I'm sure you're like me. You can pinpoint a certain thing about your body and trace it back to one of your parents or a grandparent or even an aunt or uncle.  It's pretty cool how one part of you can be so characteristic of one side of your family and other parts can be so obviously from the other side.  Well, I have the same skinny legs as my Mama's sister, my Aunt Gloria, and we come together and lament over that curse from time to time.  And my Daddy always said I reminded him of his sister, my Aunt Frances, because I'm practically-minded and laid back like her. I'm flattered to take after them both.  Genes are pretty cool things and you never know when or where or in who they'll make an appearance.  We're all just a mixed bag put together from very different people. 

One thing's for sure....I've got my mother's hands.  I've got very pronounced veins that stand at attention at all times.  A lab tech's dream, really.  The tendons are really well defined, too.  I guess we're just lacking in hand padding or something.  Between the tendons and the veins, we've got a lot going on with the back of our hands.  I've started to see the beginning of a few brown spots like she has.  They've crept in over the last few years and let's not forget that a couple of my top knuckles also swell and get sore with arthritis from time to time.  Just like hers.  I look down and see my mother's hands more and more every day. 

I never liked the vein thing as a kid.  I was always self conscious about that.  I mean, I noticed that none of my friends had veins sticking up on the back of their hands.  And to be fair and balanced, while I didn't mind the head full of thick hair I got from my Daddy, I sure wasn't fond of the accompanying fur that covered the rest of my body which comes along with having the said thick hair.  It's bad when you're only 9 and three years away from shaving your legs and you already look like Maxwell Klinger in a dress.  My solution to this was to wear TWO pairs of pantyhose on Sunday.  My goodness, sometimes, beauty hurts. 

Anyway, we were talking about hands, so let's get back to those. 

The thing about my hands is that they can be traced back for, at least, three generations before me.  My hands are my mother's hands which were my granddaddy's hands which were my great-grandmother's hands. All the same hands on different bodies living in different times.  Even as a child, I remember noticing those different generations of hands and I'd look down and I could recognize the similarity. 

My mother has used her pair of hands to love and nurture her kids. They rocked us and felt our foreheads.  She used them quite well to cook wonderful meals, make holidays special, and take care of our household.  Her hands faithfully cared for her mother, daddy, and husband in their last days. They're used to love grandchildren, play the piano, and write sweet cards and letters.  She uses them to teach Sunday School and to minister in quiet ways. Her hands are always ready to be used for the benefit of others.  They do some of their most beautiful work behind the scenes.  There isn't a selfish bone in those hands.  Not one.   

My granddaddy used his hands to farm.  He used them to work in a manufacturing plant and tend to his cows, hogs, and chickens.  He used them to rob bee hives and sell honey.  His hands tilled, planted, and harvested crops.  They bailed hay and mended fences.  His hands worked in Germany, France, and Austria in communications in WW2.  They built his family a house when he returned.  He loved his wife, children, and grandchildren with those hands and even some great-grandchildren.  His hands served as deacon and a Sunday School teacher.  He used his hands to fish and find ballgames on the radio. And they turned the pages of the Bible every night.    

My great-grandmother used her hands a long time.  She lived to be 106 and her hands were busy most of those years.  Her hands did their part during the Depression.  They knew how to prepare good food.  They cooked and sold plate lunches.  They were used at the local high school where she was the dietician.  Her hands raised babies, made their house a home, and took her family to church.  Her hands baked cakes, grew African violets, and fed her singing canaries. They loved to stay busy.  Those hands lingered long enough to enjoy the warmth of five generations.  Her hands persevered through a lot of history.    

My hands may look just like my mother's which looked like her daddy's which looked like his mother's but my hands are different.  They're not equipped to do the same things theirs have done.  They won't experience the same things theirs did.  In some ways, they have it a lot easier.  In some ways, they may not have it as good.  They've used inventions that some of their hands never even dreamed about.  They have their own strengths.   They have their own weaknesses.  They enjoy advantages that theirs didn't have. They'll never know some of the pain that theirs carried.  They may even feel inferior in comparison to their predecessors.  But, they're made for a different time. They'll be called to different tasks. They're fashioned for their own purpose.                 

Every day when I look down, I see the hands of my past.  They're familiar.  They're comforting.  They're the hands I remember.  They cooked for me.  They loved me.  They taught me.  They held me.  They brushed the hair away from my face.  They are the hands that God chose to place me in when He made me.  They are part of who I am.

I have to choose what I want to do with my hands. As much as they look like all the others, they have to find the work that they were made to do.  My hands have to find their own way to serve.  Their own way to love.  In their own moment of time.   

God gave me these hands.  What will I do with them?  
 

I was 33 years old at the time.....a stay at home mom with a minivan, who'd dropped off my second grade daughter at school and had the news turned on in the background as I did housework.  My one year old son was taking a nap in his baby bed.  My husband was at work.  Everything was right in my little world. 

I was in the kitchen when I could tell that some kind of major story was developing on the news channel, so I stopped what I was doing and sat down in the den to watch.  It was a plane that had crashed into one of the twin towers and the talking heads speculated that it looked to be some kind of bizarre accident.  I watched the building as smoke and flames poured out of the gaping holes left by the jet and you couldn't help but think about the people....the moms and dads and sisters and brothers...... who, on that typical Tuesday morning, were sitting at their desks on those floors where this plane had accidentally flown into this building. 

As the cameras rolled through the dark clouds of jet fuel smoke, another plane came on the screen and flew into the south tower......and things changed.  We changed.  There I sat in that burgundy, wingback recliner with a damp kitchen towel still in my hand......with one child sleeping in his room and the other at her school and, as their mother, I changed.

That morning, the cable news frantically jumped from one breaking story to the next.....bouncing all over the country covering the seemingly endless trail of tragedies that knocked us all off of our feet and made it impossible to breathe.  I sat in that chair stunned.....wondering when it would stop.  Would it ever stop?  How many planes could there be?  Where would the next one crash?  I'd never felt that unsettled in my lifetime and haven't since then.

It was a chilling day.  Almost too much to bear as you watched people forced to choose their means of death as they hung out of  the smoking windows.  I will never forget the ties and skirts that flew up in the air as, one by one, people made their decisions to jump.  I remember thinking...that's someone's mother, friend....favorite uncle.  This can't be happening in America.
    
From that day on, mothers couldn't think about their children's futures without a looming uncertainty casting a shadow over their thoughts.  There I sat with dreams of my little girl's proms, graduations, and being mother of the bride, one day.  I couldn't wait until I could watch my son's little league games, see him grow taller than me, and take him for his driving test.  That second plane took away our innocent belief that nothing could happen to us here.......our unblemished look towards our children's futures and the world into which we had brought them. And for just a moment, on that day fifteen years ago, we began to question all of that.  What did all of this mean for them?  Mothers, aunts, godmothers, grandmothers......we thought of those young faces that we loved and felt responsible for and, on the 11th, we cried for them most of all.
      
But we caught our breath and then came the twelfth.  The twelfth brought resolve, determination, unity, and story after story of heroism.  The twelfth brought out what makes us America.  We raised our flags.  We searched and rescued and dug with our hands.  We stood with the grieving and gave respect to our dead.  We reached into our pockets for the fatherless.  We cleaned up....piece by piece by piece.  We started to rebuild.  We felt renewed patriotism.  We filled church pews.  We sent up prayers.  And on the twelfth, we got up and sent our children to school and we went to work.  We refused to give into the fear.  We refused to let evil win.

I don't guess I've ever seen a more unified America in my lifetime as I saw post 9/11.  Seems like that horrific attack gave us a real sense of connection with our fellow Americans.  It made us more protective of one another.  I suppose we felt more united because we all were all feeling the same vulnerability.  The same anger.  The same sadness.  Maybe in some strange way, we felt a bond in knowing that our neighbor was feeling just as shaken as we were. There's a real connection between people who are experiencing the same pain in life. There was an overall sense that we were in this together and we were going to have to look out for one another.  No matter how many racial, political, economic, or social differences distinguished us, the transcending bond was that we were all Americans and we'd been attacked. That was all that mattered. 

I think about the firemen and policemen who ran up those steps toward the peril and how most of them didn't make it back out.  About the stories of the young man in the red bandana and others working in the buildings who'd escaped the danger and were home free but went back in to help their fellow man.  In the end, saving others but not themselves.  I think about the guys on flight 93 who acted quickly to keep their plane from becoming another missile used to strike a U.S. target.  They chose to die on their terms.....in a desolate field in order to save lives somewhere else.   I think about the people who dug through the steel, the concrete, and the dust for months and months after the attack.  Many have since died and continue to die from cancers and other diseases related to their work there.  I think about the soldiers who've fought in retaliation against those who attacked us and continue to plot attacks on our way of life.  Some came home in coffins and others with life changing disabilities. I think about the families and children of the military and police officers and firemen whose lives were also changed.  So much given.  So much loss.  So much sacrifice.   

On this anniversary weekend, our little Mississippi town lost a firefighter in a crash while answering an emergency call to help someone else in trouble.  And on professional football fields all over the country, some players who make 150 times what that fireman made thumbed their noses at the very country which has given them so much for doing so little.  What a dichotomy. 
 
Division is rampant.  Patriotism is on the verge of becoming a bad word.  Concern is increasingly turned inward.

We've come so far in these last 15 years. 

So far in the wrong direction. 

But, tomorrow is the twelfth.  And we have a chance to get up with the same resolve and determination that we had back then.  We have the choice to resuscitate our love of country or throw our hands up and let complacency win.  We have the chance to do more giving and less taking.  More responsibility and less demonstration.  More working and less shouting.  More being useful and less being offended.  We can use our hands to get busy again.  To reach across lines.  To love our neighbor.  To pull our weight.  To distribute more respect.  To clean up the mess we've made. 

And to pray to our God for healing and mercy. 

What will we do with the twelfth?        

    

  
     

I love the new Little Debbie commercials where the lady's eight year old self comes up to her at the grocery store with a bag of powdered donuts and tries to convince her that she should get some by reminding her how much she once loved them.  And the truck driver's younger self suddenly appearing in his passenger seat with a box of Little Debbie Honey Buns trying to entice him with those little treasures he'd forgotten about in his adulthood. 
   
Well, a couple of weeks ago, I ran to our neighborhood Dollar General as we were getting low on dog food, milk, and aluminum foil and no one should ever risk running out of those three things.  I was pushing my buggy through the store and, on my way back to the register, I cut through one of the grocery aisles and that's when it happened.  My eye caught the blue box macaroni and I became entranced.  Sure, I see Kraft Macaroni and Cheese all the time at stores but this time was different.  It was like the cardboard box was calling out to me.  Or like, in the Little Debbie commercial, my younger self was standing there waving it in front of my face, reminding me of it's sharp cheese sauce derived from the glowing powdery substance and the way it would cling to the tiny macaroni noodles.  Mmmmmmm.  "Please, please, please, can we get some? Can we get some?" she pleaded. "Oh, all right," I said as I gave in and grabbed a box....even if it had skyrocketed from the once 4/$1 to $1.50 each now.  Highway robbery. 

Anyway, the blue box and I have a long history together.  It was one of my favorites growing up and I personally thought that it paired especially well with a hot dog.  A hot dog and Kraft Macaroni and Cheese.  Oldies but goodies. My favorite lunch.  I ate many a plate of that delicious combination as a child.  I consumed enough of the orange paste to paint most all of the Home Depots in the Southeast.

Well, on that particular day when I dropped that blue box into my buggy, I knew in the back of my mind that we happened to have some hot dogs in the frig which is a pretty rare occurrence because, well, cholesterol, nitrates, processed meats linked to cancer, blah, blah, blah.  While there are many hot dog snobs out there, I feel a good hot dog is one of life's tastiest treats..... no matter how many times my nutrition major daughter shows me the video of how they're made from a pink paste.  I tell you what....fire up the grill and throw on some beef dogs and top with homemade chili, sautéed onions, and cheese and that's some mighty fine pink paste in my opinion.  I don't care if there are chicken gizzards and toe nails in there.

Well, a few days later, I was home alone at lunch time.  I ripped open that blue box, boiled up those noodles, got out the butter, and made myself a batch of the neon pasta along with a hot dog and I don't know if it was just a sweet memory flood or what but even my more sophisticated taste buds had to admit that they enjoyed it an awful lot.  It was every bit as good as I remembered.     

You know those foods you used to like when you were a kid and sometimes nostalgia takes over and you think you want to try it again to see if it was everything you remembered.  Here are some other childhood favorites that I've gone back and tried over the last few years...

Peach Nehi- Peach Nehi was my all-time favorite!  My go-to drink at the convenience store.  It quenched thirst like nothing else in my book.  I still have to say that they're really, really, really good but just a little too sweet for my more mature palette at 49 grams of sugar.   

Now and Laters-  I loved these jewels.  And you got five pieces in a pack for only a nickel.  As soon as I wrote that, I realized I sounded like a great-grandma recounting how she could get a Coke, a hamburger and see a picture show for only a quarter.  Last time I tried a Now and Later for old time's sake, I got a small chip in one of my bottom teeth.  It's like chewing on Legos.  They're sweeter than I remembered, too.  I thought they were more sour back in the day but they're still mighty tasty. 

Charms Sour Pops-  Loved these so much that I shoplifted a red one from a convenience store at the ripe age of 4.  Yes, I knocked off a convenience store as a preschooler but I really think it was a turning point in my life as my mother made me return it and apologize.  She took me home and I was rehabilitated.  A few times when I've wanted to revisit the wilder side of my youth, I've looked for a Charms sucker but I can never find the sour ones....only the sweet pops.  Just not the same.  They're not worth stealing.    
 
Chef Boyardi Ravioli-  Remember how your Mama would heat up a can for your lunch?  You ever tried that as an adult?  Tastes like pasta and rust.  I'm going to have to give this an adult thumbs down. 

Freezer Pops-  As an adult, those taste like frozen Robutussin, Dimetapp, and Benadryl....depending on which color you get.

Fish Sticks- I suppose they are the equivalent to hot dogs in the fish world.  Comprised of fish eyeballs, egg sacks, and goodness knows what else.  I was never a big fan of those when I was a kid especially if I bit into one of those dark spots you'd come across, every now and then.  I revisited them when my children were small and they were just as "eeeww" as I remembered. 

Tang-  I remember the cabinet where my Mama kept the Tang.  I can't say that I've tried it as a grown woman but, as I remember, it was the perfect blend of the orange zest of baby aspirin and the biting tartness of lighter fluid. 

Sugar Daddy-  These things are still as good as you remember but, unless you have a good dental plan, don't try one.  Your old teeth can't handle it.  They will pull your fillings out so fast, it will make your head spin.

Bugles- Yep, still good as I remember.  They just don't fit on your fingertips as well as they did when you want to pretend you're a witch and, well, that's a bummer. 

And we can't forget Little Debbie's-  They graced every lunch box on the continent back in my day.  My mother always bought the Oatmeal Crème Pies.  I suppose she thought she could read some health benefit into them since they contained oatmeal but I'd say that would've been a stretch.  Star Crunch and Nutty Buddies also showed up a lot in our lunches.  Personally, the Donut Sticks were my favorite and, even now, if you put them in the microwave for about 8 seconds, they're still mighty good eatin'. 

We've all gotten older and now we have to watch our triglycerides, cholesterol, sodium, blood sugar, weight gain, saturated fats, blood pressure, gluten, carbohydrates, additives, preservatives, chemicals, pesticides, dyes, growth hormones, antibiotics, and a bunch of other stuff we were blissfully ignorant of as children.  But, every now and then, it does the soul good to let the younger you throw a little something in the buggy for old time's sake.  Lick some Cheetos dust off your fingers.  Get a red Kool-Aid stache.  I mean, how could you resist that face?     

Y'all eat something today in honor of Way Back Wednesday and let me know how it goes. 

Today is September and I feel like I've just finished a race.  Not one of those kinds where you glide across the finish line with the graceful stride of an Olympian with your arms stretched up into the air in celebration of your impressive performance.  No, this was more like hobbling over the finish line with bleeding blisters, shin splints, severe dehydration, heat exhaustion, and hallucinations.  Then, collapsing to the ground and crying until snot runs down over your lips and onto your chin then falls in blobs down to your sweat-stained race bib. 

Sometimes, you just can't worry about how you look when you're on the race course.  You can't get bogged down in what others are thinking about how gracefully you may have performed or how foolish you may have looked.  People will talk and they may even laugh at how awkwardly you competed.  Let them talk. The important thing is that you finished even if you dragged several hurdles along with you and your electrolyte imbalance was at life threatening levels.  Not all wins are picturesque.    
Today is a mental victory.  It is a day that signals triumph.  September 1 means that I have survived all that the Mississippi sun and southern humidity could throw at me and I have limped, without the tiniest shred of dignity, over the finish line.  It wasn't pretty.  It wasn't even bearable to watch.  You might even say that it was a downright ugly performance.  But, I finished.  June, July, August.....the trilogy from Hell.  Done.

Now, I'm not delusional.  I know that, for Mississippi, the summer sun has a lot of tricks left up its sleeve.  Just because Brach has shipped the candy corn and mellowcreme pumpkins to Wal-Mart does not the cool weather bring.  The southern seasons don't take their cues from the sudden appearance of cinnamon brooms at Hobby Lobby.  We must not lose sight of the fact that there is still much hardship to endure.  But, the worst is behind us. 

In the meantime, the jack-o-lanterns and cornucopias at TJ Maxx will replenish our fluids.  The sound of college football on our televisions will help us recover our strength.  The addition of pumpkin spice to every possible menu item will restore our will to live.  Fall-toned M&Ms will help us to lift our heads and want to race again, one day.  And the first leaf we see fall, even if it was burned slammed to death by the hellacious heat and was literally scorched from its branches, well, we will still find victory in its descent to the ground.  We don't so much care about why the first leaf falls, only that it falls.   

So, that's where I am.  My steps are a little peppier.  My voice is laced with more excitement.  My outlook is brighter.  My confidence is high.  This is my time.  A lot of sweat and tears have gone into this victory.  A lot. You all know this is one of the most difficult races for me.  Thank you for your support. 
Y'all have a good holiday weekend! 
     

I've always been in awe of those who entertain with ease.  I guess we admire people who possess gifts that we feel we're lacking.  I'm sure you know people who have the gift of hospitality.  They're those people who can whip up a dinner party in no time flat and with seemingly so little effort and stress that they enjoy the gathering as much as their guests.  Surely, a few people have popped into your head by now.  I know several come to my mind.  I seem to be rich in southern girlfriends who are gifted that way.   

Last night, we were invited to our friends' house for dinner.....and this particular friend is always that way.  Laurie answers the door all calm and collected.  No smoke alarms going off.  No nervous pit stains on her blouse.  All the food timed perfectly.  David takes the meat off the grill just as the potatoes finish cooking.  The rolls and pie crust- both the shade of golden brown only seen on the cover of the Southern Living Annual Recipe Book.  Everyone is relaxed.   
I consider any hostess, who doesn't sweat through their clothing during the party, to have the gift of hospitality.  That would rule me out.  I look and feel like I am on fire when we have people over.  Don't get me started on how my heart beats like a bass drum in my ears. 

Now, it's not that I can't cook or that I don't know how to set a table or design a centerpiece.  It's the fact that there's just so much to think about.  Timing the food.  Fretting over its doneness.  Imagining the ER full of your friends in 4-6 hours with abdominal cramping and projectile vomiting.  Is everyone's tea glass full?  Is the conversation flowing or did I hear a few seconds of silence?  Is there enough food?  Are their children really swinging from my curtains?  She didn't eat much of her corn casserole.....wonder if it's too salty.  Oh, my word.....look at the size of that cobweb in the corner of that window.  I hope the dog isn't doing what I think he's doing to his stuffed toy.  I should have put another clove or two of garlic in this.  Oh, no, did I point the knife blades in the right direction?  Are they having fun....because I'm not.  Is it hot in here?  (One thing I've learned is that any hostess, who is not blessed with the gift of hospitality, has in internal body temperature 5-8 degrees warmer than that of her guests. Fact.)

It may shed some light on my hospitality inadequacies to know that Blair tagged me in this video, a few months ago, as it reminded her so much of me before company arrives.
In Bible times, I would've probably been a Martha.  Martha's off in the kitchen making the sweet tea, setting the table, and she's as nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs as my Daddy would say.  She's clearly irritated at Mary, who's sitting on her bottom doing nothing to help.  I know that irritation, too.  When you're flustered, irritation flows like a swollen river.....like when company is set to arrive in 12 minutes and Davis is out in the garage organizing his toolbox or something equally irrelevant to the situation at hand. 

Anyway, Mary clearly forgot that the main goal of entertaining is actually visiting with the people you've invited into your home.  It's hard to do that when you're sweating profusely and counting heads to see if you have enough lasagna and salad forks to go around.  I imagine it would be super duper stressful if your guest was the Son of God.  What if you saw Jesus sit down in the chair where the cat usually sits knowing how bad she sheds?  Or if you thought his chicken breast was too dry.  Or if there were water spots on his tea glass.  Or if one of your kids blurted out something about how you say bad words, sometimes.  So, yeah, I can totally relate to Martha.  She had a lot on her mind and if her cloak wasn't soaked completely through, I'd be amazed.   

Now, Mary.....well, she was a different story.  I suspect she did have the gift of hospitality.  She was sitting down and not worried about anything but communing with her visitor.  First and foremost, she was going to visit with her most distinguished guest in the history of forever.  She was probably thinking that when they got done and were ready to eat, she'd go in there and help Martha serve it up real fast.  Mary, how did you do it?  So relaxed.  Hello, um, Jesus is at your house!! 

I may not have the gift of hospitality which is why I usually suggest we just meet our friends at restaurants.  What I do have, though, is the gift of focusing on all the wrong things.  I'm super talented that way.  I'd like to think that if I'd been Mary and Martha's roommate and Jesus had come to our house that I could've discerned what was important and what wasn't.  I'd like to think I would've spent more time listening to what I needed to hear instead of worrying that the pillows weren't fluffed on the sofa or that there was a dust bunny under Jesus' wingback chair.  But, I can't be too sure that's where my mind would've been.   

Jesus told her, "Martha, you're fussing far too much and getting yourself worked up over nothing.  Only one thing is essential and Mary has chosen it....."  Luke 10:41-42  MSG

Ouch.  That hits all of us Marthas in the face.  In entertaining and in life, I hope that whenever I get the chance, I'll choose the substance over the surface.  That I'll focus on the presence not the pretense.  That I'll look at the content not the cobwebs.  That's where the best of life is.

Y'all have a good one!                     

Well, a lot has happened while I've been on my little vacation from writing.  Some good.  Some not as good.  Let's start with the not as good.....

My sweet mother-in-law, who's suffered from Alzheimer's for several years now, was moved into a nice assisted living home.  It had become difficult for Davis' dad to physically care for her as she's declined a good bit over the last few months.  He was valiant and faithful in his care for her and still his main concern in life is her and her contentment.  Of course, this move has been an emotional one for all of us.  It marks the end of how things have always been.  You know we all have those turning points in our lives when either, through death or growth or a thousand other reasons, something changes and life will never return to the old way again.  After 62 years of marriage, their home won't be the same.  Holidays won't be the same.  Traditions will be altered.  Our family won't be quite the same. 

I think it's true what they say about women being the heart of the home.  They provide warmth and tenderness inside its four walls and bring the loving finishing touches to family gatherings.  I started to realize this the first time I drove up to my Grandmother's house and she wasn't there to sling that side door open to greet me.  I wasn't sure I'd ever had to open that door and let myself in.  Nobody yelled out, "Who's that coming to my house?" in a chuckling voice.  Something was missing.  Something had changed.  Her warmth was gone.  And when I walked through the screen door into her kitchen, I lost it.  Right there.  My life had reached a turning point because her presence was missing from that place.         

Now, my mother-in-law isn't like the ones you hear jokes about in late night tv monologues or see on the big screen as the antagonist.  She's never been overbearing or critical or nosy.  She has never pouted or put on guilt trips or demanded her opinions be heard.  No, she's just quite the opposite.  She's humble, kind, and giving.  She's selfless, hard working, and gracious.  Always ready to help.  More concerned about you than herself.  And even with dementia, she still has her same meek spirit.  I wasn't sure there was another living soul as kind and selfless as my own Mama until I met Davis' mother.  And for that, we have both been and continue to be doubly blessed in the mother department even as life takes a little bit of a turn for us.

And, perhaps most notably, Carson got his driver's license since we last talked.  Now, those of you who have driving children know what I'm talking about when I say that having a new driver in the house brings out all kinds of conflicting emotions.  Oh, all the worries about fender benders and distractions and speeding.  You want to keep them safe and start them out slow......but you're out of Ro-Tel tomatoes for which your Pinterest recipe clearly states "No substitutes" and there he sits.....eager to drive somewhere.  Anywhere.
You know how it is those first few days that they drive to school. " Now, text me when you get there and when you leave to come home."  Every time the phone rings, you're like, "Oh, Please don't let it be him saying he's jumped a curb..... Backed into a beamer......Rear- ended a Mercedes......Turned in front of a Porsche.....Side-swiped a Corvette......Knocked over a parked Harley."  Because, well, you know insuring a teenage boy driver is only slightly less expensive than keeping a space shuttle in orbit.  So far, he has an impeccable driving record so we're good. 

Another interesting thing happened while I was gone.  My brother, Lee, (left) raced in the Trans-North Georgia last week.  He biked 350 miles across the entire state through mountains and forests and some paved roads in only 2 days and 22 hours which according to my calculations is 2 days and 21 hours too long to ride a bicycle.  During the almost 3 days, he slept a total of 6 hours and grabbed whatever food he ate at gas stations along the way.  Starting from the South Carolina state line, the finish line was the Alabama state line which calls into question not only his sanity but our relatedness.  He finished 8th at 41 years old and I'm a very proud sister.....or, at least, they say I'm his sister.      

So anyway, I've missed blogging.  I really have.  I do enjoy this more than you can imagine.  But, from time to time, I get bogged down in my own self-imposed pressure to be interesting enough to warrant your time.  Sometimes, I think it's good to step away from your routine and get a fresh perspective on the things in our lives.  Does it belong there, first of all?  And if it does, just to take time for a deep breath before you get back out there.

Hope y'all have a good Monday!   

     







       

Ok, so I have something that I need to tell y'all.  It's kind of awkward but I feel like I need to level with you.  You may have even picked up on it already so I just need to come clean, right here and now.  I've been suffering from a mild to moderate case of what I like to refer to as blog constipation.  That is, I've been having difficulty writing posts without a pronounced lack of ease.

I sit down to write a post and I........
Sometimes, I......

We'll get through this.  We've done it before. 

This, too, shall pass.

When the blockage is removed, I'll be back.

I promise.