me, if you have one.” That’s when she says I’ll be just fine, that it’s all in my head. “Oh I know,” I say. “I know it’s all in my head. My head’s super great at making me faint. I wish it wasn’t but it is, so if you’ll just hand me the cold pack…”

I was ready to say that last week. A new nurse walked me to the room. “I need to lie down during the procedure,” I said.

“Sounds good,” she said. “Would you like a cold pack? How about I get it for you now, before you even get numbed up?”

I nearly jumped off the table and hugged her.

“I’m going to get you some ice water to have on hand,” she said. “You just let me know when you need it.”

By the time my doctor came in, I was fully reclined on the paper, my pants leg pulled up, my sock off, a fan aimed at my face and a cold back behind my neck.

“WHOA!” she laughed. “Are we taking off your leg or something?! A cold pack AND a fan?!”

I felt a little shame rising. I felt a little ridiculous. NO, I told myself. So what if I’ve got a feisty vasovagal response? It’s good to be a sensitive person. A person who notices things and thinks about them. I’d skip the squeamishness if I could, but I can’t. Maybe it’s a superpower somehow or maybe it’s not. But it’s who I am. I deal with it.

My doctor laughed again. “You’ve even got a glass of water?”

“It helps,” I said. “Remember? I’m squeamish.”

“I’d say,” she said.

I looked at the nurse. She smiled at me. “Would you like some water?”

It was icy cold. So nice.

I came home with 5 stitches, a set of wound instructions which I didn’t read until I was lying down, and a love and appreciation for my smart new nurse and all the folks who notice and care–not just for my leg, but the whole person attached to it.

 

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Sweet Talk Walk

A few months ago, Ben was home for the weekend. Ben and Rosie, our golden retriever, share a bond. When we first brought puppy Rosie home, she squirmed her way into his coat, her snout buried under his arm. So, when Ben and I go for a walk, of course Rosie comes too.

Rosie has opinions about walking. If the wind blows too hard or a distant car backfires or a stray piece of newspaper escapes somebody’s recycling bin and sails through the air, Rosie declares THE WALK IS OVER. She turns herself into a fire hydrant and refuses to go further. I can pull on the leash and beg her to stop being ridiculous, I can scold her and fuss and make all kinds of threats, but like it or not, she’s going home. Try whatever dog magic you’ve got. Rosie always wins.

Unfortunately for us, this happened on our walk. “Looks like she doesn’t want to walk,” I told him, figuring we’d backtrack, drop her off at home, and keep walking.

“Silly Rosie,” Ben said. He picked up our 85-pound dog and continued up the hill.

I felt like part of a circus act.

My neighbor Charlie watched from his yard. “You taking your dog for a…carry?” he said.

We laughed. “Don’t get used to it, dog,” I whispered.

As soon as Ben left, Rosie was up to her old tricks again. One day she’d walk, and the next day she wouldn’t.

Then, one day when I managed to get Rosie walking, we came to a fork in the road where we had a choice: turn left and take the downhill shortcut home or turn right and climb a steep hill. I wanted to climb the hill. Rosie wanted to go home.

She became a fire hydrant.

I pulled. I pleaded. Rosie wouldn’t budge.

I decided to try something new.

If I’d known there were two old ladies walking up the hill behind me, quiet as little rabbits, I sure wouldn’t have done it. But I didn’t know that.

I gave Rosie a scratch on the head. I rubbed her velvet ears. I got down on her level, nose to snout, and in my sweetest, most excited voice, I said real loud, “Hey, Rosie! Guess what we’re going to do? You and me, we’re going up this hill! IT’S GOING TO BE SO FUN! SO SO FUN! YOU JUST WON’T BELIEVE HOW FUN IT’S GOING TO BE! YOU READY, ROSIE? YOU READY FOR FUN?”

I stood up. “READY, ROSIE? HERE WE GO!”

Rosie grinned at me! She did a little dance! She started racing up the hill!

The ladies laughed. I felt my face burn. “I guess she needed a little pep talk!” I said.

“Don’t we all!” said the smiley lady with the pom pom hat.

Yes, smiley lady! We all need a little pep talk, a little sweet talk sometimes.

You know what? I’m going to try it on myself. The next time I have to do something I don’t want to do—maybe when I’m tired or bored or the wind’s blowing too hard and I just want to go home and crawl into bed, I’m going to make an effort not to threaten myself or say how disappointed I am in my own behavior. I won’t scold myself or yank my own leash. Instead I’m going to try some sweet talk. Promise myself some fun–maybe even a treat.

Of course, I won’t mind if somebody occasionally comes along and picks me up ’til I can get started. No sense in getting carried away with the idea.

 

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