Ok, a little mature lady talk. I’m 53. That mysterious age where these eerie transformations are supposed to be happening. They use to call it “The Change” which indicates you’re going to be altered or transformed into something different than you once were. Boy, I’ll say. I wasn’t sure what it was called way back when my Mama was going through it, but I certainly knew she was going through something and it wasn’t pleasant for any of us. I remember how the usually sweet, gentle, and kind woman began emitting sparks from her eyes and smoke rose from her mouth when anything made her mad. Anything covered a lot of ground back then. When there were no sparks or smoke, there were tears. And not just any tears- the epic kind that said, “you have ripped my heart from my chest and I will never recover from what you have done to me in this moment.” So, those were our choices for a couple of years. The crazed angry woman who could kill with the flaming arrows of her stare or the pitiful creature in a puddle of her own tears. Of course, while this was all going on, I was in my later teenage years and a hormonal hurricane all my own. As I recall, those were some good, good times. 

Well, since I had a partial hysterectomy, I’ve wondered how I would tell when I crossed over into that spooky change thing. I mean, would the eye sparks come first and then the large uptick in Kleenex usage? Would I start to notice more and more people trying to avoid me and that would be my first sign? I wasn’t clear on how that worked, but I may have noticed some stronger hints as of late. I think they could be put into two categories- physical changes where I feel as if my head is attached to an alien body- unfamiliar and of another world than the one I’ve been living in until now. And then the mental and emotional aspects in which it might be said that some of my fruits of the spirit have been out of season- namely the patience, long-suffering, and self-control. 

Now, those physical changes can be a doozy. I believe my facial hair progression, through the years, has gone from just a little bleach to hot wax to now a battery powered razor. Of course, they don’t call them razors when they’re for the ladies. No, it’s a personal trimmer. A beautiful metallic gold apparatus with the feminine sounding name, Flawless, written on the side, but let’s get real- it’s a miniature weed eater for hormone deficient women and, when I put it to my chin, it sounds just like the weed whacker hitting that tall patch of grass around our mailbox. My eyelids are drooping now and my neck is starting to show a lot of give and my arms are getting that textured look not unlike a worn leather recliner. And the pain in some of my joints even had me buying some of that topical pain relieving cream like my grandmother used. But the most glaring place I notice the physical change is around the middle. Oh, the middle. What is all that? Sure, I’ve had a muffin top since the children were born, but we seem to have advanced it to the next level. 

Needing a new dress for a wedding, I recently brought home two to try on with my shapewear and shoes as they can make all the difference, although, I’m not specifically a Spanx girl. I find it doesn’t really do much to minimize anything, but just gives it more the appearance of a water balloon. But, you know, we can only ask so much from our textile foundation garments. I mean, they’re not liposuction. Anyway, I determined one dress would work and the other was just too fitted in the midsection for this new and transforming me, where there is no longer a discernible change in girth from the rib cage to the waist. And I decided, while I was suited up in my spandex, I’d try on every dress in my closet and cull the hopeless cases- something I’ve been saying I needed to do, every Sunday, when I’m trying to decide what to wear to church. It took a while, but I struggled and pulled and sweated and ripped seams trying on each and every one. Now, they’re hung back in the closet in order from “Fitting For Now” to “Will Fit If I Drink More Water” to “Might Work If I Contract a Stomach Bug” to, finally, the “Will Require a 2 Week Liquid Diet” section in the very back. Who knows- someday, I may need some dental surgery. That would be the only way I’ll get back into that section. Anything that fell beyond those perimeters, I considered too far fetched and placed in the special give-away pile. 

The emotional and mental clues I’m getting from the ominous “Change” have been appearing for a while and are growing. I fixed myself a glass of tea at lunch today and then I fixed myself another glass of tea not remembering I’d fixed a glass of tea just two minutes earlier. My mind is as foggy as a……um….well….a really foggy place. And then there are my emotions. It’s like I can’t help it, sometimes. Something just comes over me. Yesterday, I was out running errands in the rain and I was in and out of the car all day and getting aggravated. Getting in and struggling with an impaired umbrella that was dripping all over everything had me spouting off words my Mama taught me never to say. And I find myself getting angry at inanimate objects. Like slinging the said malfunctioning umbrella all the way to the back of the car and hitting the window or kicking things that are in my way to show them who’s in charge. And I’ll just go ahead and warn you if I get behind you in traffic, you won’t be able to do anything right. You’ll be going too slow or taking too long to turn or driving in the wrong lane. I’ll find something in your driving to talk out loud to myself about and don’t be alarmed if I honk for emphasis. Just say, “Bless her little changing heart- her patience fruit has just completely rotted on the vine.” 

I’ve also become considerably more irate with injustice and unscrupulous behavior. I obviously can’t watch the news in my current state. It’s like I can’t let things go. I’m hormonal and I’m taking names. I’ve recently turned in a school bus that I felt was being unsafe and dialed the 1-800 number on the back of an 18 wheeler that was driving like a fool. Just today, I sat in wait to take pictures of the tag of a shoplifter. If I had a badge and a holster, I think I could really clean up some stuff. And if my new body wouldn’t look so ridiculous in those super hero costumes with the steel bras, I’d go so far to say I’d even be a good fit for the Justice League- somewhere between Superman, Green Lantern, and Wonder Woman, there I’d be- Mental Muffintop. I’d need an outfit with an empire waist for it to work though. 

So, all that to say, the times, they are a-changin’ and so am I, apparently. If you’re a-changin’ too, well, I feel ya and I’m here for you. So, let’s just forge ahead and carry on with what we were doing. What were we doing? Is it hot in here? What did you just say to me? I can’t remember why I called you. I can’t believe you’re not hot. Did I already tell you this? What do you mean the zipper won’t go any higher? Yes, I’d like to report an incident. Where did my eyebrows go? What were we talking about? What are all these brown spots? Nothing’s wrong- I’m fine.  

Y’all have a great weekend and for all you, young women, out there- never change.

JONI 

I was watching a 9/11 documentary on Hulu this morning. I couldn’t help but cry as I saw people hanging out of those smoky windows. People, with no hope of being rescued, leaping into the air after it was determined to be the best of two very grim options. My lip quivered listening to answering machine messages of sons saying goodbye to mothers and wives saying goodbye to husbands. “Please tell the children I love them always.” My eyes teared for the co-workers who went back in to save others but never came out again or those, who lagged behind the crowd, refusing to leave an injured stranger behind. I cried for the unimaginable trauma those people endured on that terrifying day. A day that could only be described as a living nightmare. Their desperation. Their fear. Their hopelessness. Their pain. Their confusion. I cried for them- those people who were physically present and what they experienced. But, I think some of my tears were for how many lessons we’ve forgotten since then. 

On that day, we didn’t have a sprawling list of prerequisites in order for someone to qualify to receive our care and compassion. We didn’t stop to ensure that political affiliations or stances on social issues lined up with ours before dispensing our assistance. There were no checklists to be completed in order to prove someone’s worthiness of our love and concern. We didn’t give careful examination of skin color or background or religious views or personal records before we deemed them eligible for our sympathy. On that day, we didn’t care about any of that. It was enough that they were our fellow man. Created by God, the Father, and in need of His mercy just like us. If only that was still enough, today. 

God, help us find our way back to that place where it’s enough. 

When I found out it was International Dog Day, I couldn’t resist. Y’all know I’m a sucker for a dog, so I thought we’d have a quick talk about them today. We all need happy things to think about and there’s not much of anything that makes us happier than our pups. 

Growing up, we had outside dogs. I didn’t really know many people who had dogs that actually lived inside their houses. It was more of a common thing then than it is now to just have a nice dog house in the backyard and everybody seemed happy with the arrangement- dog included. Daddy built ours. It was painted to match our house and had a shingled roof and a little front porch- the works. A dog really couldn’t ask for nicer accommodations. On cold nights, we’d make sure they had help to stay warm with extra hay or whatever was needed. There just wasn’t any way a dog was going to live in my mother’s house, the queen of clean. She, especially, was of the belief that animals should live outside where God intended.  

So, when Davis and I got married, we got two Bassett Hounds. I’d always wanted a Bassett as I’ve had an enduring soft spot for dogs with big ears as long as I can remember. They were sisters. Cleo and Maxine. Because of how I was raised, Cleo and Maxine had a lovely dog house in our nice fenced backyard and that’s where they stayed. Every now and then, I’d get the urge to bring them in for a little bit and I’d go get a blanket and spread it out on the floor to protect it from their rather enormous feet. They’d lie on the blanket and we’d love on them and then it was back outside they’d go. 

When the kids got a little older, we decided it was time to get a little dog for them. Cleo and Maxine were gone and we thought they needed to have a pet. That’s when we got our little Sugar- the dachshund with the traveling salesman chihuahua daddy. We’d just moved into our new house and I wasn’t planning on bringing a dog into it to live. I just wasn’t used to that concept. But, since she was so little, we put her small dog house in the garage right by the door so she’d stay warm and be safe at night. The kids would be like- “please, can Sugar come inside?” I’d say, “Ok, if you hold her and don’t put her down.” Then, it was- “ok, she can sleep in the laundry room in her kennel and go outside during the day.” Then it was- “ok, whatever.” Sugar lived out the remaining 95% of her life as an inside dog. God rest her sweet angel soul. I still can’t look at her picture without crying.

Ruby comes on the scene as our beloved rescued stray- the dog, who’d been actually living out in the elements all of her life and could’ve fared very well outdoors, came straight in as an inside dog. She had no earthly idea how to behave as an inside dog. We would’ve done just as well to go out and get a large zoo animal and bring it in to live with us. She was barbaric, I tell you, but we worked through our issues albeit rather slowly. 

So, we’ve gone from a dog house in the backyard to a dog house in the garage to a kennel in the laundry room to this. 

I went to a funeral on Sunday. It was for the sweet mother of one of my high school friends. She was a most precious woman and I have a lot of sweet memories of her through the years. She was a true Southern lady and it was always a special treat for me to run into her and get to catch up and visit. There’s just something so dear about those friends’ mothers from our younger days, who looked after us like we were their own. There were even those who teetered on qualifying as emergency contacts because of how often we were at their houses. They were our other moms and it hits the heart hard when they leave us. 

The minister did a beautiful service and, in keeping with tradition, we stood as the family left following the casket to go to the cemetery. As we were standing quietly- respecting the family’s loss- my little Mama reached over and put her arm around me. Her arm doesn’t seem like it comes up as high on me as it once did. We didn’t make eye contact, but I knew we were both thinking the same thing as we watched my friend and her sister leaving with their mother, one last time. One day, one of us will leave the other. We never know how life will play out, but if things go in natural order, she will leave me. And there I’ll be- without a Mama. I wasn’t ready to think about that yet and my eyes teared for my friend and also at the thought of losing the little woman who was hugged up to me. 

I’ve had this quote on my camera roll for a while. I’m not sure who Chelsea is, but her words touched me and I wanted to save them. While I can’t relate to them yet, I’m sure some of you can. 

Shifting gears. 

I’ve been to a plastic surgeon’s office, a couple of times, in the last week. I wish I could tell you that it was to have my eyelids done or my neck tightened, but it wasn’t nearly that glamorous or beneficial. I just had a little harmless cyst removed from my scalp that was bothering me. It was really probably more along the lines of an episode of Dr. Pimple Popper than The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills. Anyway, as I sat in the office waiting to get my stitches removed, a poster on the wall caught my eye. You can see all kinds of enticing products being promoted at the plastic surgeon’s office- treatments of much greater interest than those statin drug posters over at the GP’s place. 

Well, this one was an advertisement for fillers to support your natural expression or resting face as it’s more commonly known. Well, this really piqued my interest, because I’ve known for quite some time that I have a very unwelcoming resting face. Not unlike a rabid Doberman. I became keenly aware of this flaw when I’d watch our church service, after the fact, on Facebook. I sing in the choir and, while certainly not meaning to, my resting face has the warmth of a death row prison guard. I guess I can’t help it- it’s just my natural expression at rest. At least, I know that treatments are now available. Just look how much more pleasant these people look. I’ll be working this into my conversations with Davis to see how he takes to the idea of paying for me to look like a more likable person. 

I feel like maybe all of our resting faces have become a bit more droopy as of late. There’s just a lot going on that can weigh our faces down. Personally, I have so many friends who have some really heavy things going on in their lives. Serious surgery, Covid, grief, cancer, divorce. And I have teacher friends who are going back to school in this crazy confusion. Nurse and doctor friends who are exhausted in every way a person can be exhausted. Parents are frustrated. Citizens are frustrated. Employees are frustrated. It seems like a lot of us are on edge- on the brink of either tears or a tantrum. We could probably all use some intervention with our resting faces about now. 

If the world has ever needed to see our fruit of the Spirit, it’s now. Everyone is so desperately hungry for just kind, simple words and a little grace in this confrontational and super-critical place we find ourselves. Where there is hate, we should be that voice that speaks with love. Where there is despair, we should share the flame of joy. Where there is conflict, we should be the representative for peace. Where there is impatience, we should demonstrate patience. Where there is cruelty, we should bring the warmth of kindness. Where there is evil, we should counter with goodness. Where there is disloyalty, we should stand strong in faithfulness. Where there is viciousness, we should offer gentleness. And where there is indiscipline, we should model self-control. I know that’s what I should do, but I’ll be the first to admit that’s not always my “natural expression.”  Lord, help me do the hard things. 

Y’all have a great weekend! Stay safe! 

JONI 

For the last few years, I’ve had this same number in my head. I don’t really know how I came up with the said number, but I try to keep my weight at or under it. It’s the number that I don’t want to let myself cross. My line in the sand- well, for right now, at least. When it requires me to start spending 5 hours a day on the treadmill and eating mostly watercress to maintain it, well, we’ll likely have to revisit.

Holding the numbers down has gotten harder as I’ve gotten into my 40’s and 50’s. You, ladies, know how our metabolisms seemingly hand in their notices about this time in life. With a little arithmetic, I figured my weight is now 38% higher than it was in high school. I suppose that’s about the equivalent of me at 18 with a kindergartener strapped to my back- well, actually, strapped around my waist. 

When I graduated from high school, I was a wisp of a girl. I didn’t even weigh enough to donate blood. One of my many nicknames was Bony Joni, but that one has since fallen by the wayside. When your hip bones no longer protrude almost through the skin and your knees and elbows don’t bulge out like knots on a log, the name kind of loses its relevance. 

Just so you know, this isn’t a post about weight or weight loss. It’s not about the number on your scale versus the number on mine. I just felt drawn to write about something and this was the first example that came to mind. 

So, a couple of weeks ago, the scale went above my line in the sand. Not by much- just a pound. And you know how we do- I stood there and thought about what I’d eaten unusual in the last week to see if I could find an explanation. Then I wondered if I’d just been consuming more salty foods than usual and thought drinking more water would probably help. Then I went to the most comforting explanation that I’d been walking longer on the treadmill, as of late, and it could just be that “muscle weighs more than fat” thing. Anyway, I rocked along a few more days and that number came up again and again and all of a sudden- it wasn’t as startling as it had been just a few days prior. I was almost used to the new number like it was becoming my new line in the sand, but I knew deep down it wasn’t. 

What the heck are you talking about, Joni? Are you in some kind of pyramid scheme of diet supplements? No. But, we all have lines in the sand in every part of our lives. Sometimes, we move those so gradually that we don’t even realize the change until we look back and see the difference. Sometimes, we can see an alarming transformation- for better or worse. 

It’s like when we see someone on a regular basis or when they see us regularly, we don’t notice the changes in each other physically. They happen so slowly and gradually. We’re fed the change in indiscernible increments. But, when we see someone after a long separation, that’s when the changes are most obvious and sometimes jolting for us and them- Joni certainly has aged! 

If I’d been in a coma since I was 18 and woke up today- boy, would I be surprised! Having to digest the changes all at once would be too much for anyone to bear. For starters, I’d be horrified when I went to put on my red and white striped bikini to head to the pool. I’d wonder what the heck happened to my rich coffee brown hair. I’d be beyond disturbed as to where my deep, dark golden tan had gone. I’d have to get an explanation as to how these lines got on my face and why my eyelids are drooping. And what this fur is growing on my chin- that, I’d demand to know. 

But, more important than those kinds of changes, I’d probably be most dumbfounded by other things. Why churches are only half full. How patriotism and history became bad. Why radical ideas are normalized and given so much credibility. How families got too busy to enjoy life. Why so much corruption is tolerated. Why Americans have turned on each other. How government got so big and powerful. Why God has been removed from public places. How right became wrong and wrong is celebrated as right. Why people are more interested in their phones than the people around them. How people with so much can be so unhappy. How simplicity was swallowed up by excess. 

Things like that didn’t happen from one day to the next. Those kinds of changes don’t occur overnight- on the bathroom scale or in life. They happen by accepting a small change- one time and then again and then again and again and again until we don’t even recognize what we once were. Compromising the line in the sand over and over and over. 

As Christians, women, mothers, wives, citizens, and all the other titles we might hold, we have to stand firm in our convictions. I’m talking to myself here and really just letting you listen. Using God’s word as the guide, I need to redraw the lines, readjust the scales, and reset the boundaries wherever they’ve been compromised. Through the years, I know I’ve let my scales get out of whack- in more ways than one. May God give us courage to fight for things that are right and noble and true. Even when right is made to seem wrong and what is noble is a source of ridicule and the truth is made out to be false. Then, more than ever, is it important to plant our feet and hold the line. Taut. 

I may talk to you before week’s end. Y’all have a good one! 

JONI