Once upon a time, there was a beautiful cardinal, who busied himself, each day, tapping on the kitchen window of a very nice family's home. Without fail, the red bird would start his noisemaking in the morning and keep up his work for several hours a day. It certainly wasn't that the very nice family kept their windows so incredibly clean that the bird couldn't spot the glass. And the nice family chose not to entertain the superstition, which believes that a bird pecking at a window means death for someone inside the home. No, instead, they found a more palatable explanation using Google that this was likely the cardinal believing he was fighting another bird, who he saw invading his territory. Day after day, the sound of his painful mission resonated throughout the house as the determined bird repeatedly slammed his head into his reflection. Impressively, he'd kept up this tireless fight for over a year despite the very nice family's efforts to shoo him away.
A few months after the pecking began, the very nice family adopted a dog, who was not unlike a goat in that she loved to eat things. All manner of things. It mattered not what kind of things. The abridged version of her diet included, but was not limited to, baseball covers, water bottles, turtles, SOS pads, moss, berries from bushes, moles, shoe laces, wrappers, Coke cans, flower bulbs, stuffing from her bed, pine straw, and a go-to favorite, potpourri. Despite being angelic in appearance, the dog, who liked to eat all things, was never allowed to roam free in the home of the very nice family without supervision for fear that she would deconstruct and devour its contents.
Often times, her consumption of inedible and non-digestible items would lead to stomach discomfort and, ultimately, brightly colored dog excrement decorating the nice family's lawn. While the kaleidoscope-like piles appeared unnatural, they did offer a, somewhat, festive touch to the yard, especially as the Easter season drew near. Sometimes, however, the unknown substances didn't make it all the way through the digestive system. But, thankfully, when the foreign objects didn't sit well, the very nice family would hear the telltale rhythmic coughing, which alerted them to get the dog, who liked to eat all things, outside before she could heave up the always fascinating array of colorful items. Items which had proved to be too difficult a task for the toughest of digestive enzymes.

One day, the very nice family's dog, who liked to eat all things, scratched on the door as she was ready to come inside from her afternoon rounds. Upon opening the door, the very nice family was aghast to see their dog coming in with a feathered gift between her teeth. A deceased cardinal of which the dog, who liked to eat all things, was so proud. The dog was quite perplexed by the very nice family's unjoyful reaction and feverish attempts to wrestle the red-winged corpse from her jaws. And, while no one in the nice family was an ornithologist, they were certain the dearly departed was, indeed, the window pecking bird.....a belief that was validated in the days following as the tapping suddenly grew silent.

Perhaps the bird had died of natural causes and had simply fallen to the ground. Or, perhaps, the shelter dog was so incredibly intelligent that she'd picked up cues that the very nice family was aggravated by the pecking and set out to hunt the source of their irritation. But, the more likely explanation seemed to be that the brightly-colored, feathered creature had stunned itself in its fight with the glass; making himself an easy prey for the orally fixated canine. Whatever the sequence of events, the dog, who liked to eat all things, was more than happy to receive the Lord's bounty and test its digestibility.

The moral of this short story is that, well, I'm not sure what it is. But, sometimes, as silly as self-inflicted problems look in the animal world, I can see myself in that clueless bird and that stubborn dog of ours. How often do we inflict pain and problems on ourselves? Fighting old strongholds, skewed priorities, insecurities, fears, or bad habits that end up hurting us, every time. No matter how often we butt heads with our own human inclinations and character flaws, we seem to be slow to learn and must look pretty silly to God on the other side of the glass. Even if others try to tell us or even when we've had similar stomach-churning experiences before, we may still continue with the same old behaviors, which result in the same predictable consequences- leaving us looking just as ridiculous as Ruby hacking up a Nerf dart or a flip flop strap...…..or a fishing worm or tufts of tennis ball fur.

But, we can "be transformed by the renewing of your mind." (Romans 12:2) When our minds and our thoughts are under God's influence and not fixated on our own endeavors, battles, and appetites, we can become more productive for Him and less of a headache to ourselves.....and others. We can continue to peck at things that are temporal, fight the same futile battles, feed the same appetites, and react to the world instinctually, but God calls us to be different. To think differently. To react differently. To prioritize differently. We can find God's will for us in those places of separation.


(I do have one quick note. I have new Facebook and Instagram buttons on my blog sidebar, which will take you straight to my Muffin Top social media pages if you'd like to follow me and my most fascinating, oh, so interesting self.)

Y'all have a great day!
     

         

I was in Hobby Lobby, last week, shopping for spring cemetery flowers. Hobby Lobby is known for their Christian values and so they're always playing instrumental Christian music for their customers. An old hymn, "Abide with Me", came on and, as I shopped, I sang the entire hymn in my head. Word for word. Every single verse. I knew them all. We still sing hymns at our church, but I hadn't sung that particular hymn in many years. Even so, its words were still branded into the deep crevices of the mind of a woman, who can't remember why she came into a room, most days. Two or three older hymns followed that song and the words just kept coming; bubbling up to the top from the dark caverns of my memory. I knew that I could recite a lot of verses of many of the hymns, but, that day, I was particularly aware that my memory had held onto those precious words for such a long time.

My point is not to brag about my steel trap photographic memory or my most impressive religious background, but, growing up in a Southern Baptist church, the hymnal is just part of who I am. And, as a kid, when you were there every single time the doors were swung open, well, there was bound to be some lyric retention. Like many of you, since I was tall enough to prop my hymnal on the back of the pew in front of me and read the words, I've been singing the beautiful poetry found in the hymnal's pages......which are all bound together in a leather-ish cover, whose color is usually a perfect match to the sanctuary carpet. Carpet/hymnal coordination requirements are spelled out in the Baptist by-laws, I'm pretty sure.

Anyway, I've always loved music and I will give my Daddy 90% of the credit for that. Our mother has a beautiful soprano voice and she was always singing to us when we were little. She taught us a lot of songs that I can still sing to this day like "Kookaburra Sits in the Old Gum Tree" and "There's a Hole in the Bottom of the Sea" and "Jesus in the Morning". But, it was my Daddy, who kept music playing all the time. He either had his turntable going or a PBS musical special on TV or just the weekly Lawrence Welk Show blaring. In the car, the radio was always set on public radio or something light or even his practice cassette for the next church choir program. Neil Diamond, Roger Miller, Abba, classical piano, Glen Campbell, Mahalia Jackson. We listened to it all. All the time. And, day after day, we slowly learned to value it.

Daddy had a pretty stressful job that required him to sit at a drawing board for hours and hours, each day. He was self-employed and had a small office building in our backyard, where he'd go to work. He was always staring a deadline in the face. Always getting a lot of calls from people, who needed to ask him questions. I don't think it's bragging when it's your Daddy, but he was a very gifted, intelligent man, whose opinions were highly regarded and sought after in his field. The way he performed under pressure could've made the difference between a building standing or a bridge collapsing. What he did was important and very stressful. But, no matter what time, day or night, if you went to visit him in his office, he had on his music. Mostly classical. Sometimes, something else. I think music, in some way, helped take some of the weight off of his shoulders as he leaned over that drawing board. Somehow, it took him away from his work, even while he was in the throes of it.

All of that to say, because of my parents, I can't remember a single day of my growing up that wasn't doused and saturated with music. I'm sure it wasn't always my favorite music, especially in the teen years, but, every day, I was exposed to the beautiful places that music could take me. The emotions it could stir. The different moods it could create. And, each day, I grew to love and appreciate the gift of music a little bit more.

I suppose the hymn thing in Hobby Lobby just made me realize how deeply music touches and just how long it lingers with us. It's been by my side throughout my entire life. There are vivid memories of particular songs that I will never forget. Like listening to "Bad, Bad Leroy Brown" in our blue Ford as my legs stuck to the white vinyl backseat. I can still sing all the words to "Bicycle Built for Two", which I sang while dressed as a daisy in my 3rd grade play. I can recall every word of "There's a Hole in the Bucket" from watching Sesame Street all those years. I remember my heart beating in my throat as I sat on the piano bench, praying my memory wouldn't fail me as I began "Fur Elise" at my piano recital. Music helped me learn my ABCs and the books of the Bible. I was so proud when I learned to play "See the Bear", my very first piano piece. Hearing Michael Jackson, Duran Duran, or The Police still makes me feel 17. Theme songs to Dallas, Happy Days, The Love Boat, and The Jeffersons would always call me to the television set. I remember an emotional "God Bless America" being sung on the Capitol steps on 9/11. There were lullaby tapes I played as I rocked my babies, which I can still sing, word for word, even though they've long since outgrown my lap. There were Barney songs I couldn't get out of my head and Bob the Builder. As a 50 year old, I can recite the lyrics I sang in children's choir. "Fairest Lord Jesus" was the first piece I played in church as an offertory hymn. I will always remember I walked the aisle to join the church as a new Christian to "Jesus is Tenderly Calling". "Pomp and Circumstance" put a lump in my throat when I watched my son walk across the football field in his cap and gown. And when the strings commenced their playing and I turned to see my daughter in white on her Daddy's arm, it completely took my breath away. Music goes to our deepest parts and leaves indelible marks there.

Nothing could ever herald the Christmas season like music does. No one feels more special than when their name is inserted into a rendition of "Happy Birthday". "The Star Spangled Banner" always makes us stand a little straighter and "Taps" will always invoke a sense of reverence and gratitude. Music can take us back in time. To another place and a different time. It can stir emotions we thought were dead. It understands our sadness and has just the words we need to hear. It takes us closer to the throne of God than any other format or spoken word ever could. It articulates when we are at a loss. It celebrates with us and breathes new life into our steps. It understands when we want to be alone or don't have an appetite for words. It is always appropriate for the occasion. In sadness and elation, it is there. A friend for all seasons.

My phone is full of music with even more on my computer. All different kinds. All different genres. From all across the years. Songs that remind me of childhood to new songs I heard last week. But, I've noticed that, if I'm just mindlessly humming, my mind's playlist always defaults to those old hymns from those hymnals that rested in the pews of Highland Baptist Church. They are forever etched into my memory. And when my days are cold or my nights are fearful, without even realizing it, I go to that mental file of scripture put to melodies and something timely will rise to the top to warm me, calm me, and remind me who God is.

Some of my favorite hymn reminders.....
"Let Thy grace, Lord, like a fetter, bind my wand'ring soul to Thee"
"O, cross that liftest up my head, I dare not ask to hide from Thee"
"Did e'er such love and sorrow meet, or thorns compose so rich a crown?"
"He hideth my soul in the depths of His love and covers me there with His hand"
"He whose heart is kind beyond all measure, gives unto each day what He deems best"
"Just one glimpse of Him in glory, will the toils of life repay"
"When all around my soul gives way, He then is all my hope and stay"

I think I've told you before that I gave my Daddy an iPod when he was sick with cancer. I loaded it with all kinds of music. I had a lot of music in my iTunes library that I knew he liked and I purchased more. I even transferred some of his favorite CDs onto it. When I had, what I thought was a really good collection of his favorite music, I gave it to him. He was amazed that new technology could hold all of his music on one little device, which could be taken anywhere.

I remember sitting at the hospital with him, one day, when my Mama had gone home to get some rest. I had some paperwork I needed to do, so he put his earbuds in and laid back in his bed. The pain that was etched so deeply in his face seemed to melt away as he closed his eyes and enjoyed his music. I think I even detected the slightest hint of a smile on his face. I'm not sure where the music had taken him, that day, but it was somewhere away from that hospital room. His pain was lost someplace in the harmony of the notes and the lines and the words. I have no idea what he was listening to, but it was ministering to him. Maybe it had transported him to another time in his life when he was young and strong and healthy. Maybe it had taken him to the throne of Jesus, the giver of his hope. Maybe it was warming him with memories of what a good life he'd had and how much he was loved. Wherever he was in that moment, it was a better place. And that's what music has the power to do.


He told me, before he died, that the iPod was the most wonderful material gift he'd ever received. He said it brought him more joy than any other material possession he'd ever owned. Not that it was the most expensive or the most impressive, but I think, in his physical decline, it took him to the places, where He could no longer go and I imagine to a place where He was looking to soon go. 

In two weeks, it will be 10 years since my father died. He was a good, good Daddy. The least I could do was reconnect him with his old friend, music, in his last days.

Thank you, God, for the gift of beautiful music and the people who share it with us.


Hope you have a song in your heart today.


        

  

Ladies, this is the time of year when I go for my mammogram and try to give you a friendly, little blog reminder to get yours by trying to find the humor in the awkwardness that frequently rears its head in a woman's preventative health plight. So, yes, schedule your mammogram if you're due one, please. But, that's not what we're going to talk about today. No, today's post is a different public service reminder about another important screening test. The colonoscopy.

I turned 50, last May, and you know what that means. Yes, today, I went for my first colonoscopy. And according to this sheet they sent me home with, I'm not supposed to make any financial decisions, sign any legal documents, operate heavy machinery, or climb any ladders for the rest of the day. I hope online shopping doesn't fall under the financial heading, because there's been some of that.

Anyway, I've had several friends who'd relayed their colonoscopy experiences to me, through the years. Some good. Some pretty ugly. So, really, I didn't know what to believe, but, you know, I'm a stickler for timely checkups and routine tests. I know something will kill me, one day, but I'd like to delay that day a little while if I can.

So, armed with my little list, I bought all of my party supplies and was ready for the big prep day. Fat Tuesday of all days. Let me tell you. There was nothing fat about my Tuesday. I'd bought the box of Dulcolax and the MiraLax in a bottle similar in size to fabric softener. Oh, and the quarts of Gatorade to mix with it. The Gatorade flavor is a difficult decision to make at a time like this. You have to stand there on the grocery aisle and contemplate which flavor you'd most likely keep down when mixing it with chalk dust, therefore, tainting your view of that particular flavor from that day forward. I couldn't see Glacier Freeze or Frost Cool Blue having much chance of staying down, so I went with Fierce Grape and pretended like I was drinking a Grape Nehi….albeit laced with sawdust. I noticed the label on one of the meds described the product as providing gentle, predictable relief. Let me tell you.....there was nothing gentle there. And the only thing predicable about it was that you were going to be on the toilet. Relief surely wouldn't have been the word I would've chosen either. All lies.  

If doing that all afternoon and night wasn't enough, the sheet said to get up at 5:00 am the next morning and drink another quart of Gatorade laced with the horse laxative. And you know how I love those early morning hours. To get up early on Christmas or to leave on vacation, yes, but not to sit in my bathroom losing electrolytes. As I so rarely to never do, I watched the sun come up as I guzzled my morning cocktails. And it comes to a point when you start to wonder, what else could possibly be in there? Maybe a piece of gum I swallowed in 5th grade that had gotten hung up somewhere. It was kind of like the clown's handkerchief that just keeps coming and coming out of his coat pocket. I got on the scale, this morning, fully expecting to see my first driver's license weight. You know how the little lines flash, while it's calculating your weight? "Come on, 105. Mama needs a new pair of shoes."  But, no. I couldn't figure out how it wasn't, though. It was the weight of my mailbox running days, though, so there's victory in that.   

With my colon set back to factory settings, Davis drove me to the clinic and they called my cell phone as we were driving into the parking lot. We were a few minutes early, so I didn't know what the rush was. I mean, these people were obviously anxious to see my colon. They immediately called my name when I walked in and I staggered back there like someone, who'd been up all night drinking....laxatives. I noticed there was only one other patient in the whole clinic. I remembered it being full of people when I'd taken Davis for his, so I thought the desolation was odd. Maybe there were some cancellations. People who couldn't keep down a poor flavor choice and had to abort the mission. No wonder they were calling me out in the parking lot. These people needed something to do.

Of course, the sweet nurse took me to curtained area #1 and gave me the run down. It was the usual instructions we, women, are used to hearing. "Take off everything, put this gown on, and I'll be right back." She told me I could keep my socks on. How generous. A friend and I had just discussed, after her colonoscopy, that we don't know what it is, but you can take our clothes, our privacy, our dignity, but if you'll let us keep our socks on, then we're good. There is such a sweet, sweet comfort in the socks. Can I get a witness? Davis tied me up in the back for that extra layer of coverage that those gowns so excessively provide. After all the standard things they have to do, I was left waiting and thinking about the macaroni and cheese I'd been craving during the hours spent sitting upon my throne. I'd spent the entire Fat-less Tuesday carefully weighing all of the delicious options for my first meal. I'd decided it would include macaroni and cheese. The good soul food kind. And I couldn't wait. I'm not sure where the craving came from. Perhaps it was my body's way of begging for something to help clog the drain, if you will.    

The good thing about an almost empty building is there's no waiting, so they got me right back. Can you imagine being the person who does this every day? The Treasury Department couldn't print enough money to pay me to do this type of work. But, thank goodness, the Lord calls some of His people to the ministry of dirty jobs. Next thing I remember is that it was all over thanks to some good pharmaceuticals. I might add, the pharmaceutical companies are doing some good work. Mighty fine work, I tell you.

Two hours after I came in the building, I was walking out. My parting gifts were a Moon Pie and my very own color pictures of my colon to take home. I mean, I guess it's my colon. Not that I could pick it out in a lineup or anything. Maybe they just print out the same pictures and tell you it's your colon. Really it looks like the hose that comes out of the back of your dryer, but I digress. Anyway, the pictures are really an odd size, so I think I'll have a hard time finding frames to fit them. I'll just have to hang them on the frig, where we all hang things of which we're particularly proud. Oh, and I forgot to mention the sheet I left with said I'd be receiving a card in the mail in 2029 reminding me of my next appointment. Woop woop. Perhaps Jesus will return before then.  
All joking aside, the colonoscopy really wasn't as bad as I'd heard it built up to be. They've come a long way in making the meds much more palatable than the horror stories I'd heard. I'm a big gagger, so if I didn't have trouble getting it down, well, it's really not that bad. When I was younger (you know, back in my 30's and 40's) I thought I'd just roll the dice on the colon thing. I mean, I get everything else checked, so I thought I could let that one slide. But, I lost an old college friend, last year, to colon cancer. He died before he reached the age when he should've even been screened for it. He was a joyful soul with such an awesome sense of humor. So full of life. Colon cancer took him way before the sparkle had left his eyes. Another close friend had a scare with her first test, recently. They were able to find and treat her problem before it turned bad. So, for that, once every decade, yes, I can sit in the bathroom for hours on end with my eyeballs floating in grape Nehi gone bad and wake up at 5 a.m. to do it all over again. Why? Because, I'm a big girl. And what's one more item on a woman's medical torture checklist anyway? 

As women, we busy ourselves taking care of so many people. We wear ourselves out making sure everyone in the generations, between which we're sandwiched, is seen about and is healthy. We have to make it a priority to take care of ourselves, too. We can't do all that we do if we aren't in good health. And, my goodness, if we didn't do what we do, who in the world would? The lint trap in the dryer would never be emptied and I don't even want to think about the inside of the microwave. I may die tomorrow from something that has no yearly screening or scheduled testing, but I'm going to take advantage of the resources and capabilities God has provided for us to help ourselves and let Him handle the rest.

My people need me way too much. Really, they do.

Make those appointments, ladies.


Night.