Well, we’re home and had a great trip. Started in San Antonio and made our way north to Dallas with a family wedding in the middle in Round Rock. We ate a lot of bbq and Mexican food, of course. Toured all the San Antonio missions. We’re not usually Christmas time travelers, so it was nice to see the San Antonio Riverwalk and even the Alamo all aglow. We attended a beautiful family wedding outside of Austin and it was just a lovely evening. Poor planning on my part landed us in Waco on Sunday and the silo stuff was closed. I didn’t even think about that. It was reminiscent of Clark Griswold and Walley World being closed for maintenance. Dallas really had on her holiday glitz and glam and was so festive with Christmas music playing in the streets. Our hotel was across from Neiman Marcus and the window displays were amazing. We darted in there to buy a gift, one afternoon, and Davis was on my heels the whole time. It was as enjoyable as when a state trooper gets behind you on the interstate. We did a lengthy JFK tour with a historian and he taught us so much we didn’t know. It was really a nice trip. 

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 Blair attempts to do her daily devotional with some obvious distractions. 

Whenever I visit big cities, I’m always happy to get back to my quiet corner of the world. Mississippi is a pretty tranquil place. Sure, the lights, sounds, and activity are fun for a while. Some of us are drawn to the big crowds of nameless faces and the constant whirl of activity and noise. There are those who can’t imagine anything else. And there are those of us who prefer to be among those who can call our names with room to spread out and enough quiet to hear the sound of the crickets. Whatever we’re use to is home to us and when we’re weary from our travels or needing comfort or frightened by the world, it’s where we long to be. 

Traveling at Christmas had me thinking about Mary and Joseph and how homesick they must have been. Tired and scared and not one familiar face in the crowd. There was nothing that offered anything close to the comfort of being in the arms of home. Whatever I do this time of year seems to bring me back to the first Christmas story. The holy season pulls our minds out of the ordinary grind and to the miracle of that night and that Gift. Jesus left the comfort of His own home that night to come live with us in order to save us. He’d experience what it was like to feel sadness and rejection- to be cold, hungry and tired. It was part of the gift-“For we do not have a High Priest who cannot sympathize with our weaknesses.” (Hebrews 4:15) If we accept His gift of salvation, our home will forever be with Him. Yeah, we’ve all got a spot where we’ve chosen to bed down here on earth- a place that suits us, but it’s just a temporary nest. In the presence of God- that will be our ultimate place of comfort, peace, and rest. Our home sweetest home. 

My mother is almost halfway done with her radiation treatments and is doing really well. She’ll be done before Christmas and we’ll be glad to put that behind us! And I know you’ve probably heard about Mike Leach, Mississippi State’s football coach. Things seem very bleak and all of us, fans, are just stunned by this. Remember him and his family in your prayers. There just seems to be so much sadness in the middle of this joyful season. In times of merriment, sorrow seems amplified and the low-spirited feel more alone. Let’s look out for each other and prop up those who need it. 

This will be my last post of the year. The holidays have started to pack my calendar and I’m sure the same is true for you. I hope you all have the most wonderful Christmas season. I wish I had all of your addresses and could send you a fruitcake or something. Well, nobody likes fruitcake anyway. Maybe a card, at least, but I didn’t get around to those this year. Just know that I appreciate you and feel like you’re part of my family. Whether I know you personally or we’re friends who’ve never met, I can’t tell you what it means to me that you stop by here to see me. I know my menopausal brain is more befuddled, my attention span is almost nil, and my posting is quite sporadic, but y’all are some good people to not leave me. May God bless you and your families this beautiful holiday season! 

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year! 

JONI 

It was the best Thanksgiving weekend! Really. We ate the same foods at the same places with the same people and the same traditions, but something about it was just extra good. Mississippi State beating Ole Miss certainly didn’t hurt, but that wasn’t it. It was just sweet. There was one new thing. In my 54 years, this was the first year that food assignments were given out for Thanksgiving. I’m not talking about ice and cups and rolls. I’m talking real assignments. Not that we, the “next generation,” haven’t ever offered, but we’ve never been taken up on it. We can only speculate on the reason. Well, this was our year. After 54 years of coming in with nothing but our purses, we were called up for service. It was like the draft and we reported for duty. 

I was to bring sweet potato casserole and butter beans. For 43 people. Nothing like throwing us in the deep end to see what would happen. I’m use to cooking for four people and, most recently, two. How does one estimate how many sweet potatoes to peel for 43? What is the equation for figuring out how many butter beans 43 people can eat? I just don’t deal in such large increments in the kitchen. But, sticking with my belief that I’d rather have too much than not enough, I got pretty close on the sweet potatoes, but I overshot the butter beans by about 39 servings.

I do think the “next generation” nailed our first attempt at Thanksgiving assistance. No hospitalizations for food-borne illness were reported so yay for us. I’m pretty confident in my basic, weekday culinary skills, but something about cooking for Thanksgiving had me guessing, second-guessing, calling Mama, looking on Pinterest, and googling. I mean, nobody wants to be the generation that drops the Thanksgiving baton. If my grandmother, mother, and aunt hadn’t set and maintained the bar at such mouth-watering heights, it wouldn’t be so unnerving. The real test comes when we inherit the making of the dressing and the caramel cake, but I can’t even think about that yet. 

Well, my favorite time of year is passing like a speeding train, while summer sputtered and crept through here like it was running out of gas, burning oil, and riding on its rims. Halloween has already come and gone and we’re well into November now with Thanksgiving only a couple of weeks away. Please. I want to slow down this ride that I’ve been waiting in line for since May! 

Last week, we watched It’s the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown with our Halloween dinner guests. It’s a nostalgic must. A night of kids in costumes, doorbells, Sugar Babies, and Linus all reminded me of some old times. When my brothers and I would get home from trick or treating, we’d pour the contents of our plastic pumpkins out on the floor. We’d inventory it and organize it all into piles of likes and dislikes and then start our trades. Those peanut butter things, wrapped in orange and black, tasted like mud, but my brother liked them so I’d trade them for something fruity out of his stash. Bit-O-Honey, Three Musketeers, Milky Way, Red Hots, cinnamon discs- those were other confections you’d find in my cull pile. I was always ready for negotiations as far as those were concerned. 

After we’d do our bargaining and eat some of the loot, we’d put everything else back into our buckets to be enjoyed over the next week or so. At risk of sounding like I’m 87, we didn’t get candy all the time like kids do now. There wasn’t a treasure chest at school for rewarding good work or a candy jar at home for accomplishments like potty victories. No, your prize at school was maybe a gold foil star licked by your teacher- you didn’t even get to enjoy the minty adhesive. And, well, parents thought achievement in the bathroom at home was its own reward as you got to walk around with dry pants and a little self-dignity. That was your prize. It was a harsher world then, kids. Well, I didn’t mean to chase that rabbit so far, but the point was that candy wasn’t an everyday thing- it was a treat. 

So, the days after Halloween, we’d get home from school and head straight for our candy. Each afternoon, we’d dig around and find the best options available to us in our plastic pumpkins and enjoy and savor a few pieces. On those first few days, it was an embarrassment of riches with just too many good choices. As the week went on, there were more and more wrappers and less and less candy. Each day, we’d go and look for the very best that was available to us that day. As time went on, the best available got further and further from our top choices, but we were still happy to have it. About a week past Halloween, like we are now, we’d get home from school and run our hands around the inside of our buckets. We’d feel a bunch of balled-up foil wrappers and wax papers and empty cellophane sleeves- all holding only the smell and memory of all the wonderful things we’d enjoyed- until finally, we’d find it! That last piece of candy that hadn’t been chosen until then. Sure, whatever was left in there wasn’t our first choice or even our 20th  choice, for that matter, but we were so glad to have found it among the growing pile of disappointment. 

I thought how that memory is a good metaphor for life. Some days, we feel like queens with our buckets full of so many good things, good events, good blessings, good relationships, good news. We’re talking Milk Duds, Now and Laters, Fun Dip, Sugar Daddy, Whatchamacallit bar. We don’t know where to start with our thankfulness, our excitement, our enjoyment. We all have times like that when we feel overcome with gratitude and so undeserving of the graciousness of God. And then, there are a lot of days when we may realize we have a lot, but it feels like routine or average goodness to our human-natured minds. You know- the Smarties, Dubble Bubble, Pixie Stix, wax bottles. Nothing too exciting but certainly nothing terrible either. Maybe we live most of our days here. We’re definitely not complaining, but we’re more likely to take the generosity of God for granted there in the middle of the road. And, from time to time, we all find ourselves rifling around the bottom, desperate to find just one piece of goodness in the empty wrappings of what once was. In the heap, there sits a peppermint ball or a green sucker like they hand out at the bank. On a normal day, we might not even recognize it as a gift but, against a dark backdrop, it’s easy to see it as the glimmer of God’s goodness. Maybe it’s here we’re most aware of His provision. 

It’s Thanksgiving month. We like to think we’re always grateful for what we have, but something about the holiday season makes us even more sensitive to the presence of goodness in our lives. I have times when I feel like my pumpkin is full and I’m overwhelmed with gratefulness. But, I also know the feeling of having my gratitude and wonder wane during long stretches of average and ordinary days. Times when I know for certain that I’m blessed, but my thankfulness gets swallowed up by the routine familiarity of it all. And I know there a lot of people who are struggling to find any good in their situations right now. We’ve all found ourselves there in desperate times and on our worst days when we’re tempted to wonder if God has anything good left for us. No matter where we are, I hope we can wake up each day and look to find the best that God has given us for that day. And celebrate that. Enjoy that. Thank Him for that. No matter how extravagant or how small- no matter how obvious or how much we have to sift through just to find it, it’s in there. God’s goodness is always in there somewhere. 

Keep our eyes open to Your goodness, God. 

Well, it’s been an eventful week. I told y’all about my mother turning 80 and all the hoopla surrounding that milestone. What I didn’t tell you was she was recently diagnosed with breast cancer. It was caught early and the doctors are very encouraging so we have no reason to feel anything but positive about her prognosis. She had surgery this week and, after some radiation treatments, we hope to leave this bump in the road behind us. 

I’ve told y’all before that my mother is a natural-born caretaker. I’m not sure if you’ve ever tried to be a caretaker for a caretaker. I was getting confused on who’s really in charge of who. It’s hard to take care of someone who keeps listing all the things she could make you to eat. “Do you need a blanket? Aren’t your feet cold?”…. “Um, I don’t think you understand how this works, Mama.” I suppose a caretaker’s gotta try to caretake, but they sure make it hard for a person to look after them. 

She went for her normal mammogram. Went back for a repeat. Went for a biopsy. Went for an MRI. Went to the oncologist. All before finally telling her children just a few days before her birthday. All I knew was she’d cancelled our Tuesday outings for a couple of weeks, saying she just had a lot to do. We can’t really knock her though, because we do the same thing to her. We’ll tell her things after we have all the facts or after the worrisome event is over. It’s a family game we play. Maybe you’ve heard of it- it’s called Don’t Tell Mama. Perhaps you and your siblings have even played it before at home. It’s a game for 2-6 players and the object is to keep the other players from unnecessary worry or stress for as long as possible. Apparently, there’s also a version called Don’t Tell the Children, which is sold separately, and that’s the one we’ve been playing here, recently. It’s just good, clean fun for the whole family with no assembly required. It’s probably where I get my love for ignorance and its accompanying bliss. 

So, two quick takeaways from these last couple of weeks. One- October is breast cancer awareness month and we’ve talked before about the importance of getting mammograms here on M&M. When my mother got diagnosed, she and I started naming all the people we knew who’ve had breast cancer. It was an astonishing number of names we listed. Young, old, in-between. Most survived- sadly, some didn’t. We all know the best ways women can try to stay on top of their health are self-exams, checkups, and yearly mammograms. Yes, it’s like running your breasts through a printing press or a pasta machine. Yes, you’ll think they’ll never reinflate again. Yes, you’ll feel like you and the technician have gotten to know each other a little too well. Yes, she’s going to tell you to lean in closer even if it feels like the upper lobe of your lung is already in there. But- we are women and we’re made of tough stuff and uncomfortable things are what we do best. The ten minutes a year is so worth it if it can possibly save our lives. 

The second thing I was reminded of is how we can get lulled to sleep by life cruising along in its usual rhythmic pattern. When one day is like the one before it and the four dozen before that, we start to assume we can expect more of the same up ahead. But, every now and then, we hit the rumble strip and get startled- realizing that life can change in a hurry. Lately, if my thoughts have seemed scattered and I’ve come across as distracted, it’s because, well, I have been. The good, the bad, and the busy can divert our attention for a time. We all go through patches like that. I do thank God that my mother’s problem was caught early on a routine test. And whatever you may be going through or whatever is coming up around the bend, I hope we can all trust God to carry us. Through the smooth and the rough places. 

Have a great Thursday and we’ll talk next week! 

JONI 

Well, the air is finally cool and crisp and a breeze is blowing in the very earliest signs of the loveliest time of year. With the fall air has come my mother’s birthday today and it’s a big one, so everyone has been here to attend Grandma’s 80th Birthday Palooza Extravaganza Jamboree Weekend. All of the fun couldn’t be contained in just one day so it was an ongoing weekend event. Really, the only thing we were missing were armbands and commemorative t-shirts. 

Of course, when there’s a celebration of any sort, someone has to plan it. They don’t just plan themselves. As you know, I’m the only daughter in my family and, while that distinction comes with its own unique powers, it’s also saddled with a set of unwritten responsibilities as well as tribulations. If you and your siblings are like mine, we all fit the general birth order molds and typical roles. Typical middle child people-pleaser, peacemaker, diplomat, here. However, being the only girl adds a list of duties which are heaped on top of the normal birth order roles and you don’t find out about those until you’re much older. 

When the oldest child is a son, I’ve read that the oldest girl will usually take on the role of sibling organizer and I have found that to be true in our family. That’s just a fancy way of saying that for the rest of her life she’ll be telling her brothers where they need to be, at what time, and how much they owe her. She will be in charge of planning gatherings, notifying participants of details, buying group gifts, making food assignments and reservations, and, most notably, finding a date on which all 17 people in her family have no conflicts- even unto her death.

We did some fun activities together, went to church with her, and ate at some good restaurants. But, the real fun started when we met a photographer friend at the lake for some family pictures on Sunday afternoon. I’m not sure what it is about the men in my bloodline and pictures, but I could have just as easily arranged to have 17 orangutans photographed together with similar results. It would have likely been preferable for the poor photographer. I can’t wait to get the proofs. All that to say, I just want all the only daughters out there to know that I am here for you. If anyone needs a support group, it is us. It has fallen our lot in life to help our brothers appear thoughtful to our mothers and that is not a task for the faint of heart. This night owl collapsed in the bed last night when everyone left and was asleep by 10:00 if that tells you anything. 

No, really, I just enjoy giving my brothers a hard time. No amount of fuss is too much for our Mama. She’s spent every one of her 80 years making a fuss over other people. She’s the one who slept with us in the recliner when we’d have stomach viruses, doling out Sprite by the tablespoons through the night. She always pretended to be the customer when my friends and I were playing store. She taught us songs and we’d sing them while she pushed us in the swing. She made blanket forts and quilt pallets and told stories with theatrics that would keep us mesmerized. She regularly gathered us up to work on little art projects together at the kitchen counter. She always found something my little hands could do to help her make all the Christmas goodies. We had scrumptious homemade meals and delicious desserts with mountain high peaks of meringue. She taught me to play duets on the piano with her. She found each of her children’s gifts and nurtured and encouraged them. She made our childhood holidays so magical. She stopped in our rooms every night and read the Bible to each of us and prayed for us specifically. She taught the mostly disinterested young me about cooking and setting tables and other “things you’re going to need to know one day.” 

As a grandmother, she’s done all of those things for our children, too. She was a lifesaver when I had newborns. She can’t ever come over and just be a guest without finding something she can help do. Laundry that needs folding or someone’s clothes that need ironing and I mean dry cleaner’s level- you could hang it in a clear bag and staple a ticket to it. She always asks how she can make my day easier. She prays for each of us daily. She knows each of her grandkids’ strengths and struggles and ministers to them in individual ways. She takes time to call them weekly or be with them one on one and encourages them in the places where they have need for it. She never misses a chance to share Godly wisdom with us all in conversations. There’s nothing she wouldn’t sacrifice, nowhere she wouldn’t go, not one thing she wouldn’t do to help any one of us. Whatever our hearts are longing for, hers is hoping for it even more on our behalf. Whatever we’re burdened with, it’s weighing even heavier on her. Whatever we’re praying for, she’s praying even harder. She is a mother and a grandmother in the purest and most beautiful and sacrificial form. 

We are blessed by her life. 

Happy Birthday, Mama. 

“When she speaks, her words are wise, and she gives instructions with kindness. She carefully watches everything in her household and suffers nothing from laziness. Her children stand and bless her. Her husband praises her: ‘There are many virtuous and capable women in the world, but you surpass them all.’ Charm is deceptive, and beauty does not last; but a woman who fears the Lord will be greatly praised. Reward her for all she has done. Let her deeds publicly declare her praise.” Proverbs 31:26-31

Well, I was so sad about Queen Elizabeth. God bless her. I don’t know what it is that fascinates us about the royal family. What makes us set our alarms for awful hours to watch them get married and crowned and such? Could be that their way of life is only found in children’s stories and scarcely used history books on this side of the pond. Handsome princes, kings and queens, fairytale weddings, horse drawn carriages, firmly held traditions. Seems a little fancier than, say, most things we’ve got going on over here and so we like to look in on them from time to time. 

Since her death, I’ve become curious about what a typical day of the Queen may have looked like and how she was able to keep up in her 90’s, so I starting reading about that. There were many slightly varying accounts, but I compiled some of the consistencies. 

She would get up around 7:30 each morning. The maid would bring in her morning tray of tea and biscuits, open the curtains, and turn on the radio. Her assistant would draw her bath using a thermometer to ensure it was the right temperature and exactly seven inches deep. After her bath, she dressed in her first outfit of the day which was selected by her assistant. She’d enjoy her Earl Gray tea and cold milk while dressing and then her hairdressers would fix her hair in her usual style. Her dogs were brought to her after their morning walk. 

When she was all ready, she’d go to the dining room for a light breakfast at 8:30 or, sometimes, take breakfast alone after Prince Philip died. When she ate in her room, she kept her cereal in Tupperware to keep it fresh. She preferred cornflakes and fruit or toast and orange marmalade. She would give most of the bites to her little dogs. When Prince Philip was living, he would join her in the dining room from his separate bedroom for breakfast. The healthy spread was served by a footman in tails. Then, she and the prince would spend a few minutes reading the morning paper together. 

 At 9:00, a kilted piper would play the bagpipes beneath her room for 15 minutes each weekday morning -rain or shine- of which she was a big fan.

By 9:30, the Queen was doing paperwork, reading official state papers and signing documents at her desk in her sitting room. She would then select a few pieces of fan mail to personally respond to each day and a lady-in-waiting would answer the rest.

Around 11:00, she started meetings with officials and dignitaries. She dedicated 20 minutes for each one-on-one meeting with guests such as ambassadors, members of the armed forces, and High Commissioners. 

Lunch was served at 1:00 and was usually some kind of fish over wilted spinach with zucchini and she usually ate alone. On occasion, a lady-in-waiting was invited to join her. The Queen avoided carbohydrates- God bless her. After lunch, she’d stroll around the palace gardens with her dogs to get a little exercise. After walking, she’d relax for thirty minutes while reading the Racing Post as she was a big horse racing fan. 

Around 2:30, she’d go on outings for appearances, speeches, and royal engagements. Visits to schools, military bases, hospitals, or charity headquarters were common. Engagements ended by 4:30 and high tea started at 5:00 in the queen’s suite. Earl gray tea, scones, and those little sandwiches with the crust removed. Her favorite were the jam sandwiches called jam pennies because of their size. 

She’d take time out of her schedule to enjoy her four dogs, two Corgis, Sandy and Muick, a Cocker Spaniel, Lissy, and a Dorgi, Candy, a cross between a Corgi and Dachshund. She worried about what would happen to her pets after she was gone as she realized no one in the family cared for them as much as she did. Prince Andrew is set to get custody of them. 

Family visits had to be arranged in advance as there was no dropping by the palace to see grandma without booking it first. She’d take a little drink in the evening before dinner, but was advised by her doctor to give that up at the age of 95. At 7:30, she would read through reports of the daily parliamentary happenings. When she wasn’t entertaining or at official events, she’d have dinner in her room on a silver tray. Usually beef, venison, pheasant, or salmon with no starch being her rule- God bless her. No rice or potato or pasta was ever on her menu. Dessert was something like a Windsor-grown white peach or similar. The Queen relaxed in the evening by reading, watching television, or doing jigsaw puzzles. She always wrote a page in the diary she’d kept since the beginning of her reign and was in bed by 11:00. 

Of course, there were always visiting dignitaries, receptions, luncheons, award ceremonies, and travels by helicopter, plane, or royal train on top of her usual routine. Prince Charles had taken over most of the traveling recently. 

So, I decided I’d go back and read through what I’d learned about the queen and highlight the similarities I could find in my day and the queen’s day. Ok, so nothing looked remotely familiar until I got to the part about Tupperware. I, too, have some Tupperware. Then, I stop at the line about feeding the dog under the table at breakfast. Yes, I am with the Queen on that. Ok, I love bagpipes, too, but I usually only get to hear them on the news when they’re playing for her. Then I scan further and I did have one-on-one lunch meetings, twice this week, with people who, if you use the term very loosely, could be considered dignitaries. I was also feeling her about loving the fish. I did run to the grocery store today and got a fried catfish plate lunch from the deli as they were out of pheasant. I brought it home to eat alone just like her, but then she lost me again when I got the two starchy sides and ate it right out of the styrofoam container. Ok, so I picked up with her again down at the part- wait a minute- walking the dog. Yes, I recognized that. I do that. I have more of a mongrel street mix than a royal bred pooch but, still, it counts. Ok, then I go back to relating with the Queen when she worried about what will happen to her dogs if something happened to her. I mean, Davis loves Ruby but would he stir the “gravy” around on her dry food so that it coats all the pieces and cover her up with her blanket at bedtime? I wonder. I’m feeling the Queen’s apprehension on that. I go on and see the part about her reading and watching television before bed. Yes, I am also a reader of books and viewer of television at night. Amazing the similarities, really. 

I really do admire the Queen’s long and faithful devotion to her inherited duty of service. I adored her brightly colored dresses and hats and the way she always held her purse close to her. I loved hearing stories of when her sense of humor and personality would shine through her dignified exterior. I respected the fact that she spoke of her faith outwardly and often with no apologies to anyone. I thought the addresses she delivered to her people were beautifully worded messages and composed with much thought and care. She was very much an admirable woman. 

“For me, the teachings of Christ and my own personal accountability before God provide a framework in which I try to lead my life.” Queen Elizabeth ll 

May God rest her soul. She will be missed. 

JONI 

Last week, I got word that an elderly friend had died. It seems strange to use the word, elderly, to describe her. By almost anyone’s standards, a nearly 91 year old is indeed elderly, but it just never seemed to fit Mrs. Helen. In the South, if an older person is just an acquaintance, we call them Mrs. (Last Name), but if someone is particularly close or endearing to us, we use the Mrs. (First Name) option. It signals an extra level of fondness and attachment and she was definitely Mrs. Helen to a lot of people. She and I just talked a couple of weeks ago and arranged a visit for this week, but it was never to happen. Sometimes, we realize we have put things off just a little too long and that made the news a little harder to swallow. 

I carried on with my day with memories of Mrs. Helen on my mind. After lunch, I got a call that my across-the-street neighbors’ house was on fire after a nasty lightning storm had come through the area. No one was home, thankfully, so I told the person who was calling from the scene where my neighbor worked and to tell the firemen they had a little Yorkie in their house. I jumped in my car and headed this way with a knot in my stomach. By the time I got here, our street was packed with emergency vehicles. I parked at the end of the road and walked toward my house. They’d opened all the doors in the burning home, but there had been no sign of their pet. There was thick black smoke billowing out and all I could think about was Bentley, the Yorkie, being inside and this sweet family losing all of their things. It’s one thing to see footage of a house fire or to watch a house fire in a movie or to hear about a house fire, but when you see the home of people you care about burning before your eyes, I learned really quickly that it’s a very emotional experience. 

We live in the county with the volunteer fire department system and I’m not sure how many fire departments responded to the call, but there were a lot of boots on the ground. In the chaos, I have no concept of how much time passed but those volunteers fought that fire for hours. It would get under control and then start up again. There were firemen everywhere - some sank into the grass with exhaustion- all of them red-faced from the heat and the prolonged exertion. The family arrived and, when it was finally safe for the firemen to enter, they went in to search for Bentley. We were all teary- not giving much hope for what appeared like a futile effort. We’d all seen the black smoke and angry flames. We’d all felt the heat from across the road. But, after what seemed like an eternity, one of the volunteer firemen came out holding the most unexpected sight- a soaking wet, wiggling Bentley who was covered in roof shingle debris. The entire neighborhood was ecstatic. God knew the family needed that victory. At the end of such a traumatic day, if you’ve got all the lives you started with, you can cope with just about anything. 

With the fire out and all the family and living creatures accounted for, another mood settled over the neighbors gathered. Relief. Joy. And a motivation to get to work. I’ve never seen so many people working together to get this family what they needed for getting through the next few days. Shopping, free storage space, moving trailers, money, hot food, gift cards, child care, donations, strong backs, and sweat equity. Tears turned to joy turned to helping hands. 

All day and night long, I received so many texts from people wanting to know if it was our house they’d seen on the news. I assured them it wasn’t but that our neighbors had lost almost everything. Without missing a beat, many wanted to know where they could donate money for them- people they didn’t even know. The next couple of days, the neighborhood was still busy seeing that it had done all it could do to help the family through the initial shock and need. In the background at the same time as all of this were daily updates on a more personal matter that seemed to be up and down and up and down- taking me with it. Good news and then bad news which eventually landed back on good news. It felt like we were on a week-long roller coaster ride and I was ready to get off. 

I walked into the church for the visitation for Mrs. Helen at the end of the week. I was exhausted in every way a person could be exhausted. I felt like I could burst into tears with little provocation or fall asleep standing up and I wasn’t sure which one would happen first. Inside the church walls, I saw the faces of old friends. People I’d known since childhood who’d moved away. Women who were my second mothers growing up. Ladies I call Mrs. (First Name). Men I call Mr. (Last Name). Girlfriends I’ve loved for most of my life. It was like a healing warmth that covered my tired soul with each hug. I’d been stuffing my grief down all week to attend the crises, but when I saw Mrs. Helen- her beautiful signature eye shadow, her lovely jewels, her pretty blue dress- it finally came bubbling up from all the places it had been shoved. Not in a dramatic kind of way, but in soft fallen tears- the kind that recount the love and life of a friend who’s gone. 

I don’t want any comments of sympathy for my week. None of it happened directly to me. The significant losses weren’t suffered in our family. That’s not the point of this rambling post. I was just reminded over and over again that life can be so unpredictable. Everyday is routine until it’s not. One day is up and the next is down. But, when bad things happen around us, God always blends in His goodness in such obvious ways that we can’t help but see Him providing in the fires and storms and valleys. He never allows the dark shades of loss to blot out His beautiful use of the rich colors of goodness. Goodness found in a group of volunteers who would leave their jobs and families to fight fire at someone else’s house. Goodness shown in the mercy of a safe family and a saved pet. Goodness in the eager generosity of a community. Goodness seen in the kindness of strangers. Goodness He gives through the love of friends. Goodness in the healing we feel in each other’s presence. Goodness in His kept promises. Goodness contributed to us through a life well-lived. Goodness that surrounds and supports a grieving family. Goodness given in the hope of eternal life. These are the victories of goodness that stand tall in the losses. 

Thanks to God for His goodness. 

Sunday night, Davis and I were watching The Price is Right reruns. Yeah, you read that right. Sunday is and always has been the worst TV day. As a kid, I remember how long Sunday afternoon was with only the Wide World of Sports, Bob Ross, and Justin Wilson’s Louisiana Cookin’ to entertain us. I “gha-rawn-tee” it was a long afternoon. It was a good thing the comics came in the paper, at least. Anyway, I stumbled across The Price Is Right on Roku. It was young Bob Barker in the days of his dark hair and plaid pants. Y’all know how nostalgic I am. It’s crazy, but the familiar music, buzzers, and voices all made me feel like I was in the 3rd grade- home on the gold plaid couch with a fever and sore throat. All I needed was ravioli and Jell-O on a TV tray with my mother standing over me with pink amoxicillin in a spoon and some makeup worksheets on diagramming sentences sitting nearby. There was something so comforting about watching that. It really took me back. If you all haven’t noticed by now, I look back on my childhood with much cherished delight. 

I loved The Price Is Right and how they’d have all those prizes arranged on those shag carpeted platforms that would turn around to reveal the glorious treasure trove of the latest and greatest. I don’t care what game they were playing, there always seemed to be a grandfather clock or a baker’s rack or an organ on the line. There was a washer and dryer and an electric range up for grabs on this particular episode we were watching. The washer/dryer combo was harvest gold- the range was avocado green and I told Davis they’re all probably still out there working just fine- unlike the ones we buy now. I love a stroll down memory lane and I really enjoyed finding that show. 

Other things from childhood I miss include but are not limited to: Kool-aid popsicles made in Tupperware molds. Digging for prizes in the cereal box. Saturday morning cartoons. Sporting new clothes the first week of school. A fresh minty jar of paste. Circling coveted things in the Sears Christmas Wish Book. Playing in the rain. Neighborhood games of whiffle ball. Spend the night invitations. Brach’s candy counters. Pick up sticks. Cut-off blue jeans and bare feet. Big Wheels. Weekly Readers. The smell of Doritos and duplex cookies in a metal lunchbox. 

What is it about childhood memories that makes them so dear? I think it might be that we like to remember the safety we felt then. A time when we weren’t in charge or responsible for much. If there was something unsettling going on, we were protected from it and were blissful in our ignorance. Someone else was paying the bills. Watching the weather. Keeping up with what size shoe we wore. Shutting off the television when the news was scary. Buying our toothpaste. Making our doctor’s appointments. Scooting us out of the room for serious discussions. Deciding what was best. Our only jobs were to climb trees and ride bikes and maybe vacuum the carpet when company was coming. When we get older, we trade all that play for work and soon we become the person in charge. Other people become dependent on us. With that come responsibility and worry- concepts we’re not too familiar with when we’re young. There’s no longer anyone standing between us and the knowledge of the realities of life. 

I read a story about Corrie Ten Boom today that I loved. As a child, she was traveling on a train with her father and asked him a question which she wasn’t mature enough to have answered yet. “He turned to look at me, as he always did when answering a question, but to my surprise, he said nothing. At last he stood up, lifted his traveling case off the floor and set it back on the floor. ‘Will you carry it off the train, Corrie?’ he said. I stood up and tugged at it. It was crammed with the watches and spare parts he had purchased that morning. ‘It’s too heavy,’ I said. ‘Yes,’ he said ‘and it would be a pretty poor father who would ask his little girl to carry such a load. It’s the same way with knowledge, Corrie. Some knowledge is too heavy for children. When you are older and stronger you can bear it. For now you must trust me to carry it for you.’” 

I look back and am so grateful for the gift of innocence my parents gave me. They guarded it and shielded me and played defense against anything that would threaten to take it from me before it was time. I grew up and we gave the same effort to giving our kids their due time to just be young and free from worry. We live in a day that seems bent on stuffing kids’ schedules, rushing them ahead, and filling their heads with things that are way beyond their years, I hope we, as the adults in their lives, will stand guard for them. They only get one chance to be little. To be innocent. To be blissfully unaware of the harshness of life. To have free time to do whatever they’d like to do. To enjoy the warm security of knowing that they’re being tended to by people who love them. Childhood may only make up a small percentage of a person’s life, but it will be the time the mind travels back to most. Good or bad. 

I remember when Blair was turning 12, she saw a dollhouse she really wanted. She was still playing with dolls which she kept hidden in her closet in case her friends came to visit. She wasn’t grown enough to be ready to give them up, but she was mature enough to realize it could be a source of ridicule. After talking it over, Davis and I decided to go ahead and get the dollhouse for her 12th birthday even though it seemed late in the game for such a purchase. We didn’t just get the house. We got the furniture, the accessories, the whole family, the pets- the entire expensive deal. Even with the arrival of the teenage years practically within sight, if her heart wanted to frolic in the innocence of childhood for a few more months, we wanted to help her squeeze all the good out of that sweet, once-in-a-lifetime stage. As the song says, “Once you pass its borders, you can never return again.” Sure enough- within the year, the dollhouse and all the sold-separately accessories were put away, but she got all the childhood her heart could hold before she left it behind. 

One of the greatest gifts we can give the children in our lives is to let them be little -all the way up to the time they’re not. May we not let one drop of childhood go to waste. There are so many threats to their innocence that they need us to repel. It’s something worth protecting! 

Have a great week! 

JONI 

Well, today was back to school around these parts. Facebook posts were aplenty of kids dressed and ready for their first day of school with their brand new shoes, lunchboxes, and backpacks. All the children were looking just a little more put together than they will, say, a week from now when they have Pop-tart goo on their faces and a nasty case of bed head hair. I remember that first day excitement the parents have, too. Happy to get those kids back in school and in a routine. A few weeks of kids declaring their boredom and half-empty drink bottles sitting all over the house and the sheen of summer break starts to dull. The same excitement parents felt about school getting out in May is replaced with an equal enthusiasm about school being back in session in August. 

I remember back in the winter, I’d hear the constant groaning of my heat-loving friends who proclaimed they couldn’t wait for the long, steamy days of summer. In the chill of the winter winds, the human lizards among us were wishing for the blazing humidity of the southern summer to warm their frigid bones. As we enter month three of a record breaking season, which has not been fit for human habitation, I haven’t heard one peep from them on how much they’re enjoying this, their long-anticipated weather. Nobody is making any moving tributes to this heat. Nobody is celebrating the arrival of its life-threatening warm grasp. No, now that it’s here, they’re looking forward to pumpkin spice and a major cool down. On the flip side, even I, the staunchest winter supporter, admit to wishing for a sunny, warm day when the gloominess of February seems to stretch out forever. 

Remember when we were young teenagers and we couldn’t wait until we would grow up and have all the freedoms to do more things independently. We were ready to forge ahead to the next phase and embrace all the amenities that adulthood had to offer. As girls, we’d draw and color pictures of the houses we wanted to live in and we’d come up with the names for the children we wanted to have. We see how that turned out. We grow up and spend the rest of our days daydreaming at work about the carefree days of our childhood and wishing we could go back to that simpler, responsibility-free stage of life- before we had the mortgage on that house we’d drawn and and car insurance on all those children we named.  

We’re always so excited to get the Christmas decorations up- sometimes, not even waiting until Thanksgiving. Before Christmas is even over, we start thinking about how fast we can get them all back into the attic and get things back to normal. We want to just get our kids out of diapers or grown enough to get in and out of the car on their own power or just get old enough to drive themselves to school. Then, we mourn the days when they were little and cute and mispronounced words and really needed us. We look forward to when we’re having guests and anticipate their arrival with lots of planning and grocery shopping. We’re so excited to see them drive into the driveway but, in a few days’ time, we’re ready to see some taillights and get back to our normal routine. The long-awaited retirement can surprise us with the emptiness of missing our work and camaraderie. And even the most anticipated trips and vacations usually draw to their close with a growing desire to be back in the familiar comforts of home. 

What is it that keeps us looking to the next thing? There’s a constant temptation to look ahead and see how another day down the road might be better than this one we’re living now. Almost always, when we get to that day or season or stage that we’d been romanticizing, we end up grieving for the time we let pass by while our mind was wandering. Life happens in this day. Our love and attention are needed in this moment. Memories and growth happen in this season. “This is the day the Lord has made, let us rejoice and be glad in it.” 

“Happiness, not in another place, but this place….not for another hour, but this hour.”  Walt Whitman

Happy Weekend to you all! 

JONI