Kerry Peresta's Blog, page 5

The Weight of Grace

Kerry Peresta & daughter, Erin

The directives erupted from me like the rapid fire of a machine gun. I knew what my daughter, Erin, should do, and she didn’t. How could she? She was only 27, and I had decades more experience. Erin grew quiet as she listened. When my tirade finally sputtered to a halt, she responded with wisdom far beyond her years. She logically pointed out observations and examples about the situation at hand. She did not become emotional like I do when I stress over one of my adult kids’ decisions. She did not cry. She did not argue, or hang up on me.

She extended grace.  And I should have done the same for her.

Interestingly, the day before this conversation, I’d chatted with her older sister, Bonnie, about the topic of grace. Told her I was having a hard time writing about it, because it seemed pallid in comparison to faith (Hebrews 11:1), or the battle against the forces that come against the Christian life (2 Timothy 1:7), or a wrestling match with powers of darkness and spiritual principalities (Ephesians 6: 11-13). Give me a good fight and a promise of victory and I’m all in. But grace? Umm…seemed too gentle, too kind, too lackluster.

I couldn’t get my head around it.

Bonnie Miller, daughter

Until Bonnie gave me her perceptions of grace. The conversation went something like this:

Me: “So my topic for the article I’m submitting is on grace. I don’t know if I can write about that – I can’t think of life examples.” Deep sigh of frustration.

Bonnie: “What!? You’re having problems with grace? Why? Have you looked up all the definitions?”

Me: “Too gentle. And yes,” I responded, slightly indignant, “of course I’ve looked up definitions. The most popular seems to be ‘unmerited favor’.

Bonnie. “Grace, to me, is SO MUCH MORE than that.” Pregnant pause. I fidgeted in my chair, smugly waiting. Maybe she couldn’t come up with examples of grace, either, I thought.

I didn’t realize I had triggered an avalanche. It started with a gradual slide: “Grace is the ability to not feel ashamed when I fail.”

Picked up speed as her mind added mass and volume: “Grace is mercy when I am a fool! Grace erases condemnation!

Massive slabs broke loose. A pileup was inevitable: “Grace allows me to extend mercy and love to others when they don’t deserve it. Grace covers sin and allows us to extend compassion…ohmigosh, Mom, it wipes out offense! Grace covers all wrongs, all fear…it covers everything! In my opinion, grace is equal to God’s love.”

By now she was breathing so hard, I had to hold the phone away from my ear. I put it on speaker, found my note app, and typed in everything she said. I wondered if the weight of her words had impacted her as much as it had me. I smiled, thinking about how my prayer that God give me something to write about grace had been answered. I’ll never look at that word the same way again.

Bonnie took a deep, steadying breath, then chuckled. “Mom. What if this assignment isn’t about writing an article, but about YOU learning more about grace?”

Yes, I thought. What if?

 

(This article previously appeared in Lady Lowcountry Magazine, August, 2016 issue.)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Names, Sticky Notes, and Shields

Loser McLoserface and the Magical Mermaid

Last week, my daughter texted me a picture of a scrabble score sheet. The scores were annotated in two vertical rows on a sheet of paper.  Topping the lesser score, she’d written “Loser McLoserface.” Topping the winning score, (which was hers) she’d written, ta daaa…”Magical Mermaid.”

I wondered at the time if she’d chosen the names before or after the game. Knowing my competitive, wryly humorous daughter, she probably crowned herself scorekeeper and bestowed the names before the game in an attempt to psych out her opponent.

The picture she texted made me laugh. It also made me think. How did Loser McLoserface feel about being stuck with such a name? Yes, it was a joke, and yes, it was funny, but did it stick? How many of us allow others to sticky-note names on us that dictate how we act and feel? Sometimes we paste negative names on ourselves. How often do we rip off those sticky notes, if ever?  Some of us are walking around with false names pasted all over ourselves,  oblivious to the fact that we can peel them off and replace them with words of life.

Some of the names I thought about that I have consciously or unconsciously plastered all over my life might be: Shamed. Rejected. Abandoned. Depressed.  Or how about Not Good Enough. Unable. Weak. Fearful.

I don’t know about you, but I have allowed all those names to derail my life at one time or another.  But I know the possessor of the Name above all Names, thank goodness. I can run into His Name and be safe:

“The name of Yahweh is a strong tower, the righteous run to it and are protected.” – Prov. 18:10

“Who among you walks in darkness, and has no light? Let him trust in the name of Yahweh; let him lean on his God.” – Isaiah 50:10

“But these are written so that you may believe Jesus is the Messiah, the Son of God, and by believing you may have life in His name.”  – John 20:31

And often, God bestowed new names:

“Your name is Jacob: you will no longer be named Jacob, but your name will be Israel.” – Genesis 35:10

“Your name will no longer be Abram, but your name will be Abraham, for I will make you the father of many nations.” – Hosea 1:6

I can tear off the negative, painful names that I’ve allowed to bring me to my knees in torment, and in the name of Jesus, share the freedom in His name. And HIS name is above every other name.

A quick study of Scripture reveals that Jesus rejected the negative names hurled at him during His life, and put these on instead: Healer. Deliverer. Strong Tower. Rock of Ages. Mighty Warrior. Prince of Peace. Savior. Friend. Teacher. Righteousness. Lover of  Souls. Provider. Comforter. Peace.

Names are important to God. When the challenges of life hurl names at you like “Loser McLoserface,” I encourage you to hold up the shield of faith, and deflect those names right into the ground. He has better in mind for you.

I have to admit though, I kind of like the idea of “Magical Mermaid.” I’d be okay with that one.

 

 

 

 

BRMCWC Writing Conference Good for the Soul

The fifth day after returning from the Blue Ridge Mountain Christian Writers Conference, my mind is still soaked from the gushing fire hydrant of information the faculty kept warning us about. The director of this popular conference, Edie Melson, sent out a post-conference blog post about how best to organize and prioritize everything that had crammed our minds. It is helping. Even before the conference, Edie  shot out preparatory posts once or twice a week to help newbies like me acclimate.

Four days at Ridgecrest Conference Center in Asheville, NC, minus wine, television, or naysayers has feverishly motivated not only my writing life, but my life in general.  Any doubt about my chosen life’s track has fled.

Our days  began with group sessions after breakfast. It was like having church – really cool, writer church – every morning, complete with worship. I plan to go through all my notes and pluck several pearls from those amazing presentations and encase them in artistically-crafted memes with WordSwag. Thanks to learning about Hootsuite, I’ll then  use this invaluable social media tool to fling my memes all over the place.

I wasn’t sure I wanted to go. Too expensive, too time-consuming, and a huge hassle. But when we got an unexpected check in the mail that more than covered it, I rolled my eyes at God and gave in. It took half a day to get there and the other half to orient myself to crazy days that started at 6 a.m. and didn’t let up until 9 p.m. After my body got over the shock of rising between 5:30 and 6 a.m., like muscle memory, it remembered college campus-mode.  I couldn’t believe I made it to every class without collapsing. After a couple of days I settled into a routine. What a rush to sit at the feet of  award-winning authors, speakers, agents, and editors.

The adrenalin is fading now, but the afterglow remains. My writer tool kit brims with shiny, new tools to help with writing my books and creative ways to connect and  network. God used the conference to adjust my writerly road map, and as a bonus, added supportive, like-minded, new friends that have already plugged into my FB page and Twitter feed.

Here are a few hydrant gushes meant for writers, but pretty darn invaluable life lessons as well:

We don’t have rejections, we have re-directions.
Establish a budget.
Assemble a “street team.”
Physical activity fires creativity.
If you need to shorten the story, take out the subplots.
Have a willingness to be repaired.
Creativity begins with a Creator.

 

New accountability partners! The Three Musketeers.

As I crack my knuckles over my keyboard and flex my fingers, my mind races with a heightened sense of responsibility to the communication gift I’ve been given. A good writing conference is an excellent way to help me remember I’m not  alone in the struggle to put words on the page.

The BRMCWC fire hydrant info-blasts gushed into my brain during each class as I sat scribbling in my notebook, biting the end of my pen thoughtfully, but I wasn’t prepared for the love-blasts. The love-blasts flooded my heart with  encouragement and purpose.

And that is why I’ll be back.

 

 

 

 

Broken Families, Weddings, and Cupcakes

The wedding flowers were so lovely!

When families break, the fallout can be toxic, but the atmosphere does clear, eventually. I hoped we would enter a toxin-free zone last weekend when we traveled to my stepdaughter’s wedding in Austin, Texas. Even broken families coalesce around adult children’s weddings, but there is no escaping the fact that the broken bits may spew and sputter a little.

“I don’t know what to expect,” my husband said, shaking his head, as we discussed the trip and meticulously planned festivities. “Last time I went to one of these, I was not exactly, uh… welcome.”

Rehearsal

Understandable, I’d thought, as my husband’s divorce at that time had been recent─a raw wound still─ and time had not had a chance to heal either he or his ex-wife. Or his grown, heartbroken children. I’d thought about a similar experience when I had attended a funeral for a beloved grandparent of my recent ex. The glares from his side of the family had burned a hole through my already fragile composure, and I stumbled my way to a seat with burning cheeks. I had no other agenda than to pay my respects to a person I’d grown to love, but sometimes people hold offenses even when they do not know the facts about the situation. This is understandable, too. Not right, exactly, but understandable.

Wedding venue

As I write this, I am reminded of my own divided loyalties. A couple of my girlfriends’ marriages had crumbled, and according to them, the husband was to blame. But was he, really? How would I know if I hadn’t heard what he had to say? I am guilty of assigning blame based on my unwavering loyalty to my friends, and often join them in their post-divorce, adversarial verbal annihilation. I must be more careful, though, to tread lightly. Things are not always as they appear. And on a side note, it is absolutely none of my business.

My sole responsibility, I am learning, is to love. To extend honor and grace, and not assign blame. Especially when I have no idea what I am talking about.

“Let it happen organically,” I encouraged my husband. “There will be some who let the past be the past, and some who won’t.” I shrugged.

My husband was silent, his hand drifting to his chin like it always does when he is thinking. His face cleared, and he heaved out a breath. “You are right,” he said. “It will be fine.”

My husband and his son (brother of the bride) and one of the grandsons

I enthusiastically agreed, but still… a slight tension tugged at us. My husband and I prayed over the situation and its various potential land mines. We asked our Bible study group to pray as well.

After rehearsal and tiptoeing through a somewhat cautious rehearsal dinner, we breathed a joint sigh of relief. No difficult conversations, no glaring contests, just the relaxed undercurrent of chatting guests with one thing in common: celebrate the blessed union of a couple they love.

On the day of the wedding, in eerie parallel to our trepidation, the dark clouds over Austin that had threatened to put a damper on the outdoor event cleared at the perfect time. A light breeze ruffled the leaves off huge trees in golden benediction over the whole affair, sweeping aside our petty concerns.

Father and daughter

The bride was beautiful, the groom stunning and attentive, the ceremony inspiring. The thick, gnarled arms of a hundred-year-old mesquite tree stretched across the platform as a backdrop to the wedding party parading down the grassy aisle between rows of white chairs. My wisecracking husband managed to suspend his jokes as he walked his daughter to her groom, kissed her on the cheek, and returned to the white, wooden chair beside me in the front row where his ex-wife and I had been seated on each side of him. I felt humbled to be included beside the two people that had actually raised the bride, and especially honored that my presence was warmly accepted.

As bride and groom left amidst cries of celebration, the three of us on the front row stood shoulder to shoulder with everyone, clapping and smiling and hooting. I laughed in awe. Even broken families can pick up the pieces and move on, and at least celebrate the celebration of family.

Smiles all around, we watched months of planning satisfactorily conclude and the beaming couple  prance out of sight to get ready for phase two. Onward to the reception!

We danced like mad stompers beneath shivering rainbow lights to 70s and 80s hits, and whatever it is that thirty-somethings dance to these days─I without shoes because stupidly I wore new ones and my feet hurt, and my husband, with abandon in amazement that he remembered the rumba and swing steps from two ballroom lessons I made him take a few years back. In sudden epiphany in the middle of the dance floor, my husband and I realized that enough time had elapsed to dull the pain and chaos of divorce. We experienced a curious freedom from what anyone felt about… well, anything. Throughout the merry evening, hand clasps, hugs, and ridiculous dance moves sparked long-dead friendships back to life. We were grateful.

When bride and groom made their way to the wedding cupcake tower, smart phone photo-flashes and huge smiles surrounded them. Soon, everyone had a cupcake in their hand. It is pretty hard to hang onto lingering offenses with a cupcake in hand.

 

 

On the return flight, I did a lot of thinking about the many difficult phases of life. We can choose to pass through them with shoulders squared, brave; or trudge through in despair, moaning. It is a choice. I believe the bravest among us choose to let go of an unruly past─its hurts and lies and detours─ casting off its weight to reach, instead, for the lightness of joy.

 

And maybe a cupcake.

 

 

 

Another Victim of Island Syndrome

When we moved into our 1987-era house in one of the Plantations on Hilton Head Island, we had a budget for improvements, but little did we realize the prowess and perseverance needed to endure the process.

I still have nightmares about it.

I had talked to my new neighbors about different things my house needed (update kitchen, replace flooring, replace original deck) and had made a list of potential contractors or skilled handymen or women. Once I started setting up appointments I realized I was in pretty deep doo-doo.

After interviewing four different contractors and digesting wildly varying estimates and suggestions, I was confused. Should I go with the least expensive, and risk a poorly done job, or go with the one in the middle? Should I accept the most expensive option and believe it will be the best job? Who do I trust?

In the end, I did what I always do—I figured out the cheapest way to go without sacrificing quality. The only problem with this strategy was that I didn’t factor in Island Syndrome.

After three months of noise, dust, and chaos, this is what I have learned about Island Syndrome:

Most contractors and their employees are on “Island time.” As a newbie to the island, I did not foresee this wrinkle. I came from the Baltimore/DC area where everything is ratcheted down. “Island time” means “This job will take three to six weeks. Maybe six months. Be prepared for the painter/electrician/tile people/plumber to arrive at anytime between 8:30 a.m. and 3 p.m. Do not require us to call first, or give you any hint of when we will be there, because that will be annoying. Just put your life on hold for the duration, and when it is done, it is done. Got it?”

 

Well, it took a little time for my temper tantrums to abate, but I got used to it. Eventually, I left my doors unlocked, told them to help themselves to snacks and water, and shut myself in my bedroom, the only area of the house devoid of remodeling activity.

2. The more deeply entrenched in Island Syndrome, the less serious the estimate. It isn’t real, was never real, and when the time comes to pay the invoice, the contractor is oh-so-terribly sad that those unforeseen complications came up, but these things happen, he says with a smile. Silly me, I thought estimates were actually, um—realistic.

3. Island Syndrome includes creative excuses about why the plumbing/electric/painting/ was not done correctly or on time. These excuses are delivered with practiced hangdog expressions, somber voices, and slumped shoulders. There is no way one can argue with someone exhibiting this behavior. At least I couldn’t. I asked them if they wanted a cookie.

4. One of the many reasons for Island Syndrome is an overabundance of home improvement needs and an underabundance of competent, reliable personnel. I was amazed when I got four different estimates on my deck, four different stories about what was needed, and four crazy expensive prices for what I considered an easy afternoon of replacing about half the boards on a small deck, power washing, and staining. After listening to all the incredibly negative and time-consuming reasons the repair would be so expensive, I decided none of their ideas or approaches were worth considering and tore the whole thing out and put in a paver patio with a guy that was satisfyingly competent and gave me a working schedule and an estimate that was fair and did not change. But it took me FIVE ESTIMATES to connect with one reliable guy.

5. Island Syndrome often infects the skilled laborer/plumber/electrician/contractor with the inability to call or text back after a consumer’s repeated attempts to get in touch. Apparently, they are so in demand that they are unable to respond in a timely manner—or at all.

5. Island Syndrome exhausts the consumer. By the time Island Syndrome had eaten up my time, money, and patience, I needed an indefinite amount of time to recover. Maybe the rest of my life.

6. Over time, Island Syndrome may cause Island Remodeling Fatigue, a condition consisting of remodel aversion, panic attacks when someone mentions the word “contractor,” and an automatic protective hand over one’s wallet or purse.

As a newcomer to Hilton Head Island, and a recent victim of Island Syndrome, perhaps I should think about starting a recovery group.

Sharing our stories with each other would help, I think.

 

 

Disclaimer: This blog post is an exaggeration for the sake of humor not meant to offend or otherwise discredit those wonderful workers that did actually help me in my often panic-stricken state during my remodel. To those people, thank you.

 

 

 

 

Family Holidays – A Work in Progress

My adorable grandchildren

After weeks of planning, purchasing, and preparing, I am always a little in awe of the work associated around Thanksgiving and Christmas. When one has four grown children and five grandchildren, and they alight from different parts of the country at once, the struggle is real.

In the midst of the chaos and holiday hilarity, I don’t always embrace the joy of togetherness; rather I often distance myself by straightening, instructing, picking up after the little ones, and silently praying for self-control. It has been around eight years since I’ve had multiple kids in my house full-time, and to be honest, I really enjoy the non-kid quiet. Also the fact that I can walk into any room in my house and admire the perfect order.

I admit it, I am a recovering neatness addict; a work in progress. Each year, I make a little more progress, which according to my kids is not exactly accurate, but I know in my heart I am taking baby steps toward being more “Mary,” and less “Martha,” for you Bibliophiles out there.*

My son and his family

For instance, when a four-year old boy (or was it the six-year old? I forget) knocks over someone’s glass of wine, I can be thankful that I preventatively and wisely replaced the white carpet with tile when we moved into this house six months ago. This year, I didn’t scream in dismay at the widening purple stain and broken glass, I was genuinely concerned that the child’s bare feet might be cut by the broken glass. Cleaning up is a snap with tile floors. No harm done, plus I gave myself a little pat on the back for choosing compassion over freaking out about a stained rug.

We are all a work in progress, all pilgrims doing our best on our life-pilgrimages, and we need to cut each other some slack. This year I had two entire weeks to work on the cutting-each-other-some-slack part.

Before you judge me, gentle reader, tell me, how long has it been (fellow sixty-somethings in particular) since you had three children under the age of six , plus a newborn,  a twelve-year old and their respective parents under your downsized, 2100-square-foot roof for two weeks? I cannot with equanimity say I loved every minute. I loved ninety percent of the minutes. The chaotic, loud, messy ten percent tripped me up a little.

Deep breath. Everyone together now, repeat after me: We are all a work in progress.

Do not be conformed to this age, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind, so that you may discern what is the good, pleasing, and perfect will of God.  Romans 12: 2 HCSB

My daughter embracing the joy of the season…

Doesn’t the route to ecstatic, tear-filled, delight usually come with bits of turmoil hanging off its edges? For me it does. I find the turmoil, though uncomfortable, has merit. Through large or small family conflict, if  we are brave and honest in our communication with other, we win. Our relationships are stronger, our words more effective, our compassion deeper. With prayer and God’s wisdom, if we are willing to wade into the troubled waters and flail around a little, our relationships will not sink but thrive.

I am so very grateful that my kids still want to come see me, spend time with me, and suffer through my sometimes snippy comments. I am grateful they are all smart, happy (for the most part), healthy, and making a productive dent in their chosen fields. I am grateful my grandkids are loved and nurtured and adored. I am grateful the marriages have not fallen apart, and in fact, are getting stronger. I am grateful that my kids and I talk often, are interested in each other’s lives, and encourage each other to keep going. I am grateful for their deepening faith in Christ. I am grateful to hear the same  words tumbling from their mouths to their children’s ears that tumbled from my mouth to their ears when I raised them. Some of the good stuff stuck, thank God.

I would know none of this if we hadn’t been squished together for two weeks, forced to talk to each other, plan things, watch the little ones, fix meals together, and go to a lovely Christmas Eve service together. Messy, yes; irritating sometimes, but overall, priceless. It may be years before all of us are together again, and I am sad about that.

I sit here now, on New Year’s Day, 2016, in a quiet house. The last of the families left this morning. Already, the laundry is done, the toys are put away, the stack of odds and ends left behind is piled up, ready to mail. The TV blares from the den with its ubiquitous football-speak, and I think about having a piece of the peanut butter pie my daughter made for one of our holiday meals. Order restored, and the day isn’t even over yet.

And I think to myself, I wonder what would have happened if my single and only focus was to enjoy?

But it’s too late now.

 

*Luke 10: 39-42

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Marriage After Fifty: The Eighth Year

 

Like thousands of other women, marriage has not been an easy road for me.

I am a survivor of  divorces and child custody battles and restraining orders and you-name-it, I’ve been there. I don’t wallow in regret, or condemn myself, I was just ill-equipped when it came to romance and things went south. I learned difficult but valuable lessons, and often recite, “It takes a lot of no’s to get to a yes.” Learning what to avoid, in my opinion, is just as important as learning what to embrace. It took a long time and a lot of profound discoveries about myself, but in my fifties, I finally got to the ‘yes’.

That being said, it is amazing to me that I am just now learning how to be married longer than four years without some sort of crisis.  My husband and I are about to embark on our ninth year of marital bliss, have sworn to each other we are together until the end, and that’s a pretty good feeling. We are done with the drama of ‘looking for love in all the wrong places’.

So done. Yay.

But the learning curve at this point, for me, involves the petty, bizarre, intimate, details about a person that emerge after so many years. I find it  hilarious and irritating and reassuring all at the same time.  For me, familiarity doesn’t breed contempt, it breeds fertile ground for growth. Lots and lots of personal growth.

For instance, ladies, how many of us breathe a sigh of relief when our husbands leave for a few days/weeks/months (well, maybe not months); because we do not have to go behind him and pick up dishes/reading glasses/dirty socks/boxers/etc. etc. A perfect opportunity to build patience, as I huff out my gratitude through clenched teeth for this wonderful, solid man and get exercise at the same time, bending and squatting and picking up all that stuff. See? Growth.

And driving. It was oh-so-wickedly satisfying when I heard a paragon of virtue like Joyce Meyer remark that she dislikes her husband’s driving so much (and vice-versa) that they actually take separate vehicles whenever they can. When my husband is driving my panic leaks out in spurts like this: “Do you have to take up the whole road when you turn a corner? Every. Single. Time?” or, “Stop. Stop! You are in the middle of the intersection on a yellow light! You are inviting an accident!” or, “That guy nearly sideswiped us! Don’t you use your horn? EVER? Why?” and so on.

Conversely, when I am driving, his irritation leaks out like this: “WATCH IT!” (Arms outstretched) “You are too close to the curb! Kerry!” or, “No, THIS way. This way! What are you doing?” (Head swiveling wild when I ever take a different route than he would, thereby making me mad that he doesn’t think I know how to get where we are going. Really?)

We have learned to kind of square our shoulders and brace ourselves when we drive somewhere together. Still, it is reassuring to know that if Joyce Meyer takes separate vehicles sometimes in order to avoid conflict, so can I. A fallback position should it prove necessary.

And how about closet habits? Never in my wildest imagination did I think I’d care about a closet door hanging open or pairs of male shoes neatly arranged OUTSIDE the open closet instead of inside their tidy shoe-shelves, but I do. After eight years, I really do. I have come to the conclusion this is a minor detail and will not change. I deal with it by suggesting his closet and mine be in separate rooms, which works great except when I have to clean that  room. On my good days, I put away his stuff with a sigh and gently slam the closet door and mutter my gratitude for a good marriage even if my spouse is not an OCD must-have-order person like me. Everyone needs balance in their life.

Food habits? Sigh.

My husband – and maybe most men – are fans of messy, smelly, food, e.g. seafood that must be manipulated, torn apart or slithered out of its shell and guzzled; or wings slathered in barbeque sauce. I cannot bear to watch. Also, he is a huge fan of onions and garlic, both which send me running outside fanning my nose. Though I’ve begged him to spare my nose, he still manages to sneak in an onion or two into the fridge. And seriously, he does it when I’m not looking because he knows I will freak out. When I find the onion, the convo goes something like this:

Me: Gasp! “Did you buy an onion?’

Him: “What onion?”

Me: I can smell it, and it’s still in the plastic bag!”

Him: “I’ll use it when you’re not here.”

Me: “It’ll smell up the whole house for two days.”

Him: “I’ll never understand why you don’t like onions. You should try onions. And seafood.”

Me: (Face getting red) “I’ve told you a thousand times the smell of onions and seafood makes me nauseous. Do you want me to get sick? Just because you won’t give up onions?”

Him: ” I won’t cook them. I’ll eat them raw. You should try them.”

Me: “I. Will. Never. Like. Onions. Or seafood.”

Him: “Why not? Everyone likes onions and seafood except you. You should try them.”

And so on. We’ve agreed to disagree. He still has to have the occasional onion, hoping I won’t notice. And I don’t, until he surreptitiously pulls out a frying pan, plops in oil and garlic, quietly dices the onion he has spirited in under his shirt, and cooks it. What, he thinks I won’t smell that? Gagging, I turn on every fan in the house, open the windows, and stomp outside. In the spirit of compromise, I am considering noseplugs.

The marital learning curve continues, and my personal goal is to get through at least one day without shrieking regarding any of the above. After all, the clashes we have about this stuff are pretty funny. Well, a few days later, they’re funny.

Kind of.

 

Where the Heart Is – Reflections

After three weeks of traipsing back and forth from my kitchen-in-progress to my makeshift kitchen in the back bedroom, I am slowly regaining my sanity.

My back bedroom groaned with sacks and boxes of dishes, pots and pans, contents of junk drawers, silverware, and various odds and ends.  My husband and I lugged the kitchen table back there, and I put my  microwave and coffeemaker on it. I draped sheets over the bed and on the floor. I carved out tiny paths on each side of the bed. Each morning I extricated half & half from my refrigerator in the kitchen-in-progress, walked the length of my house to my makeshift bedroom-kitchen, added cream to my coffee and walked back again to put the cream back in the fridge. Then I would kind of stand and stare and think things like: I have to walk all the way back to the bedroom to get my coffee. Why didn’t I bring it with me? And by the way, how will I cook my morning eggs? Can you microwave eggs? I’ll just have toast. Where did I put the toaster? Ohmigosh I have to walk all the way to the fridge again to get the darn jelly if I have toast. And the butter. (Sigh)

It took exactly twice as long to do everything I would normally do while my kitchen was torn apart, and five times as long if workmen (and women) were in the house.  I think a woman without a kitchen is like Lucy without Ethel. Jimmy Fallon without The Roots. Brad without Angelina. I totally lost my moorings. Add to the mix three or four strangers hammering, power sawing, and ripping apart the very heart of my home. I ended up an OCD, dazed, lost, mess for the duration.

Something womanly-primal about the loss of a kitchen. I reflected on pioneer women bending over their hearths, staring into cast-iron pots, cocking their heads, deciding whether to stir or take it off the fire; kids lying around the planked floor, playing games by candlelight in their tiny cabin.

A kitchen is the heart of the home. Always has been. And judging by the way I zealously hounded the long-suffering carpenters, electricians, and plumbers, a lot of my heart is wrapped up in it too.

For three weeks I pretended to be fascinated by  beam reinforcement and plumbing relocation in order to stalk their progress. I asked endless questions about cabinetry installation and granite counter cut-outs. In reality,  I needed reassurance that these strangers were taking very special care to return my kitchen to me unscathed and undefiled. Still, it felt a little like someone rifling through my underwear drawer.

It has surprised me, this protectiveness that has arisen over my humble kitchen. Understand that I am not an enthusiastic or creative cook, I eat food as kind of a must-do exercise, and my refrigerator is rarely overstocked. I think, for me, the kitchen represents relationships and celebrations rather than the simple preparation of food. It is a place secrets are shared over mugs of coffee, babies in high chairs babble and coo and learn to hold spoons, water is grabbed on the way to exercise class. The kitchen is more than food – it is a parentheses to almost everything in our lives, and feeds us in more ways than one.

Finally it is done…ahhhhh, what a relief it is.

It is now into the fifth week, and everything is done. I love rather than loathe being in there, now. I caress the smooth granite countertop, and admire my reflection in the shiny glass tile backsplash. I carefully inspect the antique white (not bright white – there is a difference) cabinets for hints of smudges. I certainly work in the fact that I picked everything out myself to anyone who will listen. I am like a proud, new mama.

Next year, bathrooms. Should be interesting. I’ll have to spend some time thinking about how I feel about bathrooms. They are a reflection of something else entirely.

 

 

 

 

 

Lessons Learned

 

 

Personally, I am always ready to learn, although I do not always like being taught.  Winston Churchill

 

 

I am totally having a hard time being taught, lately.

The problem lies with my kids, who have become rather intelligent adults, and though I love and respect them, I am not quite ready for them to teach me things. I think there’s a classic role reversal going on here, and I am not taking it very well.

My oldest daughter is suddenly the world’s foremost expert on food. Natural foods, diets, carbs vs. sugar, calories vs. healthy fats, etc. etc. When I was  raising her and her siblings, I was the world’s foremost expert on food. I raised this kid on natural foods, dairy milk, no sugar, soy products, and unprocessed honey. Now that I am older and having a few dietary issues, guess who is instructing me in the way I should go? Three guesses. And they all start with “B” for Bonnie.

My lovely oldest daughter.

When I protest that I know all the stuff she suggests, she points out (quite accurately) that my foray into natural foods and an organic lifestyle was (cough) thirty years ago and maybe, she suggests politely, things have changed a little since then.

Hmph, I respond, weighing the niggling resentment in my gut. She continues the teaching about food, and I sigh, but I listen. I reluctantly decide to be taught, and quench my irritation by smashing my lips together.

So painfully true!

It is one thing to raise and launch children; entirely another to appreciate them as adults that have gained wisdom of their own. Wisdom I cannot take credit for. Wisdom that has not tumbled from my mouth to their ears. Wisdom they’ve gleaned from their own hard knocks, trial and error, and research. It is a hard pill for this parent to swallow, but I am choking it down. Even learning some stuff.

It’s a tricky transition, the parent-child, parent-adult, parent-friend, progression. Nebulous stages that overlap. I am learning to recognize when to parent,  when to friend, and when to shut up. Parent at 25 and below, friend at 25 and above, definitely shut up more than friending when the child is over 30. I think this is a good guide.

I also think I am a little in awe of the unique individuals my kids have become. I am just having a little trouble learning how to be Mom in reverse. But I’ll get there.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Hilton Head Effect

 

Moving into our new home on Hilton Head Island.

Since my last post about preparing to move, a flurry of activity has overtaken my life, and my brain is still steamy about the whole thing. I look back at the horrific amount of work it is to leave one household and move into another,  wondering anew at the wisdom in it. Different house, different place, incredibly poorer.

Why don’t I ever remember the overwhelming expense of this whole exercise? The daunting and ridiculous effort?

Was it a good decision to move?

It’s an investment, my brain insists. An investment. You plan to live here the rest of your days on the earth, remember? It’s where you want to be. So plow that money into this house and this community and remember you only have so many days left. Make the most of them.

Okay, I tell my brain, huffing out my exasperation, thanking God for the strength and persistence He gave me to plan, pack, move and unpack, organize, re-orient, realign, settle in.

Mostly, my new house is orderly, my pictures are in place, the new furniture I had to buy is situated. (Of course the old furniture simply would not fit into the beachy mood of Hilton Head Island.)

My house may be orderly now, but my emotions are all over the place. Change is hard. And the older I get, the longer it takes me to change

God has given me little winks of encouragement along the way:

Me and Dorothea Benton Frank at B&N in Hilton Head!

a spontaneous signing event where I met an acclaimed Lowcountry author of women’s fiction that recommended me to her publisher, good friends that had already planned to be here on vacation, and provided our first “beach company,” friendly neighbors that have already had us over for drinks and conversation.

Friendly neighbors! We almost fainted!

It is notable that in five years on the mid-Atlantic coast in the Baltimore area, exactly two families invited us over for anything, and believe me when I say that my husband and I are friendly people. We still shake our heads about that. People are different up north, and we are ecstatic to be southerners again, where the livin’ is easy, the tea is sweet, and the people are incredibly welcoming.

Especially the men.

Let me say a little something about southern  men – a fact I’d  forgotten, and one I have come to appreciate in an entirely new way. Southern men know how to appreciate women.

Southern (either by birth or by transplant) men do not care about ‘political correctness’ or ‘feminism’ or whether it is offensive to open the door for a woman, they just hang their appreciation for the gentler gender out there for the whole world to see. I, for one, am quickly getting my  groove back – that groove women take for granted in the south – where men automatically compliment because it’s their job;  call us ‘honey’ or ‘sweetie’, tell us we smell good and look good, and it is taken with a grain of salt, all in a good southern woman’s days’ work, the fruit of our labor, our right as women.

We women like those things, we do, and that is all there is to it. It makes us hold our heads up a little higher, push our shoulders back, and walk tall with a sway in our hips. It puts us in touch with how it was meant to be. It used to be called ‘chivalry’ and it’s alive and kickin’ in Hilton Head, thank God.

In Baltimore, perfume was viewed as the devil, and if women wore some, they were called out on it. People could be (horrors) allergic! Very few men attempted to open a door for a woman, because they could get slugged or vilified. I was careful  to thank the few men that opened a door for me. Compliments were non-existent, as it might get a guy  a lawsuit for harassment. After a couple of years of this, I began to feel invisible and decidedly gender-neutral. (Husbands don’t count, they have to do this stuff or live with an irritable wife.)

I want to thank you publicly, southern men, for the lovely compliments, the opening of doors, the preferential treatment in putting us at the front of the line in the grocery store, and helping us to the car with heavy sacks of things. The warmth of southern hospitality is thawing my brittle-cold bones.

My husband. Happier. Tanner, too.

I struggle with missing my old house and my precious daughters who lived close by, and missing LifePoint Church in Maryland. But it’s been almost four weeks, and my new house is feeling more homey, we’ve found a great church on the island, and my husband is getting his groove back too, due to the laid-back lifestyle, less crazy traffic, and people that actually take the time to help. We still stare at each other in wonder when someone (a perfect stranger) takes five or ten minutes to give us directions and information instead of blowing us off with a rude stare.

 

Hilton Head Island, for better or worse, my husband and I take you  (God willing) as our final destination and happy place, and pledge our faithful love and devotion, at least, um, until we die and are transported to Heaven, which we fully expect to look (at least a little bit), like you.

(And hooray for southern men.)