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!