Because Christmas card photos are always such a stress-free experience, this year, we decided to involve two dogs with little to no home training in order to add an element of challenge for everyone. Getting five people to look pleasant at the same time is hard enough without inserting dogs into the situation, where squirrels are running everywhere. Mark Whiddon is a good and patient man. He has documented our 2019 existence, despite some of those pictured whining about forgetting to pack appropriately and some of those pictured being asleep just minutes before this picture was taken.

Carson left for college in August with one self-motivating goal, "Don't suck". I'm happy to report that he did not suck, this semester, and we are so proud of that. He also didn't change his sheets, but that's not something we'll address here in our holiday greeting. He's adjusted well and is loving the Bulldog life, which makes his parents happy. Blair had an awesome year in her sales job, which is perfectly suited to her personality. John Samuel will finish his master's degree in accounting in March, which he's done while working full time. They've found their people and their church in their new town and we've likely lost them to the Gulf Coast life for good, but we're glad they've found their place. Davis and I have settled into the empty nest thing. It's really not so bad, after all. If I elaborate any further, it may hurt the offsprings' feelings, so I'll just leave it at that. Ruby has recently taken up basket unweaving and seems to really have a knack for it. She's less enthusiastic about recent orders from the doctor to shed some pounds. She continues to dispel any hint of monotony around here.        

I just wanted to do a quick post to sign off for 2019. I don't know what it is about Christmas time, but I always tend to get sentimental and even a little misty-eyed about the people in my life, right about now. Maybe it's the soft glow of the Christmas lights that illuminates those corners of the heart. Maybe it's the impending turn of another year and the realization of how quickly life passes. Or, perhaps, it's just the higher than normal blood sugar and cholesterol levels. I really don't know, but, whatever the reason, this time of year, I'm most appreciative of the gift of people, most of all.

Those people most definitely include you. Each week, you make me so humbly grateful. Knowing there are millions of sites that a person could choose to visit on the internet and you use your valuable time to stop by here to see me. You'll never know how precious that is to my heart. Thank you so very much. You are a blessing to my life.

I'd like to wish you and yours a very Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year. I can't wait to see what topics await us in 2020.

God bless you.

    

I remember the year Blair played Mary in the church Christmas play. I think she was about 5 years old and one of her "since birth" friends, Brock, had snagged the role of Joseph. Since the two actors were so close in real life, the chemistry between Mary and Joseph was sure to translate onto the stage and make the story of Jesus' birth just come alive. Their church friends were to surround them in the spotlight as angels, shepherds, wise men, and miscellaneous farm animals. The set was so adorable. It was going to be a precious reenactment of the nativity.
On the day of the performance, Blair was so excited that it was finally time to fully immerse herself in the role of Mary. All the preparation. The practice. The anticipation. It was time to apply her acting skills for the biggest role she'd ever play in children's churchdom. I mean, being cast as Mary is the church's equivalent to being crowned Miss America or something like that. There's just no greater honor, which can be bestowed and this was the moment for which she'd waited.

They took the stage. Mary sat beside the crude manger bed, which held a swaddled doll as Joseph stood behind her in his supportive way- both on and off the stage. The angels appeared as the narrator read and then entered the shepherds, which was followed by a song. During the song, I noticed that Mary was looking sad. Depressed, really. Then, perhaps, even a look of despair. I wish I had pictures that fully captured her progressive wilting. She'd started out gently leaning over the manger bed, but now she was practically sprawled out across the top of baby Jesus as her head sank lower and lower into the hay. Frankly, she looked like a really bad mother and I was certain that this was not biblical.

As Mary's mother, I sat in the audience trying to decide what was going on with her. Was she suffering from stage fright? Was this her interpretation of a woman, who'd just dismounted a donkey and given birth in a barn without the luxury of an epidural? Was she feeling like she was being upstaged by the angels with their sparkly halos? Was she bored with the scenes that didn't involve her? I didn't know. But, I knew something was going on with our usually animated and bubbly Blair. I remember leaning over to Davis and whispering, "What is wrong with her?!?"
Something was off. She was either giving the portrayal of poor Mary's difficult plight all that she had or she was just over the whole thing. Davis and I were probably the only two to think too much about Mary's peculiar postpartum solemnness and descent onto the manger, but this was a side of Jesus' mother that we'd never seen portrayed in stained glass or on the front of a Christmas card.

After the play was over, we went looking for our little Mary. I had to tell her how wonderfully she'd done in her role. That's what we, mamas, do, you know. We tell our children they did so, so good even when we know in our hearts that they really stunk it up. That's called good parenting. When we found her, I picked her up to kiss her and she was burning up with fever. I pressed my cheek against her forehead and she felt like an oven. The child was sick and apparently felt just awful which, explained her underwhelming performance as the mother of Christ. We discovered a fever of 103 when we got home and there she'd gone and exposed the entire town of Bethlehem to goodness knows what.

All the parents, that night, were seeing the same Christmas story we were, but everyone was zoomed in on their own little piece of it. I don't think anyone even really noticed Blair's particularly unhappy portrayal of the Christ child's mother. The angels' parents looked mainly at the angels and the shepherds' parents were concentrating primarily on them. The wise men's families were solely focused on their arrival from the East, but, from where we were watching, something about that Christmas play was off. There was something wrong and it was all we really noticed.

Maybe from where you are, something is off this Christmas. Eventually, we'll all have a turn at it. Death, sickness, divorce, life changes, separation. There are so many reasons why the celebration of Christmas can feel all wrong, some years. Sometimes, it can be hard to concentrate on the big picture of Christmas when there's something that's just not right from where we're watching the season unfold. I know a lot of people, who'll be having that kind of holiday, this time around. Something is wrong or someone is missing or something has changed and it can feel like we're the only ones, who really even notice. Everyone else is so focused in on the holiday celebration from their own vantage point that we can feel alone in mourning the loss of the way Christmas has always been for us.

There's so much celebrating of the season and talk of being jolly and of good cheer, but it's not always easy to feel those warm fuzzies that we're expected to experience. There's probably no other day of the year that's filled with more sentimental thought and fond memory as Christmas and, when our current situation doesn't match up with those beautiful recollections anymore, well, it's naturally hard to think about much else. 

I don't pretend to know the answers of how to get through those years. We'll all face them eventually if we haven't already. I just know that the reason He was born into this place, which is full of things that are "all wrong" is so that He could offer us hope and peace in those situations. What a mess we made of this world, but He was willing to come into it and live in it and die by its hands, so we could face those days when life seems unbearably sad and forever changed. He came so there would be more to come for those who'd trust Him. A place for eternity where nothing would ever be "off" again.

This year, if you're having a Christmas season that's not quite right in some way, my thoughts are with you and my prayers are for better Christmases ahead as things will get easier. And if life is good for you and everything about your Christmas celebration is shaping up to be like a Hallmark movie, just remember to stop and see the season through the eyes of someone else's circumstances and take time to be kind.

Talk soon.

  
           

I've been Christmas shopping since July. Really. I shop early in anticipation of this being my busy time. The presents have been wrapped since September and received their crowning bows, a couple of weeks ago. I keep a list of people and their corresponding gifts, which I've been marking through and checking off and fussing over for a while now.

Over the Thanksgiving weekend, our friend, Mark, met us for a family photo shoot. With visions of a Christmas card, or more realistically now, a Christmas post, I decided we needed to tackle a picture of our 5 humans and 2 dogs as it had been a couple of years since our last official family pictorial documentation. You can imagine getting that many people and animals up and out the door- presentable and in the mood for smiling- was a stressor all by itself, which will require its own post at a future time.

Seems like I've been decorating Christmas trees and such since July, but, really, it's just been since the day after Halloween. Last week, in between working, I spread some Christmas cheer around my own house and, as of Saturday, I finally wrapped up the busiest span of time for the work I do. All the big boxes have now been checked. From here to Christmas, I'll see after the stores, but the worst of my busyness is behind me.

After going so hard for so long, I'd set aside Monday and Tuesday of this week to sit with a good friend, who'd had surgery. She'd just gotten home and settled in bed and I stretched out on her sofa trying to be as quiet as possible, so I wouldn't disturb her napping. I sat there and soaked up every drop of the quietness in her house. For the first time in a long, long while, there was no TV, no news, no music, no noise, no to-do list, no place to be, and no communication of any kind. She was in her room getting the physical rest she needed and I was on the sofa getting the mental rest I'd craved through all those weeks of deadlines and responsibilities and I have to say it was glorious.

Later that day, she decided to join me in the den for a change of scenery. We sat and just visited in the kind of quiet you'd expect in a place of recovery. In the glow of her Christmas lights and beautiful decorations, we recalled the simplicity of our childhood Christmases and their happy memories that still warm us to this day. She talked about her mother's simple decorations and their tradition of a Christmas Eve seafood meal. I remembered the dark green placemats my mother always put out and all the candy she'd make. Both of us had memories of Christmas Eve going on, what seemed like, forever in our childish anticipation of Santa. Compared to today's standards, we both recalled gifts being few, but how excited, appreciative, and taken away we were with each one. She remembered the Christmas she only wanted an Operation game and I thought I'd struck gold with a Life Saver Storybook from my grandparents. The holidays weren't near as flashy as they are today, but when our minds remember Christmas, those simpler ones seem to rise to the surface first. In the quiet we were enjoying together that afternoon, we looked back at a less complicated time and, for a moment, we were living it.

If you ask me about the moments in my life when I've felt closest to God, I'd say one of the times would be my late childhood. Around the fifth grade, I remember lying in my bed at night and crying. Not because of anything bad, but just overcome with thoughts about how Jesus loved me. And I could feel Him there in my little bedroom. It was before the noise of the teenager years rushed in and the pressures of adulthood elbowed their way through and before technology blared its loud horns and the responsibilities of parenthood filled up all the empty spaces. There was less noise then. Less to worry about. Less to distract a wandering mind. No, in that little bedroom with the yellow gingham bedspread and stuffed animals sitting around, God felt as near as the air I breathed. In that still, uncomplicated, simple place, I could hear Him.

Seems like we thrive on complicating life, these days. We have such high expectations and we have no one but ourselves to blame. We're continuously raising the bar and we cross the finish line of Christmas with our tongues hanging out and needing a holiday to recover from the holiday. It's a marathon of shopping and preparations and checklists. We think memories are made in big, loud flashes of celebration and success is measured by looking from side to side and love is sown in towering piles of gifts and friends are better by the dozens and Jesus can be found somewhere under the heap of it all. But, it seems to me that the most wonderful things in life grow best in still, peaceful simplicity. It's where rest is found. Where friendships form. Where appreciation takes root and where memories grow. And just like He came, in quiet simplicity, the voice of Jesus can still be heard there.

The very best things need so little to flourish.

Simply, a little peace and quiet.    

    

Well, it's almost Thanksgiving time again and you know what that means. Family gatherings. All over the country, families will be coming together around tables of delicious food and lively conversation, next week. No matter where you live or how you celebrate Thanksgiving, I'm guessing that we all have some of the same guests at our tables. There are approximately 27 standard categories into which most of us could divide up many of the family members, who'll be with us this Thanksgiving day. I thought it would be fun to take a look at those. 
The worrier. Every family has a worrier or two. They're the ones who fret that the kids will break the glass coffee table and sever all of their main arteries or that someone will get choked on a bone that was left in the dressing. They're the ones who have visions of the turkey being undercooked and the entire family tree being hospitalized on Black Friday with salmonella poisoning. The worrier can't help that he/she has the gift of a dark imagination. After all, in the mind of the worrier, when 45 people are in one house, the odds of all of them leaving alive and well are slim to none. 
     
The organizer.  The organizer is always in charge. The organizer is often a first born child as their birth order makes them naturally bossy. They do all the calling and planning. Compiling a list of conflicts. Ultimately deciding on the day and time at which the meal will served. They make the assignments as to who will bring what- ensuring that there will be plenty to eat. They shop, well in advance, for key ingredients, so that the family unit will not be among those caught without French's Fried Onions atop their green beans when the grocery stores run dry. They have their system and it's best not to try and alter it. Their way has worked for all these years and there's no sense in changing it now. The organizer thrives on details and the rest of the family is happy to let her have her fun. Until the organizers have been laid to rest, the family will follow his/her lead as is custom. 

The free spirit.  The free spirit can be found at Thanksgiving dinner in unconventional dress like board shorts, Black Sabbath tees, and sandals. Facial hair, hair color, and hairstyles may vary from year to year. Because of the free spirit's laid back personality, he is rarely in a hurry or ever in any sort of distress and, as a result, will likely be around for more Thanksgivings than any of his contemporaries in the family.     

The politico.  The politico is always up to date on the latest political news and is ready to discuss them at a moment's notice.  "Did I hear someone mention the election?"  They enjoy political banter and discussing what needs to be changed in the world.  In the South, it is almost never recommended to seat this guest next to anyone's new ultra-liberal girlfriend, who was involved with the Beto campaign and is sporting a Planned Parenthood bumper sticker on her car. 

The child magnet.  There's always that one relative, who attracts all of the children. They hang off of the child magnet like ornaments on a Christmas tree. The child magnet is usually a fun uncle who's never had kids before and doesn't realize the dangers of flinging children into the blades of a ceiling fan or grasp the concept of shaken baby syndrome. This total disregard for safety is the very thing that draws the children to him. It is best not to seat the worrier anywhere near the child magnet when arranging the place cards.

The picky eater.  The picky eater looks at the long table of holiday food, which stretches as far as the eye can see, and can find nothing that is fit to eat. They want an ingredient list for each dish present and wrinkle their noses at the mere mention of onion, mayonnaise, or anything green. The picky eater will ask if there are any Kraft singles in the house or simply settle for a roll and dessert. The organizer is sure to make a notation of the picky eater's likes and dislikes and accommodations will likely be made for him/her at next year's gathering.
   
The Black Friday shopper.  The Black Friday shopper stretches miles of sales papers out across the floor and table- making notes and lists and checking them twice. They are comparing prices online, checking sale times, and charting their shopping attack. The shopper may eat fast and excuse herself early in order to get in line with the other 500 people in competition with her for the five iPads in stock at Best Buy.       

The observer.  The observer is seen but rarely heard. He/she is content to sit along the edges of the room as a spectator of all of the family mayhem. It's not that they aren't enjoying themselves or wish to be somewhere else, it's just not their style to get up in the middle of the action. The observers and the free spirits blend nicely together in the seating chart. 

The entertainer.  Or the anti-observer. If there is a piano, they will play it. If there is a karaoke machine, they will sing into it. If there is a hearth, it will be their stage. The entertainer sees the family Thanksgiving as a holiday with a captive audience and will never let a good opportunity get by them. The entertainers were born for times such as this.        

The medic. The medics are the doctors, pharmacists, x-ray techs, nurses, and physical therapists in the family. Basically, any family member working in the medical field is fair game for free advice at any and all family gatherings. It is equivalent to seeing the doctor without a co-pay, so medical concerns are put on the back burner until Thanksgiving. Children, who hit their heads or wheeze, are rushed over to the closest medic. Questions regarding sciatica, rotator cuff pain, drug side effects, migraines, the shingles vaccine, and diarrhea, with or without vomiting, should all be directed toward a family medic, but out of earshot of the worrier.
  
The hugger.  The huggers.....well, they hug. A. Lot. If you see them coming toward you, you should assume the hugging position, because it's coming. It is not unusual to be hugged by the huggers multiple times in one visit. Once when you arrive. Once when you leave. And as many times as you pass by the hugger in between. The huggers are full of love for their families and want to express it. Failing to do so could result in something bursting internally and that would be unhealthy-requiring the care of one of the medics.

The non-hugger. The non-hugger loves his family, too, but experiences discomfort when asked to participate in an embrace. The non-hugger doesn't know why, but he prefers the greeting of a head nod, hand shake, or simple pat on the back as opposed to becoming physically entangled with his relatives. When the non-hugger sees the hugger approaching, he begins to experience sudden discomfort, which is indicated by body stiffening and grimaces- warning signals which are rarely picked up by the hugger. The observer and the non-hugger usually form a friendship as they sit in the shadows of avoidance.
   
The fan. The fan is always rehashing the game, play by play, or looking for a television to catch the last quarter or the highlights. They flip channels between ESPN, ESPN2, ESPNU, ESPN Alternate, and the SEC Network. They always come dressed in their team's colors and seek out the fans of their rival team to torment. The fan and the politico generally have nothing to talk about and should be seated apart as their passions do not intersect. 

The techie.  The techie is always on his/her gadget. They're texting, playing games, applying filters, checking social media. They're Snapchatting, Facetiming, talking to Siri, and showing off their newly released iPhone 59XXX. If there are any news or weather developments during the gathering, locally or abroad, the techie will keep the family abreast of the latest information. If any family members should experience technical difficulties with their own devices during the gathering, he/she is more than happy to assist. Oddly, the family could recognize the top of the techie's head from a mile away. The Black Friday shopper and the fan can both benefit from having the techie's place card close by.

The sleeper.  Once the sleeper eats, it's game over. You'll find him in the closest recliner to the table all stretched out and unconscious. The sleeper opens himself up to a number of embarrassing possibilities when he dozes off in a room full of people, who are all armed with phones. This is a risk he is always willing to take. The sleeper often wakes up confused as to what time it is and how long he's been out.....not realizing he's already topped 100 likes on his drooling portrait with the entertainer making rabbit ears over his head, which the techie has posted on all social media outlets. 

The bringer of the ice.  The bringer of the ice is notorious for his/her inability to cook. The family is convinced that the owner's manual and shrink wrapped accessories are still located on the shiny racks inside her oven. To prevent the embarrassed guest from taking home an untouched casserole, food assignments such as tea, rolls, and ice are saved specifically with them in mind. Everyone knows that family holidays are no time for store bought cakes or cooking experiments. The organizer will see that the bringer of the ice is clear on his/her limited assignment and will emphasize that nothing else will be needed from them.

The dieter.  The dieter comes to family events armed with a mental list of things she cannot eat. They're counting points or mixing shakes or frantically searching out the no carb dishes. They're into Paleo, Weight Watchers, intermittent fasting, South Beach, Atkins, and Mediterranean-trying to find something...anything...that they can have in the buffet of butter, cream, bread, cheese, and refined sugars. The commitment of the dieter cannot be discounted at these calorie-laden holiday gatherings as their options are limited to, basically, only what the bringer of the ice has contributed.

The photographer.  The photographer wants to capture all family memories for future generations. It is their mission to photograph everyone in attendance at least six times. The photographer will often wrangle different groups together to be photographed such as the children, brothers and sisters, cousins, etc.. The crowd usually becomes disgruntled with the photographer. The outdoorsman and the observers are especially intolerant of the photographer's quest to document their existence. It is a thankless job that few appreciate...except for the entertainer and the fashionista, of course.         

The servant.  The servant wants to help everyone in attendance at family affairs. They will hold your baby while you eat, refill your tea glass, get a clean fork for you if you drop yours, fetch you another piece of pie, make your coffee, and take your plate to the kitchen when you're done. The servant insists that she's not hungry and will eat right after she's cut all 18 children's turkey and ham into bite-size pieces. The servant is often left with the darkest meat, sweet potatoes with no topping, and the roll that got too dark on the bottom.   

The outdoorsman.  The outdoorsmen may arrive a little late to the gathering. He is usually dressed in camo and could possibly smell of deer urine. It would not be uncommon for the outdoorsman to have a deceased animal in the back of his truck, while joy and merriment take place inside. The children may find the discovery of Prancer's carcass especially disturbing this close to Christmastime, so extra caution should be taken. The Black Friday shopper and the outdoorsman may pass each other in the driveway.....leaving early and arriving late.

The fashionista.  Everyone anxiously awaits the arrival of the fashionistas to see what the new trends are. The hottest patterns. The latest styles.  The fashionistas always come in dressed to the nines.  Throughout the gathering, she can be heard answering questions concerning eyeliner application and hair product preferences. The fashionista, seated next to the outdoorsman, doused with doe urine, might not be the most ideal seating arrangement.   
     
The destructive one.  It's best to keep your eye on this one. If you don't know where the destructive one is, you better be finding out. Candles, fireplace matches, key rings with mace, fire pokers, scissors, electric knives, and fingernail polish should be kept on lockdown when the destructor is in the house. The destructive one should be carefully watched, but never put in the care of the child magnet.

The spiller. The spiller is notorious for his difficulty in keeping tea in a glass, soup in a bowl, and cider in a cup. No one knows exactly why the spiller is challenged in this area, but it is a genetic flaw that the family has learned to accept with a sympathetic "bless his heart". It is wise to for the organizer to place the spiller's place card far away from great-grandmother's lace tablecloth and the newly upholstered dining chairs. The mop should be kept handy throughout the course of their visit. The kids' table is a prudent choice for their placement no matter the spiller's age. And as far away from the fashionista as possible. The hugger should also refrain when the spiller has an sort of liquid in hand.

The germaphobe.  The germaphobe has his ear to the ground for any sign of sniffling, coughing, sneezing, congestion, stomach upset, rash, or fever. The germaphobe will place the most distance possible between himself and any hint of present contagions. For this reason, the germaphobe is never in the running for child magnet as children are seen as nothing but high risk pathogen carriers. No, the germaphobe often wreaks of hand sanitizer and stays on the periphery near an exit in case word comes of any vomiting on the premises.

The clergy.  This is the relative, who is currently serving or has ever served in any sort of ministry role. The preacher in the family. The chaplain. The Gideon. The youth minister. Until their death, this person will be called upon to lead the family in prayer and words of reflection as the holiday's significance is remembered. If the family is without an ordained minister, the organizer will look for the Sunday school teacher. If, still, no one qualifies, then Vacation Bible school snack coordinator or Bible drill winner of '83 may be deemed eligible for the position. Among other duties, the clergy may also be asked to counsel the destructive one, at some point, during the event.

The teacher voice.  The teacher voice is always that family member who works with small children, day in and day out. Their voices are loud and intimidating and demand attention. The teacher voice is very useful when trying to herd screaming, uncooperative children for a picture with the photographer or to call the attention of a rowdy room to the clergy, who is ready to say grace. In the event that the family clergy is a hellfire and brimstone preacher, the teacher voice may not be needed in the latter instance.

The vulture.  The vultures come ready to do some damage to the holiday spread.  The organizer will need to know if the vulture will be present or not because his/her attendance can be a game changer in the grocery shopping. The number of turkeys needed could even change based on their attendance.  When everyone else has moved on to the dessert table, the vulture is just getting started with his third helping of dressing, turkey, sweet potatoes, and fifth roll. The vultures are blessed with the gift of consumption and they have absolutely no preferences as to who they are seated near as long as there is food. 

How many of these people are coming to your house for Thanksgiving dinner?

We'll talk next week!

This past weekend marked a year since we lost our little dog, Sugar. I'll just tell you that was a terrible time. Last Halloween, Davis and I were still walking around in daze- constantly on the verge of tears. We had to put her down and knew it would be hard, but never imagined just how hard. Living with another living creature for almost 14 years forms a bond that we just weren't prepared to lose and I didn't think I could ever put myself through that misery again.

You all know the story. A couple of months later, I went insane. I was looking at the local animal shelter's Facebook page and saw a black and tan hound. I've always been a sucker for a hound dog with long ears and sad eyes as our first dogs, as a married couple, were Bassett hound sisters. Well, I went down there just to see how big she was and that's when she crawled up in my lap and rested her head in the crook of my arm and I fell for it. Like a big sucker, I fell for it. I filled out the paperwork, while the voice inside my head screamed repeatedly, "What are you doing!?!"

I brought this dog home, who'd been living on the streets, and it was about like inviting a caveman to a White House dinner. She didn't know anything. She'd obviously never even been inside of a house before. She had no concept of drinking out of a water bowl. It was like she really was raised in a barn as our mamas used to say. Absolutely no home training. We wondered if someone had just put her out or if she was a hunting dog, who'd gone AWOL. She didn't even know how to respond to our affection. I don't mind telling you that, for about a month there, I wasn't sure that I wasn't going to be "that person" who adopts a dog and then takes it back. It was rough going and, to make matters worse, having another dog had gotten my grief all stirred up again and I was a mess. At that point, I didn't know if I was crying more over losing Sugar or getting Ruby.

With a lot of love, Job-level patience, and industrial-sized bottles of bleach and pet stain sanitizer, Ruby slowly became domesticated. Not only was she no longer indifferent to our affection, she craved it and verbally insisted on it if it wasn't doled out as frequently as she thought it should be. She learned to cuddle and soon showed signs of being jealous for our attention. We developed our little language and learned how to communicate with each other. She now knows the rules and follows them, sometimes. She soon learned that putting her chin on my leg and looking up with those hound dog eyes increase her chances of receiving a little something from the table. And she's perfected how to move our hands with her paw, so that they scratch just the right spot. She loves to be blown with the hairdryer when it's cold and damp. Davis says I've just ruined her, but that's what I do. I ruin perfectly good dogs. But, no matter how rotten she is, we're both just head over heels for her and she makes our nest seem not quite as empty.

Yes, we had that incident with the enemas and latex gloves out in the yard. True that she lets herself in the neighbors' house without so much as knocking. Also correct that we have a lost and found box of neighborhood shoes and toys and miscellaneous items. There was the battle of the neighbor's Chick-fil-a work shoes. We've had rotting armadillos, deer, moles, chipmunks, and possums littering the lawn. We currently have a large jaw bone in the backyard that we certainly hope isn't human. Yes, she snores like a grown man. Yes, we've written some checks. And we used a whole bottle of dog shampoo, one weekend, when she kept returning to roll in some decomposing heap of flesh, somewhere in the woods, each time she went out to potty. She's killed a cardinal, a baby chipmunk, and many-a-baby bird during their flying lessons as their mothers looked on. She's eaten earrings, shoes, UPS packages, caps, prescription glasses, Brillo pads, Easter eggs, blue jeans, hangers, rugs, birthday gifts, books...…..well, it might just be faster to tell you the things she has not eaten. I once spent most of my time trying to comfort and soothe Sugar in all of her anxieties. I now spend my time just trying to keep us from being sued.

So, this Halloween, one year after mourning our sweet, timid girl, who loathed all the Halloween activity, we laughed all night at our life of the party, Ruby. She's wanted to go home with all the children. That tail was just a waggin' under that Wonder Woman skirt as she escorted them all back to the street- trying to get into a couple of cars. I'm not sure she couldn't make a good run for HOA president or, at least, social chairman. Some neighbors even asked if she could go trick or treating with them and, of course, we were happy to let them. I looked over at Davis, at one point, and asked what time he thought Ruby would get home. We used to talk about the children that way.
What gives a dog the ability to make us love them so? How can something, without even speaking, connect with us so deeply? In the last 15 years, I've been loved by two dogs. And, without saying any words, they've each communicated a different kind of love toward me. Somewhere along the way, that quiet, loyal connection forms and, even though I promised I'd never put myself through that pain again, I've placed myself right back on the hook. It goes without saying that we all have our people, who we wouldn't want to do life without, but I think there are some of us, who also crave the heart of one of God's creatures beating quietly by our sides. One that doesn't require explanations, reparations, or clarifications. One that's incapable of resentment or thoughts of malice or remembering our wrongs. One that only sees those things that make us good. Sometimes, we just want another one of God's creations to sit with us. To live life with us. Because we all really want the same things. To love and to be loved.
In the very same spot, where we lost love, a year ago, we have it once again. A very different kind, but it's love just the same. Sweet, sweet love.

Y'all have a great weekend!

           

My parents moved to the city, where we still live, in the 60's and started their family here. One of my two brothers and his family still live here. By the 90's, my mother's siblings starting moving here, one by one, because of their jobs and most of their kids have made their homes here as adults. The last of my mother's three siblings to move is currently building a house and he and his wife will retire here from Texas as soon as it's done. You could say that I'm pretty blessed to be surrounded by so much of my family.

A couple of weeks ago, Davis and I went out to see their house in progress. I wanted to see where they'd be living and, since my uncle was here that week, he could give us the guided tour. We got to the quiet, gated community and found their lot on the beautiful lake. The blocks were set and the rebar and all that other stuff that sticks up out of the ground were in place. The only thing missing was the concrete and that was due to be poured later that week. We stood on the packed red dirt and looked out at the view he'd soon be enjoying from his family room. We could envision the seasonal treats they were in for as we counted the maple and dogwood trees. The geese were flying across the water. A crane stood on his neighbor's dock. There was the slow hum of a boat trolling past us. Nothing like the noise and rush of Houston that they'll be leaving behind soon.

Knowing how important this first step in construction was, Uncle Paul had made a special trip to be here for the foundation process. As we walked around "inside" the house on our tour, he and Davis talked about the rebar and how things were tied into this and that for extra stability. You know how that kind of thing fascinates the men folk. Honestly, my eyes glazed over about then and I tuned out when the substructure talk started. I know it's the most important part of building, but, as a woman, I'd really prefer skipping ahead to the countertops and brick color.

Even after the thrill of building is gone, don't you hate when you have to sink a lot of money into some invisible maintenance? We live outside the city limits and so I know it has warmed my heart, each and every time, we've had to write a check to the septic tank man. Or when we've forked over money to fix an electrical problem. A water heater issue. An HVAC situation. I'd much rather update a bathroom or put in a pool over investing our resources into something that's buried in the backyard or stuck away in the attic somewhere. When we spend money on our houses, we want it to be on something pretty. You may want to repaint. Maybe install some new landscaping. New furniture is always nice. Update the kitchen. Put in some French doors. We can always think of aesthetic investments we'd like to make over maintaining the structural bones of the place. 

We, women, know a little bit about foundations, too, you know. I decided it was time to go bra shopping, the other day. You, ladies, know how that elasticity starts to fall down on the job in those things and this and that can start drooping more than this and that should. And I'd rather do anything than go shop for underthings across that vast, confusing acreage of supportive devices.

I remember, years ago, when my Mama would get notices in the mail that the "bra-fitting specialist" was going to be at one of the department stores. For her, it was right up there with Christmas and all the other holidays on which the banks close. She'd plan her whole bra buying experience around these "bra days" and base her selections on the infinite knowledge of this so-called foundation expert. Was there some kind of bra college that she'd attended? Maybe an impressive array of bra plaques and girdle certificates covered her office walls- I'm not sure. She was just outstanding in her field, I suppose, and my mother urged me to come along, each year, so I could get properly fitted. She talked about it like it would be life changing, but I imagined that being cooped up in the small dressing room with the said bra expert would be more effort and discomfort than I was interested in investing.

So, without any professional help, I navigated my own way through the tiresome process, yesterday. We, ladies, require a lot of foundation garments to help maintain our structure, so to speak. And, my word, they cost a fortune. You'll leave the store with a teeny, tiny bag and a big ol' receipt. They are definitely an investment. Oh, I'd much rather buy a new dress or a pair of boots. Maybe some sweaters or cute tops. Something that looks good on me and, when I go out, people can actually see I have something new. But, without those foundations and invisible underthings, we'd all look like busted cans of biscuits or, as they say on Steel Magnolias- "like two pigs fightin' under a blanket". Heaven forbid, even like some of those pictures you see on the People of Wal-Mart. No matter how much that new dress costs, without the right things under there to support it, well, there'd just be humps and lumps, where humps and lumps ought not be. Necklines wouldn't be the only things plunging if we didn't have the right support underneath that designer dress.  

Seems like our world has become obsessed with the finishes and the wrappings. The bells and whistles. Maybe it's always been this way, I don't know, but social media certainly hasn't helped. It has us wanting to invest most of our time and resources into the things that other people can see. It pressures us to put on impressive shows for each other, because presentation is everything, these days. But, sometimes, if we back off and turn our heads just right, we'll notice there's not much underneath all the shiny stuff we drape over ourselves. There's nothing really significant supporting the façade. The footings are shallow. The ground is constantly shifting. So many beautiful veneers, but nothing solid holding it all up. I guess you could say we have a lot that's shimmering in the store window, but there's not much in stock.

Foundations take investments of time and commitment, but they're essential for stability. May we be the kind of women, who are more concerned with our attitudes over our appearances. Our homes over our houses. His ideals over our images. Our children's spirits over their sports. The eternal over the instant. Our purpose over our profile. God's approval over man's applause. And may we be the ones to stand up and commit to laying a firm foundation for ourselves and our families instead of worrying about prettying it all up for others to see. Then, we'll be found faithful and able to stand against whatever might come.

"He is like a man building a house, who dug deep and laid the foundation on the rock. And when a flood arose, the stream broke against that house and could not shake it, because it had been well built." 
Luke 6:48

"This Jesus is the stone that was rejected by the builders which has become the cornerstone. And there is salvation in no one else, for there is no other name under heaven given among men by which we must be saved."
Acts 4:11-12

Y'all have a great day!


    

Well, today, has been a horrible day. Nothing horrendous happened or anything like that, but my stinky attitude ruined a perfectly good crisp fall day. My very favorite kind of day, at that. Davis and I have had an ongoing grievance with a national company that we've done business with for years and, this weekend, it reached a crescendo. I'm not going to mention names or even what kind of company it is, because that's not my preferred approach. But, after Davis and I talked about the situation at length, last night, I'd planned to give one final attempt, as he'd already done, to express how I felt we'd been wrongfully treated as customers.

Now, I'm a pretty laid back kind of gal. I don't get upset easily. You have to work pretty hard to get me stirred up about something, but these people had managed to do just that. I told Davis I couldn't remember the last time I was this upset and angry. Davis has always been longsuffering- more of a "just let it go"/"there's nothing we can do about it" kind of person, which is fine in most matters, but business matters, where money is being spent, are a little more tricky. Somewhere between him and me would likely fall the most healthy approach. Surely, there exists a more reasonable ground between "go ahead and take advantage of me" and "someone must die" and that should probably be the target for which we should aim in the future.

Anyway, I got up, this morning, with my phone number to the very important person in charge along with our reference number and I was ready. I'd jotted down all the important facts, because I'm not one to think very well on my feet. As a matter of fact, my brain cells all seem to drain down to my feet during any sort of confrontation. I get so emotional and worked up that I just lose my train of thought. Yes, I'm the one who beats herself wildly on the forehead after she hangs up and realizes she forgot to say this or wishes she'd said that. I'm far better at expressing my thoughts through writing than through oration. Moses and I have that much in common.

So, armed with my cheat notes to compensate for my verbal deficit, I dialed the number. My heart was pounding with anger. My jaw was clenched. I was seething. I couldn't wait to talk to one of the persons responsible for my loss of trust in the company. I spoke to someone who was, obviously, oblivious to the matter. I decided she certainly didn't deserve to receive the blow of my simmering grudge, so I asked to speak to someone, who was closely involved in the situation. She put me on hold and my head throbbed as I listened to the lovely instrumental music that was intended to be calming to the customers during their extended wait times. It wasn't working. A boat load of violins and oboes couldn't soothe the swirl of my indignation. My tense neck started to hurt as my headache crept down my upper spine. I could feel my pulse in my head. I hoped I wouldn't have a stroke before he picked up the phone and I could give my speech. But, he didn't pick up the phone. No, the young lady came back saying he'd sent word that the matter was closed. They couldn't even offer an email address or any other way for me to send my opinions. No compensation or recourse or apology of any kind.

I hung up the phone furious. My heart was beating hard and fast. I was beside myself. All that anger that had built up had nowhere to go. You can blow a gasket that way, you know. I finally just got in the shower and tried  to relax myself and reminded God, while I was in there, that I was needing help with this, because I am a prideful and stubborn woman and, at no point, did He stop me to disagree. I got out and put on some soothing music to try to lower my blood pressure from its likely high and lofty place. The situation wasn't fair. Nothing about it was fair and I was obsessed with the unfairness.

I had lunch with a friend, not long after my phone call, and my mind slowly drifted to other things. The unfair thing was still present up there, but it was in a back room somewhere being kept quiet. From lunch, I went to pick up an order that wasn't right and I quietly got upset again. And then again when someone pulled out in front of me going 20 mph. And again when I went into the post office and remembered it was closed for the holiday. I didn't throw fits or act ugly out loud, but I mumbled things under my breath and the pounding started up again. I even laid on my horn, a couple of times, as I drove home- just for good measure. I was beginning to wonder if I was experiencing some sort of hormonal crisis. Whatever it was, I was breaking commandments right and left.

I was sitting at a red light on my way home from my terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day when I saw a friend pull up behind me. I immediately called her to ask how she was. She answered cheerfully. She's been facing an enormous mountain for a while now. Her situation is unfair and costly and has affected every single aspect of her life and it doesn't seem to be changing any time soon. I'd been meaning to check on her all weekend, but never got around to it. She gave me an update on her ongoing situation in a much brighter tone of voice than I'd used all day and it made my dilemma seem so small and me seem even smaller. I'd allowed this matter of principle and pride to ruin my whole day, while there was someone sitting at the light with me dealing with much bigger things. And doing it considerably better, I might add.

Sometimes, God knows just who to put in our rearview mirror to bring things into focus for us. His truths can be closer than they appear.

Tomorrow is a fresh start. A new day to do better.

Goodnight, all.
    

While I was dogsitting, a couple of weeks ago, I went to see the Downton Abbey movie with my friend, Regena. She was a big fan of the show and I, having never watched it, just went along for the company. I'm not a big movie person and, really, not even much of a TV series kind of girl, so I was surprised at how much I enjoyed the movie with no background information.

Well, of course, when I got back home, I decided to watch a couple of the first episodes to see if it would be a show that I would enjoy and, well, I was quickly hooked. It's been about 3 weeks, since I started, and I'm in the middle of season four now. I'm not sure that would qualify as binge watching, but I'm making good forward progress. I'll watch an episode in the morning and another one on the treadmill in the evening and then another one before I go to bed. That's a bloody big dose of Yorkshire in one day.
Funny though. I've noticed myself trying to sit up a little straighter and have contemplated getting out the wedding china and crystal for daily use. I've had a hankering to use shall as a helping verb, where I've never thought about using it before. Shall really isn't a big word down here in Mississippi unless you're reading the ten commandments and then its use is most imperative. Immersing myself in the series has also made me prone to replacing the "er" and "ar" sounds with an "ah". Like "Aftah dinnah, we shall enjoy some music togethah undah the stahs." And I've been sizing up our boxwoods, lately, and have pondered sculpting them into something worthy of garden tours for our guests to enjoy after tea. Perhaps, I'll send Davis out there with the weed whacker, this weekend.   

My stomach was even feeling a little sickly, a couple of days ago, and I caught myself worrying that I'd come down with the dreaded Spanish flu that killed poor Livinia in the great pandemic. And I can't help but feel a bit shabby when Lord Miller and I sit down to dinner. He, not being in white tie, and I, without my evening dress...and in sock feet and all. It is quite vexing to not have a proper lady's maid to dress you for social appointments. And I intend to speak with his lordship very soon to discuss the matter of why we do not have a drawing room anywhere in this house. A matter that must be rectified at once. But, at least, Carson, the young chap, is home for fall holiday and, perhaps, he can create a distraction from this English spell, which has come over me. He being heir to the estate and all. If nothing else, at least, I'll have someone to bring the car around for a few days.

This continues and carries over into the nighttime as I even dream in old English. I've been very busy during my sleeping hours. Getting ready for the ball. Climbing the grand staircase. Tugging at the bell pulls. Yes, it's even invaded my dream world. I haven't gotten a handle on whether I'm the one being served from the silver in the dream or the one polishing it, but I'm afraid I'm leaning toward the latter. It is most likely that my lineage would be traced back to the servant's hall as opposed to the great hall.  

Yesterday, I even caught myself saying my silent prayers in a more formal and flowery format than usual. I found I was hesitating as I looked for more poetic words with grander descriptive powers. The normal words weren't expressive enough for this new proper me and I was putting pressure on myself to sound a bit more lyrical. I'm not sure God wasn't chuckling as He wondered who this was on the other end of the line that looked like me but sounded an awful lot like King James.

So, that's where I am. Another couple of seasons and I can go back to being a bumbling American. Until then, I shall have a jolly good time in the overuse of "perhaps" and insert the word, shall, into as many sentences as possible.

Do have a most splendid weekend.

                

After church on Sundays, Davis and I almost always eat out for lunch. I'm apparently not the woman my mother and grandmother were as I can't seem to pull off a 6 course meal after being gone all morning. As a result of my ineptness, we have 2 or 3 places we frequent on Sundays and the one we choose, well, that determines which group of our fellow church members we can expect to see. Our church gets out at 11:30, which gives us a 30 minute head start to the restaurants- ahead of most of the other churches in town. And everyone knows that 30 minutes can make a tremendous difference in the Sunday lunch scene. It's a clear advantage we enjoy, as First Baptists, as it means shorter wait times and onto what's next- just a step ahead of our dear, eternal brothers and sisters.

With our stomachs full, we head home and can't wait to get there. We pull into the garage and Davis unlocks the door and, just about the time he turns the key, he starts unzipping the back of my dress and I go kicking off my heels. We've got one thing on our minds. A Sunday afternoon nap.

Honestly, is there anything better, ladies, than coming home after church and peeling off those Spanx, slips, and all underthings binding and circulation stopping. It's such a feeling of relief when blood flow can resume to all parts of the body once again. The red, squished pinky toes, crammed into those heels, can flex out. The muffin top can be unleashed from being held under wraps. The ribcage is freed from the vise grip of the strapless bra. The feet can return to their normal color and natural angle. Comfort is restored and all that remain are the dull throbbings and deep creases left in the skin from having been crammed, sucked, or cinched by constricting lycra since Sunday school time. I honestly don't think men have any idea how uncomfortable we really are when we're all girded up in our Sunday best. Sure, they have their neck ties, but, please. Sermons would be straight to the point if preachers were in a spandex bodysuit under those shirts and ties and their feet were locked in at a 45 degree angle.

Carson is the only person in the family, whose zest for Sunday napping, might possibly rival mine. He practically leaps straight from the threshold to the bed upon returning from church. Blair and John Samuel don't really do naps and so, when they're here, I, unashamedly, excuse myself for or an hour or two. It's something I simply can't control. My body just shuts down.

Nothing primes you for a nap like the combination of a fully belly and the relief that those after-church clothes give. But, I think my body has just been trained to power off after lunch on Sundays. During my growing up years, it was understood that Sunday afternoon was mandatory nap time. My parents napped after lunch and so did we, kids, unless we preferred to do something outside or a quiet indoor activity that didn't disturb the snoozing in progress. Unless I'd brought a friend home from church, I always opted for the nap right after I'd read Blondie and Beetle Bailey. With my stomach full of roast, brown and serve rolls, and chocolate pie, I couldn't wait to crawl into that bed and crash. Even as a child, I recognized the value of a good nap.

In this age we live in, we're busier than ever. Probably even more so than those people, who had to cook over fire and fetch water and stuff. Most of our busyness is from our own choosing, though. Six days just won't hold everything our families are committed to and so I know how easily our Sundays can become an extension of our Saturdays. I've been guilty of making it another work day, shopping day, and chore day; depriving my body of rest and my soul of spiritual nourishment. Most of our kids are involved in so many activities that we don't know if we're coming or going. Our cell phones have us on call 24/7- their incessant alerts and demands are never more than an arm's length away. Sometimes, we even brag about our busyness and wear it proudly like a medal. Maybe we've let society convince us that the busier we are, the more successful we are. And the more involved our children are, the more advantages they will have. And that if our schedules are bulging, well, then we must be pretty darn important and well connected. With our calendars having so little room to pencil in rest, it's no wonder we're all stressed out, burned out, and completely wiped out.

When Jesus met up with his disciples after they'd been working, ministering, and traveling, He called them away from the crowd. "Let's go off by ourselves to a quiet place and rest awhile."( Mark 6:31) Jesus knew the importance of resting, recovering, and recharging after working hard. He also knew that quiet and calm were required for that restorative process to take place and He wanted that kind of healing refreshment for his closest friends. And He wants it for us, too.

God, of course, even demonstrated resting for us when He took a day off after creating everything from Mars to porcupines. Talk about a long week. I think it was His nod to us saying that it's okay and, frankly, expected that we take time to rest our bodies and minds and spirits after working hard all week. There should be no sense of guilt. No fear of missed opportunity. No worry of sending out signals of weakness. It's required of us because He knew that it would be vital to our effectiveness and that non-stop activity is just unsustainable. But, somewhere along the way, we allowed our lopsided priorities to cram our planners. And, then, those planners started calling the shots. Those crammed planners are perpetual, relentless, and robbing us all of so much that is good.
     
Goodness knows, there are so many of God's directives that I struggle with each and every day. So, so, so many areas, where I fall painfully short. He knows where I'm weakest. But, let me hear something that sounds like it could be a Biblical call to napping and there's a command to which I can proficiently rise.           

"And by the seventh day, God had finished the work He had been doing; so on that day He rested from all His work. Then God blessed the seventh day and made it holy, because, on it, He rested from all the work of creating that He had done." Genesis 2:2-3

Y'all have a great Wednesday!
           

Well, I'm home from rendering my dogsitting services. It was quite the experience, let me just tell you. Their dog, Allie, is a rescue beagle and she has some emotional baggage that doesn't make boarding an ideal solution for her. And anyone, who's ever loved a dog, knows that you can't really enjoy a trip if you know your pup is unhappy, so that's how I came into the picture. If anyone is well-versed in caring for emotionally needy dogs, it would be me. After all, I was Sugar's Mama for fourteen years and have always had a soft spot for the shy and nervous type.
My sweet friend, Regena, came along with me for the experience. Regena is one of those friends, who adds fun to whatever you're doing and, since she retired from Mississippi State, she's always up for a road trip. I promised a long and laid back weekend with a kind of sleep/eat theme to it, so she packed her bags without too many questions.

Between our restaurant visits, a little shopping, and catching a movie, it was on our to-do list to take the dogs for two daily walks. One in the morning and one at night. And I use the plural form of dog, because Blair and John Samuel thought that bringing Ruby would be a good distraction for Allie in her state of separation anxiety. And Ruby is kind of like Regena in that she also adds a level of fun to whatever you're doing. Well, sometimes, it might be a stretch to call it fun, but that's neither here nor there.

Anyway, each morning, well before my usual wake time, the dogs would get up ready to eat. Ruby's morning feeding is usually found on Davis' chore list, so I was missing him badly at that ghastly hour. And not long after they were done with breakfast, they were raring to go walking and would indicate this with intense barking and howling. To avoid waking Regena, I tried to get them out the door as soon as possible even though my blood wasn't quite yet pumping effectively. This seems as good a place as any to mention that Regena's little, short legs/bone spur combo was not conducive to helping me walk the hounds. We tried it once and, let's just say, it didn't go well.

Well, Ruby was like the country mouse, who'd come to town. She's not accustomed to walking on a leash or having restrictions placed on where she can and cannot conduct her personal business, so I knew walking the country mouse on her retractable leash and the city mouse on her regular leash would be an experience. Once I finally got them both on their restraining devices, I opened the front door. It was like the starting gate at the dog track as they took off at warp speed toward the big oak tree across the street to chase a squirrel. I believe I was airborne for approximately 25 yards. My feet finally made contact with the ground when Ruby, the country cousin, went around the light pole on the opposite side from Allie and me. Leashes twisting and pulling and locking up. Now, I am not one to say bad words, especially audibly.....well, unless it involves a funny bone or toe stubbing, but, as I worked to get everyone on the same side of the pole, I may or may not have used some words that are found on the list of words my mother taught me never to say. Surely, there are exceptions, though. Like when you're a night owl and it's 6:45 am and you have two barking dogs in pursuit of a squirrel, who are tied in a square knot around a pole. After much ado, we finally made it to the oak tree and everyone enjoyed smelling it and looking up into it for potential prey. With the tree well inspected, they seemed to slow their gait down a tad as we continued on our trek.
It was a lovely Saturday morning. It wasn't too hot yet and the dogs were enjoying themselves. The neighborhood was a flurry of activity even at the early hour. There were people jogging. Kids riding bikes. Golf carts buzzing. The soccer fields were filling up with uniformed kids. Apparently, these people needed someone to teach them how to relax on Saturday mornings, but I was only out there because I had no choice in the matter. The hounds were restless.
Well, we'd finally gotten leveled out on our walk. With a couple of days under our belts, the country mouse seemed to be getting the hang of this leash co-walking thing for the most part. That is, until we turned the corner and met a little girl walking her large chocolate lab and black kitty cat. "Oh, this is not good," I remember saying to myself. I believe that, perhaps, it was the last thing I remember as Ruby took off after the kitty. That's what dogs do where we live and so Ruby was unconcerned with the social norms of the city. Well, Ruby stretches out her retractable leash going after the black cat with Allie close behind. Their barking and running causes the large brown lab to snarl and growl and take off after the two hounds. The little girl runs behind him after her cat, who's now in the storm drain, and, in the process, she lets go of her big dog's leash. I'm being dragged by the hounds behind the little girl. And bringing up the rear of this circus train were the little girl's parents, who'd spotted the whole ugly incident from their front porch and were running after us all. The parents, the dogsitter, the little girl, the chocolate lab, the hound dogs, and the kitty cat. That's when Ruby and Allie, astoundingly, performed a slip knot around a stop sign and I was forced to release of one of the leashes. I knew if Allie got lost on my watch, I might as well go drown myself in the storm drain, so I let go of Ruby, who was wide open and finally enjoying the freedom to which she was so accustomed. It was like "The Farmer in the Dell" gone horribly wrong. The only thing we were missing was the cheese.

For five days, we tried to perfect the walking thing. I know their neighbors were wondering, "Who on earth is that strange lady, who comes launching off of their front porch like a rocket ship, everyday, pulled by those rabid sled dogs?".....or the Hounds of Baskervilles as my well-read Regena had them named by day two. So, while the happily married couple of two years was off doing stuff like this...
After a delayed flight, the parents finally made it home to their fur baby, on Monday night, and all was right with the world, once again.
Since getting home, it's been a game of catch up at work and home and, most importantly, sleep, but thanking God for safe travels and the precious gift of their sweet marriage of almost two years.

Y'all have a great end to the week!

          

Well, my friend, Julie, and I enrolled in a short stained glass class at our local community college. I think we'll meet a total of six nights and complete a project, while learning the basics of the art. Now, I don't know the least little thing about stained glass, but I have always appreciated its beauty. Especially, on Sunday mornings. And I thought it might be just a notch or two more sophisticated sounding than my paint by number hobby, so I talked Julie into coming with me. She's very artsy and this is just the kind of thing we can do now with our nests being empty.

Last week, we just went over our supply list and picked out the patterns we wanted to use. The instructor, BJ, is a friend of mine and she suggested not doing anything too detailed for our first attempt. I took that to mean that the transfiguration of Jesus or His triumphal entry into Jerusalem would be off the table. So, I looked over all the simpler patterns provided and selected a cross. Not too ornate or curlicued or anything. Just straight lines and clean edges as I'm always drawn to the angular as opposed to curves and arches. I'm not sure what that would indicate on a personality test.
Anyway, I'd gone to the glass store, last week, and plopped down in the floor to choose the different colors for my cross. Because it wasn't a large project, I was able to go through the scrap piles to find what I needed. After finding a lot of the required tools on Amazon, I was ready to take my first step into the brilliant world of stained glassdom.

Last night, we actually got to start cutting our patterns and, once BJ got me started, I was off to the races. Trace. Score. Tap. Break. Trace. Score. Tap. Break. With only straight lines in my pattern, I was able to cut my pieces out pretty fast. Of course, they're not perfect, you understand. They'll need a lot of grinding to get them right, but they're cut out, at least. I'm one of those kind of impatient people, who likes to get things done. You might even say I can be impetuous, at times. But, the good thing about stained glass, which I've already learned, is that you have the grinder and solder to cover your shortcomings. I am partial to hobbies that provide multiple layers of coverage for my ineptness.
Meanwhile, my friend, Julie, is next to me working on something that looks like she's been commissioned by Sainte-Chapelle. She selected a large, ornate pattern that will be just beautiful, but with so many turns and twists and curves. I'm over there- Trace. Score. Tap. Break. Like nobody's business. And she's sitting in deep contemplation, trying to decide which way she wants the design in her glass to run; nowhere near ready to commit to much cutting. She's a school teacher and artistically inclined and, whatever she does, well, it's done to perfection.
I estimate Julie will be done with her breathtaking stained glass project sometime around Memorial Day after next, but it will be a show piece when she's finally finished and likely will merit a special place in her new house plans. Mine is liable to be finished in two or three weeks and will prop in my kitchen window, subject to forever being mistaken for a Vacation Bible School project. 
Next week, I learn about the grinder and wrapping the glass pieces in copper, while Julie embarks on her tracing. I'll keep you posted on further developments on this riveting story.

This evening, we plan to welcome my niece's first baby, Noah, and, on Thursday, I'm going to dogsit the granddog, while Blair and John Samuel celebrate their second anniversary in NYC, so there's a lot going on, this week. Since we last talked, I was involved in a fender bender, almost died twice of heat-related illness for the cause of college football, and discovered that our Ruby can open the door to our neighbors' house and, without so much as knocking first, let's herself in to unwind out of the heat and catch up on their latest news.

Obviously, I have a lot to address when I get home.

We'll talk, next week.

 

Front porches have traditionally been the social center of the southern home. Well, porches and kitchens. But, back before air conditioning, I understand, the porch is where you'd go to visit and hopefully catch a breeze for a little relief from the heat. Neighbors would stop by and talk and rock for a spell. That certainly seemed to be how it was in everyone's favorite TV town, Mayberry. Andy, Opie, and Aunt Bea would sit out there after dinner and, invariably, someone would stop by for a visit.
I have my own memories of a front porch. My maternal grandparents had a big one. They had porches on the front and back, actually. But, the front porch was where all the action was. There were two swings that faced each other. One on each end. In between, there were rocking chairs. After a meal, we'd all congregate out there. The cousins, aunts, uncles, grandparents, siblings. If it was gardening season, we'd all have a dishpan full of peas in our laps and a big sheet stretched out in the middle for everyone to throw their hulls on as they shelled them. We'd spend hours out there just reading the paper, swinging, and visiting. Nowhere else to be. No phones to check. Occasionally, someone would get up to go in for a cold drink and they'd usually get a couple of requests to bring back a glass of tea, a cup of coffee, or a piece of pound cake since they were headed that way.
We could count on the bobwhites and doves to provide background music for our conversations. Sometimes, Granddaddy's cows and chickens would chime in. Cars would pass and my grandparents would always wave at each one. Didn't matter if they knew them or not. Often times, a passersby would honk their greeting and, sometimes, they'd pull in the driveway to say hello. I especially liked to go out there at dusk when the katydids were singing. I spent many hours on that slab of concrete with my family. Swinging, rocking babies, laughing, and talking. When I go back in my mind and visit my favorite memories, many of them are right there in that place.
Davis and I moved in our house in 2004. It's hard to believe that when Halloween rolls around, it will be 15 years. Before we built, we searched and searched for the right house plan. There were certain things we wanted and some things we didn't. One thing that was a must have for me was a big front porch. I wanted one that was substantial enough to accommodate two swings facing each other and a couple of rocking chairs in between. Just like the one in my memory. We finally found the right plan and our porch set up is almost identical to my grandparents'. It's the place to which we spill out when the house is full of people. Where we view the family fireworks on the 4th of the July. Sit to watch a storm blowing in. Visit with the neighbors. It's where I'd go if I wanted to get one of our kids alone to talk. Where we greet our guests and wave goodbye.  

It was just Davis and me at home, Labor Day weekend, so we'd decided it was past time to refinish our stained porch swings and front doors. The sun, heat, and moisture really work on the stain and varnish and break them down over time. The elements just slowly melt away the warm finish and leave it dry, cracked, and uninviting. With the way the morning sun bears down on the porch, they should really be refinished once a year and, well, we'd gone beyond that. So, Davis sanded them all down and I stained the front doors and framing, which left the doors and my hands with a beautiful, deep hickory finish. He stained the swings and, of course, when we were done, we wondered why we hadn't done it sooner. The porch looked so much more warm and inviting. Like new life had been breathed back into it. A far more welcoming place for people to come.

Porches aren't the social places they once were. Modern conveniences have brought us all inside and technology has made our contact less direct. We have more options for entertainment. More doors are closed than are open. We're looking down more than we're looking out, these days. We're convinced we no longer need to touch in order to stay in touch. We don't feel like we have to meet up with each other in order to keep up with each other. Sadly, porches are more for curb appeal, these days, than for congregating. We're just too busy and too distracted.

As we've retreated from the front porch and chosen less personal ways to visit, I think we've all noticed a different set of harsh elements bearing down on us. Isolation, negativity, loneliness, and apathy seem to be breaking down our own personal exteriors and making our once smooth edges kind of jagged. We've become more rough and callous toward our fellow man. Negativity is at epidemic levels. I've seen it beat against the town where we live. We've all watched it blow across our country. Seen it heat up between strangers on social media. Witnessed it disintegrate our political process. Watched it break down morale in work environments. It even corrodes places you wouldn't expect like churches and families. And, once it starts, it has a pile on effect.

Negativity is destructive. The further we get from living life face to face, the more uncaring we seem to become and the bolder we become with it. Just like the porches on our houses need attention, the porches on our hearts do, too. I know mine does. That outer finish that we all have that tells others what we're about- we can't expect those to be constantly exposed to negative news and internet tirades and our edges not become roughed up in the process. We can't really believe that our surfaces won't become dry and cracked if left out in those kinds of conditions. Negativity breeds negativity and, eventually, maintenance is required on that part of ourselves that either invites or repels others to be a part of our lives. More importantly, a part of God's family. We can either be His welcome mat or a growling dog out in the yard. I've seen in myself that it's so much easier to jump on the dogpile of negativity than it is to be encouraging and constructive. But, I think that's exactly what we're called to do. The harder things.
  
"Fix your thoughts on what is true, and honorable, and right, and pure, and lovely, and admirable. Think about things that are excellent and worthy of praise." Philippians 4:8  
 
"And let us consider how to stir up one another to love and good works, not neglecting to meet together, as is the habit of some, but encouraging one another, and all the more as you see the Day drawing near." Hebrews 10:24-25 
 
"Let everything you say be good and helpful, so that your words will be an encouragement to those who hear them." Ephesians 4:29
 
"So then let us pursue what makes for peace and for mutual upbuilding." Romans 14:19


Maybe a little more time on the porch would help us all. It sure couldn't hurt.

See y'all next week.

If I survive the hellacious heat of the football game, that is.