tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38945241357340165732024-03-14T00:54:50.340-07:00Motherhood and Muffin Tops Jonihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14946161822865311531noreply@blogger.comBlogger557125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3894524135734016573.post-4253045541933879932024-03-07T21:10:00.000-08:002024-03-08T06:30:16.018-08:00Here’s the Dirt <p>I went on a shopping trip with a friend on Monday. In between our eating, we bounced around several places but eventually landed at Home Goods because what woman doesn’t love that? We both had gift cards which made it even better. She had a list of things she was looking for and I had my own. We hit <i>all</i> the departments. The rugs, throw pillows, bedding, kitchen, and, yes, we couldn’t leave until we visited the dog section. I thought I’d take something home to Ruby to lift her spirits. She still seems pretty depressed from losing her buddy. I guess Otis was the life of the party for all of us. </p><p>I breezed through the well-stocked aisle and skipped right over the stuffed fire hydrants, squeaky squirrels, and rubber balls, because Ruby just isn’t into toys anymore. In fact, I gave Otis’s little basket of loved toys to a friend with adopted pets, because Ruby wasn’t interested. No, at age 42, she has put away childish things and only has eyes for a bone or antler or anything suitable for eating or chewing. Well, I found a big antler that I thought would help her feelings as she adjusts to being an only dog again and I couldn’t wait to give it to my girl. </p><p>The next day, I dug the antler out of my shopping bags and called for Ruby. She saw what I had and her tail went crazy. While she whined impatiently, I worked to get all of the tags off and held it out to her. Her eager jaws clamped down with a lot of enthusiasm and she went straight to the door wanting to go outside. It was a beautiful day and Ruby is a sucker for soaking in the sun. Like her human mother in her younger days, she can sunbathe for hours on end. I was happy that she’d get to enjoy lots of gnawing and chewing while basking in the spring weather. Two of her very favorite things would surely be good for her spirits. </p><p>Davis was out working in the yard and he came in to tell me Ruby had buried the antler in the flower bed by the mailbox where he was working, but then she moved it- likely for fear that Davis knew too much and would try to chow down on it when she wasn’t looking. He watched her dig it up and carry it up the hill by the house. Dirt flew as she worked on another hole and carefully maneuvered the freshly-laid pine straw to hide the treasure’s location. When the burial was complete, <i>then</i> she plopped down on the front steps to enjoy the sun. Ruby knew one thing for sure- none of her neighborhood friends, Ted, Izzy, Zeus, or Bentley, would find her valuable and take any pleasure in it. But, neither would she, apparently. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLPnr1H6oLFtlk8vEYhN48tz4yYwjWm0Ft2LMR3gZwUKWl7YYXV1tHf43gGVz-G024cUQHm0IPDez2VrH4-XfwLAN0J0TiAQOZNgwzurycerQA7gwGLXYm6QEHwWn4WHOd3UoIBwyXLsAw67_keDmIUN26sKS8WzOjrd8C65ND2X-zx_QZv0YTht675Nc/s2048/E848D8CD-72EC-4519-9688-2220AA7CB435.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLPnr1H6oLFtlk8vEYhN48tz4yYwjWm0Ft2LMR3gZwUKWl7YYXV1tHf43gGVz-G024cUQHm0IPDez2VrH4-XfwLAN0J0TiAQOZNgwzurycerQA7gwGLXYm6QEHwWn4WHOd3UoIBwyXLsAw67_keDmIUN26sKS8WzOjrd8C65ND2X-zx_QZv0YTht675Nc/w300-h400/E848D8CD-72EC-4519-9688-2220AA7CB435.jpeg" width="300" /></a></div><p>That was two days ago and, as I type, the $9.99 antler is still buried under dirt and pine straw in our flower bed. She’s been out multiple times to enjoy the spring weather and hasn’t gone back to retrieve that thing she loves yet. Not what I had planned for my ten buck investment. I might as well have buried an Alexander Hamilton next to our Loropetalum bushes and saved us all the time and effort. It’s not doing her any good planted in the flower bed and it’s not doing me any good to see my money sown into the soil. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH03JO7930bg2fkE63yVr44EmgMbCjT-RO28ZiIKF8pUXcz-ykvah8yhDRqsI8IRqKStq9l7zM9H_gF9wiOu0wT0Ac21n2wtCvNG8gZhoubAa60YC1HfMl_NdICQZBjInP1_z8gwpu-mRpby_W8jAc4VuMhrOgl4kALMzGQ5YitnnPI1psCqAkPax-Cu4/s3021/DFD7B171-841A-4EBC-B711-D08FEEBEA9FD.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2673" data-original-width="3021" height="354" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH03JO7930bg2fkE63yVr44EmgMbCjT-RO28ZiIKF8pUXcz-ykvah8yhDRqsI8IRqKStq9l7zM9H_gF9wiOu0wT0Ac21n2wtCvNG8gZhoubAa60YC1HfMl_NdICQZBjInP1_z8gwpu-mRpby_W8jAc4VuMhrOgl4kALMzGQ5YitnnPI1psCqAkPax-Cu4/w400-h354/DFD7B171-841A-4EBC-B711-D08FEEBEA9FD.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">Earlier that same day, I’d seen someone from a distance who’d been having a hard time and I’d been meaning to make contact with them. It wasn’t someone I see very often. This was a unique opportunity. I felt a nudge to go over and speak, but I had a lot to do that afternoon and the setting was one that may have made a conversation a little awkward. It was going to be a lot easier to just go on about my day and reach out to them some other way. So, I talked myself out of it and avoided the person and any contact with them all together, but I thought about it several times that day. </span></div><p>Watching my crazy dog burying my $10 investment, that same afternoon, had me thinking about all the ways I’m like her. How many times have I buried something I’ve been given under the soil of selfishness or entitlement…..or timidity, feelings of insufficiency, self-consciousness, comparison, fear of failure? Each day, we’re given so much. A platform to speak the truth. A nudge to help. A testimony to share. A way to use a talent. An opportunity to speak encouragement. A chance to share our time, our story. A place to use our spiritual gifts, our resources. When we seize the opportunities given specifically to us, it not only blesses others, but it gives us so much joy in knowing we were created uniquely and intentionally- customized to fulfill our specific purpose and place in God’s plan. He’s invested so much in us and He expects us to use those things for His purposes and at His urging. Some days, I do ok with that and, other days, I bury the whole thing in the dirt and walk away. Wasting the unique opportunity. Wasting the investment. Jesus told a parable about that, so it must be pretty important to get it right. One day, I’ll have to answer for the times inaction won out. </p><p>Tomorrow’s a new day with new opportunities. </p><p>Reminder to self- stay out of the dirt. </p><p><br /></p><p>Y’all have a great weekend! </p><p>JONI </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Jonihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14946161822865311531noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3894524135734016573.post-46239532220133302632024-02-26T21:35:00.000-08:002024-02-27T05:36:24.642-08:00The Clark Griswold Vacation Package<p>Well, I thought you’d like to hear about our anniversary trip. I bet you assumed I’d be armed with pictures of the sunlight beaming down on wooded trails and group selfies in front of waterfalls. Normally, I would, but this trip, such as it was, is worthy of mention in the annals of vacation disasters. The Clark Griswold vacation package. If nothing else, writing about it will be good therapy for me- which is what <i>Motherhood and Muffin Tops</i> has really been about for the entire month of February, it seems. Can we please just turn the calendar page over already? </p><p>Davis, Ruby, and I left on Wednesday headed to Chattanooga armed with our VRBO reservation confirmation. The kids would be leaving on Thursday to come and join us for a long weekend of enjoying the outdoors with our dogs. It was anticipated to be an emotional reset as well as our anniversary celebration. We’d secured a large, pet-friendly house with 4 bedrooms near the river walk and were excited to spend a few days away with our kids. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfCW6MdUn4DEB9ydI1YQKqaYA_yWCsbg2KcZjX2GW_o0Sly_mWp9nmSLFS_EmwuarBPGhTvIHZZvvTTkZSLWHrIlTahzdseSbpGY-3rtCtbU3X8m5brB0PP2DTDIYMd1Y1jMDfK0NqBJaJ8yxnEnG_FpyOzzUwIcT4opCH2YCYAlYAkqT3Zupwdk2M7Bc/s2048/896782A2-EF16-4BAE-A013-A085399328B2.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfCW6MdUn4DEB9ydI1YQKqaYA_yWCsbg2KcZjX2GW_o0Sly_mWp9nmSLFS_EmwuarBPGhTvIHZZvvTTkZSLWHrIlTahzdseSbpGY-3rtCtbU3X8m5brB0PP2DTDIYMd1Y1jMDfK0NqBJaJ8yxnEnG_FpyOzzUwIcT4opCH2YCYAlYAkqT3Zupwdk2M7Bc/s320/896782A2-EF16-4BAE-A013-A085399328B2.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>No one loves a road trip more than Ruby Miller. She had to sit the last few out and be </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Otis’s security blanket at the kennel, but she wasn’t missing this one.</i></div><p>This wasn’t our first rodeo. Through the years, we’ve rented most of our vacation housing through VRBO and have never had anything but wonderful experiences. Communication with the owners is always different. It’s just according to how each one prefers to handle their business. Each owner we’ve dealt with has had their own level of personal correspondence with us, so I didn’t think much about the fact that we hadn’t heard anything from this owner since confirmation in January. Sometimes, we’ve gotten an email the day before our trip wishing us safe travels and a heads up that access information would be sent the next day. I just assumed this renter wasn’t into all that fluff and I was confident we’d receive the access information after the cleaning service finished on check-in day, which is usually when we get door codes or lock box instructions. </p><p>About 3 hours before check-in, I started getting a little nervous. We were halfway to Chattanooga and still no word. I used the messaging system on the VRBO website to reach out for the information we’d need to get into the property. I sent another one, a while later. And another one. No response. I thought maybe they just weren’t checking their inbox and I’d try calling the owner’s phone. By now, we were less than an hour away. No answer. It was time to get VRBO involved. </p><p>So, I started with the live chat option. I initiated a chat and Princess responded. I typed out my issue to her. She quickly replied that she would try to contact the owners using the numbers she had on file and asked me to hold. Princess was gone for a while and finally came back and said she couldn’t reach the homeowners either, but she would continue to try. It was now check-in time and no one could reach them. Princess realized we had a situation on our hands that required more assistance than she could offer. She sent me over to chat with Cardina. Cardina quickly tossed me like a hot potato and gave me a phone number to call with my problem. But, before I made the call, we drove by the property to see what we could see. There sat a vehicle with a Kentucky license plate in the driveway. We started suspecting they’d double-booked and were intentionally avoiding us when they realized it. </p><p>Ruby was in the backseat needing a bathroom break and a walk, so we drove to a nearby Wendy’s to let her use their facilities- aka the grass surrounding their parking lot. While they’re walking around the parking lot, I placed my first call to the number given to me. Mohamed answered. I could tell right away Mohamed and I weren’t from the same neck of the woods. We weren't even from the same woods and I found myself saying, “Pardon?” Repeatedly. <i>“May I have your name and email address? Ok, the property you are calling about is in Chattanooga, USA? Could you tell me the issue I can help you with today?”</i> I explained my problem from the beginning. After <b>13 minutes</b>, Mohamed saw that we were having trouble communicating and said he would transfer me to another agent who could help me with this problem. </p><p>I was connected to Christina. I could tell that Christina was also not from these parts as she sounded French or something. We <i>were</i> getting closer though. In her heavy accent, she said,<i> “May I have your name and email address? Ok, I see here you are set to check into a property in Chattanooga in the United States. And what is the issue you are having today, Joni?”</i> At this point, I calmly and thoroughly started over at the beginning and explained what had happened to this point. In her broken English, Christina acknowledged this was a frustrating situation and that she would help me find a solution. She began talking about finding somewhere else for us to go for the night courtesy of VRBO and we started discussing dog-friendly hotels. They offered us two free nights. I explained that a hotel was a good solution for one night, but we had 4 more adults and 2 more dogs joining us the next day and a hotel wouldn’t be a good option after that. We were making real headway- even with her Frenchy English and my Mississippi English- we were gaining ground. <i>“Please, hold on the line while I check on some hotels for you.” </i>I hold while the most unsettling music blares in my ear. No matter who I’d talked to, they all had the same stress-spiking tune for my listening pleasure. It was like someone was playing mariachi on a synthesizer in double time. Not what I would’ve chosen for the waiting music for people experiencing problems. Suddenly, the music stopped. I heard a click and then silence. We’d been disconnected…..or, at least, I like to think so and she didn’t just hang up on me. I waited for her to call back but she only sent an email telling me her call back wouldn’t go through. After <b>29 minutes</b> of talking with Christina and <i>finally</i> getting somewhere, I’d have to start again. </p><p>I called the number.<i> “This is Juan, how can I help you?” </i> I thought- Juan- ok this is a continent I’ve not talked to yet. I explained that Christina was helping me and we got disconnected. Juan informed me that there was no way I could be reconnected with Christina. I thought surely Christina’s notes will be in the system- I mean- don’t you, people, have a way of exchanging information with each other? That’s when he said,<i> “May I have your email address? Can you confirm your name? Is the property in Chattanooga, United States? </i>By now, I was getting a real international assortment of Chattanooga pronunciations and, so far, they were all incorrect.<i> “Could you describe the problem you are having?” </i>I realize I have to start at the very beginning. All the way through it again. Like I’d never spoken to anyone in the entire company until Juan. My patience had worn thin at this point and I probably spoke to Juan in a harsher manner than my southern upbringing would usually allow, but the sun was starting to set in the west, Ruby had commenced whining for her supper, and we had nowhere to put our heads. I do appreciate Juan’s quick surrender. No need to delay the inevitable. In just <b>19 minutes</b>, Juan decided he needed to give me another number to call. </p><p>Nicholas answered next. I heard his name and got excited that maybe we, at least, lived on the same continent, but I’m not sure VRBO has any customer representatives that reside in North America. Soon it became clear that we, indeed, did not live in the same geographical region, but we were communicating pretty well. I told Nicholas that I had live-chatted with Princess who bounced me over to Cardina who told me to call Mohamed who switched me over to Christina who dropped the call and sent me to Juan who had handed me over to him.<i>“Could I have your name and email address, please? The property is in Chattanooga, USA?”</i> Oh, geez. After<b> 1 hour and 36 minutes</b> of being on the line with Nicholas, he finally secured a downtown hotel room for Davis, Ruby, and me and we headed in that direction in the darkness that had set in over Chattanooga, USA as they call it. Nicholas seemed more like St. Nicholas at that moment. We would not be sleeping in the car and that was the bright side. </p><p>This story has many layers- not unlike an onion. Also likened to an onion in that parts of it brought me to tears, so I’ll understand if you lose interest before we go down any deeper and you decide to vacuum or clip your toenails instead. For those who may be using this to combat insomnia or strengthen their attention span, here goes the rest. </p><p>So, VRBO put us up in a huge hotel room downtown. They asked us at the front desk if we’d like a ping pong table in our room. There went that word again, “Pardon?” We didn’t realize it was an industrial loft and approximately 1,800 square feet with 2 bathrooms. The only problem was that it was in the very center of downtown. Ruby’s options for the bathroom were a couple of 3x5’ green spaces in the sidewalk around the hotel. Ruby is from the country and she sniffed those 15 square foot options and found not one of them to be an acceptable place to conduct business. Apparently, they didn’t smell just right. The elevator ride down, the cars whizzing by, the police sirens- they only added to her performance anxiety. Davis would take her down to try every hour but she wasn’t having any part of it. Country dog had come to town and it wasn’t suiting her. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3aAmNyAVBw55T8Cwvm5fYkvy5j-twcMxLwcpg_VrhumRbiDtTy7Cd0Tfa6mjFmWvEt0yUaKBf2b3Vj8lxgdKnIoE0FjbZ2ghqsFb4jGANl_mb2AYOesEs1V1o1M1fS4GvrmNQU8RGxjetmB2BGd9toyOsscbMJAfQxj614Beuovu1u80fdoj8f-fD4QY/s2048/200BA73B-4B70-4FCC-90C4-94C0139EA812.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3aAmNyAVBw55T8Cwvm5fYkvy5j-twcMxLwcpg_VrhumRbiDtTy7Cd0Tfa6mjFmWvEt0yUaKBf2b3Vj8lxgdKnIoE0FjbZ2ghqsFb4jGANl_mb2AYOesEs1V1o1M1fS4GvrmNQU8RGxjetmB2BGd9toyOsscbMJAfQxj614Beuovu1u80fdoj8f-fD4QY/s320/200BA73B-4B70-4FCC-90C4-94C0139EA812.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>First elevator ride. Not a fan</i>. </div><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcO98-tW8cfVoH5CXAOJ74V4MODzlZjrtaKH0T3WmeCI40eKrI-A7uUwrP0szwEZX95H4GmeO-9infi4CVqT6_6M1cWWoOWKWQNzE31BKGL6l47LwLTI8ACdpAQHhzjjbYTbVrT_yRKwALI_lfbmyYx1rPPtCv2Bj2XKI_TpRMJZnnjkYU42z8NAyzPwE/s2048/3D9E24F1-D680-4FFA-A62A-1C7D7A24B38C.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcO98-tW8cfVoH5CXAOJ74V4MODzlZjrtaKH0T3WmeCI40eKrI-A7uUwrP0szwEZX95H4GmeO-9infi4CVqT6_6M1cWWoOWKWQNzE31BKGL6l47LwLTI8ACdpAQHhzjjbYTbVrT_yRKwALI_lfbmyYx1rPPtCv2Bj2XKI_TpRMJZnnjkYU42z8NAyzPwE/s320/3D9E24F1-D680-4FFA-A62A-1C7D7A24B38C.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div><p style="text-align: center;"><i>Nope, not going there or there…. or there</i>.<i> I’ll just wait ‘til we get home. </i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_dHTDLLO_RKUcZEbmtMA3k65f4XAVDQIXc7cLKS0KiP5AIBKO14a96nfsI_sllyfci1-yn_Lb3GLAekajQRW92jNW88XM31EDzxudmGNLthluykim4GiQycSvbTFnp7P3UbD5GhDPVv3GYjhOIdd_iO1FWK0hUPoL0NDY28IOk1Rq5oI0_JI1qOGuV8Q/s2048/951C834F-18D2-4306-B0F8-D07AA662DB05.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_dHTDLLO_RKUcZEbmtMA3k65f4XAVDQIXc7cLKS0KiP5AIBKO14a96nfsI_sllyfci1-yn_Lb3GLAekajQRW92jNW88XM31EDzxudmGNLthluykim4GiQycSvbTFnp7P3UbD5GhDPVv3GYjhOIdd_iO1FWK0hUPoL0NDY28IOk1Rq5oI0_JI1qOGuV8Q/s320/951C834F-18D2-4306-B0F8-D07AA662DB05.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Ruby getting LOTS of love on the streets around the hotel. </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Is she a mix? Oh- in the biggest way. </i></div><p>Before we went to bed, I sent out a group text to Blair, John Samuel, Carson, and his girlfriend, Anna Kathryn. It just explained what had happened and that we’d be finding another home to rent and would send the new address as soon as we could. I’d asked Juan in our 13 minutes conversation if we could go ahead and make a reservation for another property, because we had people joining us and didn’t feel comfortable not having one secured. He strongly advised me not to do that because VRBO gives the owner 24 hours to respond before cancelling the agreement and I’d be on the hook for both. They said we could make a reservation the next morning after the cancellation had been approved. This could have been part of the reason I spoke more harshly to poor Juan. “Oh, it will be approved, Juan,” I assured him. </p><p>So, on Thursday morning, we woke up ready to make our plan B. While Davis was taking Ruby down to the street- practically begging her to relieve herself at this point- I grabbed my phone to find a rental. That’s when I saw we had no cell service. Our phones were on SOS mode. We tried communicating with the kids using wi-fi but only Anna Kathryn replied. Blair and John Samuel were already on their way so they couldn’t receive texts unless they stopped for a wi-fi signal. The news was talking about a widespread event and we didn’t know if it would last 2 hours or 2 weeks. It was check out time. Ruby had been holding it since Wendy’s- a bathroom strike of sorts. We were about to leave any cell service we had behind at checkout. VRBO hadn’t confirmed our cancellation. We had no new reservation. GPS was down without wi-fi and complicated finding things. Four kids were coming our way in three cars at different times and only one had cell service. We surrendered. Tapped out. Waved the white flag. We sent out another text telling the kids not to come to Chattanooga, USA but they were welcome to meet us at our house and we’d treat them to a fun weekend. We could only hope they’d get the word when they stopped for lunch or gas. </p><p>Last layer. We got out of the city and stopped at a McDonald’s in a more sedate suburb. We hoped Ruby could finally let go and let it all out while we checked our messages in the parking lot using their signal. Ruby found their grounds to be more to her satisfaction and, after <b>15 hours</b> of holding it, she relieved herself for quite a long while. (<i>It’s obvious she never had puppies</i>.) It was at McDonald’s that we got the message from Blair and John Samuel that they were turning around and going home. They’d just gotten an email from their Alabama fertility clinic saying they were suspending their operations until further notice as a result of the recent court ruling that has been widely publicized. You can read about that if you haven’t heard. Just the day before, they’d been told everything was still operating as usual, but things were changing by the hour. Two hours into their trip with no phone service, they decided they had to turn around and go to the clinic in person to see what was happening. With so much invested, they had to do that for their peace of mind. They were tapping out of our fabulous, fun, family fiasco. </p><p>So you’ll know how to continue your prayers for them, they were able to get a face to face appointment with the office staff on Friday. As of now, only the February and March transplants are cancelled. No clinic wants the liability that could come with this ruling. They were told that they expect this to be resolved quickly as Governor Kay Ivey is working to help find a quick solution for IVF patients. The irony is that the ruling is hurting those who want absolutely nothing more than to give those little embryos life. Those who’ve given unbelievable sums of money, sacrificed emotionally, and suffered physically- just for a chance to celebrate the birth of a child. As of now, their appointment to transfer their one little miracle embryo is still April 2. Pray there is some kind of solution that is life-honoring and doesn’t take away these pro-life patients’ chances to have their own babies. Everyone involved seems hopeful. </p><p>So, 18 hours after we arrived in Chattanooga, we were leaving it. It seems like we spent half of those 18 hours in the Wendy’s parking lot and Ruby held it for 15 of them. We received a full refund from VRBO and the property owner has been removed from their service. As we drove off with Chattanooga in the rear view, Ruby looked up toward the front of the car like- I thought I remembered vacations being more fun. You, people, have lost your touch. Don’t do me any more favors by bringing me along. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjwbPfPmUb5xtsA06LgqogLsSASC9BinJIzwjf4bLmaGuqWwAyV8z2QpJfWA0gy_LeRKakcGOdYjBjZNJbcvweuoD1QUO130Buc9fxdY6vGJmtPLtVPyYlwjLQQx8BIlRcSzVaS6aQfvhb9TuwNyTOaFbiS-On4MrQdX_zlbPvWEtHUULGvJqMHNBLjnE/s2048/3B7535DF-7C19-4647-BCD5-9D42019E821F.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjwbPfPmUb5xtsA06LgqogLsSASC9BinJIzwjf4bLmaGuqWwAyV8z2QpJfWA0gy_LeRKakcGOdYjBjZNJbcvweuoD1QUO130Buc9fxdY6vGJmtPLtVPyYlwjLQQx8BIlRcSzVaS6aQfvhb9TuwNyTOaFbiS-On4MrQdX_zlbPvWEtHUULGvJqMHNBLjnE/s320/3B7535DF-7C19-4647-BCD5-9D42019E821F.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div><p>So, with Blair and John Samuel eliminated from the survival challenge, Carson and Anna Kathryn let us know that they were still in the game. They met us at our house in time for dinner and we started planning some things we could do around town on our staycation. We did some fine dining. Showed Anna Kathryn a few sights around town. Visited the rooftop of a local hotel. Toured a guitar exhibit at our local Mississippi Arts and Entertainment Museum. Watched Bulldog baseball. Ate at our favorite Italian restaurant. Worked on Otis’s grave and put out his marker that arrived. We went to our land in the country, rode the ATV, and cooked dinner over a fire. Church and lunch with a family friend. It wasn’t anything like what we had planned, but it was a beautiful weekend and so fun to have a 3 day double date with Carson and Anna Kathryn. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2FisiP_Erk00kXJjcl4RBWyZ3a3mIWXNLtHuqLBYcPbowxUcr46nw-Yq2mH0GTDhqn26HlH3wYkYg3xccNSLNAnzSBtUr_aRdULt3fkBBakq5zUZKBe8GbySHO3KKn7wXFBAxxkcarltsxDzJShQHjUsyd21LzYKNJtL64frrrt-oBn1DsOMqfpYghPw/s2048/771BFDE4-8C34-428E-AE36-DF340000C48E.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2FisiP_Erk00kXJjcl4RBWyZ3a3mIWXNLtHuqLBYcPbowxUcr46nw-Yq2mH0GTDhqn26HlH3wYkYg3xccNSLNAnzSBtUr_aRdULt3fkBBakq5zUZKBe8GbySHO3KKn7wXFBAxxkcarltsxDzJShQHjUsyd21LzYKNJtL64frrrt-oBn1DsOMqfpYghPw/w300-h400/771BFDE4-8C34-428E-AE36-DF340000C48E.jpeg" width="300" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaJ-64EiGkVmjMblBe2bFhdUq-SfMzgomNe5VA4SonqhBIqPcGiOWxW9Q1gCnSfPyDH721I6bgvaFN2lYe-pPRv8ZS6kgOrWWKDrJSRPTlXTo-k-5cSXX-u2Fptp_mCskLZ-yx0e9_huyGCMmtdxMRcbHgfcAdCpZ-vfJ8LtRL1kw0cyZ7lpY9fvSvg-s/s2587/3A9A6B27-6E4D-4F55-A238-AFEA2BE64FD8.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2587" data-original-width="2357" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaJ-64EiGkVmjMblBe2bFhdUq-SfMzgomNe5VA4SonqhBIqPcGiOWxW9Q1gCnSfPyDH721I6bgvaFN2lYe-pPRv8ZS6kgOrWWKDrJSRPTlXTo-k-5cSXX-u2Fptp_mCskLZ-yx0e9_huyGCMmtdxMRcbHgfcAdCpZ-vfJ8LtRL1kw0cyZ7lpY9fvSvg-s/w365-h400/3A9A6B27-6E4D-4F55-A238-AFEA2BE64FD8.jpeg" width="365" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_22hoXIFPfhm8t8OxTi_LbF5ydjj1vetI1fExZJwzPpAdBSZSagNU1kC448blj81pht8Fa1M68LENuUsxacWdsWaU6Dq69z2GgAhmesFEcXE_5QOtFYH94ptzlbGxpxwtCDyACAP7C_aSCQAeshkvr795iRnkPhmBWBsKxARBqbp75I-DHC6GEYxqM1I/s2048/B14F9303-D777-47CC-8288-5FD444EE5CC7.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_22hoXIFPfhm8t8OxTi_LbF5ydjj1vetI1fExZJwzPpAdBSZSagNU1kC448blj81pht8Fa1M68LENuUsxacWdsWaU6Dq69z2GgAhmesFEcXE_5QOtFYH94ptzlbGxpxwtCDyACAP7C_aSCQAeshkvr795iRnkPhmBWBsKxARBqbp75I-DHC6GEYxqM1I/w300-h400/B14F9303-D777-47CC-8288-5FD444EE5CC7.jpeg" width="300" /></a></div><br /><p>Y’all have a great week! Let me know if I can help you with your travel plans. </p><p>JONI </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Jonihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14946161822865311531noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3894524135734016573.post-61758136682927084622024-02-20T21:56:00.000-08:002024-02-20T21:56:24.466-08:00A Wedding Story <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLert8GNryDhhW4nUa8tNwgjCFP2G8Ixs8iH9UEmmikGEPSG_J5wDC3_gYoSkf_BqJB6cLl_ZJPWbDiiYdEu1fO6me9OWgVX7qtUg731DdiVw875FlhDtVaDA4X0ZOnSVkfPcOAb0VxN0LNrg2aVAZK8ktfJxqS2qc0U1ieA48rwSRr-bmF9KANp0GQ_Y/s4032/9EDF577E-AEB0-4037-85A6-A6D0A39A48B1.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLert8GNryDhhW4nUa8tNwgjCFP2G8Ixs8iH9UEmmikGEPSG_J5wDC3_gYoSkf_BqJB6cLl_ZJPWbDiiYdEu1fO6me9OWgVX7qtUg731DdiVw875FlhDtVaDA4X0ZOnSVkfPcOAb0VxN0LNrg2aVAZK8ktfJxqS2qc0U1ieA48rwSRr-bmF9KANp0GQ_Y/w640-h480/9EDF577E-AEB0-4037-85A6-A6D0A39A48B1.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div><p>February continues as the month of anniversaries. This week, Davis and I will celebrate our 32nd wedding anniversary. Thirty-three years ago, we went out on our first date on Valentine’s Day. Thirty-two years ago from this Thursday, guests arrived at our 2:00 wedding at the church I’d gone to all of my life. The 55 year old me now realizes a 2:00 wedding messes up the whole day for everybody, so that’s on me if you were there. The piano and organ were playing wedding numbers like “Clair de Lune” and Piano Sonata No. 8 in C Minor- the classics by all the greats. The male guests donned their suits, ties, and tasseled loafers while the women had wrangled themselves into pantyhose, high heels, and wide belts that were cinched around their waists. I’d even venture to say there’d been some beauty shop appointments on the previous day. Banked by our closest friends and beautiful flowers, Davis and I promised to stick it out through thick and thin in front of God and the crowd gathered there. There were teary mothers with big corsages and daddies dressed in uncomfortably tight collars and shiny shoes. At 105 pounds soaking wet, I’d selected a form fitting satin number with lots of beadwork, a bow just above my rear, and a detachable train. Davis sported his traditional black tux and his large round glasses were at the height of eyewear fashion of the time. The minister recited the love chapter. Someone sang “The Lord’s Prayer.” We kissed and were introduced. Everyone clapped and we walked out of there. </p><p>In the 90’s, where else would you have your reception besides downstairs in the fellowship hall? Finger foods of every description and layers of cake awaited the mid-afternoon crowd- hungry after an afternoon of nuptial spectating. Gallons of chilled punch were sitting on ready with an ice ring of some description floating at the top of the silver bowl. Guests juggled plates and cups while nibbling, sipping, and working the room- one of those skills learned from years of Baptist fellowship hall experience. The piano player had shifted to lighter, livelier tunes to set the tone for the reception. Gifts accumulated on a table in the corner- most likely Lenox Solitaire china, cobalt blue Fiestaware, and jewel tone towels- all so 90’s. We all moved outside, after a while, where we threw the bouquet and garter into the air for our friends to fight over, ran through a hailstorm of rice, and loaded into a white limo to head out to our new life together. </p><p>The wedding is the easiest part of getting married and then you have to go home and try to figure out how to come together on thermostat settings, mattress firmness, dishwasher-loading techniques, and toilet seat etiquette. Not to mention who sleeps on which side of the bed, where you’ll spend holidays, and what to name the children. Add in the expectations we all bring from our growing-up home life experiences plus all those things you had <i>no</i> idea about like how terribly loud he breathes when he sleeps and you’ve got a lot to hammer out between you. That two becoming one thing can be a booger when very different people are trying to figure out how to merge. </p><p>Marriage also goes through different seasons. There were those newlywed years when we spoiled each other. With just the two of us to consider, we exchanged extravagant gifts at Christmas, traveled, and enjoyed a lot of time together. The kids came and I stayed home with them, so we trimmed all the fat off the budget and made it work. With two children, we’d pass each other coming and going as they kept us busy….not to mention working to pay for the expensive creatures that they are. Now we’re back to where we started 32 years ago- just Davis and me. It took a couple of mournful weeks for me to adjust to not having any children at home, but soon we nestled down into the soft feathers they’d left behind and took to the empty nest quite nicely. It may be one of my favorite seasons so far- but don’t tell our kids. It would hurt their feelings. I guess we just sit and wait for the next season now. The one where the kids take our keys, clean out our house, and move us into a facility, where I’ll go to crafts class and Davis will sit in the game room and watch sports with the only other man resident in the building. I can see where that could be fun, too. </p><p>In looking back over the last 32 years, I’ve made some choices I’m quite sure weren’t the best. My bridesmaid dresses. Blair’s clown themed nursery. Maternity overalls. The wedge haircut. Agreeing to an in-home vacuum demonstration. One thing’s for certain though- Davis Miller will always be one of my finest choices. I’m not sure what I would do without him. I’m not even sure what I would’ve done the last two weeks without him. He <i>is<b> </b></i>the love chapter and I’m thankful God gave him to me. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK7ICSVbw93EbLje3ESlZgQ-JdS3jTwBWl2KSFPyhTultscuUVxuSRMsKJbXllSV_W9_ZOM5mXlphmpnYbVeHR8CGQahc1KGJUR6s9PS5Meu89C5wr0PzuWY899ypz7_xJwxOT4serg0g0NjaTXCuOskoZStsfIoLLlbD98InkvAld93h1jpb4S5pIzB4/s2184/E78C187B-4DA6-4196-B987-9C2FC5F0D9F5.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2184" data-original-width="1636" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK7ICSVbw93EbLje3ESlZgQ-JdS3jTwBWl2KSFPyhTultscuUVxuSRMsKJbXllSV_W9_ZOM5mXlphmpnYbVeHR8CGQahc1KGJUR6s9PS5Meu89C5wr0PzuWY899ypz7_xJwxOT4serg0g0NjaTXCuOskoZStsfIoLLlbD98InkvAld93h1jpb4S5pIzB4/w300-h400/E78C187B-4DA6-4196-B987-9C2FC5F0D9F5.jpeg" width="300" /></a></div><p>We’re heading out tomorrow for a few days in Chattanooga. The kids will join us there on Thursday for a long weekend. We were planning to go out West, but the timing just wasn’t right with Blair’s upcoming embryo transfer on April 2. We <i>all</i> felt the loss of Otis and we <i>all</i> look forward nervously but with hopeful anticipation to April 2. On this anniversary, it just felt right that we should all be together. </p><p>Hope you have a great day! See you next week. </p><p>JONI </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Jonihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14946161822865311531noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3894524135734016573.post-23586021395178439702024-02-12T22:10:00.000-08:002024-02-12T22:36:25.401-08:00Ten Years with You <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQI7dH_bioomlodOh1_FqxaVfifoRPvSMujAm27QdPQdwGdk-GteZ3HVEYF6mwkCTWCQDYuBDGOcpAoFKk9Wc6CjoMWTLU3QQP0SCr3eYZbuYd2B8G2-m9vhqcpGm1Ekch7CwFxn4QnlS7Z7Pxrc5KDkSTSOum2LFd-ZS0t6TajraWHo2R7WIL91ds0Pk/s1024/E002B760-5121-4575-8DA6-59E5EB2E11BE.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="682" data-original-width="1024" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQI7dH_bioomlodOh1_FqxaVfifoRPvSMujAm27QdPQdwGdk-GteZ3HVEYF6mwkCTWCQDYuBDGOcpAoFKk9Wc6CjoMWTLU3QQP0SCr3eYZbuYd2B8G2-m9vhqcpGm1Ekch7CwFxn4QnlS7Z7Pxrc5KDkSTSOum2LFd-ZS0t6TajraWHo2R7WIL91ds0Pk/w400-h266/E002B760-5121-4575-8DA6-59E5EB2E11BE.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><p>First, thank you for all your sweet words. When our hearts are sad, there is no substitution for the comfort of friends. This week marks 10 years of being friends with you through this blog and we’ve experienced a lot of things in those years. Graduations, grief, a wedding, national tragedies, personal losses, celebrations, an empty nest, milestone birthdays, surgeries, retirements, a pandemic, election seasons, menopause. Even a casting call from <i>Naked and Afraid</i>. For every one of us, life weaves triumph, pain, loss, exhilaration, sorrow, joy- all together in our summation of days. We couldn’t bear the sorrow without the hope of joy returning and we wouldn’t appreciate the joy without feeling the occasional sting of sorrow. Matters of love, loss, change- they’re pretty universal and, thankfully, we can relate and share those experiences together. I’ve so enjoyed doing that with you for a decade. </p><p>As I always do, I was reading the comments on Otis’s post and one, in particular, stopped me in my tracks. So much so that I’m writing a whole post around it. LeighAnn, a reader who I don’t know personally, wanted me to know that she was having trouble sleeping last Monday night. As is her custom when she can’t sleep, she uses that time to pray for her children and family. LeighAnn said, as she was praying for them, she felt a nudge to pray for me, a lady she’d never met. Although she felt like she knew me through the blog, she had no idea why she was being moved to randomly pray for me, but she did and she’ll never fully realize what that meant to me. That she would take time to pray for a stranger for an undisclosed reason.</p><p>The flip side of that is, in the middle of the night on Monday, while I was fast asleep and blissfully unaware- the God of heaven and earth was looking ahead to what little me would experience within just a couple of days and considered my upcoming heartache to be significant enough that He paused to ask one of His children to pray for me. Even with wars and sickness and death and chaos of every kind going on in the world, He took a moment to lead His child to pray for me because I was going to lose a dog I loved. Imagine that. Something very small in comparison to so many other things. He knew I would need certain things in extra measure from Him. Things I had no idea I’d need. LeighAnn did her part and God did His and I’m so thankful she relayed the story to me. It completely humbled me. </p><p>The various pains I carry around in my heart are different from the ones you bear. Some of our struggles are big and public and make their way onto prayer lists or even newspapers, but most are the ones we carry quietly and try to come to grips with on our own through prayer. If I asked us all to list the things that are weighing on our hearts in the comment section, our lists would all be unique and far-reaching. We might read them all and be tempted to subconsciously rank them in order of severity and significance, but God doesn’t do that. All He knows is, if one of His children is hurting in their heart, He will do whatever He has to do- no matter the time of day or night- to help that child bear the pain. In matters big or small. </p><p>I couldn’t wrap up today without an attempt at an Otis analogy. One of his many quirks was he wanted to go in and out <i>all</i> day long. He’d see his doodle friends from the window and bark to go out and I’d open the door to let him go play. In the middle of playing, he’d stop dead still, cold turkey and run to the door wanting back inside. He didn’t need anything. He just wanted to come back in for a short roll call to make sure I was still here. After taking attendance, he’d be ready to head back out for some more. This happened <i>all</i> day long. In and out. In and out. It didn’t take a genius to figure out why he was obsessive with the routine checks. At some point, someone had left him behind as they drove off. He’d been abandoned and, even though he knew he was loved here, he carried that scar around with him. The fear that it might happen again. So, he’d never allow himself too much time to lie in the sun, run with other dogs, or chase squirrels before he’d have to head back in to settle in his mind that his person was still here. Once he had his confirmation, off he’d go again. </p><p>We all have hurt we bear. Maybe from bad experiences, trauma, rejection, unfulfilled longings, loss, fear, betrayal. Life has a million different ways it can leave us scarred and hurting. There are times we might find ourselves like my rescued dog- frantically searching for evidence that God, our Father, is still there. Needing reassurance that He hasn’t left us. Let me assure you, not only is He there, but as I’ve been reminded- He is working day and night on our behalf. If a dog’s death reminded me of anything, it is that most basic truth. He is for us. He is good. He is faithful. Even in those things that seem so small up next to the big things. If it hurts your heart, He cares. Enough to make provisions for you and weave ribbons of mercy into your situation to make it easier to bear. </p><p>Thank you for giving me the honor of reading my blog for 10 years. I wish we could all get together somewhere to celebrate over a big sheet cake, maybe some pineapple-ginger ale punch, and karaoke. You are a blessing to my life. We will laugh again soon. </p><p>Much love, </p><p>JONI </p><p><b style="font-style: italic;">“I thank my God every time I remember you.” </b><b>Philippians 1:3</b></p>Jonihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14946161822865311531noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3894524135734016573.post-66387874761502918422024-02-08T16:24:00.000-08:002024-02-08T20:14:29.100-08:0011 Months, 2 Weeks, and 4 Days<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIBrKSqyJRtPwRJittHGPqkiDPiyumW0K8UaFdUI5bR5xNQhH_utKS6RR_LFRjBviv4zkOT7-bSCMtOhqZv3d4-gJek-OFh-b95dWnSYa3JOg09HK8EzT6hzpI4cXniefp4K6LrBeDTw_n9fQFviSODRWja6tGnAKkNc9gNOsxY31uR3189imLJoFFabE/s4032/C67E03DD-CA3F-4859-A5D5-98DB0D001DC5.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIBrKSqyJRtPwRJittHGPqkiDPiyumW0K8UaFdUI5bR5xNQhH_utKS6RR_LFRjBviv4zkOT7-bSCMtOhqZv3d4-gJek-OFh-b95dWnSYa3JOg09HK8EzT6hzpI4cXniefp4K6LrBeDTw_n9fQFviSODRWja6tGnAKkNc9gNOsxY31uR3189imLJoFFabE/w640-h480/C67E03DD-CA3F-4859-A5D5-98DB0D001DC5.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div><p>Otis and I walked in the vet’s office on Monday for his (almost) one year visit. It had been 11 months, 2 weeks, and 4 days since he came to live with us. We checked in at the desk and sat down in the waiting room. Otis’s legs were shaking and he was nervously pacing, but he wasn’t so nervous that he couldn’t do periodic squirrel checks from the glass door. Otis likes the familiar. The routine. The usual. He’s a man who prefers to stay within the chalk lines of ordinary, standard, and regimented. Vet visits aren’t something we do frequently enough to qualify for that list. </p><p>A young lady came in after we were seated. It was obvious she’d been crying. She told the receptionist she was there to sit with her dog. When she said his name, her voice cracked and the silent crying started. The kind that wants to come out in wails, but just releases itself in shaking instead. I wasn’t sure of the circumstances, but I thought it was likely an end of life situation. I wanted to hug her. I recognized that hurt on her face. I remembered that grief. I looked over at Otis and thought how much joy he’d brought me. So much laughter and so much love. But, I knew when I took him as my own, there would be another day in the future when I would be heartbroken over him. It was a stipulation I’d agreed to on the front end- just like the poor girl at the counter. It was then I remember thinking- well, at least, he’s young and I won’t have to worry about that for a long, long time. </p><p>You know the story. Otis and I first crossed paths as I was driving home, one October night in 2022. He walked across the road in front of my car- obviously lost and out of place- and, from that point, I was never able to get him off of my mind. On February 17, 2023, he was finally captured and he came to live with us when he was released from the vet on the 18th. The 18th of this month was going to be a BIG day at the Miller house. There would be a pup cup- maybe a McDonald’s cheeseburger. A trip to the country to chase squirrels. All the things Otis loved to do to celebrate a year with him. Instead, I’m sitting here doing what I do when I lose something precious. I’m trying to process my grief through writing, because I lost my good boy yesterday. He went outside to play with several neighborhood dogs in our yard and was hit by someone who sped off. He died in my arms on the way to the vet. Two days after I’d empathized with the young lady at the counter, we were walking through the same doors with his lifeless body. </p><p>Otis’s life story was a mystery. We’re not sure how he ended up on the streets. He had so many little quirks. We’re not sure if he was dumped on the streets because he had so many quirks or if he had so many quirks because he was dumped on the streets. There were a couple of months devoted to just forming a bond with him so he wouldn’t run off and that required that he and I be attached by a leash at all times. To say we bonded would be the understatement of all of history. We tried the underground fence after bonding. We moved flags and rearranged flags and moved flags again, but a man’s man like Otis wouldn’t be reined in by a few flags and electricity. For the first few months, it seemed like we’d solve one problem and another would be created. We spent approximately a quarter of a million dollars and 5,421 manpower hours trying to find the right solutions for him. We were always looking for a balance between keeping him safe and letting him be happy being the kind of high-energy hunting dog he was- we decided life behind a fence would be misery for him. </p><p>After a couple of months of domestication training, he worked his way from the yard/garage into our house with the only casualties being a few throw pillows, some socks, 3 dog beds, a Christmas gift- well, you get the idea. Eventually, he learned the rules of the house and abided by them most of the time. But, in his heart, Otis was a man of the great outdoors, so his bed was next to the glass backdoor where he could be apprised of any and all movement of <i>any</i> kind. A squirrel, a cat, a leaf, a piece of paper, another dog- all would call for his immediate action as he would start singing verses of his hound dog songs signaling I needed to open the door at once before he segued into the chorus. He just wanted to hunt. All. Day. Long. Davis was walking him three times a day and taking him to the country 2-3 times a week to let him run and explore and chase every living thing. He chased all manner of moving things and, when he was feeling especially frisky, sadly, he’d chase a car or 4-wheeler which led to his untimely end on our quiet, little street. </p><p>Heartbroken is the only word to describe what we are- Ruby, Davis, me. I know there are people with far bigger problems and have experienced losses that are so infinitely deeper than this, but the heart grieves for what it loves and, at the moment, mine is grieving for a dog it loved named Otis. Who stole my heart on a busy road on a dark October night. Since he came here, I was his person. The one he looked for when he needed reassurance and comfort. As women, we like to mother and make things better for the one who needs extra help. When someone needs a little more support to get along, it brings to the surface all those nurturing instincts God gave us. Otis had awakened all of that in me. I saw in him something so sweet and so very gentle and yet so hurt and so broken. It was my goal to make him know what love and happiness were all about. And for 11 months, 2 weeks, and 4 days, I did my very best to love him in a way that would make him forget everything that came before us. Otis finally knew what it was to feel safe and loved and secure and so very wanted. I just wish he’d had more time to enjoy those things. Safety, love, security, belonging. He needed so much more than 11 months, 2 weeks, and 4 days to feel all those good things he deserved. </p><p>Today has been hard. I so dreaded getting out of bed knowing I wouldn’t find him in any of those places where he should be. There are reminders of him in every corner of our house. Ruby is looking for him outside and smelling where he was last. And whenever she hears my crying grow audible, her little feet come clicking down the hall headed to where I am. She sits down quietly next to me and puts her paw on my arm or my leg. No words are needed. She can’t offer those. She’s just letting me know she knows how I feel because she’s feeling it, too. What loyal and devoted friends, we have in our dogs. Ruby has brought so much joy to our home in her 5 years here. I know the bill for loving her will come due one day, too. Please, let it be a long, long time from now. Such a sweet return but so high a price. It has me asking if I’ll ever do it again. </p><p>Yesterday morning, instead of speaking a quick good morning to my Otis with a usual rub under the chin, I knelt on his bed, put my elbows down next to him, and lingered there with belly rubs and baby talk. Naturally, I have some regrets, but the way he was greeted to meet his very last day isn’t one of them. </p><p>If I live to be 110, I will never stop missing a dog named Otis. </p><p>Rest easy, my good, good boy. </p><p>JONI </p><p><i>Thank you to Dr. Misty McNeil who took care of Otis when he was brought in off the streets- all the way through Monday. Yesterday, she simply took care of me when there was nothing more to be done for him. She was always so attentive and loving to Otis and wanted to help me find solutions for some of our challenges. You know you have a first-class vet when they get on the floor and cry right along with you. That’s not stuff they learn in school. That comes from the heart. I will always remember her for that. </i></p><p><i>Thank you to Amber Robinson who caught Otis and made it possible for him to know so much love and fun before he lived out his short days. Because of him, she and I were brought together in friendship. She was there in the beginning and the middle and she was there at the sad end. I don’t know how rescue people like her do what they do- putting mistreated animals above their emotional comfort by allowing themselves to experience grief over and over and over again. She’s been so supportive in wanting to help me help Otis. What a sweet parting gift for Otis to leave his person- a beautiful friend. </i></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Jonihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14946161822865311531noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3894524135734016573.post-38693343980850125572024-01-23T22:45:00.000-08:002024-02-13T20:26:41.410-08:00The Talk: The Final Saga <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2bJPoJPlWiENwE-pjwP6mSUibzhJhVQI8bfS1-06Z8QswGHvAXLFAJB6_86Py-6MMW8NPvia9kSLsy_AqGNhv083Nw3rco8wHF1MEEMpd-Og13Zm4uDoCE2i36-9lQ2hsZQjYPa53goCDOE7xEFBsC0MynZgpJNjxRDDbQdX7G_TzTCf_ZkvPoRVuNAQ/s390/8158C7EE-A86C-4484-9DF9-75302CDDCCBC.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="257" data-original-width="390" height="264" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2bJPoJPlWiENwE-pjwP6mSUibzhJhVQI8bfS1-06Z8QswGHvAXLFAJB6_86Py-6MMW8NPvia9kSLsy_AqGNhv083Nw3rco8wHF1MEEMpd-Og13Zm4uDoCE2i36-9lQ2hsZQjYPa53goCDOE7xEFBsC0MynZgpJNjxRDDbQdX7G_TzTCf_ZkvPoRVuNAQ/w400-h264/8158C7EE-A86C-4484-9DF9-75302CDDCCBC.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><p>When I was about 10 or 11, my mother called me into her bedroom, one afternoon, and shut the door. I remember thinking this must be something really big and important. Boy, I’ll say. I sat down on the bed, while she proceeded to have “the talk” with me. I don’t remember all that much about it except there was a book, some repulsive, implausible concepts explained, and subsequent awkwardness and urgency to return to playing outside. You remember that. You’re probably visualizing in your mind where you were when your mom had the talk with you. Looking back on it, Blair gives me somewhere between a C+ and C- for my discussion with her. Most everyone can picture their mom on that particular day. Her face flushed as she stuttered and stammered trying to explain things without <i>really</i> explaining them. It’s one generation getting the next ready for a big change that’s coming their way, so they’re not completely caught off guard some fateful day in 7th grade math. Oh, but they could’ve never <i>completely</i> prepared us- as blissfully carefree as we were- for what atomic bomb awaited us, but it certainly helped softened the boom. </p><p>I’ve been thinking it would probably be prudent for a mother to have a second talk with her daughter. When a daughter celebrates her, let’s say, 47th birthday, her mom ought to ask her to come over and talk again. Maybe the discussions could be labeled “The Talk” and “The Talk: The Final Saga.” This time, she should explain the <i>next</i> big transformation that lurks on the horizon.<i style="font-weight: bold;"> </i>Something like- <span style="font-style: italic;">Now, you may be noticing some changes in your body and that is perfectly normal. It’s called a </span><i>muffin top and you will have it until the day they put you in the ground. You may find yourself more irritable and impatient than usual as I, too, have found you to be. You might hear your friends talk about having trouble remembering things, but don’t let that frighten you. You, too, will start to notice you can’t even think of names of everyday objects. You might say to your husband, “Please, hand me the…the….that….over there…you know…..the black thing that changes channels.” Again, no cause for concern. Like generations before you, you will walk into a room, stand there, and wonder what you’re supposed to be doing. Your chin will start to grow stray hair that will remind you of your Grandpa Jones. And, one day, out of nowhere, you’ll start to sweat and burn from your forehead to the small of your back. You might suspect you’re having a stroke, but it’s all very normal and natural and you should never feel weird or self-conscious. Don’t forget you’re still special- just in a changing way. </i></p><p>Last week, I went for my yearly appointment and mentioned my increased hot flashes/night sweats to the doctor and he offered some prescription remedies for my unpredictable overheating. I wasn’t interested in adding to my medicine stash, so he said I could try the natural supplement, Gingko Biloba, for the flashes and accompanying brain fog. I came home and ordered a big bottle from Puritan’s Pride. I skipped right over their 1 and 2 month supply options and went straight to the cheese ball tub size. I took my first dose yesterday and I’m expecting big things. Cold, icy, and rainy may describe conditions on the outside, but heat and fog are the weather systems that have moved in and stalled over me at the moment. </p><p>I filed into the choir loft on Sunday with the rest of the singers and, as soon as the air in the sanctuary hit my face, I knew it would be a long service. With the weather outside being unusually cold, the powers that be had obviously overcompensated with the heat setting. You know, those nameless captains of church climate who stay in the shadow of anonymity so to not attract criticism from the cold crowd <i>or</i> the hot herd. Not wishing that their parishioners succumb to the cold lest the hospital list get out of hand, it was apparently decided to err on the side of incineration that day. To splurge on the electric bill and envelop the congregation in a blanket of fire. And so, it was. </p><p>Did I forget to mention the choir wears robes? On any given Sunday, this isn’t a big deal one way or another but, on this particular day, it became a considerable factor. The robe serves as, let’s say, the aluminum foil on a baked potato- trapping in the heat and moisture for faster cook times. Quickly, the heat enfolded me and, making its way under the robe, it set off one of my hot flashes. The kind of heat that burns and tingles the nerve endings and comes up from deep within- I suspect somewhere around the kidneys or small intestines and working its way up through the chest, neck, and face before finally rolling down the back in drops of sweat. It’s the kind of heat that will make a woman look down to be sure she hasn’t accidentally caught herself on fire. </p><p>The church bulletin has long served dual purposes of informing congregants of the order of the service and its lesser-talked-about side gig of the creation of air movement in warm surroundings. Did I mention our service is televised? Bulletins waving back and forth in the air aren’t the most becoming backdrop for a pastor, but I suppose a choir loft full of fainting goats wouldn’t be that great either. I looked around and noticed most of the 50-and-over altos were red-faced and shifting uncomfortably in their seats. I did create a few gusts of wind with my bulletin until I deemed it too distracting for the level of comfort it brought in return. I listened intently to the sermon as my innards reached the temperature of rare, then medium rare and, by the hymn of invitation - well done. </p><p>Mothers of 40-something daughters, don’t wait and let your daughters get their information on the streets. Change is coming. Knowledge is power. </p><p><br /></p><p>Night, y’all-</p><p>JONI </p><p></p>Jonihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14946161822865311531noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3894524135734016573.post-69709945325386771452024-01-18T21:56:00.000-08:002024-01-19T20:11:13.275-08:00Pleasant Dreams? <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoCbXnKGMMVTtDiYjm3M2e5_E7LNcoQO1A9QjIVFIOvDiWTEbOsYWkpHZQE4X16SN8b7XlZ3uL-8FgA1pbQUXgJ-hV0lIInVkP5ljJt83pkkeVoX_Tui3oiwJbVNzKBS91PHJcp7LDioKY0JLBPcLV77z3qul9hR5oWF6-p7xG_3u8FT7KfB1fIxXCkQ4/s736/6DAD1F5F-B7A3-49EB-924F-4AA96FDF19EB.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="489" data-original-width="736" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoCbXnKGMMVTtDiYjm3M2e5_E7LNcoQO1A9QjIVFIOvDiWTEbOsYWkpHZQE4X16SN8b7XlZ3uL-8FgA1pbQUXgJ-hV0lIInVkP5ljJt83pkkeVoX_Tui3oiwJbVNzKBS91PHJcp7LDioKY0JLBPcLV77z3qul9hR5oWF6-p7xG_3u8FT7KfB1fIxXCkQ4/w640-h426/6DAD1F5F-B7A3-49EB-924F-4AA96FDF19EB.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div>It’s been unusually cold and even icy here as I’m sure it’s been where you live. Being stuck in the house for a couple of days, I don’t have much to talk about so I’ll tell y’all about a dream I had. I’m a big dreamer. The kind you do while sleeping, that is. My dreams have so much detail and it’s crazy how I remember most of them. I’m not sure what that says about me. I read that people who have more white matter in their medial prefrontal cortex, which is linked with processing info about ourselves and introspection, are more likely to remember dreams. I don’t like to brag about my white matter but if you’ve got it, you’ve apparently got it. </div><div><div><br /></div><div>On Sunday morning, I’d never been so thankful to wake up and realize I was just dreaming. I know I’ve told y’all about this dream before because it’s recurring. In my almost 10 years (next month) of blogging, I <i>know</i> it has <i>surely</i> been discussed before now. The setting may be different each time. The people may change. The details may vary. The gist of it <i>never </i>does. First of all, y’all know I did floral work for weddings for 20 years. My last wedding was in 2009. Stay with me. 2024 - 2009 = 15 years. It’s been 15 years since I’ve been responsible for a wedding and I’m still having this dream. </div><div><br /></div><div>As Sophia on <i>The Golden Girls</i> would say, “Picture it.” I’m in the chapel of the church where I grew up. I’m busy working on my friend’s wedding. Her name is Sheila. I’m also supposed to be a bridesmaid in the wedding. It’s a dual responsibility, which I’ve tackled many times in real life so no big deal. I’m busy. So, so busy. Working hard but hardly making any progress. I’m going through my checklist in my mind. I’m looking at my watch. All the things I have to do. The bride’s bouquet. The bridesmaids’ bouquets. The church arrangements. The candles. The pew markers. The boutonnières. All of sudden, there are people everywhere. Lots of people. I realize it’s time to take pictures and guests are starting to arrive. I see so many people I recognize in their wedding attire. They’re wondering what’s going on. They’re asked to wait outside until I get finished. They’re impatient. Standing in the street outside. Not only do I have hardly anything done, I’ve made a huge mess on the floor with what I <i>have</i> done. On top of that, I haven’t even showered and gotten dressed for my bridesmaid duties. I have to go to tell Sheila. I pass the bridesmaids in their lovely light blue gowns. I look and look for the bride, but she’s nowhere to be found in the crowd. I look for her mom to tell <i>her</i> the bad news. There won’t be a bride’s bouquet. Nothing for the attendants to carry. The church only has candles and no flowers. The guests will be late getting inside because of the mess. And I won’t be in the wedding because I’ve not bathed or dressed. Her mother was so kind and understanding- just like in real life. She hugged and kissed me and I slinked off to my car and left my friend to get married in an undecorated church without me standing by her side. As if I wasn’t feeling bad enough, a lady from the church called and let me have it. As a bona-fide middle child, people-pleaser, I woke up and relief doesn’t begin to cover what I was feeling when I realized none of that really happened. </div><div><br /></div><div>I was telling Davis about my dream on our way to church. He knows, once or twice a year, that’s my mind’s go-to dream in some shape or form. It’s always flowers and a wedding and not getting the job done. I felt like we were having a Pharaoh and Joseph moment. Not that he claims any dream interpretation skills, but he asked me if I was feeling inadequate or inefficient or overwhelmed in anything. After all, that is the obvious theme of these white knuckle dreams. I couldn’t think of anything out of the ordinary, but don’t we all, sometimes, feel like we’re living under the shadow of expectations we’re not sure we can meet?</div><div> </div><div>Then, it dawned on me. Over the weekend, I’d typed out a post draft telling you I’d decided to go in another direction with my writing- maybe microblogging which is basically what I was doing before the blog. I’ve been praying about this for almost a year now. I still don’t have a clear answer on what I’m supposed to do, so I just typed out a draft to see how putting the words down felt- trying to find the right keys through my tears. I was going to just let it simmer on the back burner and keep praying for direction. I needed to make sure I wasn’t holding on just because it’s been part of my identity for so long. After a month shy of a decade, it’s harder and harder to find things we haven’t discussed….repeatedly, in some cases. We’ve covered just about every topic, expressed every emotion, shared every kind of experience, laughed at every joke. We’ve talked our way through every season, occasion, milestone. I have a fear of sounding like a broken record and, if dreams are our mind’s way of processing what we’re feeling, maybe it was the draft that sparked my go-to inadequacy dream. We may all feel inefficient or inadequate at times, but, thankfully, His grace is always sufficient for us. </div><div><br /></div><div>All that to say, I’m still praying about where to go from here. Maybe nowhere. Maybe somewhere else, where you can go along with me. I won’t bring this up again until I’m sure of what God wants me to do. I don’t want to beat this into the ground and I’m NOT fishing for complimentary feedback, so please don’t think that. This is just what we do here- talk about what’s on our minds. Until I’m absolutely certain, I’m staying put and we’ll keep doing what we do with not another word about it. For 10 years, it’s been and continues to be one of the greatest blessings, absolute joys, and humble privileges of my life. </div><div><br /></div><div>Sweet dreams, y’all-</div><div><br /></div><div>JONI </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /><div><br /></div><div> </div><div><br /></div></div></div>Jonihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14946161822865311531noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3894524135734016573.post-57669808871272174112024-01-10T20:36:00.000-08:002024-01-11T06:16:27.752-08:00Post-Christmas Indolence Report <p>First of all, I have to say we were all overwhelmed with the emails and messages concerning Blair and John Samuel’s miraculous turn of events. Whether you shared your own story of infertility, promised your prayers, or offered encouragement- every single word was a gift to us all. Thank you so much for taking the time to encourage them- to encourage us. You all really touched my heart and I can’t say thank you enough. They’ve delayed the transfer until the first week of April. With just one embryo, they want to have time to get Blair in the most ideal condition for the big day. We really would all appreciate your continued prayers for them through the coming months. </p><p>So, did y’all survive the endurance test that is Christmas? For three or four days in a row, it feels like you’re off to the races. Bake something, put it on a pretty platter, get dressed in some shade of red or green, load gifts in the car, drive to family’s house or wait for them to get to yours, eat cream cheese, bacon, butter, almond bark, and refined sugars in various forms and shapes. Repeat steps for each side of the family- which can be a lot of repeats if you get together with your extended families like we do. </p><p>Now I’m having trouble getting back up and at ‘em. Something about those two weeks- the one leading up to Christmas which exhausts you with <i>all</i> the things you have to do and the one after which spoils you because absolutely <i>nothing</i> is expected of you. Put them back to back and you become this lazy layabout who can’t walk past a chair without plopping down in it……and, before you know it, you’ve been staring off into space for 20 minutes. Yes, I’ve done that a few times. And I can’t stop eating…..or sleeping. That’s all I want to do. Eat. Sleep. Sit in a chair. So, if anyone has the antidote for the two weeks surrounding Christmas, please share. I’m suffering from lingering effects. </p><p>I don’t know how you all celebrate Christmas, but Christmas night is when we have our big meal, open gifts, and celebrate with our little family. After we’ve been with friends and extended family, it’s the night we have our most special celebration with our closest people. It’s my favorite night of the entire year. It’s just us, our children, their significant others, and my sweet mama. We open our gifts one at a time- one person at a time. I figure if I’ve shopped since July, gone to the grocery store about 42 times, and worked like a dog since Thanksgiving, by golly, we’re going to stretch this thing out as long as possible. </p><p>I’ve loved watching all the Facebook reels of what people gave and received for Christmas. Especially the parents of little kids. I really miss those days. Somehow, they’re not quite as fun to shop for when they’re shaving and paying mortgages. </p><p>I start asking for gift suggestions in the summertime. I give them budget perimeters and wait for the responses. Gift giving is my love language, so I enjoy every minute of the hunting and gathering. Blair wanted a specific purse- gold, sparkly, and conspicuous. Also on her list were workout clothes and a Pura scent diffuser. Carson wanted Birkenstocks. He’s into vinyls- mostly classic rock. And he asked for Dickie’s work pants- which I don’t get these young people and their trend of going out on the town looking like UPS drivers but whatever, son. John Samuel asked for sunglasses, running shoes, and he loves reading and baseball memorabilia. Davis- he’s the worst one. He’s a practical man and doesn’t have any wants. “I don’t need a thing…just save your money.” As a result, he gets a lot of stuff that probably makes him wish he’d given us suggestions. And since the kids grew up, stockings are now for socks and underwear with a few sugary treats at the top. Christmas night around here is no time to be sheepish about your undergarment preferences. Everyone will leave knowing yours. I did spare Carson’s girlfriend from this new family tradition and stuffed her stocking with more fun things. </p><p>I didn’t realize until I was making my photo book for 2023 that I hardly took any Christmas pictures. It’s so unlike me. This about sums up all I have of Christmas ‘23, but what a joyful one it was! </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLfvN4uo2c0Dg1Xmo4FRdh1QzX6klqAlZs7n6yDcBB1krlP143Y7FD6Ylcy-zIXXbKNcQ8I2eH43SeD5CAp75TYagE1z0tTlKQMJYs-_DQPGXko7CA15gzzjjszdSyTi5Rx1HIFo7CEyFf86JMw5cEMO2YgsYQBJ5VGvmD67DerpA0VrS04dAwRjx16yY/s1800/C32266BB-CC8B-4DF5-B7B5-23471BDCA487.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1800" data-original-width="1800" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLfvN4uo2c0Dg1Xmo4FRdh1QzX6klqAlZs7n6yDcBB1krlP143Y7FD6Ylcy-zIXXbKNcQ8I2eH43SeD5CAp75TYagE1z0tTlKQMJYs-_DQPGXko7CA15gzzjjszdSyTi5Rx1HIFo7CEyFf86JMw5cEMO2YgsYQBJ5VGvmD67DerpA0VrS04dAwRjx16yY/w400-h400/C32266BB-CC8B-4DF5-B7B5-23471BDCA487.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I know this was boring as can be, but it’s the best I could do for someone who’s been sitting in a chair, eating Christmas candy, and staring off in the distance since December 26. I mainly just wanted to thank y’all for your love and prayers for my family. We’re still in awe! I’m ready to get on with the new year and new start! I’ve had my thinking cap on for fresh ideas of different things we can do together this year! Now let’s see what we can get into in 2024! </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Much love to y’all!</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">JONI </div><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Jonihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14946161822865311531noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3894524135734016573.post-59712916812355673072023-12-18T14:47:00.000-08:002023-12-18T20:32:02.212-08:00An Unusual, Extraordinary, Uncommon Occurrence <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQsBrpFU1BzvFLkcSWYIAwaISfrO4t5T1JZ2aGJjUWwtNG8S0AB8XzmikBb5W7rVX69eNTlhmQ3sRjs_FquALFg1YOANDHEi12rOsn6liCgLs22AIjto6FD0unyLWQCL_-7qAlxQPjhHxJQXnLVpnaubAut9J_na4xXzUlW8u-rhLG-VA4VXMsEhpzo6o/s1200/56372299-9CA8-4FC3-8AC3-491296C9F19D.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="630" data-original-width="1200" height="210" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQsBrpFU1BzvFLkcSWYIAwaISfrO4t5T1JZ2aGJjUWwtNG8S0AB8XzmikBb5W7rVX69eNTlhmQ3sRjs_FquALFg1YOANDHEi12rOsn6liCgLs22AIjto6FD0unyLWQCL_-7qAlxQPjhHxJQXnLVpnaubAut9J_na4xXzUlW8u-rhLG-VA4VXMsEhpzo6o/w400-h210/56372299-9CA8-4FC3-8AC3-491296C9F19D.png" width="400" /></a></div><p>Last week, I wrote my last post for 2023 and signed off for the year…. or so I thought. Something miraculous occurred about 14 hours after I wished you all a Merry Christmas. Something too wonderful to keep to myself. Psalm 105:1-2 says,<i><b>“Give thanks to the Lord and proclaim His greatness. Let the whole world know what He has done. Sing to Him. Sing praises to Him. Tell everyone about His great works.” </b></i>That’s exactly what we wanted to do so, with the permission and collaboration of Blair and John Samuel, I want to share with you what we’re calling a Christmas miracle. </p><p>Something most of you don’t know is my sweet Blair and son-in-love, John Samuel, have been trying to have a baby for years. They were married in 2017 and the natural progression of life is usually to start a family within a few years. This was their plan, too. They’d traveled, had their careers in a good place, and had settled in a new home. They decided they were ready for children.</p><p>One year passed. Two. Three. They watched their friends, one by one, get baby bumps and cut cakes or pop balloons to reveal the gender. They hosted baby showers in their home and visited friends on the OB floor of the hospital with gifts for the new additions. They’ve taken casseroles to their friends with newborns and wished them well and they meant every word. They’ve held friends’ babies and family members’ babies while trying to keep a happy face and fight back the tears it always seemed to induce. No matter how delighted they were for their friends or family, it was always a reminder of their own longing and the possibility that they’d never experience that joy themselves. </p><p>As a mother, there’s nothing worse than seeing your child in pain. We’d rather bear any illness, want, crisis, affliction- we’d take any kind of suffering on ourselves to keep one of our children from feeling those things. For those of you who don’t know Blair personally, she is delightful. I know all mothers say that about their kids, but that’s truly her personality. Since the moment she arrived, she’s been bubbling over with joy and personality and her eyes twinkle with life and light. She even bounces when she walks and it just fits her sunny disposition. She laughs with her whole body. She is a joyful soul. A dear friend of mine, who’s been praying for their situation, recently told me Blair is still Blair on the surface, but she’s felt a hint of sadness in her the last few times she’s been with her. Like there’s something heavy she’s carrying. Of course, my friend knew exactly what that something was. There are few things more emotionally taxing than infertility. </p><p>Going on four years, they’ve struggled with this. They’ve seen doctors, embryologists, had countless blood tests, dozens and dozens of ultrasounds, three surgeries, three invasive diagnostic procedures, two diagnoses, 74 hormone injections to date, and a previous failed cycle of IVF. Between the two of them, they were taking 50 supplements a day, made drastic diet changes to eat cleanly, and a lot of other things that are too numerous to list. John Samuel even worked a side job for a while to help finance all of it because fertility treatments are very expensive. I tell you all of that just so you’ll know the background and appreciate the next part of their story. </p><p>During the Thanksgiving weekend, Blair started a second round of IVF. They’d prepaid for two cycles of IVF and the first round had failed about a year ago. Because of the cost, this would be their last try with this type of treatment, so they were excited and more than a little nervous. In some ways, this felt like their Hail Mary pass. John Samuel gave Blair the first shots of the series while they were here visiting for the Thanksgiving holiday. After more than a week of those, they went to the hospital on December 7 and the doctor retrieved her eggs. After putting their ingredients together in an incubator, they had 12 little embryos and were ecstatic. </p><p>The usual course is to leave them in the incubator for a week, see how many survive, and chart their progress before freezing for implantation. For those of you who aren’t embryologists, for the first three days, they look for cell division. They should see compacting on the 4th day and expanding by the 5th or 6th day with the baby and placenta both visible. Isn’t that amazing? In a routine that was familiar to them from the last time, the embryologist would call every day and give them an update on how many embryos they had and their scores based on those expected milestones. </p><p>Starting with 12 embryos, the number went down each day with each phone call. From 12 to 6 to 4. With every decrease in number, the parents’ spirits fell right along with it. By day 5, the embryologists were not seeing any activity in <i>any</i> of the embryos. They waited 24 hours just to be sure as they weren’t eager to make the dreaded phone call. Finally, after seeing no activity indicative of life for a whole day- no division, no compacting, no expanding- they felt confident that there was no hope of life coming from this final cycle. The last count was 0. There would be no embryo to implant. There would be no baby. The clinic called and broke the news and, given their situation and history, advised Blair and John Samuel to look into adoption or other options. There was nothing more they could do for them. </p><p>We got word of the news and we were all devastated. Blair and John Samuel were grieving. They were trying to come to grips with the fact that they may never experience one of the most basic and taken-for-granted physical functions of having their own child- something that seemed to come so easily to others around them. Everyone dreams of seeing traces of their own face in another human being. Being told you might not experience something you’ve always assumed would happen is a loss that has to be faced and processed and mourned. Blair called and was sobbing. It was the kind of weeping that comes up from the deepest parts of the heart and it broke mine. This is where we were when I wrote what I thought to be my final post of the year. I was grieving for my daughter and my son-in-law and was writing therapeutically as much as anything. Something we’d all prayed for for so long was seeming less and less likely. Godly grandparents, parents, uncles and aunts, great-uncles and great-aunts, cousins, second cousins, first cousins- twice removed, our close friends and circles, their close friends and circles. So many people had prayed for this. We know God is good, but -if I’m being honest- it wasn’t feeling much like that in the moment.</p><p>The next day, after 24 hours of crying and walking around in a daze, Blair got another phone call. They told her to sit down. The embryologist who looks at little embryos develop, <i>all</i> day <i>every</i> day, told her he didn’t know who they had praying for them, but he’d like to put some things on their list. The morning after their call to break the bad news, they’d done the required morning check on their embryos and still nothing. As a matter of routine, they checked again in the afternoon. He couldn’t believe what he saw. After sitting lifeless and unchanged for all that time, <i>one</i> embryo had divided, compacted, expanded and was hatching. All the things. Two days of growth and development had taken place in just a few hours. Just hours before their time was up, God did this miraculous thing. </p><p>The doctor was sure to communicate that this is <i>not</i> how this <i>usually</i> works. This is <i>not</i> how it <i>normally</i> goes. Things do <i>not</i> <i>typically</i> happen this way. This is <i>not</i> the <i>standard</i> pattern of development. That’s why they were so certain it was time to break the bad news that it was over, the previous day. Looking at it through a scientific lens, it <i>was</i> over. But God. I believe if it <i>had</i> happened in the usual, normal, typical, standard way, we might have been tempted to give credit to modern medicine or gloss over God’s role in it all. We believe God stopped all life processes in the embryo and then started them again to remind us He is the Giver of life and He is able to do far more than we could ever imagine. He, alone, has the final say in all things. They were able to freeze the very healthy embryo for implantation in February and we give God all the praise. </p><p>I know what you’re thinking- there’s a lot of distance and time and hurdles to clear between a frozen embryo and the birth of a viable child, and you’re right. But, to get to this point is huge for them and we choose to have faith that if God put life into that baby where there was none, He will keep His hand on it all the way. That is our prayer for the new year- that Blair and John Samuel will be holding their miracle in the glow of the Christmas lights next year. If you would give us the honor of adding it to your prayers, too, we’d be humbly grateful. </p><p>Thanks be to the One who didn’t come to us at Christmas in a typical, normal, standard, ordinary way. He has given us hope and invigorated our faith, this season. </p><p><br /></p><p>Merry Christmas, </p><p>JONI </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Jonihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14946161822865311531noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3894524135734016573.post-68546663462937925492023-12-12T22:10:00.000-08:002023-12-13T08:18:49.645-08:00Christmas Wishes<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhE9BgRigSp9wQA3ZwLZMZNxQrK6I84FIB8w6WEC6uS6LvEdUdlR_yv6Zlenhp5EbgRpQR6KkJzVp5Y7BkJYGSmIF2Qa2W77C8PCffoq2T3X2BfUwixJjgdWmF8Bh0ECeqCYNPDwTpIA52U4ogHFBpiK6EacbnRdSDjIPA3-BI9M7aCfxCiNR8vPd9aNk0/s590/D72BD78E-C238-4FF6-9191-550871C4FF92.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="393" data-original-width="590" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhE9BgRigSp9wQA3ZwLZMZNxQrK6I84FIB8w6WEC6uS6LvEdUdlR_yv6Zlenhp5EbgRpQR6KkJzVp5Y7BkJYGSmIF2Qa2W77C8PCffoq2T3X2BfUwixJjgdWmF8Bh0ECeqCYNPDwTpIA52U4ogHFBpiK6EacbnRdSDjIPA3-BI9M7aCfxCiNR8vPd9aNk0/w400-h266/D72BD78E-C238-4FF6-9191-550871C4FF92.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><div>When I was a kid, the most wonderful day of the entire year was when the Sears Christmas catalog arrived in the mailbox in its kraft paper wrapping. It usually arrived on a nippy September day. Oh, it smelled so good and the pages were crisp, smooth, and unblemished. It was a blank slate on which to record all your wants and desires for the Christmas season. Circling an item meant you wanted it. Circling it boldly with a check mark by it meant you <i>really</i> wanted it. The number of subsequent check marks beside an item was in direct correlation with how badly said item was wanted. It was just the system back then- I didn’t make it up. </div><div><br /></div><div>Every year, I’d get the new catalog and sit down on my bed with a freshly sharpened pencil. Pencil was used in case minds were changed or something better was found on the next page. I’d get busy circling and checking. So many choices and so many check marks. For a few years, there were a couple of things that were always circled and checked heavily. The Snoopy Sno-cone Machine and a Big Wheel. The sno-cone machine is self-explanatory. What was there not to love about a doghouse that made shaved ice and included 4 delicious syrups right in the box? I envisioned snowballs all day, every day and even some entrepreneurial opportunities. And the Big Wheel- well, some of my neighbors had one and I loved playing with theirs. They were available in a primary color scheme and a pink one with flowers. I wasn’t really picky about the color, I just wanted to experience the open road on a plastic three-wheeler of my very own. One with brand new stickers that weren’t peeling off like my neighbor’s and rainwater trapped inside that sloshed when you took a curve. </div><div><br /></div><div>Yes, every year, the Sears catalog would be marked up with #2 lead. Pages were turned down for easy reference and, every year, the Snoopy Sno-cone Machine and Big Wheel were highlighted and impossible to miss. Despite making my wishes clear, I’d wake up on Christmas morning and neither one would be there. There were Easy Bake Ovens, roller skates, pogo sticks, doll houses, sleeping bags, a Merlin, board games, but never a Snoopy Sno-cone Machine or a Big Wheel. I can’t go so far as to say I was devastated because of all the other things that <i>were</i> there, but it didn’t keep me from marking it again the next year and hoping and praying for a different result. Perhaps the problem was I didn’t have enough checks or my circling needed to be done with more intensity. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQTpGNl6e7mI2l61f33Uec8Bh8pATwk4NkgGBCq0z_sOPD_TXMoxjcP9VjSwuOMkcoTCwFarhNb9VPwzjcYDXofM9ndJ5ZYz8U7lXPn_QHVW_pmFU9Om7HNkD1_U52h-53QP5mll7Hk9sGPBTOEmxy93yTKIm_qIFCOkfTQFFiIbHaXVh2XPgVxfG6BZk/s1172/75CED84E-4B99-465D-A03D-256F36D98D1A.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1172" data-original-width="786" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQTpGNl6e7mI2l61f33Uec8Bh8pATwk4NkgGBCq0z_sOPD_TXMoxjcP9VjSwuOMkcoTCwFarhNb9VPwzjcYDXofM9ndJ5ZYz8U7lXPn_QHVW_pmFU9Om7HNkD1_U52h-53QP5mll7Hk9sGPBTOEmxy93yTKIm_qIFCOkfTQFFiIbHaXVh2XPgVxfG6BZk/w269-h400/75CED84E-4B99-465D-A03D-256F36D98D1A.jpeg" width="269" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiODec3dHsiiqsjDw2sNtuJncqLrR2ju0dhyphenhyphenznWRJwqTW47ZWata6J5VpC1QaZNweehTNUOx9-oPcGZU3B-seoTg5tPAskvXMJJ1MRLWCBPFT0ty9_8u88jfUXn4eqBPlgnCvdkxBeQf4n1t714I-A55AA8MhLDm94zlMRcDVS-odHv9_fPITy-WpER464/s1011/684C984E-77EC-4856-AA65-08C79C5F1CDB.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1011" data-original-width="828" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiODec3dHsiiqsjDw2sNtuJncqLrR2ju0dhyphenhyphenznWRJwqTW47ZWata6J5VpC1QaZNweehTNUOx9-oPcGZU3B-seoTg5tPAskvXMJJ1MRLWCBPFT0ty9_8u88jfUXn4eqBPlgnCvdkxBeQf4n1t714I-A55AA8MhLDm94zlMRcDVS-odHv9_fPITy-WpER464/w328-h400/684C984E-77EC-4856-AA65-08C79C5F1CDB.jpeg" width="328" /></a></div><br /><div>I’m not sure why my parents never let Santa grant those catalog wishes. They probably knew the sno-cone machine would work a couple of times before it would quit or I’d find out making snowballs was more trouble than it was worth and it would end up just taking up cabinet space in the kitchen. The Big Wheel- I’m sure they could see that riding my bike was better exercise and it put me up higher where drivers could see me better. I never asked them, but I can imagine that’s what they were thinking. </div><div><br /></div><div>Christmas has long been marketed as a time when your wishes and dreams can come true. The Sears Christmas catalog was even called the Wish Book. This Christmas season, I know a lot of you are <i>still</i> hoping and praying for one specific thing- just as you’ve done for a quite some time now. It’s that one thing that won’t fit in a box or under your tree. You’ve prayed for physical healing for yourself or someone you love and you’re feeling desperate. You’ve prayed to have a baby of your own- something that seems to come so easily for others. You’ve prayed for a spouse to share your life with and wonder if you’ll ever find him. You’ve prayed for your child who’s lost their way and, every year, there’s no change. Along with those, there are about 5 million other possibilities of things the heart can long for that can seem to be no-shows. They’re desires of your aching heart that have gone unfulfilled and you’re wondering why God would withhold it from you if He <i>really</i> loves you. I don’t have the answers and struggle with those questions myself, sometimes. But, if we belong to Him, we know He has a plan that He’s working out for our good. We may not understand it or like it or agree with it or be able to see it, because His ways are higher than ours. He sees so much more than we can see. He’s operating with infinitely more information than we have. We know this for sure- He is always <i>for</i> us and He is <i>always</i> good. Christmas is about the hope that came in the birth of our Savior, Jesus. He came to meet our most desperate and primary need of redemption and eternal life. If He has secured <i>that</i> for us, we can certainly trust Him to work in other places in our lives where longing can hide. </div><div><br /></div><div>Gifts are on the minds of most of us right now. Depending on where we are in the process, we’re either ordering them, wrapping them, delivering them, or still agonizing over them. Jesus is the greatest gift we could ever receive or share with someone. Let’s not let the reason for our hope get buried under all the ripped paper and bows and boxes. I hope you all have the most wonderful Christmas season with your family. I know you’ve all been just as busy as I have. The holidays are not easy on us, womenfolk. Next year, we’ll resume our time together when life returns to its normal pace. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate you. We’ve been around the calendar a lot of times together and I’ve loved each one. </div><div><br /></div><div><b><i>“May the Lord bless you and keep you; </i></b></div><div><b><i>The Lord make his face shine on you and be gracious to you; </i></b></div><div><b><i>The Lord turn his face toward you and give you peace.”</i></b></div><div><b>Numbers 6:24-26</b></div><div><br /></div><div>Rest and sleep and abide in heavenly peace this holiday season. </div><div><br /></div><div>Merry Christmas and Happy New Year, my friends. </div><div><br /></div><div>JONI </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>FYI- Otis and Ruby Miller are waiting on the final pieces of their Christmas outfits to arrive in the mail. When those are in and we figure out how to make two untrained, out of control hound dogs, formerly of the streets, sit long enough for a portrait, I’ll post those for you. The most likely scenario- I’ll be sharing a blooper reel. </div>Jonihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14946161822865311531noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3894524135734016573.post-82642472132425213882023-11-07T20:24:00.005-08:002023-11-08T03:52:10.338-08:00Time Will Tell <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbhS-igBpyBu1wUgWyxe-aTXO0T1xeBRxZ75SDnCZCcZneeENF2i6W1w2LhSNc0-gwA3-tdwZNUeHbCHahICFg97uuQL671DF6SnhAt-fMWEOgIGU6MjcHgQ33PL55EG9Btk3vdM1-ZEpI8PqDG36XAVjkQ6jNsCAK2MOy5qbcoVwgKZXP_g2kEZUqdIE/s4032/BCAA3D63-6723-4ABE-927C-2F92E3D4FE2B.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbhS-igBpyBu1wUgWyxe-aTXO0T1xeBRxZ75SDnCZCcZneeENF2i6W1w2LhSNc0-gwA3-tdwZNUeHbCHahICFg97uuQL671DF6SnhAt-fMWEOgIGU6MjcHgQ33PL55EG9Btk3vdM1-ZEpI8PqDG36XAVjkQ6jNsCAK2MOy5qbcoVwgKZXP_g2kEZUqdIE/w400-h300/BCAA3D63-6723-4ABE-927C-2F92E3D4FE2B.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><p>We’re back from our trip and had a wonderful time! Actually, we’ve <i>been</i> <i>back</i> from our trip- it’s just taken me a minute to get <i>back</i> in the groove. We flew into Portland, Maine and meandered up the coast to Acadia National Park- stopping at towns, harbors, and lighthouses all along the way. After a few days in beautiful Bar Harbor, we drove over to Woodstock, Vermont and took in the beauty around there. We stayed in a most charming inn but, sadly, Bob Newhart wasn’t working the front desk. Apparently, because of a hurricane and an extra-rainy summer and fall, it wasn’t the greatest year for fall foliage, but it was still prettier than a Mississippi fall and we really enjoyed (or <i>I</i> really enjoyed) the cooler weather. </p><p>A couple of weeks before our trip, my family got together at our house. My little brother, Lee, was set to leave for Africa about the same time we were going to Maine. Lee, just being Lee, was going to climb Mt. Kilimanjaro. I was asking about his trip and he started asking about ours. He wanted to know what we were going to do and I listed our simple goals of enjoying the leaves and cool weather while taking in the rocky coast and lighthouses. He nodded slowly with a hint of sympathy in his eyes and pursed his lips as if he was waiting for more- like…. and after that we’re going to bike the Appalachian Trail through Maine, do a polar bear plunge in the Atlantic, and run in the Boston Marathon before heading home. It was then I was reminded that there two kinds of people in this world. Those who climb mountains and those who look at them. There are those who think vacations are a time to challenge themselves and live on the edge and those of us who are content to tank up on the hotel breakfast and enjoy the scenery (from elevations that don’t cause hallucinations without supplemental oxygen.<i> True story</i>.) We are not the same. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwECoHOexmw_WvM0HWvhDU5flO6WyDlTh6SrJVnwXwgDmOknTxqCUOZwE-nFZG_LQbq9q3wD0EISkf63QqthPEjRytbvXF_Ypk0l_3YVO73ISMBNqb6jcYQ8Vx-cW4Fhka3PMpAJlcMJCbezps4DcOI6Qo2_sxHeKRy0hvTFg0YoXOQrzHL-400Bgrsto/s1440/AD11C164-FB90-47D5-AEC4-FD6CFD1BD3E7.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwECoHOexmw_WvM0HWvhDU5flO6WyDlTh6SrJVnwXwgDmOknTxqCUOZwE-nFZG_LQbq9q3wD0EISkf63QqthPEjRytbvXF_Ypk0l_3YVO73ISMBNqb6jcYQ8Vx-cW4Fhka3PMpAJlcMJCbezps4DcOI6Qo2_sxHeKRy0hvTFg0YoXOQrzHL-400Bgrsto/w400-h300/AD11C164-FB90-47D5-AEC4-FD6CFD1BD3E7.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b>Mountain climber</b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><br /></b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjydShvThgtD3HZ1IPxAUxNtEH6oqLSZTjEyTtIBT2TFUhFptsuQArZX4lnIfKg0pud0lStNrZE0sFlHf2iijvGj5bVkZqoLPxdUmOGUB_l9gsCCKj44MLdwagkJckf6WYzNl1d8ANz8eTe4vh8awafQcenPgtu17L7TYfBT7TwbdF8ge5MOtVfBdJdnKg/s2724/D7436E60-2E5E-4D5C-AD5B-DB988CCEFFE0.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2724" data-original-width="2314" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjydShvThgtD3HZ1IPxAUxNtEH6oqLSZTjEyTtIBT2TFUhFptsuQArZX4lnIfKg0pud0lStNrZE0sFlHf2iijvGj5bVkZqoLPxdUmOGUB_l9gsCCKj44MLdwagkJckf6WYzNl1d8ANz8eTe4vh8awafQcenPgtu17L7TYfBT7TwbdF8ge5MOtVfBdJdnKg/w340-h400/D7436E60-2E5E-4D5C-AD5B-DB988CCEFFE0.jpeg" width="340" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b>Mountain lookers</b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I can’t get over the fact that we’re already a week into November! Wasn’t I <i>just</i> celebrating the arrival of September and the promise of fall temperatures?? Still waiting on those, by the way. I’m not sure if it’s my age or just the ridiculous present-day pace of life, but I feel like time is whizzing by me. Last week, I got a reminder text for my six month dental checkup and I was sure it was a mistake. It seemed like I was <i>just</i> there getting my teeth cleaned, a few weeks ago. When I was young and life was less packed, time seemed to move like molasses. Now, it feels more like Niagara Falls and I’m going over the edge in a barrel. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">It’s been a really busy fall and, lately, I’ve felt like I’m on that playground equipment we used to play on at school. I think it was called a merry-go-round, but it wasn’t always so merry. Of course, they don’t make those anymore because of these new things they have in place now called safety standards. Kids who grew up before the 90’s were, unknowingly, the safety testers, lab rats, experimental cases, and crash dummies for future generations. Anyway, it was quite enjoyable when the thing was turning at a leisurely pace but, invariably, one of the boys would come over and, with a running start, sling it around and around and around with all his might. Faster and faster and faster it would go and we’d have to hang on for dear life. We went from enjoying ourselves to just trying to survive and not get slung off into the nearby woods or, worse yet, get caught underneath it. Pity the poor soul who ever fell off and rolled under there. The merry-go-round wasn’t much fun when it was like that and life loses something, too, when it’s too full, too fast, and we’re just trying our best to survive. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-N0zRSLnB-fDOtiIqeHUXnJg2wJIPw9aL6BNDVjwBiuJ2DKyoNO3SlIZpdeVOSy-7RXFjjz-QQ_blgYZ4Maxz78de_eIDkHXORHIeQMtKH1ysG1ZEjT2hCv_h31ywTKoxcCPWMIDWIuGjTLFVccziPujhCUMnHDBcwQG2Ud7YQ7PnSc-elbWwZGCSSDo/s4000/43402FDC-F8B5-4F3D-BE33-5BDCA4CF15EE.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3178" data-original-width="4000" height="318" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-N0zRSLnB-fDOtiIqeHUXnJg2wJIPw9aL6BNDVjwBiuJ2DKyoNO3SlIZpdeVOSy-7RXFjjz-QQ_blgYZ4Maxz78de_eIDkHXORHIeQMtKH1ysG1ZEjT2hCv_h31ywTKoxcCPWMIDWIuGjTLFVccziPujhCUMnHDBcwQG2Ud7YQ7PnSc-elbWwZGCSSDo/w400-h318/43402FDC-F8B5-4F3D-BE33-5BDCA4CF15EE.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">On our way up to Maine, I snapped a picture somewhere around NYC. “I think I saw your baby girl tonight,” I later texted a friend whose daughter lives there. Flying at night gives you a good perspective on life. Passing over one big city after another. Seeing lights that go on for miles and miles and miles. Lights that represent dwellings and people living life. People and families represented by each flicker. It’s a good visual when we start thinking we’re so important and essential to the world spinning. Our lights are only shining for a short while in the middle of billions of others in the world. Candles and light bulbs have a burn time and so do we. What are we doing with our fast-moving time slot? Are we letting go of eternal things to make more room for “grasping for the wind?” Are we sacrificing the eternal for those things that won’t matter in 2 years, 10 years- much less eternity? When a woman gets in her 50’s and time starts moving like a speeding bullet, she ponders such things more often. May the way we use our time reflect that we’re seeking God’s kingdom first and may we not be the generation that fails to model for our children and grandchildren what’s most important. We’ll show them our priorities by what we choose to do or <i>not</i> do with our time. It’s very telling. <i>Yikes</i>. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVNhUvSyF-s8h43ybfKB1hcTGBZSV3c12ullUmgOX8LxZESSM33p4ftA2sXW0ZIytNcD6hPvL4Z4Gr7BT1h3lvAgKn0HUrZ02NJFn6Bk6D6t48NcTGjhSuzOdBDf0hja0Q0n-FnFVN8JedViNLlA121yONv0YQLtAkLHnZZI56-Da428iU1aebM6gQrVk/s3100/1C0B48FB-E9D7-46BE-860F-C13B0A3F21D5.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3100" data-original-width="3019" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVNhUvSyF-s8h43ybfKB1hcTGBZSV3c12ullUmgOX8LxZESSM33p4ftA2sXW0ZIytNcD6hPvL4Z4Gr7BT1h3lvAgKn0HUrZ02NJFn6Bk6D6t48NcTGjhSuzOdBDf0hja0Q0n-FnFVN8JedViNLlA121yONv0YQLtAkLHnZZI56-Da428iU1aebM6gQrVk/w390-h400/1C0B48FB-E9D7-46BE-860F-C13B0A3F21D5.jpeg" width="390" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I hope y’all have a wonderful week! I’ve really, really missed this. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Love, </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">JONI </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Jonihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14946161822865311531noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3894524135734016573.post-11416431764865244812023-10-04T21:43:00.003-07:002023-10-04T21:43:58.939-07:00Turn, Turn, Turn<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6Wvjd2k08clW-ppfZ_VC0ZK00DnDPJ9huyMtoK3l0R0_MvV5avEatJcWja8wpo4xgUoZVaGqAQlMoFJpmuHU2wx0Ic6JseNYGEwbKqZnLxCJN3Kz6ms1AAzu_IpPPArzvo6DLNBuaoblAiPAzCyFdUo7fVfEa9HA8c-YzFUiI9leX4DMcMrJ9F61_5GY/s1600/09596AE6-5AC4-40DE-BC8F-B9613B17DFD4.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1124" data-original-width="1600" height="281" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6Wvjd2k08clW-ppfZ_VC0ZK00DnDPJ9huyMtoK3l0R0_MvV5avEatJcWja8wpo4xgUoZVaGqAQlMoFJpmuHU2wx0Ic6JseNYGEwbKqZnLxCJN3Kz6ms1AAzu_IpPPArzvo6DLNBuaoblAiPAzCyFdUo7fVfEa9HA8c-YzFUiI9leX4DMcMrJ9F61_5GY/w400-h281/09596AE6-5AC4-40DE-BC8F-B9613B17DFD4.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><p>Well, the first hint of fall is set to blow in here on Saturday. Of course, as a Mississippian, by fall I mean highs in the 70’s and lows in the 50’s which will steadily climb back into the 80’s until the next wave of cool air arrives and we repeat the same process. When temps get too low to make cheese toast on our dash, it is considered autumn here and y’all know how I get. This is my time. The air is about to get crisp. The sky is already a ridiculous shade of blue. My steps are peppier. My voice is laced with more excitement. My outlook is brighter. I’m ready to sit around the firepit and drink hot chocolate while wearing a sweater. I kept my mouth shut and took summer on the chin. All 5 months of it. I’ve waited so long and endured so much for a chance at some chili, football, and chill bumps. And, yes, I’m even going to say it- I can’t wait for a gray, overcast, blustery day that’s not fit for anything but staying home in pajamas with a book and a bowl of soup. Yes, yes, yes!</p><p>Davis and I are taking a trip to Maine and Vermont in a couple of weeks to enjoy a <i>real</i> fall. You know- those places where the leaves actually turn beautiful, vivid colors before falling off the trees and not just brown from being fried to a crisp by the sun. I’ve bought sweaters and am already working on my northern fall ensemble which is quite a different thing from the southern fall line. </p><p>While we’re down here waiting for the temps to drop on Saturday, Davis has killed a copperhead in our yard. I suppose they’re looking for a place to bed down for the winter. We’ve given up on the grass. It’s just a brown, crunchy mess at this point. Even my mums and pumpkins on the porch are droopy and looking at me like…”um, are you sure it’s time for us? …it doesn’t feel like it’s time for us.” And still, we wait. Just because Brach’s has delivered their <i>third</i> shipment of mellowcreme pumpkins and autumn mix to Walmart does not the cool weather bring. But, only 60 more hours until it’s here. I can do this. I can do this.</p><p>I know not everyone has the same seasonal preferences. I know some of you enjoy torment and affliction and prefer summer and that’s ok, too. Bless your heart. God made us all different. I do love how He keeps things constantly changing. Just about the time you think you can’t take another cold and rainy day, the daffodils pop their heads out of the frozen ground. When you feel like you can’t take one more day of sweating through your clothes, you feel a cool breeze blow across your red face. We can always, always, always count on the seasons to change.</p><p>It’s usually like that in life, too. We go through seasons when we think we can’t handle another day just like the several dozens before it. Maybe it’s another day of separation or sickness or waiting and waiting. Day in and day out, nothing changes with our situation and we just want to see some movement in a more favorable direction. Sometimes, we’re in a season we just absolutely love. The climate is just right for our liking and we can’t imagine conditions being any more perfect for us. But, because life is the way it is, we know it can’t go on like that forever. Kids grow up. We age. Parents die. People leave. Jobs change. So, we make the most of our time. </p><p>If you’re in a good season, savor each day and the people in it. Thank God for His blessings and ask how you can use them for His purposes. If you’re feeling stuck in a season that isn’t one of your choosing, trust God to walk you through it until that welcomed change finally comes. No one can be trusted more than the One “with whom there is no variation or shadow of turning.” He is faithful even when we don’t understand His plan. </p><p>“The seasons change and you change, but the Lord abides evermore the same, and the streams of His love are as deep, as broad and as full as ever.” -Charles Spurgeon </p><p>Bundle up. It’s gonna get chilly. I feel a change a-comin’. </p><p>Night, </p><p>JONI </p>Jonihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14946161822865311531noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3894524135734016573.post-24984161738874704282023-09-12T23:20:00.002-07:002023-09-13T06:24:31.586-07:00Your Esthetician Will See You Now<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuRsAI_FhjZIo4unLmSCbGwTxCNymiCMKHlOO4cUZRArySiDXR2qMdofNkFPktLgGPN-bQUOC7_8PcQwt_ptQ4wE-xY62v20kwh2D9YIDnBSB0H__gbQ-wVSsBtfnJmtohwnqY0c71CzTxh5DY2741OBf9saTAZQpYhITpKGa4I8L0OU98RYskKhm16gY/s1000/0581DFFA-0330-4D5A-AF11-E9E3BDFCB8B3.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="523" data-original-width="1000" height="209" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuRsAI_FhjZIo4unLmSCbGwTxCNymiCMKHlOO4cUZRArySiDXR2qMdofNkFPktLgGPN-bQUOC7_8PcQwt_ptQ4wE-xY62v20kwh2D9YIDnBSB0H__gbQ-wVSsBtfnJmtohwnqY0c71CzTxh5DY2741OBf9saTAZQpYhITpKGa4I8L0OU98RYskKhm16gY/w400-h209/0581DFFA-0330-4D5A-AF11-E9E3BDFCB8B3.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div>I <span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px;">walked up to the front desk with no makeup on and was feeling a little self-conscious. Some women can pull that off with no problem, but I looked like I was there to audition for </span><i style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px;">The Walking Dead</i><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px;">. A sweet and generous friend had given me a couple of gift cards and I was at the skin care clinic to redeem them- one for a hydrafacial and another for something called a dermaplaning. The first one sounded nice, but the second one had a painful ring to it. I pictured a power washer for the facial and a belt sander for the planing. I wasn’t really sure what all the treatments involved, but I was down to have them done at 1:00 at the skin care spa. </span><p></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 22px;"><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;">For starters, I was told by the lady at the desk that I was on the wrong side of the building. I’d gone in the plastic surgery door by mistake but was wondering if that might actually be the best door for me, after all. Maybe I was past the help of a power washing and a belt sander and needed something more invasive. This drooping neck thing could really use some attention. And I’m to the point where I have to practically smile just to get my frown lines to straighten my mouth into a horizontal line so, even when I </span><i style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;">think</i><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;"> I’m smiling, I just look mad. Anyway, my gift cards were not for plastic surgery, so the nice lady escorted me to the skin care side of the building, where I was welcomed with a friendly greeting and a clipboard full of paperwork. </span><span class="s1" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;"></span></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 22px;"><span class="s1" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;"></span><br /></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;">With relaxing music in the background, I filled out sheet after sheet. I wrote and wrote and wrote. The forms made me swear I hadn’t used retinol in 7 days because bad things could occur during the treatment. I started to doubt myself and wonder what would happen if I’d actually forgotten and used retinol one day. From the serious sound of it, my face might just combust into flames in the middle of the treatment or my skin could slide right off my face. They asked for an emergency contact number- I assumed in case my face <i>did</i> explode, they’d need to let Davis know. I finally convinced myself that I definitely hadn’t used retinol in a week and I signed the forms promising as much. </span></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 22px;"><span class="s1" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;"></span><br /></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;">The young girl came to get me. My esthetician, I believe they call them. This is all new lingo to me as I’ve never been a spa type of girl. Remember, I grew up between brothers and I’m pretty low maintenance in the beauty routine department. I mean, I think I do ok and clean up all right, but hair appointments and sporadic manicures are as far as my beauty rituals go. Anyway, the first thing she did was ask me <i>verbally</i> about the retinol. My goodness- that retinol combined whatever they were about to do to me must be worse than mixing fire and gasoline or pills and booze- but I, again, confirmed I hadn’t used it in a week. </span></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 22px;"><span class="s1" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;"></span><br /></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;">The sweet girl took me back and asked if I had any concerns. Sure, I had some but they’d probably need to be addressed on the other side of the building, so a simple no was given. Why bother the young, twenty-something girl whose face was still unscathed by Father Time. She asked me to describe my daily skin routine starting with morning and then night. “Oh, I was afraid of this,” I thought. “Her head will explode when I tell her my low-grade skin care regimen.” I went through what I do in the morning and night and may or may not have been a bit elaborate in my description of the imported Equate brand exfoliating facial wipes and anti-aging cream selected from among the finest brands that the drug store offers <i>plus</i> whatever comes in my Clinique free gift, a couple of times a year- you know, without trying to sound too bragadocious. Since she was a professional, I looked for any sign of judgement, but there was none. She was likely just thinking- well, bless her heart. </span></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 22px;"><span class="s1" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;"></span><br /></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;">She told me to stretch out on the table and put a wedge under my knees. I was very comfortable. She explained that the planing would remove all of the old skin and facial hair I might have. I thought to myself how she was about to have the limits of dermaplaning tested. One thing I can pride myself in is the ablilty to grow some facial hair and menopause has only strengthened this God-given gift. She planed and planed and planed. Nobody has ever planed longer or harder. I doubt Noah planed more while working on the ark. It was oddly relaxing to have my face scraped down to its original surface. I asked her if I had a lot of stuff coming off and that’s when she used the words, a little fuzzy. She was being kind as I know other words like lower primate would’ve probably been her first choice. She finally got done and asked if I’d like to see what she’d removed. </span><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;">Well, I wasn’t leaving there without seeing that! She pulled the paper around so I could get a look and there it was in a clump in the middle. A ball of fur that looked like a small animal curled up on a winter day. Not as large as a mongoose or skunk but more like a mole or gerbil. I reached up to feel my face and it was as smooth as glass. I was sure it hadn’t been that smooth since the day I emerged from my mother’s womb.</span><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;"> </span></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 22px;"><span class="s1" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;"></span><br /></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;">She finished off with the hydrofacial and it was so nice. She showed me the collection jar from that, but it wasn’t nearly as impressive as the collection of gerbil hair from the planing. I thanked her for the very relaxing experience and for her kindness and I added I’d likely tack this onto my simple list of beauty routines since I enjoyed it so much. </span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;"><br /></span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;">As women, we do have a lot of pressures to stay young looking. Marketing from every direction tells us to fight it with everything we have. We’re the worst about comparing ourselves to each other and basing our confidence and self-worth on the results of those internal matchups. We’ll always be able to find women who are more _________ (<i>fill in the blank with whatever you’re insecure about with your appearance.</i>)None of us wants to show our age. But, hello. Aging is natural, inevitable, and, as they say, a blessing that many are denied. </span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;"><br /></span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;"><b>“Charm is deceptive, and beauty is fleeting; but a woman who fears the Lord is to be praised.” Proverbs 31:30</b> When I think of some of the most beautiful women I know, all kinds of faces come to my mind. Old and young and in between- very little of my perception of them has to do with their looks. The things a woman may see in herself- crow’s feet, a new sprinkling of gray hair, or a couple of pounds added since last year- they don’t keep her from being regarded as beautiful by others. The beauty is in the way she makes other people feel. How she carries herself and walks into a room. The way she handles difficult situations. The words she chooses. How she conducts herself. The way she loves people who need it most. How she dispenses grace. How </span><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;">she reflects God’s joy and light. </span><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;">Those are things that make a woman beautiful and those things don’t ever fade, shrivel, wrinkle, or droop. </span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">So, let me get off of here and go smear on my drug store night cream and squeeze out the rest of the eyelid serum from the sample tube, but may I always give the most time and attention to making my heart beautiful. Let’s be beautiful women today! </p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">JONI </p>Jonihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14946161822865311531noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3894524135734016573.post-601471607899361632023-09-07T20:22:00.003-07:002023-09-08T05:42:48.705-07:00In Due Season<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitYn3twlFW8y5U1_t3CXDxMWqLMX4fPscnjsgmHWKxHqEkmgvBbwjbOOk19OZ9ZP6_hZKuMG5zHZ_8rBsoR4TrrMmk2LpE4lh-XuKE5BOpoX7lwylIE_udYfvo9HHrnoY8SdGOo4u0NemzyGpFEblidkbuGl8OX-3JUFzMYkAnN819vkFXrRQux1YbqD0/s1920/7C6E2911-0EA2-40D3-ACB5-E0979784D4CE.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1920" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitYn3twlFW8y5U1_t3CXDxMWqLMX4fPscnjsgmHWKxHqEkmgvBbwjbOOk19OZ9ZP6_hZKuMG5zHZ_8rBsoR4TrrMmk2LpE4lh-XuKE5BOpoX7lwylIE_udYfvo9HHrnoY8SdGOo4u0NemzyGpFEblidkbuGl8OX-3JUFzMYkAnN819vkFXrRQux1YbqD0/w400-h225/7C6E2911-0EA2-40D3-ACB5-E0979784D4CE.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><p>This is my third attempt in as many months to write this and, until now, I’ve hit delete, closed my laptop, and moved on to do something else. For a blog that touts “laughing matters,” I didn’t want to seem like I was going negative- not that I think it’s necessarily negative to acknowledge problems that exist in our world. I think that’s a belief that Christians and the Church have bought into and it keeps us from talking about some really important things. There’s a reality we live in and sometimes reality isn’t pretty. At times, it’s just downright ugly and, if something comes to my mind repeatedly as this has, I figure it’s for a reason. I promise we’re going to land in an encouraging place before it’s all over so just sit tight.</p><p>For the last couple of years, I’ve become more and more aware of the decline of personal responsibility in our society. I’d bet you have, too. It seems to be a problem that really presented itself during the Covid lockdowns and has just kept growing. Kind of like Gorilla Glue does. I keep up with national news pretty closely, so I know it’s not a local issue or isolated problem. You likely don’t have to go far from your own home before you see some aftermath left behind by people who made a decision to push their problem onto someone else. Doesn’t really matter who- anyone but themselves. “Let someone else deal with my inconvenience” seems to be a popular option for managing things, these days. We can see it in everything from trash on the side of the road to litters of puppies abandoned in parking lots to children who aren’t cared for- there are so many problems that can be traced back to someone who refused to take responsibility for something that was theirs to handle. </p><p>Most of us can’t even wrap our brains around the lack of conscience and absence of concern it would require to throw a bag of trash out on the side of the road or not give our children any kind of moral guidance. Maybe some decisions are based on financial situations or mental illness that can’t be helped, but I’d say laziness, selfishness, and spiritual emptiness account for most of it. Whatever the reason, there seems to be a growing number of people who refuse to do the most basic things expected from any able member of society and we’re all living with the consequences. </p><p>Probably the most stressful occupations, today, are those that have to deal with the effects of the growing responsibility issue. Teachers. Police officers. Human and social services. Animal control and rescue. Medical personnel. Waste management. Those are just a few. They’re frustrated, overworked, overwhelmed, and work dangerously close to the edge of total burnout, each day. I suppose there’s only so much sadness, chaos, grief, and frustration a person can take on themselves- especially if no progress or end is ever visible to encourage them to keep on going. </p><p>But, I’d say the professionals who deal with the aftermath of societal problems aren’t the only ones who are getting weary. As Christians- as God’s Church- as ministers- as responsible citizens- we can also get to a place where we’re exhausted from ministering in the places where Jesus is desperately needed. We can become overwhelmed in our work to undo some of the harmful consequences of apathy and irresponsibility. We can lose heart in the massive size and scope of the aftermath of sin and inaction. We may even be tempted to label “those people” as the source of all the problems and give ourselves a free pass from any responsibility. If we’re not careful, resentment and anger will creep into our hearts and attitudes. </p><p>Galatians 6:9 says,<b> “Let us not grow weary in doing good. For in due season, we will reap a harvest if we do not give up.” </b>Different translations say it in different ways- grow weary in doing good- get tired of doing what is good- become discouraged in doing good- lose heart in doing good. We’ve all felt that way. As with anything, we usually start a project, a ministry, a calling, a job with a lot of enthusiasm and excitement. We see a need, feel a calling, and energetically get to work. In time, no matter how you want to word it, we can just get worn slap out in doing good- the southern translation. It doesn’t happen quickly or all at once. It gradually creeps in when we’ve been at it a while and we start to question how we’re really making a difference. The verse tells us to just keep going, not give up, and trust God with the harvest of results. Hebrews 6:10 says,<b> “God is not unjust; He will not forget your work and the love you have shown Him as you have helped His people and continue to help them.” </b></p><p>So, as you put on your law enforcement badge, head to your classroom at that high risk school, look for homes for abandoned animals, work with the prison ministry, volunteer to pick up trash, prepare a sermon for a discouraged congregation, go to your prayer closet for revival in our country, clock in for the night shift at the ER, work at that after school program, or whatever beautiful calling God has placed on your life- <i><b>do not grow weary</b></i> or tired or discouraged or lose heart in doing good. God will not forget your work and how you’ve helped His children. Keep on keeping on. He sees you. <b>“Work at it with all your heart, as working for the Lord…</b>”</p><p><br /></p><p>Y’all have a great weekend! </p><p>May your football team win on Saturday! </p><p>JONI </p>Jonihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14946161822865311531noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3894524135734016573.post-73925600318317258362023-08-30T20:47:00.000-07:002023-08-30T20:47:34.119-07:00The Very Last Day of August<p>Whew! July and August have been busy months! This is less of a blog post and more like another written excuse. My latest reason for being out of circulation is my little Mama had hip replacement surgery and I moved in with her for a few days to be her primary caretaker. You know everything is outpatient, these days, so they deposited her, still half drunk, into the backseat and we were on our way with our list of instructions, precautions, and prescriptions within just a few hours of arriving. </p><p>Since then, we’ve navigated everything from showers to exercises to wrangling her into those compression stockings each day. Those compression things are really a team building exercise as well as excellent cardio for the one to whom they’re <i>not</i> being applied. Through it all, I’ve only wanted to throw her out into the yard once, twice max, and I’d say those are pretty impressively low numbers for a mother and daughter who are together 24/7 in a painful and taxing situation. I haven’t asked her how many times she’s wanted to throw me outside, because it might hurt my feelings. </p><p>Anyway, she’s bounced back amazingly well to be an almost 81 year old. She’s walking perfectly with her walker and is practicing with a cane. It really is something how quickly they can get you back up and going. Her physical therapist said she was doing well enough that I could come home and just go over and help her with some chores every day, so that’s where we are now. With this new hip, I’ll be struggling to keep up with her once she’s fully recovered. As one of my brothers says, she’s got a lot of charge left on her battery. The three of us are awfully blessed to be hers. </p><p>Before I go, y’all know by now that this is a special day for me. It’s the eve of the very last day of August. In just a little over 24 hours, we can put the long, miserable summer trilogy to bed and declare victory over its multiple attempts to kill us. This summer has been particularly vengeful. I know it will still be hot in September and even October, but this day is a psychological victory for me. I don’t like to wish my life away, but I do make an exception for the summer months. I’ve got plans to transform our house into something resembling and smelling like an autumn eruption this weekend. College football and September, you are most welcome here! </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-kkN6ehC0Fy3UOsJMefWhkUVi5Ij0KPt-SPV4RIG5FVThHYxPawwNUDZPgvWctRqVTGHujxTMOcdRcTowMMSG8m0y4KBInjQjOuFpmC6EXyp-CQpqe37nKCDC0v0dfP8m4WoGOkCilJp5ev0LRceUPNUzEfi7UqY-npIUN2yUvSRIiL6ESfEk0Myv3rQ/s797/8996E4AD-B64E-496E-B54D-075D169B828C.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="797" data-original-width="680" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-kkN6ehC0Fy3UOsJMefWhkUVi5Ij0KPt-SPV4RIG5FVThHYxPawwNUDZPgvWctRqVTGHujxTMOcdRcTowMMSG8m0y4KBInjQjOuFpmC6EXyp-CQpqe37nKCDC0v0dfP8m4WoGOkCilJp5ev0LRceUPNUzEfi7UqY-npIUN2yUvSRIiL6ESfEk0Myv3rQ/w341-h400/8996E4AD-B64E-496E-B54D-075D169B828C.jpeg" width="341" /></a></div><p>Next week, Lord willing and the creek don’t rise, we’ll be back to our regular programming. I hope y’all have had a good week and enjoy a long, relaxing weekend. Stay safe if you travel and we’ll talk soon! </p><p>JONI </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Jonihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14946161822865311531noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3894524135734016573.post-24483523662803562402023-08-17T22:09:00.000-07:002023-08-17T22:09:57.896-07:00Happy Birthday to You and You and You<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2ja8f1BxIdY4t6oRPwQ1V5iXQ0xY2cSZINww8ZksahvOOYzW0-xI_2h_DMx5D-Os1btTnq75bEot8yuaZuhqNED9NuCQLx7XBsrlluwmhZSju2K3N2luBRFQyHSNzC0tRZBwU7IDKZ_nYirSXlBD2AlsllCPvnA_WfuGu_QTFB8rdOsKHpEVsnHbeU5g/s2048/976C9EC5-1ACD-4270-8CE9-44F44C563B29.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2ja8f1BxIdY4t6oRPwQ1V5iXQ0xY2cSZINww8ZksahvOOYzW0-xI_2h_DMx5D-Os1btTnq75bEot8yuaZuhqNED9NuCQLx7XBsrlluwmhZSju2K3N2luBRFQyHSNzC0tRZBwU7IDKZ_nYirSXlBD2AlsllCPvnA_WfuGu_QTFB8rdOsKHpEVsnHbeU5g/w400-h300/976C9EC5-1ACD-4270-8CE9-44F44C563B29.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i>So many August birthdays</i></div><p>Birthdays are a big deal at our house. When the kids still lived at home, we’d start the day with some kind of pastry with a candle in it and drag them out of bed to eat it among the balloons and streamers adorning the breakfast table. There might be a small teaser gift for what was to come later and <i>always</i> a round of “Happy Birthday” croaked out in our morning voices. They’d have a card and special snacks in their lunchbox or we’d go to lunch at their restaurant of choice if it wasn’t a school day. There were parties with friends, maybe cupcakes at school, cake with grandparents, and some special activity they weren’t treated to very often. Basically, from sun up to midnight, we had a full-on celebration of the birthday person’s big day and, most of the time, it would spill over into the next day in order to fit in all the fanfare and fuss. Yeah, birthdays were/are a big deal here. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLplbIOzHmCn_NeLWWZ_PKFPWcbJeBSyXF4WOgP41_KnuiIsZFQcwxPGEejwlbCF1TU2_4U7ykBMpK1mVhD7TEKY4ZhFrxTyIcjO7ZxG-hn4ZBl-vgMJsuPHSsS8Jp0HCMHdQbYHU3EiPPA0zGMQeGb06L0iTF0cEXUsF8czXBD-7JEkV44QuUORzXcb4/s3024/02637EFA-6053-4AAE-996B-37250DE534B2.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="2755" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLplbIOzHmCn_NeLWWZ_PKFPWcbJeBSyXF4WOgP41_KnuiIsZFQcwxPGEejwlbCF1TU2_4U7ykBMpK1mVhD7TEKY4ZhFrxTyIcjO7ZxG-hn4ZBl-vgMJsuPHSsS8Jp0HCMHdQbYHU3EiPPA0zGMQeGb06L0iTF0cEXUsF8czXBD-7JEkV44QuUORzXcb4/w365-h400/02637EFA-6053-4AAE-996B-37250DE534B2.jpeg" width="365" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Celebrating Carson in June</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p><p>We celebrated our August birthdays, a couple of weekends ago. Blair, John Samuel, and Anna Kathryn, Carson’s girlfriend, all have birthdays in this, the hottest month of the year. Yes, I still make a big deal out of their birthdays and I don’t mean grown-up, more sophisticated celebrations for the full-grown people that they are. No, birthdays still call for paper streamers and balloons and hats and restaurants of choice. I’m a firm believer in plates that say Happy Birthday, a lot of helium inflation, and everyone seeing their name written in icing once a year. When they come home for their birthday celebrations, we’re always stocked with their favorite everything from coffee to ice cream. Birthdays should make you feel like a kid even if you’re far from being one. Even after having celebrated her earlier, I drove to spend the day with Blair on her actual birthday, this week. She had the day off and a home decorating project she wanted to work on, so I couldn’t resist spending her birthday afternoon doing some of her favorite things for old time’s sake. It was a fun day with my girl. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMNYeZsbzO13jsKqoReSnTBCdu6u5J4RSAoI-RBGUNO1_SNBpPDntJqYuVi3fFtMiBF8yvLKlX9E1MppX4cVZETAQG0Yeq69w0XaBSrDMC2SOmtXOLsyIb4WbxSa5ddjtMjmFHBmZZTVoz-_vJLrZdMkNyikvuT9pMoxIkWA_uOEvs3iDxmj68q0-5Cv4/s2048/3580F8FC-3C29-4A80-8305-7A513EDD7A32.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMNYeZsbzO13jsKqoReSnTBCdu6u5J4RSAoI-RBGUNO1_SNBpPDntJqYuVi3fFtMiBF8yvLKlX9E1MppX4cVZETAQG0Yeq69w0XaBSrDMC2SOmtXOLsyIb4WbxSa5ddjtMjmFHBmZZTVoz-_vJLrZdMkNyikvuT9pMoxIkWA_uOEvs3iDxmj68q0-5Cv4/w300-h400/3580F8FC-3C29-4A80-8305-7A513EDD7A32.jpeg" width="300" /></a></div><p></p><p>I’m not sure why I’ve always been so determined to make birthdays a memorable day. I wouldn’t say my kids were spoiled on very many days out of the year, but birthdays were always one of the exceptions. They mark the very beginning of God’s plan for each of us. The Giver of life customized our personalities, selected our strengths, trusted us with specific gifts, allowed certain weaknesses, and wrapped them all in a body made with His creative hands that would be born on the day of His choosing. Our birthdays. He gave each of us everything we’d need to accomplish His purpose for our lives and then gave us the keys of free will. We could take what He’d given us and the days He’d measured out for us and go in any direction we’d choose from there. Birthdays are good days to evaluate ourselves and what we’re doing with what we’ve been given and they’re really great days to celebrate the beauty of God’s creativity and how He’s made each person inimitable. Now, that’s something worth celebrating! And in a big way! So, “Happy Birthday to you”…..and you…..and you. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbdO7ZagmuEEtiNCSnUwhNshn3nb0iSRBjCaIiwPsgwWybW9zY9bRTYvEkNRiU1sa12MHYxJLSyycGYwieG1Iv5cbIOaez_cfsXxu4iznojeNJres7f2yvTncjEh5kQnPKv66VHu7SzWTmSpRCkVPiyFh-7VKlb5Wme7gDMhH67ZycxZHsk3o_v7FbgvE/s3245/4453B8CE-F49A-42D2-A390-0F6CBFE9CB53.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2111" data-original-width="3245" height="260" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbdO7ZagmuEEtiNCSnUwhNshn3nb0iSRBjCaIiwPsgwWybW9zY9bRTYvEkNRiU1sa12MHYxJLSyycGYwieG1Iv5cbIOaez_cfsXxu4iznojeNJres7f2yvTncjEh5kQnPKv66VHu7SzWTmSpRCkVPiyFh-7VKlb5Wme7gDMhH67ZycxZHsk3o_v7FbgvE/w400-h260/4453B8CE-F49A-42D2-A390-0F6CBFE9CB53.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguVS6hC_jfataPeTkoXwrH9cwZJJRXXzx5WbXYsfqmLTwQiMiL10hlRzReP_aaXphyR0QBPG-sZm72h358F4NTdq-YmGMiG9-TT3wOweqqp4cCwPpqCvnL_u-3K9raWVkHpv7zLyv-c7pRkNfMxfMH8kHF7Hc5KX9IySpLkfkTdmkMkmDk3NSnPLe-yG4/s4032/A15D3EB3-B824-4591-B8CA-5B3F9DFE60EF.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguVS6hC_jfataPeTkoXwrH9cwZJJRXXzx5WbXYsfqmLTwQiMiL10hlRzReP_aaXphyR0QBPG-sZm72h358F4NTdq-YmGMiG9-TT3wOweqqp4cCwPpqCvnL_u-3K9raWVkHpv7zLyv-c7pRkNfMxfMH8kHF7Hc5KX9IySpLkfkTdmkMkmDk3NSnPLe-yG4/w300-h400/A15D3EB3-B824-4591-B8CA-5B3F9DFE60EF.jpeg" width="300" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i style="text-align: left;"><b>“For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.” Jeremiah 29:11</b></i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i style="text-align: left;"><b><br /></b></i></div><p>I’d like to sign off by pointing out how much restraint it has taken on my part to make no mention of the truly horrendous, excruciating, agonizing, torturous heat and humidity that have fallen over us. I’m trying to be a big person about it and not whine. I know you, summer people, are in your element and you’re having your turn. You and I are not the same. And your turn seems way longer than my turn. I’m struggling over here to find the energy to do much of anything (as you may have noticed) and I really think my brain has powered down. I am not ok. Send a cold front. A breeze. A cloud. Anything. </p><p>Thanks, </p><p>JONI </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Jonihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14946161822865311531noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3894524135734016573.post-87219918177158303782023-08-02T21:03:00.002-07:002023-08-02T21:11:42.945-07:00The Blonde Brick Baptist Church on the Boulevard <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeZGDMLbVUkY53vNPPxjj88yh6WOox8E5EyccLklgejD4ibeF5PkdUbwNm-Qy0pNRe-4LELvBI7GWaDNnVlC7skJczk2-CH7-pjoyKrj-bz7pJz-ZgO6EZlz80yaEXIDIugkxq-2NP43b2orLpiKcdxMpEcs0G3TBLQajfAHWUYuT4494SZmK-1Q3qxKs/s894/387403E3-76D4-411F-892E-ADCE68276D7B.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="703" data-original-width="894" height="315" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeZGDMLbVUkY53vNPPxjj88yh6WOox8E5EyccLklgejD4ibeF5PkdUbwNm-Qy0pNRe-4LELvBI7GWaDNnVlC7skJczk2-CH7-pjoyKrj-bz7pJz-ZgO6EZlz80yaEXIDIugkxq-2NP43b2orLpiKcdxMpEcs0G3TBLQajfAHWUYuT4494SZmK-1Q3qxKs/w400-h315/387403E3-76D4-411F-892E-ADCE68276D7B.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><p>Growing up in Mississippi, the question was never <i>if</i> you went to church but <i>where</i>. We are, after all, the belt buckle of the Bible Belt. On Sundays and Wednesdays, there were only a handful of places you could possibly be- church, hospitalized, or so sick at home you were unable to stand on your own power. My family belonged to a blonde brick Baptist church at the end of a boulevard. It’s where I spent much of my young life. My Daddy was a deacon and both of my parents were Sunday school teachers. They also sang in the choir, which meant they had an elevated and unobstructed view of my friends and me during the service. My Mama, especially, seemed to have an eagle eye when it came to spotting any talking or note-writing activity. She would then send me nonverbal messages with her eyes from the choir loft. A furrowed brow meant- I see you laughing and you have until exactly right now to stop it or I’ll tell your Daddy when we get home. A slight shake of the head meant you better get that gum out of your mouth and put it in that offering envelope you’ve been using to doodle. If her eyes narrowed and started to take on a red glow, that meant- I see you whispering and I hope you don’t think you’re going anywhere but school this week. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg7y7OBjCg_R1V-RronJlW97YX0FlPjO5lKJLUGcNlsO4OhkWKfq6mYkYae0118cRhu1m2B7sgPiU8QstgYJl0fnr8owua9Gs3Qe5gJ4B17xItx0sRjhkWBbSom901m1FlFTIhl62KR-iCYrGt4zJdckoa-zDbQnyTGG9-FCq5ztj_zAdOBrTKJZeKdso/s1850/84FAB89B-7163-466A-88E7-9F48E9D28B97.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1850" data-original-width="1699" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg7y7OBjCg_R1V-RronJlW97YX0FlPjO5lKJLUGcNlsO4OhkWKfq6mYkYae0118cRhu1m2B7sgPiU8QstgYJl0fnr8owua9Gs3Qe5gJ4B17xItx0sRjhkWBbSom901m1FlFTIhl62KR-iCYrGt4zJdckoa-zDbQnyTGG9-FCq5ztj_zAdOBrTKJZeKdso/s320/84FAB89B-7163-466A-88E7-9F48E9D28B97.jpeg" width="294" /></a></div><p></p><p>The blonde brick Baptist church on the boulevard is probably the first place my parents carried me when I was new to the world. I went to Sunday school and kindergarten and Bible school and GA’s and training union there. I sat in little wooden chairs and made crafts and learned songs. I colored on construction paper with coffee cans full of broken crayons and ate crackers and drank fruit punch. I skated, played foosball, pulled cold bottles from the coke machine, and slid down the banisters when no one was looking. I’d go home with friends for the afternoon on Sundays and they’d bring me back to the night service. The next week, they’d come home with me to run in the sprinkler, play a round of croquet, or something as riveting as that.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAOfyaR4UBpPsT60omGYQ1f5G9LWTpC_oeXmn_Bu_qmYQnvgaB6YIvXXBc0k42TDn-p-1K2d1ZeGfvq_cFyvbtzVMmwRDMoKu35vrLdSuXw0tuHKId-pa-V06jUNP3nP3h7A5b2qOUNRBDT2sD_uxeRNvblc454S0A5-Acssp6vRiJ3o2gt_KT_dLuKVc/s1561/41A558AB-AEC4-4D16-94A3-249ECED04969.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1134" data-original-width="1561" height="290" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAOfyaR4UBpPsT60omGYQ1f5G9LWTpC_oeXmn_Bu_qmYQnvgaB6YIvXXBc0k42TDn-p-1K2d1ZeGfvq_cFyvbtzVMmwRDMoKu35vrLdSuXw0tuHKId-pa-V06jUNP3nP3h7A5b2qOUNRBDT2sD_uxeRNvblc454S0A5-Acssp6vRiJ3o2gt_KT_dLuKVc/w400-h290/41A558AB-AEC4-4D16-94A3-249ECED04969.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><p>It’s where my friends’ mamas became like my mamas and mine became like theirs. I learned the words of hymns and they became ingrained so deeply that I’ll remember them until I die. We delivered gifts to nursing homes, glued popsicle sticks together, recited Bible verses, and rode many miles on the church bus and van. We’d sit in a semi-circle around the teacher who’d tell us about Joseph’s mean brothers while holding a large picture of the atrocity for us to see. There were lock-ins, revivals, bake sales, movie nights, and ice cream socials in the fellowship hall with fancy cookies from the bakery. I knew every nook and cranny of the blonde brick Baptist church on the boulevard. Every closet, piano, bathroom, hiding place, television, secret door. I felt as at home there as I did at my own house. And, on the most special days, I’d walk down the aisle of the church. To profess Jesus as my Savior, don my cap and gown on graduation Sunday, stand by my friends on their wedding day, and to marry Davis on the arm of my Daddy. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiz-aoafDBx5fVA0Iqm-njKuWdbZ6AfC_2EBbDL3CjF5VfOkyc8rp5FaDW5nQ635Z6cIlriZvl5-tEcGWbgcGrKiXCcwFXFr9pRTBb0YIXxQ1V0X4gcjDdrdKeEA9ytWhCbNux6ui3E82ryyCxxhPutBTF4R5vn25ENhHGqe1uw66A9v9jDN4j1vSR1ejc/s960/FF0B11E7-3CC9-4B0A-83CF-4484C8ADF56E.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="760" data-original-width="960" height="316" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiz-aoafDBx5fVA0Iqm-njKuWdbZ6AfC_2EBbDL3CjF5VfOkyc8rp5FaDW5nQ635Z6cIlriZvl5-tEcGWbgcGrKiXCcwFXFr9pRTBb0YIXxQ1V0X4gcjDdrdKeEA9ytWhCbNux6ui3E82ryyCxxhPutBTF4R5vn25ENhHGqe1uw66A9v9jDN4j1vSR1ejc/w400-h316/FF0B11E7-3CC9-4B0A-83CF-4484C8ADF56E.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><p>I’m not sure if church is a major hub of social activity for as many kids as it was then. They have so many other outlets and organizations they’re involved in now. But, back in my day, church was where we spent so many of our hours that it was the pool from which we drew a large portion of our friends. Over the last couple of weeks, I’ve been sweetly reminded of just how many of those friends from the blonde brick church on the boulevard still remain in my closest circle. Maybe friendships that take root in our earliest years have longer to grow and they become strong enough to withstand the test of time. Maybe friendships that form with Jesus in common are able to endure the harsh elements of life and remain intact. Whatever the reason, I’m grateful for the friends made in those little wooden chairs who’ve stayed with me through Mary Jane shoes, acne, ugly bridesmaid dresses, and still walk by my side today in the hot flashes. Their mamas are still like my mamas and mine remains like theirs. Of all the gifts that blonde brick church on the boulevard gave me, I’d place them only below the One who brought us together. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjw5d4Po_h2azWGbSZ3BbC8x-6Pb4SuOQt5KVO5J4mN4hl19xB9sxF9m7pXd6-RKYnVDXvzCcjIX207v6VqJ07LhyjvD5DSmopCWgz3ekgjHEAAHhnN7gPtMV7oShXe4QGUcX4U4P-HXGGTcNXEIJbZiURwVeAmq-27bj_3lR5Vi3IuIYEElnhWiYnNDG0/s1800/5BABE590-C89A-4302-8195-961AAC0516BC.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1800" data-original-width="1800" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjw5d4Po_h2azWGbSZ3BbC8x-6Pb4SuOQt5KVO5J4mN4hl19xB9sxF9m7pXd6-RKYnVDXvzCcjIX207v6VqJ07LhyjvD5DSmopCWgz3ekgjHEAAHhnN7gPtMV7oShXe4QGUcX4U4P-HXGGTcNXEIJbZiURwVeAmq-27bj_3lR5Vi3IuIYEElnhWiYnNDG0/w640-h640/5BABE590-C89A-4302-8195-961AAC0516BC.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">I know they’ve all wondered why I suddenly started taking selfies with them. They’ve probably called each other to discuss the possibility that I’ve come down with that new psychological disorder, selfitis. No, I’ve just been feeling extra grateful for friends that go way back in my life and was reminded that so many of them came from the same place. Thanks be to God. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Hope you have a great Thursday! Stay cool out there, people. </div><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Jonihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14946161822865311531noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3894524135734016573.post-56703756445073656422023-07-20T20:38:00.001-07:002023-07-20T20:38:45.555-07:00Late Notice of July ClosureWell, I’m checking in to let you know I haven’t forgotten I have a blog. I guess I’m kind of unofficially taking the month of July off even though I didn’t announce that ahead of time. I’ve been busy doing what we do here in the South this time of year- trying to manage heat-induced impatience and putting up vegetables. It’s the time of year when everyone wants to know if you’d like some squash just as you were about to ask them the same thing. No, no one in the South wants any more squash. We’re up to our eyeballs in it. Peas? Well, those are another story. We’ll run you over with our car to get a bushel of those. So, we’re just down here looking up new squash recipes, swatting at flies, and counting the days until cooler weather and college football arrive. Not that the two are, in any way, synonymous, but looking ahead has kept us going.<div><br /></div><div>I’ve had some of you ask about Otis. Otis has gone from the streets to our garage to a full-time house dog. This heat’s not fit for man nor beast. When we let him in, the mystery of Otis only deepened as we discovered he was 100% house-trained. None of it makes any sense, but he’s adjusted perfectly to indoor living and seems to prefer it to living at Wal-Mart. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhTrQUL9lAI_k15gnSf28Gb_XfTtJWo2N9hLc02DTjQkp5URn0E9rWdETLrlnryRqoOCTr9Iw2FtKib6m8XU7QsR46Z2MJmm4PMAVsg6a62Snx25Ai1m-2Kv9AhNRDVW_TzCuqaenTDYNNE2Qw-_MHroePj4TMX7-ID-VNCrhRkUeRPPoQxHwpN0jEWu0/s3021/274ED386-039B-4CC1-9925-3DD12B497F71.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2797" data-original-width="3021" height="370" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhTrQUL9lAI_k15gnSf28Gb_XfTtJWo2N9hLc02DTjQkp5URn0E9rWdETLrlnryRqoOCTr9Iw2FtKib6m8XU7QsR46Z2MJmm4PMAVsg6a62Snx25Ai1m-2Kv9AhNRDVW_TzCuqaenTDYNNE2Qw-_MHroePj4TMX7-ID-VNCrhRkUeRPPoQxHwpN0jEWu0/w400-h370/274ED386-039B-4CC1-9925-3DD12B497F71.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i>Now I have this view when I eat cereal at night</i>. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNAGUYpiug90_X469fr79l4Gz_2jrzeiTQctCkHhRdKzupNnAt3s3u4N2B77tQeKkoENw4A-Sov8Fn6cBx6KgU9R9Fr7zPUTEjKJhtXFON5lkm0LcygT9YRqTsZATVZulJ9-tLy0z_w_9z5r9W7izC_nW732aLYPhhfJHu9TXfH_cnfpw6NJVjyRP1qQQ/s2048/9D73E08F-412C-465F-9E10-1B3E4837A7EC.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNAGUYpiug90_X469fr79l4Gz_2jrzeiTQctCkHhRdKzupNnAt3s3u4N2B77tQeKkoENw4A-Sov8Fn6cBx6KgU9R9Fr7zPUTEjKJhtXFON5lkm0LcygT9YRqTsZATVZulJ9-tLy0z_w_9z5r9W7izC_nW732aLYPhhfJHu9TXfH_cnfpw6NJVjyRP1qQQ/w300-h400/9D73E08F-412C-465F-9E10-1B3E4837A7EC.jpeg" width="300" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i>And when I make him go outdoors, he gets highly incensed- like someone else I know. What the heck? </i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWYiD9Pbxuhdt-HVnOotkf6XVXE3EpvifqmESN91dY1FcIVsxYVyIgs16JkXBxNq_SA2Fg8pxA66r1Rv-pK__78W_tVitCO_xNgJto5133fgSE39aA2Qxy8RgCrRdc5y4e_gKfWRIB018jyMIcJ3M2Pg7ABzVJ-P60QiizNAW1EWnAiCcDrJChitSPZN8/s2048/1F496637-4C12-4606-9A32-4105B3FC5FBE.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWYiD9Pbxuhdt-HVnOotkf6XVXE3EpvifqmESN91dY1FcIVsxYVyIgs16JkXBxNq_SA2Fg8pxA66r1Rv-pK__78W_tVitCO_xNgJto5133fgSE39aA2Qxy8RgCrRdc5y4e_gKfWRIB018jyMIcJ3M2Pg7ABzVJ-P60QiizNAW1EWnAiCcDrJChitSPZN8/w300-h400/1F496637-4C12-4606-9A32-4105B3FC5FBE.jpeg" width="300" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Well, I just wanted to check in and say hello. I’ve been busy enjoying family and friends and will take another couple of weeks to do so. My brain powers down in the heat anyway, so you wouldn’t want to read anything it could manufacture right now. It’s bad out there, people. Stay safe! </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I’ll leave you with something I saw and loved! It tickled me- so accurate. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfltJM56iJeUtqaaJdwbjlMD16ddJu0O0OobpvuJsj4AQhxq8nkumBqz0L2YDYeXDbIizsakqB8V5zeENBdE1OkIKLU-Yn0bB-_Dm9qE7wb3PpqzywnNPLgFbPFlc2Qv3W4bOghsJcROD1YLQNRGLdx9vhYXo1iFCdBmv8KFN88DiDosfVrB0ToikwKLs/s640/A2083F86-6654-4948-A1A4-782425C21D40.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="573" data-original-width="640" height="359" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfltJM56iJeUtqaaJdwbjlMD16ddJu0O0OobpvuJsj4AQhxq8nkumBqz0L2YDYeXDbIizsakqB8V5zeENBdE1OkIKLU-Yn0bB-_Dm9qE7wb3PpqzywnNPLgFbPFlc2Qv3W4bOghsJcROD1YLQNRGLdx9vhYXo1iFCdBmv8KFN88DiDosfVrB0ToikwKLs/w400-h359/A2083F86-6654-4948-A1A4-782425C21D40.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">You good? I certainly hope you good. Y’all take care and we’ll get back together in August. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">JONI </div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div><br /></div>Jonihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14946161822865311531noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3894524135734016573.post-40179900686113938372023-06-28T21:39:00.001-07:002023-06-28T21:58:05.352-07:00Even When <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEB1CV6F5a038o03B7lsmJkVt-dYCYQaL1JZF9gV6GsUvNBh7TilJ8yeKJgiRRDgggkIaZjD8M2uHiZY0woy5IC1xpC1KLqUSs44N4pYQf3ey10aJggicIC5R4agBcR81kzW7DfNdc2qmna74iLzxX4qGyTENJnW3KGuhaIdGjJSH1cZKV0T3oEqAyH2I/s1067/ACFCF291-182E-4505-A1C0-A1FA31393028.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="1067" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEB1CV6F5a038o03B7lsmJkVt-dYCYQaL1JZF9gV6GsUvNBh7TilJ8yeKJgiRRDgggkIaZjD8M2uHiZY0woy5IC1xpC1KLqUSs44N4pYQf3ey10aJggicIC5R4agBcR81kzW7DfNdc2qmna74iLzxX4qGyTENJnW3KGuhaIdGjJSH1cZKV0T3oEqAyH2I/w400-h225/ACFCF291-182E-4505-A1C0-A1FA31393028.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p>A couple of months ago, a semi-truck delivered a massive load of bricks across the street. A few days earlier, the framers and roofers had finished their jobs and the windows had been installed. It was time for the bricklayers. A new house was being built in the place of one that burned last year. The new house is two-story and pretty large, so there were a LOT of bricks. The bricklaying crew arrived and they started with the very first row. Day after day after day, I’d watch them work, but they seemed to gain very little ground because of the large scope of the job. The area to be covered was just so great and the bricks were just so small. The guys would work a full day and, from my shady front porch, it would look like they’d made a very insignificant dent in the formidable work to be done. In addition to size of the house, they had so many corners, windows, and doors to navigate. From where I sitting, it was painfully slow work and it seemed like the final result would never be achieved. </p><p>Last week, I passed a highway crew at work. Nobody likes to see those orange signs and a long line of taillights indicating road construction ahead. I’m always perplexed at the painstakingly slow process of building roads and highways. The projects are long and winding and the end is never visible. Day after day, month after month, those people work on their lengthy projects in small half-mile increments. There are so many layers and steps to finishing a road. When they’re done with one small section, they just move on to start it all over again, so they can gain just a little more ground. Again and again and again. Mile after mile after mile of work to do and progressing just a little stretch at a time. The end goal is always somewhere out there beyond the horizon. Out of sight and seemingly unreachable. </p><p>I have to say I really admire the people who can do those types of jobs. Maybe that’s why I notice them as they work. I’m amazed by them. Those people who can work so faithfully for weeks and months and years and still remain so far from their finished project. We’re all wired differently. I don’t know if it’s my self-diagnosed attention deficit or just my restless and impatient nature, but that kind of work would drive me absolutely mad. Maybe it’s why I chose work where I could make a lot of visible progress in one day and look back and get some sense of achievement from my obvious headway. If I feel overwhelmed by the impossible magnitude of a task, I’m more likely to throw in the towel long before I’m done. I don’t really like that about myself, but maybe there are a lot of us who are that way in our work life and our spiritual life, too. </p><p>As Christians, we’re kind of feeling that way about the world these days. I know I am. Surely, I can’t be the only one. If you’re not, you must live in a hole and I’d love to come visit you there. Here in my town, we had a harsh reminder, last week, that hit really close to home for me. A reminder that we live in a world that’s sick with sin and there’s nowhere we can go to run from that. It’s not about our zip codes or street address, because there’s not a nook or a cranny anywhere that evil hasn’t found to trespass. This was also just another indication of how long and deep and wide the issues are in our society. The problems are massive. They stretch on and on and on. One broken thing leads to another broken thing which feeds another broken thing. Sometimes, even our “solutions” create more problems. Homelessness, crime, drugs, moral decay, lack of personal responsibility, government dysfunction, family breakdown. If we listed all the challenges, it would be as overwhelming as paving a coast to coast highway or bricking a skyscraper. </p><p>It’s easy for us to see problem stacked upon problem, throw our hands up, and declare the whole thing is useless. It’s just too much. It’s too far gone. It’s more work than we can handle. Even if we worked day and night, we couldn’t make a dent so why bother. It’s tempting for us to just walk off the job. </p><p>When we’re overwhelmed with what’s going on around us, we can only do what we know to do. Jesus hasn’t returned for us, which means it’s not quitting time yet. No matter how discouraging the world is, we have to keep doing what we know to do. Go, teach, love, share. One brick at a time. <i><b>“Let us not become weary in doing good, for at the proper time, we will reap a harvest if we do not give up.” Galatians 6:9 </b></i>If we persevere even when we feel like we’re not making any progress, He promises results. Our efforts will not be in vain. <i><b>“</b></i><b><i>And let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us, fixing our eyes on Jesus, the founder and perfecter of faith.” Hebrews 12:1-2</i></b> The answer to every one of our world’s problems is Jesus. There are so many people who just need Jesus. If they only knew how He could change the trajectory of their lives. <i><b>“But</b></i><i style="font-weight: bold;"> how can they call on Him to save them unless they believe in Him? And how can they believe in Him if they have never heard about Him? And how can they hear about Him unless someone tells them?” Romans </i><i><b>10:14 </b></i></p><p>God, help us to keep on doing what we know to do. Even when. </p><p><br /></p><p>JONI </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Jonihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14946161822865311531noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3894524135734016573.post-35399865822037889972023-06-22T21:06:00.002-07:002023-06-22T21:12:41.493-07:00A Southern Summer <p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOPIMcAuuUWaW4hdUPgMtH4d1GL1u77LD28VKIkxCEubdcVkx_tWPEntqT0Ih4I7e202BRJb0WOp8hKlCniaTzPgJSa5J4JuoRiffukQOw-LS8WKl_KvPXhV9blzpyv_2P6XzbPRH56uvj3136HevtXzY_WzYyNXez2CF6wNvATXGzLRv3IdZbKhe28qs/s1024/37027561-251D-4022-9B64-9129C91884A4.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="576" data-original-width="1024" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOPIMcAuuUWaW4hdUPgMtH4d1GL1u77LD28VKIkxCEubdcVkx_tWPEntqT0Ih4I7e202BRJb0WOp8hKlCniaTzPgJSa5J4JuoRiffukQOw-LS8WKl_KvPXhV9blzpyv_2P6XzbPRH56uvj3136HevtXzY_WzYyNXez2CF6wNvATXGzLRv3IdZbKhe28qs/w400-h225/37027561-251D-4022-9B64-9129C91884A4.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>My menopause has really been acting up. I feel as if I have a couple of functioning brain cells and, every 4 or 5 days, they collide and I’ll have a lucid thought. There’s a dense fog advisory going on in my brain. I’m tired. I lack motivation. I can’t concentrate. It’s either menopause or I’m suffering from heat exhaustion already. Y’all know I’m not a fan of this time of year. I simply endure it. I <i>have</i> had a couple of busy weeks, so I’ll just write it off as fatigue. Whatever it is, keep your expectations on low beam and hang with me until the fog lifts. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p><p>This week, we’ve all heard a big deal being made about the first day of summer and summer solstice. We, Southerners, hear talk about the first day of summer in late June and we just shake our sweaty heads and mumble angrily to ourselves. Down here, summer arrives before all the Easter chocolate is eaten. Basically, it's the same reaction we have when we hear them announce the arrival of fall in September with hot cocoa and wool sweaters on TV, while we still have mosquitos buzzing around our heads and have sweated through our clothes. </p><p><br /></p>Yeah, we've been having summer here for quite a while now and, next week, it’s really supposed to kick it up a notch. We already have to get about 8 miles down the road before the car A/C can even think about overcoming the heat in its climate control battle. And we don't think about parking in the sun unless there's no other choice available— or we have some foil wrapped potatoes and a chuck roast in there that we want to cook for supper. After turning off the car in the parking lot, we have approximately 4.6 seconds to exit the vehicle before anguish and life threatening conditions ensue, so preparation is always the key. We know how to get our things and get out. <br /><br /><br />There's been a fly buzzing around in each Southerner’s house since early May. They almost always hang around in the kitchen if they know company is coming. Each housefly is assigned a home to torment until it falls victim to the swatter, at which time, his replacement is sent. Mosquitos will take you apart faster than a school of piranhas if you stay out near any accumulation of water, in the shade, or just about anywhere if it's close to sundown. Wasps, horseflies, gnats, and all of hell's other winged messengers, have been unleashed for months now. And we don't open the doors at night unless we want to hear beetles banging their heads on our lampshades for hours on end. <br /><br /><br />Snakes are crawling and we've been watching our step since Valentine's Day when we were told they were up and at 'em already. Down here, we like to share postmortem pictures of the snakes we kill in our yards on social media and that's been going on for weeks now. We all enjoy a good game of 'What Kind of Snake Is This?' more than anybody. Snake posts have been on the rise, this year, so we must continue to step with extreme caution. <br /><br /><br />Our glasses are fogging up when we get out of our cool cars. Everyone looks like Marcie from Peanuts staggering around in the parking lot for a couple of minutes. Tis the season for sunburn and razor burn and sand burn and chafing. And depending on our hair's texture, it's either frizzed up like Kaepernick or flat to our heads like Pee Wee Herman. Neither, a good look. We can leave home all fresh and clean and, an hour later, look like we're on the highway crew and are just getting off work. Our hair is wet and sweat’s rolling down our backs, our necks, our red faces and we are just not a pretty people right now.<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>We can comfortably enjoy our decks and patios and porches between the hours of 2:30 a.m. and 5:30 a.m. and plan all our outdoor events accordingly. A restaurant’s outdoor seating is only occupied by the very bravest among us. The hot, humid air is as thick as our Mamas' pie filling and as heavy as a bad biscuit. It's hard to breathe and even harder to <em>want</em> to. The will to live is in its most tested season. Sometimes, we go to Hobby Lobby, walk right past their 4th of July section, and just sit amidst the pumpkins and scarecrows to renew our hope that there <i>will</i> be better days ahead- in just 4 or 5 more grueling months. <br /><br /><br />Upon entering any building, we've been using our proper summertime etiquette. Our first greeting to those inside is always a reference to the oppressive heat. It’s our way of saying hello. “Boy, it’s a hot one today.” This is expected upon arriving at the bank, a store, church, salon, or even funeral home. No matter where you are or what the occasion, heat and heat indexes are always appropriate summertime topics in the South. Rain chances are also a popular choice, this time of year. If you mention impending rain chances above 50%, it gives hope to all who hear and a crowd will start to form around you. <br /><br /><br />It’s about now, “the first day of summer,” that the flowers on our patios start looking distressed. We don’t try any heroic measures. We just let them go. They’re DNR. They want to go over the rainbow bridge or whatever it's called for plants and we give them our blessing to go in peace. We know <em>we</em> wouldn't want to have to sit out there in this and try to look pretty.<br /><br /><br />So, go ahead and celebrate the first of summer. While much of the country is marking that sweet milestone in their low humidity, we're down here just trying to survive our first <em>trimester</em> of summer. We are hot and we are irritable and we are not ok. <div><br /></div><div>Stay cool out there, people. </div><div><br /></div><div>JONI <br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div>Jonihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14946161822865311531noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3894524135734016573.post-36815927368571704672023-06-13T19:31:00.001-07:002023-06-13T19:31:12.263-07:00Old School Bible School (Replay) <p> It's that time of year again when churches on every corner have banners and advertisements up for their Vacation Bible Schools. Most of the churches around here go all out for Bible school just as it should be. The decorations, themed snacks, very involved crafts, and over the top props are just so elaborate. The kids love it and how could they not? The grown-ups just spent 3 solid weeks at the church with table saws and scaffolding creating a near-exact replica of the solar system in the sanctuary. </p>I was looking through some pictures on Facebook that a church posted and I couldn't help but think how different it is now from when I went to Bible school. You know I'm all about some nostalgic strolls back in time so here goes.<br /><br />Back then, there were three kids who were selected to hold the American flag, the Christian flag, and the Bible. They were the big dogs for the day. As the pianist played a "marching in" song, everyone would file in behind the chosen three. I remember sitting down on the hard, creaky pews- my legs sticking to the varnished wood. Bible school was one of the few occasions when we could wear shorts to church, so it was beyond awesome. <br /><br />Anyway, there were no palm trees made from paper mache or larger than life jungle animals cut out of plywood or two story rocket ships made of foam core board like there are today. I don't recall any twinkly lights, large boulders fashioned from crumbled Kraft paper or beach scenes on the stage complete with an umbrella, Adirondack chairs, and wave sound effects. No, as I recall, there were just the preacher, the music minister, and the podium. Oh, but if you walked in and saw the slide projector set up, you knew it was going to be a really exciting day. <br /><br />Just below the chosen three were the six kids, who were picked each day to take up the offering (aka the change we found in between the vinyl car seats and in the bottom of our Mama's purses that morning.) These offering takers were the kids, who were runners up to the flag holders in the complex Bible school hierarchy system. I, myself, never submitted my name to be considered for any of these spots. I was really shy as a kid and had no interest in the front of the room. <br /><br />After we said our pledges, sang our songs, and took up the mission offering, it was off to our classroom. We headed down the hall and there was no grassy pathway cut from indoor/outdoor carpeting leading to the room and our names weren't perfectly penned on laminated, themed shapes hanging from the ceiling. There were no freshly cut stumps to sit on and no real tents set up in the room in which to have our lesson by lantern light. No, we walked in and the teacher was like, “<em>You see those brown, folding chairs set up in a semi-circle facing the bulletin board? Go sit in those.....and don't run."</em> Oh, those metal chairs were so cold on your bare legs, so you'd put your hands under them until it got warmed up. <br /><br />We didn't pretend like we were all on safari riding in a jeep and we didn't sit around a faux campfire made with a few logs and tissue paper flames, while we had our lesson. The teacher wasn't wearing a cowboy hat, didn't use a black light, and didn't bring in any live amphibians for us to pet. There were no stuffed monkeys hanging from the ceiling and no thoroughbred horses out in the parking lot for us to sit on. No, she just sat there in the brown folding chair with her Bible in her lap and those old school pictures that she'd pin to the bulletin board behind her when the time was right. Something like these might have, very well, been your only visual for the whole day, so you had to glean the most you could from it.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8FkzOg908iBCXEWBiLrO0WeMuacWbOs6VdNP47ZtpjwfNyOkevvQ7aAjoTW2cwKUSuW85BXpX4FY3GMRBcyA7dG5Ssa6tv_u_C07iFjyf5qgXQxS4rR8YQezzL_ELun78k02LL4-z6wE/s1600/1417ec5a9f0e5a899a34dbb52d108129.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8FkzOg908iBCXEWBiLrO0WeMuacWbOs6VdNP47ZtpjwfNyOkevvQ7aAjoTW2cwKUSuW85BXpX4FY3GMRBcyA7dG5Ssa6tv_u_C07iFjyf5qgXQxS4rR8YQezzL_ELun78k02LL4-z6wE/s320/1417ec5a9f0e5a899a34dbb52d108129.jpg" width="265" /></a> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLMiqaIaawAXmaq3OlpT4VsYMHVc5UeHNEb9xFi9dOWVAwbpAuWM4QPCVKvHEeNww89dkSZ_XS9L8FIsTdo7BTIcO2nI3Mt7aQzVV9h1HEYmlszCE7IHPRIavmppkEwf8ioaAgxUtu1Lw/s1600/judges.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLMiqaIaawAXmaq3OlpT4VsYMHVc5UeHNEb9xFi9dOWVAwbpAuWM4QPCVKvHEeNww89dkSZ_XS9L8FIsTdo7BTIcO2nI3Mt7aQzVV9h1HEYmlszCE7IHPRIavmppkEwf8ioaAgxUtu1Lw/s320/judges.jpg" width="281" /></a><br />After we finished our story, it was time for crafts. Not the kind of crafts they do today. No, there was no going to <em>another</em> decorated room where supplies were laid out for some HGTV worthy craft....like building a coffee table or blowing your own colored glass or something. Back then, it was <em>"Ok, now pick up your chair and take them back over to the tables, where we will have our craft. Do not slide the chairs because we don't want to disturb the class below us!"</em> <br /><br />This was my favorite time in Bible school. I was all about some crafts. The same teacher would reach into the cabinet and get out a stack of construction paper, a few bottles of glue, some popsicle sticks, and a pack of those foil star stickers. On a really good craft day, we'd all be issued a baby food jar and maybe fabric scraps or a tin can and some old wallpaper sample books from which we'd fashion some really attractive keepsake. Something our mothers would feel obligated to display somewhere. <br /><br />On the days that the teacher would mix up the powder tempera paints, we'd be given a man's old shirt turned paint smock to protect our new summer shirts bought down at Sears and Roebuck. The teachers were always sure to warn you to be careful not to drip paint on your Buster Brown sandals, too. And if you finished your craft before everyone else, you were given a mimeographed coloring page and an old coffee can full of broken crayons as a time filler. <br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtvm-dpC64ecyZ_gq_DRd_7FB_r2kvW7OQdzEdBkCr1G0ndErG0rVLoZX7h7c956BEbVoyTX9m92Za3Rx3tY0mewNVr1GshoyZ-PufMe1qLEAmrPDIC_nuc7DhZFZPbELXRhhOrNsWsdY/s1600/DSC_0702-1024x680.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtvm-dpC64ecyZ_gq_DRd_7FB_r2kvW7OQdzEdBkCr1G0ndErG0rVLoZX7h7c956BEbVoyTX9m92Za3Rx3tY0mewNVr1GshoyZ-PufMe1qLEAmrPDIC_nuc7DhZFZPbELXRhhOrNsWsdY/s320/DSC_0702-1024x680.jpg" width="320" /></a> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8JVL_RlLiThQvzZw3kssFOyvpgztBLpuU8Nz5cTXyh_Xq-TMhqHRCSriA8ACsuuSNJMLW9NlXwbVH6SXlaGbMcADSRAsiyiGkJlOriZ3kvBomRAjXW-72sLMI-dpXx4eSwQhCTRRn1Ug/s1600/d33b063611efa6b72f08633c9ba35a6a.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8JVL_RlLiThQvzZw3kssFOyvpgztBLpuU8Nz5cTXyh_Xq-TMhqHRCSriA8ACsuuSNJMLW9NlXwbVH6SXlaGbMcADSRAsiyiGkJlOriZ3kvBomRAjXW-72sLMI-dpXx4eSwQhCTRRn1Ug/s1600/d33b063611efa6b72f08633c9ba35a6a.jpg" /></a><br />While the beautiful crafts dried on another table, it was on to snack time. Let me tell you......there were no Pinterest-worthy snacks there. No, sir. No themed snacks for us. No bird nests made from chow mein noodles and jelly bean eggs. No edible Noah's arks fashioned with icing, graham crackers, and animal cookies. Not even any gummy fish suspended in blue Jell-O and served in clear cups.<br /><br />We were old school. <em>"Ok, everybody go sit down and we'll pass out the butter ring cookies and the Dixie cups of tepid cherry Kool-Aid."</em> There was nothing organic and nobody asked about food allergies or gluten. As the week would crescendo, you might get a chocolate sandwich cookie......not an Oreo, mind you, but a store brand chocolate sandwich cookie. Finally, the snacks would peak on Friday as the teacher would pass out the twin pop popsicles. There was no color requesting, though, because there just simply weren't enough reds to go around. Someone had to get orange and it might as well be you. Then, there was that year our church bought the snow cone machine. Can you say Christmas in July?<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-sNuSqdEvMNAllDRDc47SqFUW4Bd7Wo1np-tozY-WLEr3U9wlxFvyyiY0YKTN7ppn7PuQsXvs575ykpKwNNND_g1KCLLu_oYpyjFTJVoC87fPZmnk4U13dUafXzadHReSgoiYI8l_UVA/s1600/1012814.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-sNuSqdEvMNAllDRDc47SqFUW4Bd7Wo1np-tozY-WLEr3U9wlxFvyyiY0YKTN7ppn7PuQsXvs575ykpKwNNND_g1KCLLu_oYpyjFTJVoC87fPZmnk4U13dUafXzadHReSgoiYI8l_UVA/s1600/1012814.jpg" /></a> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLMcrQnpxH_ZqKH9j96nL5m-4QGrVvxeIS43j7gQiGf3wgqSAOBQyaj7p0aPGGCHq1JJugYIeiKYY6oym52MX4OIX-Tg9Xwv8v_QsISPtCCwM-8khT5qQDvPjUJapqSHXUIeH87WTjPHM/s1600/101_5842.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLMcrQnpxH_ZqKH9j96nL5m-4QGrVvxeIS43j7gQiGf3wgqSAOBQyaj7p0aPGGCHq1JJugYIeiKYY6oym52MX4OIX-Tg9Xwv8v_QsISPtCCwM-8khT5qQDvPjUJapqSHXUIeH87WTjPHM/s320/101_5842.JPG" width="320" /></a><br />Before it was time to go home, there was only one more stop. Recreation. Again, no themed games, because, well, there were no themes for our Bible schools back then except Jesus and, well, there aren't many games that can be played with a kickball that emulate Jesus. I suppose it's hard to take away any measure of spiritual growth, while attempting to hit other children in the head with a rubber, inflated ball in order to acquire points. There's nothing "Jesus" about that. So, what they did in the 70's, you see, was say, "<em>Here's a ball. Go play and we won't try to draw any parallels between this and the lesson we just covered". </em>This gave the teachers time to sit and visit and eat their vanilla ice cream cups with the wooden spoons, the upper echelon of snacks reserved for the teachers only.<br /><br />After we all worked up a sweat and smelled like a herd of goats in a summer rain, it was time to gather our things to go home. We'd go check to see if the glue and paint on our craft had dried sufficiently to take it home. Oh, you always prayed it was so. There was nothing worse than having to leave your craft behind to dry.<br /><br />I have fond memories of Bible school. I looked forward to that every year. It wasn't as fancy and decked out as it is today. I suppose if we did it the old school way now, these iPad/Xbox/iPhone kids would likely fall out of their unadorned chairs and hit their heads on the undecorated floors- completely overwrought with boredom. I guess you just have to rock along with the times. <br /><br />Either way, working in Bible school is a big job and whether you did it back in the days of paste jars, felt boards, and butter ring cookies or you're doing it now with your cellophane waterfalls, crape paper jellyfish, and choreographed songs, you're doing important work!<br /><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><div style="text-align: center;"><em><strong>"Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of God belongs to such as these." Luke 18:16</strong></em><br /><strong><em></em></strong><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">JONI </div>Jonihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14946161822865311531noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3894524135734016573.post-31269835852429162082023-05-31T21:11:00.000-07:002023-05-31T21:11:13.769-07:00Your Yearly Reminder<div>Last week, I went for my mammogram. Y’all know I like to do a yearly blog reminder for us all to take care of ourselves. I’m sure my mother’s face is starting to feel flush as she senses I’m about to use the word, breast, again on the internet. To my handful of men followers, if you choose to leave before we get started, well, we certainly wouldn’t blame you for that and your absence would be marked as excused. </div><div><br /></div><div>I walked in for my appointment, a little early, hoping to get the show on the road. I signed the barrage of papers, having read none of them. For all I knew, I’d just agreed to donate my breasts to science. I took my seat among the other women there. My name was soon called and I was taken to a little room where these white, waffle-knit robes were hanging. You know the drill. I was instructed to take it all off above the waist, robe open to the front, and wipe off my deodorant with the wipes provided. Apparently, deodorant is the mammogram’s nemesis. </div><div><br />There I sat in the little room, clutching my purse as I waited for my name to be called. At this point in life, I don’t get nervous about any of the womanly tests. Just do what you’ve gotta do. I was ready for them to come get me and get this peep show over with, so I could be on my way. The room sort of had a cattle holding pen feel to it. I suppose if we're going with that metaphor then there I was waiting to have my udders checked. <br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwKNG1aSmLzNdmrsWEzd835XkqNvSIiWenbLvCk_ZjNpXr0Ss-K-Wl3fdBVJsP6jhyc9_WYt_jsKAgckU24cDCMzZZ5skkLc-6Sku_NjiKdgG6tV3u7PmI0yryh_OhQzgm4s4AhWkATEU/s1600/farmbillkimmanderson.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwKNG1aSmLzNdmrsWEzd835XkqNvSIiWenbLvCk_ZjNpXr0Ss-K-Wl3fdBVJsP6jhyc9_WYt_jsKAgckU24cDCMzZZ5skkLc-6Sku_NjiKdgG6tV3u7PmI0yryh_OhQzgm4s4AhWkATEU/s1600/farmbillkimmanderson.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>My name was called and this cute, young girl, still with perky bosoms, took me inside the room and we got down to business. I've always thought that it would take a special person to do that job. I mean, you know- corralling breasts of all shapes and sizes into that machine. All. Day. Long. I bet she's got a litany of stories to tell at her family Thanksgiving gathering. Surely, everyone wants to sit at her table. I know I would. <br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwvP_vxhZNoQ8sadsyR7ooLKY7mhsSaQlGAGRIv9LSSk8P6CW7cm9uo_iORhTxMTTjmYKTKQQuuNQKgoQH_vqAjgkl2Uh8LobQ7e9ZmGwuPZfPNO_OIRdyVn_wjHyqlXzwEoWEP-5fMKc/s1600/machine-woman-closeup.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwvP_vxhZNoQ8sadsyR7ooLKY7mhsSaQlGAGRIv9LSSk8P6CW7cm9uo_iORhTxMTTjmYKTKQQuuNQKgoQH_vqAjgkl2Uh8LobQ7e9ZmGwuPZfPNO_OIRdyVn_wjHyqlXzwEoWEP-5fMKc/s1600/machine-woman-closeup.jpg" width="316" /></a></div>Anyway, I grabbed the handle and leaned in like I knew to do. Just when I thought she’d gotten it all in there, she seemed unconvinced. She pulled and pulled some more as if she was under the impression this was a lung scan. Then, when I’m in there up to my liver and the vise comes down, she says, <i>"Ok, just relax." </i> I thought, <i>"Oh, I'm relaxed all right. I can't remember the last time I was this relaxed.” </i>I’m not sure, but I think the mammogram is the only medical test that requires you to completely flatten out the body part in question. Men would never stand for a test like this. I feel sure that someone would be coming up with a better way really quickly. <br /><br />Anyway, there’s that first initial clamping down that the machine does and it tricks you into thinking, <i>"Oh, well, this isn't so bad,”</i> but I think that just serves the purpose of grabbing you, so you can't escape. It leads one to wonder if it was from here that the term, booby trap, originated. The only way you're getting out of there, at this point, would be by gnawing your breast off as wild animals are known to do when trapped. Then the big squeeze happens, leaving you looking like a rolled out pie crust and the cute, little girl says, <i>"Ok, now, don't move.” </i>You’re thinking<i>,“Oh, I don't think there's much chance of that,” </i>while praying for the sound of the little beep that precedes the release.<br /><br />You can't help but wonder if those things ever malfunction. You know, dishwashers break. Refrigerators go on the fritz. Washing machines tear up. Cars break down. Surely, the mammogram machine is not above disrepair. I mean, just last week, our garage door went down and wouldn't go back up again. Don’t think that didn't cross my mind. <i>“I bet this is exactly what it would feel like to get your breast caught under the garage door,”</i> I thought. I don't know exactly what circumstances would lead you to find yourself in that predicament, but I can imagine it would be similar. <br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHPQnVgmcpvrH-qb20e-PZ_VWSJUagPdQOHTb_ly5CtDYe3E9Qr-dL1IJRhaxd4kljT-PtCpAbjEFnXgDvPHRfPJaSCZcKiqVPRG1sR33y2HjOYgKJAQrNsW4p910uKfeRF1yBVjRicfg/s1600/aaaaaa.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHPQnVgmcpvrH-qb20e-PZ_VWSJUagPdQOHTb_ly5CtDYe3E9Qr-dL1IJRhaxd4kljT-PtCpAbjEFnXgDvPHRfPJaSCZcKiqVPRG1sR33y2HjOYgKJAQrNsW4p910uKfeRF1yBVjRicfg/s1600/aaaaaa.png" /></a> </div>Surely, at some point in time, somewhere in the world, a mammogram machine has clamped down and failed to go back up again. Can you imagine? I’m guessing the first thing they'd do is unplug it and plug it back in to see if that helps. Then maybe- unplug it, blow on the plug, and plug it back in. If that doesn't work, surely, they have some emergency numbers for such an event. What if Clarence and Howard from maintenance or a slew of firemen had to come in and tinker with it. Jaws of life, maybe? But, let's not even think about that. <br /><br />Can I just say here, too, that I couldn't help but notice the temperature had to have been close to freezing in there. When the air in a room is cold, it, in turn, cools the hard surfaces in a room. Undoubtedly, some fully-clothed man, who's never had a mammogram- or breasts for that matter- was sitting in an office in a different building, playing with his Newton's cradle and controlling the thermostat. <br /><br />Anyway, as I stood there ensnared, I tried to think of the man's equivalent to the mammogram and, alas, I couldn't think of any. There are several things in a woman's experience for which there is no male equivalent. We win first, second, <i>and</i> third place in the most intrusive diagnostic tests category. Hands down. I guess we should give the men some credit, though, seeing as how they do have to....well.....um.....ok, never mind. They don't have to do squat. </div><div> </div><div>In my mind, the mammogram can be likened to many things….</div><div>-Lifting the hood of your car, placing your bosoms above its grill, and, at your command, having your husband slam the hood shut and then pull the hood release 30 seconds later. </div><div>-Going out onto a highway, where there is road construction, and lying down on your side across the fresh asphalt while the steamroller backs over your breast. Turn over and repeat. </div><div>-Inserting your bosoms into the paper feed of the copy machine at work and pressing “Print.” </div><div>-Pressing wildflowers in a stack of World Book Encyclopedias only with much less appealing results that you wouldn’t want to frame and hang in your powder room. </div><div><br /></div><div>No matter how you think about it, a mammogram is one of those slightly uncomfortable, yet quick and necessary, tests that a woman must endure to ensure she stays healthy for her family, so she can continue to help them find things they’ve lost. There is a sisterhood among women who meet up in the waiting rooms of these clinics and doctor’s offices. We can sympathize with each other’s preventative and diagnostic plight. We all have the same nooks and crannies which must be checked once a year. Those checkups are among the most important things you can do for yourself and your family. Don’t ever forget- without you, they’d starve. </div><div><br /></div><div>A few days later, I was called to come back for more tests. I went back today and it was a benign cyst and all is well. It’s always a different feeling walking back in for a second look at something they’ve spotted. The heart may beat a little faster and the thoughts may go a bit deeper. I know a lot of you have been there and didn’t get the news you were hoping to get. My mother was diagnosed with early breast cancer, last fall, which means I had another relative’s name to list on those forms they make you fill out at your appointment. Her cancer was found on her regular yearly mammogram. She had surgery, went through some radiation treatments, and has an excellent prognosis. If she hadn’t gone for her regular test, it likely would’ve been a different outcome. </div><div><br /></div><div>You know I like to laugh and have fun with everyday experiences we all have to face. I just wanted to remind you to make your appointment if you’re overdue. You’re so worth it! </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Night y’all- </div><div>JONI </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Jonihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14946161822865311531noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3894524135734016573.post-19215330724708373252023-05-24T22:16:00.003-07:002023-05-24T22:28:25.197-07:00This Girl Is on Fire <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuUxmJoHRG8ZzxyNJNOlmpHu1ftUBWgbRWqxG7OgpMNxjaMdUFRABzi-G718IrgegzG_fwOiAkyn1Yx5qRIR0NUVN1JSggvWhI3NiaW-0r7jW4yih2DDaeg8b50qtLzq3ttAtj8ylqrmlKM1nciiaMoMTcc1NKwg4qUxkiHZDiybmr_1A0AbOibtj9/s468/43CE430D-1C2F-4625-8629-D64C43376E18.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="286" data-original-width="468" height="245" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuUxmJoHRG8ZzxyNJNOlmpHu1ftUBWgbRWqxG7OgpMNxjaMdUFRABzi-G718IrgegzG_fwOiAkyn1Yx5qRIR0NUVN1JSggvWhI3NiaW-0r7jW4yih2DDaeg8b50qtLzq3ttAtj8ylqrmlKM1nciiaMoMTcc1NKwg4qUxkiHZDiybmr_1A0AbOibtj9/w400-h245/43CE430D-1C2F-4625-8629-D64C43376E18.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><p>I had a birthday, week before last. I turned 55 and we need to talk, ladies. </p><p>Birthdays have never bothered me, really. I’ve always taken them in stride. So far, the numbers aren’t <i>that</i> bad, so I proudly state my age when asked and hold my head high. Sure, there have been outward signs of the passing years. We talk about those all the time around here. The inability to remember what I’m doing in the middle of doing it. The various things that have started to droop and lose elasticity. The constant struggle to keep my goatee at bay. Yeah, there’s been all that, but something happened to me at 55 that I’m not liking one bit. The weird thing is that it started almost exactly on my birthday as if it had my birthday on its calendar. Like one of those dashboard lights that comes on in your car at a set time. Things just started happening about four days before my birthday and they’ve been happening ever since. I’m speaking of night sweats and sleep disturbances. </p><p>To my older readers- ya’ll didn't tell me 55 was the age your hormones hand in their notice. Or more like quit on the spot, grab their purse, head to their car, and not even finish out the day. A little heads up would’ve been nice. Please, send tips. To my younger readers, take 55 and subtract your age and that’s about how long you have left for fun and games. I had a partial hysterectomy, a few years ago, but my hormones were still going strong- until that fateful weekend before my birthday. </p><p>That weekend, it was like my subscription to estrogen expired. You know how it is when your six month complimentary subscription to Sirius runs out in your new car? One day, you’re jamming to the 80’s on 8. The next day- static. I didn’t receive a notice informing me that my hormonal service agreement was about to run out. I didn’t get a courtesy call reminding me to make other arrangements. I didn’t receive a letter offering any sort of extension. No, they just cut me off without any warning. I visualize some burly, sweaty guy with a wrench from the water department who came in the night to shut off the valve. </p><p>I’ve started waking up a couple of times a night. Around 1:00 and again at 5:00 and I can’t go back to sleep for a while. I’ve heard my friends speak of this, but I’ve always quietly listened and thought, “Well, bless your heart.” I couldn’t relate to those tired and frustrated souls. Sleep has been a skill at which I’ve excelled, my entire life. God gives us all gifts, you know. Slumber is mine. Even before my birth, my mother became concerned and visited the doctor because I rarely moved. Even then, I was honing my skills in the womb, so it really busted my bubble when this started. </p><p>I’ll get up to get water or go to the restroom and, before I can get back to sleep, my mind is swirling and I stay awake for an hour or two thinking random and free-flowing thoughts. Not the kind of thoughts you’d expect a mother to have in the night- worries about the children, the moral decay of society, the kind of world the next generation will be left to traverse. No, the random thoughts I’m talking about are not unlike those a person under the influence of drugs might have. An inner voice starts- <i>“There are some things we need to ponder before you go back to sleep. Tonight’s topics will include- The striking resemblance of your new postman to Jim Cantore. A complete analysis of a conversation you had in 1997. Are brussel sprouts really just baby cabbages? Did you or didn’t you remember to lock the back door? Liquid detergent vs pods. And we’ll close our session with the theme song to The Love Boat and you won’t be able to get it out of your head for, at least, an hour.” </i></p><p>Then I wake up a couple of more times a night and I think the bed is on fire. I’m certain that there’s no way I could be <i>that</i> hot and the bed <i>not</i> be on fire. Or maybe it <i>was</i> on fire and I slept through the firemen putting it out because I’m drenched. Sweating all over like I ran a marathon and then went straight to bed. And I also find myself asking the same question over and over to random people- “Is it hot in here?” So, let me just say ahead of time that this summer will not go well. I will not be ok. Y’all check on me. Which brings me to a product recommendation for you if you, too, suffer from spontaneous human combustion. I got a Dreo fan for my birthday and it has been a lifesaver! It has a remote control, 4 speeds, swivels, oscillates, and the highest speed produces wind gusts of up to 100 mph- which is likely what had me thinking of Jim Cantore at 1:00 am. Your sheets will be flapping in the wind. It’s the coolest fan I’ve ever had- hands down! In case you’re interested, here it is on Amazon. Between it and the Woozoo fan, this one had much better reviews. I know there’s someone out there who needs this information. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifOvUtX9-MV9N9sqVEEks_5S5ZpbK4Fd3-HSHTFb1VBZbE4dcV-8RKlZ4bHLUbzDJE0uhDmoEdobQJgUf594bMYd9rTA01eVbTzzewFeytR8E2PQh-p-_b5YokTPXSXvLGfAdSOYo0T3JHbmDa0vE715I7MTWva0dS3Jk6hFOviURsFpQE2GK5aJsp/s1515/15D5BB54-0266-487F-A3F7-C08EC41CF3D1.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1515" data-original-width="1179" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifOvUtX9-MV9N9sqVEEks_5S5ZpbK4Fd3-HSHTFb1VBZbE4dcV-8RKlZ4bHLUbzDJE0uhDmoEdobQJgUf594bMYd9rTA01eVbTzzewFeytR8E2PQh-p-_b5YokTPXSXvLGfAdSOYo0T3JHbmDa0vE715I7MTWva0dS3Jk6hFOviURsFpQE2GK5aJsp/w311-h400/15D5BB54-0266-487F-A3F7-C08EC41CF3D1.jpeg" width="311" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Before I sign off, I HAVE to show you a couple of other things I got for my birthday. Otis’s rescuer, Amber, got me this and I never knew I could love a shirt this much. Oh. My. Word!!!</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvpYAlg8PGqOgl7Fju0Pz9Q1h1XtUV2yRgR1Ul85W-d_dR2lsh7DD_tdMqHgARkY9X4JY4VpftYwd_R25QO0E35-cUuIWAeUBSx7FDXO4dX9SX55HFQpFfj1ay0wIvNcQJlC0FnCWoXfkwHinObb46-XwSfjNkjneTX4XGBZy2k1NWJHXDM69vt8j0/s2629/3D71E1B3-F6C5-47F1-8171-103A8D55BD2D.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2629" data-original-width="2298" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvpYAlg8PGqOgl7Fju0Pz9Q1h1XtUV2yRgR1Ul85W-d_dR2lsh7DD_tdMqHgARkY9X4JY4VpftYwd_R25QO0E35-cUuIWAeUBSx7FDXO4dX9SX55HFQpFfj1ay0wIvNcQJlC0FnCWoXfkwHinObb46-XwSfjNkjneTX4XGBZy2k1NWJHXDM69vt8j0/w350-h400/3D71E1B3-F6C5-47F1-8171-103A8D55BD2D.jpeg" width="350" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">And, just for my birthday, my sweet and talented daughter perfected my favorite caramel cake using my mother’s recipe. If you know anything about making caramel icing, you know what an accomplishment that is! After 4 different attempts and troubleshooting calls to her grandmother, Blair hit the bullseye. How sweet that she would go to so much trouble for her menopausal Mama. The icing was as smooth as glass- not any grainy grit of sugar to be found. Just pure melt in your mouth goodness. She and my nephew are both proficient now and their grandmother’s caramel cake will live on for years to come. These things obviously skip a generation. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtcRSTq2ILAHPCE-nvfTIDyN06OsVcYmSLhQam0gzVGpvXguVBTsY8nEhQK8YoxIuv1d0Q_Bo_H_bcpvMU6DcWTCwoiH5GUUg7CI63S7rGLOUieySvTYUzEvDXzCbMBeI17LzDRFkaUd0TJgT1LUCgsgn2imOAok97sUenTOGdY7a0vBkWjJhaG8sD/s4032/3600E707-E613-4FD1-B50B-E1B6C3E5B07A.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtcRSTq2ILAHPCE-nvfTIDyN06OsVcYmSLhQam0gzVGpvXguVBTsY8nEhQK8YoxIuv1d0Q_Bo_H_bcpvMU6DcWTCwoiH5GUUg7CI63S7rGLOUieySvTYUzEvDXzCbMBeI17LzDRFkaUd0TJgT1LUCgsgn2imOAok97sUenTOGdY7a0vBkWjJhaG8sD/w300-h400/3600E707-E613-4FD1-B50B-E1B6C3E5B07A.jpeg" width="300" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Well, let me get on to bed now. 1:00 will be here before you know it. Wonder what’s on the program for tonight? Preliminary edits to the Christmas card list, state capitals and birds, and a replay of my three most embarrassing moments? Perhaps. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Y’all have a safe and happy holiday weekend! </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">JONI </div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><p><br /></p>Jonihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14946161822865311531noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3894524135734016573.post-91506679638635760672023-05-17T21:02:00.004-07:002023-05-18T06:48:45.343-07:00Perplexed<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrbxsCulvBEFickxWdHUjh613arit84C5otz-pi0dU0EPQvAYu5lTU5wDXu63GMthAvsSY3331Lmcw_N_EBHXo8MW_3A2eCki_SSL1D-DZ-_JEFi-frYGQlwfxO227G5uBr_gv9pUHhDTXBXTkJL1CwMd7WGt4bhkR3gCEayEn4Pvoe-yoieM6N1oU/s700/57EC8262-5E43-4289-B196-7DF906475222.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="700" data-original-width="700" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrbxsCulvBEFickxWdHUjh613arit84C5otz-pi0dU0EPQvAYu5lTU5wDXu63GMthAvsSY3331Lmcw_N_EBHXo8MW_3A2eCki_SSL1D-DZ-_JEFi-frYGQlwfxO227G5uBr_gv9pUHhDTXBXTkJL1CwMd7WGt4bhkR3gCEayEn4Pvoe-yoieM6N1oU/w400-h400/57EC8262-5E43-4289-B196-7DF906475222.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><p>Well, we were supposed to have fun and talk about lighthearted topics today, but we’ve had a tragedy to happen in our town, this week. The worst kind. A child was killed in an accident. Whenever there’s something like that, I don’t feel right about going on with business as usual. Our town is a deeply connected place. The young boy was related to my sister-in-law. I’d never met him, but he was obviously very loved and I can’t imagine what his family must be feeling. </p><p>We don’t get things like this. We can struggle and eventually come to grips with losses that occur later in life but, when death comes to claim life in its earliest and most innocent stages, well, we don’t do so well with that. There’s just no way to make it seem ok. We clumsily stumble with our words because there simply are limits to our language. There are thoughts it can’t envelope and pains it could never encase. There are just no words strong enough to hold up under the weight of some feelings.</p><p>Our world is full of situations that leave us speechless. It’s nothing new. Lately, I’ve been feeling the word Paul used long ago, perplexed. Perplexed about a lot of things. Synonyms of perplexed are addled, confused, disconcerted, puzzled, baffled, at a loss. At a loss might be the one I’ve used most. News headlines, tragedies, sicknesses, persecutions, inhumanities, lawlessness, injustices. The stories are coming fast and furious at us as we walk around with technology in our hands. After a while, we can start to feel kind of numb- like we’re unable to do much besides sit and let them ricochet off of us. And maybe wonder when something is going to hit close to our home. </p><p>But, there’s the next part of the verse. <b><i>“We are perplexed, but not driven to despair.” </i></b>Other translations- “but we aren’t depressed”, “but we don’t give up.” Not everything will make sense to us on this side of heaven. Goodness knows it doesn’t. I’m certainly not adequate to try to tackle the theology of why things happen like they do. All I know is Jesus promised us there would be trouble in life. He wasn’t kidding about that.<i> <b>“But take heart! I have overcome the world.”</b></i><b> (John 16:33) </b>He wasn’t kidding about that either. <b><i>“Yet what we suffer now is nothing compared to the glory he will reveal to us later.” </i>(Romans 8:18)</b> In the meantime, we keep lifting each other up, helping where we can, sharing the hope of Christ, and holding onto the promises of God. </p><p>God, be near the broken-hearted. </p><p>JONI </p><p> </p><p><br /></p>Jonihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14946161822865311531noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3894524135734016573.post-37029283653623243912023-05-11T21:32:00.002-07:002023-05-12T09:07:18.249-07:00The Love of a Mother<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuNfVNS5gQtkMrRMIEqWvvsjfrUwnk1obp5UX57VuBhESCw8EYDUbXLbL7HDvwGbG6ngoZrJYWDl5SNARDytLBRdlKQBudN6wh-BugdIHXRiOwbC7BQL-xSv42HBakBtH9u_v7qBNo7phFXcWVuzK0lk5RYPT1U__-pySO5chXt18qnqP5qBW8lzWX/s1024/FBC488B7-594D-40C9-9617-69FEDD2EAEAB.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="1024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuNfVNS5gQtkMrRMIEqWvvsjfrUwnk1obp5UX57VuBhESCw8EYDUbXLbL7HDvwGbG6ngoZrJYWDl5SNARDytLBRdlKQBudN6wh-BugdIHXRiOwbC7BQL-xSv42HBakBtH9u_v7qBNo7phFXcWVuzK0lk5RYPT1U__-pySO5chXt18qnqP5qBW8lzWX/w400-h400/FBC488B7-594D-40C9-9617-69FEDD2EAEAB.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><p>I was 26 years old and had been married for a couple of years. I was pregnant again after having a miscarriage. We’d decided not to find out the sex of the baby, so we had a boy and a girl name picked out and both clothing options ready for coming home from the hospital. It was a Sunday, about a week before my due date, when I started having contractions. </p><p>Davis and I had taken the childbirth classes offered at the hospital- the ones where they teach you to breathe through the pain. Yeah, well, that doesn’t work. It was still the 1900’s, so they played a VHS movie on the VCR of what happens during birth. Davis’s eyes bugged out as he ate his complimentary refreshments of cookies and lemonade from the cafeteria. I’d read <i>What to Expect When You’re Expecting</i> from cover to cover. I knew what was supposed to be happening and when. I had a list of instructions from the doctor’s office and a checklist of how to know when it’s time. I knew the criteria for heading to the hospital and we weren’t quite there yet. </p><p>So, we walked around the neighborhood. Somewhere, I’d read walking could speed things along. So, we walked and walked. All afternoon. Finally, my water broke all over the bedroom floor and our time of departure was no longer a mystery. I’d never seen Davis move so quickly. Or drive so fast. </p><p>The pain was getting intense and I rode to the hospital knowing that I was about to become a mother, but I had no idea what that really meant. Yes, I expected sleepless nights. Yes, I knew my day to day routine would change. Yes, I knew there would be added expenses. But, I was only aware of facts I had read in black and white. </p><p>Sunday turned to Monday and a lot of drugs made it all a blur. You might even say I was as high as a kite at that point. At 3:03 a.m., the doctor announced we had a girl and, after just a couple of hours of sleep, they brought her to me. Some of the drugs had worn off and I was starting to feel less fuzzy. That’s when it happened. I was able to hold my daughter for the first time. </p><p>I studied her perfect face and ran my fingers through her thick, brown hair. I pulled her little foot out from the blanket and studied it carefully. I traced her ears with my fingertip and spoke her name softly- the one I’d had picked out since I was 12. Her eyes met mine and they told me she’d been waiting to put a face with my heartbeat. My breathing. My voice. This little person I’d just met had already taken complete possession of my heart. It was in an instant with no fanfare or warning or fuss. It just happened. In that very moment of time, I would’ve died for the tiny soul I’d only known a few minutes and I had no explanation for it except I was her mother.</p><p>Ever since that day, her joys have been my exhilaration. Her disappointments have been my greatest frustrations. Her dreams have been my deepest longings. If you want to see my face light up, let her walk in the room where I am. Her accomplishments are my purest form of delight. Her celebrations feed my soul. Kind words spoken of her are the most beautiful sound to my ears. Her sadnesses have been my deepest sorrows. And I’m never quite as happy as when she’s elated. The very same is true for Carson, of course. They are extensions of me. What they feel, I feel. Maybe even more deeply. This was the part I didn’t know about when I left for the hospital that day. This was the part they don’t cover in any of the books. They can‘t teach it in any class. You find it out soon enough on your own. For the rest of my days on earth, the lift of their joys and the weight of their disappointments will continually be tipping the scales of my heart one way or the other and I’m completely and utterly helpless to change that. I have no explanation for it except I am their mother. </p><p>There is nowhere motherhood wouldn’t go. Nothing it wouldn’t sacrifice. No solution it wouldn’t try. No possession it wouldn’t give. No amount of time it wouldn’t invest. Nothing it wouldn’t do without. No place it wouldn’t look. No hurdle it wouldn’t clear. No job it wouldn’t tackle. No odds it wouldn’t try to beat. No discomfort it wouldn’t endure. No price it wouldn’t pay. No chance it wouldn’t take. And there is no explanation for it except for the love of a mother. </p><p>I realize thoughts of motherhood can take us all to a million different places. The highest peaks of joy and love. The lowest valley of sadness and longing. There’s a most beautiful side to it and another one that has more jagged and painful edges. I’m not sure what this holiday will look like for you. Wherever you find yourself this Mother’s Day, I pray that God will meet you there. </p><p>If your Mother’s Day is spent missing someone you loved deeply, may He pull you close to Him in your grief. If the day digs up regret and second guesses, may you feel God’s warm grace covering you. If it is clouded with worry and uncertainty, may God quiet your mind. If the day is a reminder of your disappointment and unfulfilled dreams, may He give you the gift of peace and contentment. If it stirs up memories of pain and hurt, may He help your heart forgive and move forward. If the day is greeted with physical and mental exhaustion, may God grant you renewed strength and focus. If it is filled with love and joy, may He receive your gratitude all day long. If it is riddled with questions of why, may He satisfy your mind with His answers and promises. If the day emphasizes your loneliness, may God sit near you and keep you company. If it’s brimming with admiration and appreciation, may He give you the words to express it. If the day presents the opportunity to help another woman get through her difficult version of Mother’s Day, may He help you seize it.</p><p>However you spend your weekend, I do hope it’s full of love. </p><p>There’s been so much going on, lately. May is always like that. We’ll talk again next week. About things like birthdays and mammograms. </p><p><br /></p><p>Y’all have a wonderful weekend! </p><p>JONI </p>Jonihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14946161822865311531noreply@blogger.com1