I didn't make it by here, last week, and had racked up a few things to share. I'd planned to tell some lighthearted stories accumulated from the time I'd been gone, but then this day took a turn. Those will have to wait until later in the week.

Late this afternoon, the sound of sirens on our cul-de-sac roused all of us from our houses. Confusing and unsettling was the sight of all of the emergency vehicles in our quiet, little neighborhood. Little did we know that what we were hearing from our front yards was the sound of a family being changed forever.

I promised to write, today, but it just didn't seem right, tonight. I'll check back in later in the week.

In the meantime, please, pray for the grieving family in my neighborhood. God knows exactly who they are.


Talk soon-

Well, Mother's Day is upon us again. Only 2 more shopping days left if you haven't taken care of things yet. I thought I'd play a rerun, today, of a tribute I did for all the old school mothers of the 50's, 60's, and 70's. They were of a hardier stock than us, younger women. No, they didn't have to light kerosene lamps or cook on a potbellied stove or anything like that, but they did raise us without many of the modern benefits and vital information that we enjoyed as mothers.

So, in their honor, I want to recognize the mothers out there, who raised us. You packed our metal lunchboxes without the convenience of Snack Packs, Handi-Packs, and Variety Packs. No, you were only armed with your big bag of Golden Flake cheese curls, a pack of Butter Rings, and some sandwich bags with handy tie closures. Crustables? Hot Pockets? Pshhh. Not for you. It was a loaf of Sunbeam, a pack of bologna, a jar of Blue Plate, and a block of cheese; all cut at a diagonal with the crust manually removed. There were no convenient foil pouch drinks either. No, you had to wash our Charlie's Angels thermos, make a pitcher of Kool-Aid, and pour it in there with a couple of ice cubes that you'd popped out of the trays.   

You didn't even have cartoon channels to entertain us all day. If Sesame Street was over, you were out of luck until the next day. There were no tablets or iPhones to keep us occupied in waiting rooms or while you shopped. You actually had to talk to us. I mean, there wasn't anything else to do. You couldn't call your friends, while we were in the car either. You had to wait until we got home, so you could use the avocado green phone on the kitchen wall. So, you had plenty of time to talk and play a lot of car games with us, while we were out and about with you.               

You didn't have Pinterest or Facebook or Instagram or Twitter. Bless your heart. You didn't have recipes, theme party ideas, decorating tips, and a daily dose of insecurity-feeding comparison right at your finger tips 24/7. Nothing by which to gauge your social standing. Nothing to help you assess the job you were doing as a parent. Nothing to monitor how you were doing in keeping up with the Joneses. Nothing to guide you toward what's trending when making decisions for your family. That must have been hard for you.         

You made pies before store bought pie crusts were a thing. You cut up chickens.You set the table.  Made Sunday lunch. Never fed us in the car. Supper was something you made at home and was eaten around a table. You washed dishes by hand. Kept ice trays full. You baked our birthday cakes. Made Rice Krispie treats without a microwave. You fried chicken in Crisco. Your spaghetti sauce didn't come from a jar. Your macaroni and cheese wasn't safety cone orange. 

You didn't have the convenience of the time out chair or the treat jar. No, discipline meant you had to get your hands dirty. Swatting at bare legs with your hand or a belt to the bottom. A switch, a wooden spoon...anything would work. Sure, there were some slammed doors and a lot of tears, but you took it all in stride. After all, I guess you thought the goal was to make decent adults out of us, not a best friend.

You didn't have the luxury of the embroidery machine to personalize everything from our pencil bags down to our underwear. No, but you were quite crafty with the magic marker monogramming that you did inside our jackets and book bags and, well, it got the job done. While the look was not as crisp, it had its advantages. The name of our big brother or cousin or whoever could easily be marked out and ours could be written underneath when it got passed down our way.  

You didn't have online shopping so the need for anything would require that you load us up in the car and traipse all over town until we found it. Store to store. In and out. In and out. At least, though, you didn't have to worry with those pesky booster seats or seatbelts, which were stuffed so far down into the vinyl seats that you couldn't have found them anyway.   

And anytime a report assignment was given to us at school, it meant driving us all down to the library and pointing us in the direction of the card catalog. You had to help us find where the heck 021.009 HOB was. Heaven forbid it was already checked out and we had to go back home and borrow the neighbor's outdated World Book Encyclopedia. 

When we got older and started driving, you had no way to know if we made it safely until we got there. No, you had to worry and worry until we could arrive at our destination and find a pay phone to call you. And if we were late getting home, well, you were all alone with your imagination until we finally showed up. You couldn't text us while we were in school to ask if we'd finished our project or if we'd worked out the problem with our friend and, frankly, those weren't things that concerned you. You had to wait until we got home and, even then, you, sometimes, thought it was best if we dealt with it on our own without your intervention. You didn't have any means by which you could stay in communication with us every minute of the day. You couldn't even text us to come to the dinner table. You had to do it the old-fashioned way and scream our first, middle, and last names, down the hall, and then count to 3 if it came to that. 

You couldn't google questions about us......or search WebMD........or email Focus on the Family.  No, it was left to your own judgment as to whether we had a concussion, a case of lockjaw, or a multiple personality disorder. These conclusions were usually derived from at-home diagnostic testing like "How many fingers am I holding up?'....."Can you move it?"....or "When's the last time you went to the bathroom?"     

You did so much that our generation didn't have to do as mothers. 

You washed our cloth diapers and had to stick those pins through them without puncturing our small intestines.   

You rolled our hair every Saturday night on pink sponge rollers....so tight that our eyes were slanty.

You mastered those twin bead ponytail holders and, how, I'll never know.

You managed to keep us from swallowing those bite-sized Fisher Price people that came with our schoolhouse and barnyard.

You didn't let us turn over in those top heavy walkers or fall to our deaths from those rickety high chairs.

You always had our painter's pants looking as white as snow and without any help from Oxi-Clean. 

You kept us from flying through the windshield with the quick draw of your right arm across our chests as we moved around the car at will.

You reminded us to be careful when we went out in traffic on our bikes since there was nothing but prayer between our heads and the pavement. 

You sewed the pom-poms back on our footie socks when they'd gotten loose.

You needlepointed Holly Hobbie to adorn our rooms. 

You dabbed a little clear nail polish on our pantyhose runs to keep them from getting out of control. 

You were awesome. 

Just awesome.                 

There were some things you didn't do, though. I hate to even bring them up. But, we can't blame you, really, because you just didn't know any better.

You never called out our ball coaches or got in their faces when they didn't play us. Knowing good and well, we were better than all the other kids out there and, most likely, destined to go pro, one day. 

You didn't buy us cars that were nicer than yours. In most cases, they were so bad that we named them. Naming them was our coping mechanism to help us endure the humiliation of driving up at high school in a pea green used car that was as long as a city block.       

You didn't hire a photographer for our prom like it was our wedding day or something. 

You never told us how we were the best at everything and how we deserved the top spot at anything.  You didn't even fill our daily schedules with lessons and practices and push us to be out front and outshine the other kids. You wasted so many of our afternoons by just letting us stay at home and play outside. It's most likely the reason why we never made it to Broadway or the MLB. 
   
You and our fathers didn't go out in a field of wildflowers and have pregnancy pictures made, depriving us of the chance to know what your bare bellies looked like when you were carrying us. This has taken years for us to overcome.   

Not once did you go to the school and defend us and put the teachers in their place. What was that about? 

You, apparently, didn't know you were supposed to take enough pictures of us to compose a short film each day.  Heck, we were lucky if you went through a roll of film and a pack of flash cubes in two year's time.

You were, obviously, unaware that using phrases like, "I'm gonna beat the living daylights out of you," or "I'm gonna whip you so hard, you won't be able to sit down for a week" could cause irreparable harm to our fragile psyches, give us lifelong trust issues, and hurl us into a life of violence.  

If we got a new toy, you had the gall to tell us to read the directions and figure it out for ourselves, when you could have done it so much faster and saved us a lot of trouble. 

You sent us outside with a bag of firecrackers and a box of matches and never once did you hover or fret or make us wear safety goggles. I guess you thought we had enough common sense and fear of pain to make good decisions. 

You let us fill out our store bought Valentines all by ourselves. I suppose you thought it was ok that our valentines looked like a child had done them. Embarrassing.   

You thought we'd be happy with a little birthday cake in the backyard with a handful of neighborhood kids when all we secretly wanted was a 3 ring circus with live animals, a cotton candy machine, a photographer, overstimulation, and hundreds of our best friends to shower us with enough gifts for all the children in the tri-county area.

I guess we'll forgive you. Bless your hearts. You just didn't know. 

I suppose, we'll cut you some slack...because, well, the cloth diaper thing.

I really think we benefited from an amazing generation of mothers. Sometimes, I wish we didn't have so many tools and information and conveniences to help us with this parenting thing today. Our kids might be better off.  And us, too.

If you're blessed to still have your mothers, I hope you'll enjoy loving on them, this weekend. They went through a lot to get us grown.

Have a great Mother's Day with your people!    

There were two of you. One with black hair and one with red. You wore white hats and pantyhose and white shoes that squeaked as you led me and my mother down the long, tiled hallway to an exam room to wait on the pediatrician. I can still hear your voices and see your faces in my mind. Even though you had to inflict pain, sometimes, you were always kind to me. I remember you.

You were a short lady with a sweet smile. You were there when I made that first dreaded trip to the "woman" doctor. I'd dreaded the day for weeks. You called me sweetie and darlin' and patted on me. You made me feel more relaxed in that awkward time for a young lady. I remember you.

As a young married woman, I remember the doctor telling us that I'd miscarried my first pregnancy. When he left the room, you stayed behind and hugged me and loved me with your compassionate words. I remember you.

There were three of you in the office, where I'd come for my prenatal checkups when I was expecting my babies. You found their heartbeats. You measured my belly as it grew. And when I had you on the other end of the phone, you eased my worries and answered my questions. I remember you.

You were both there when I came into labor and delivery with my nervous husband, that night, to have our first child. I don't recall visual memories of you because of the drugs, but I clearly remember both of your voices. You held me and cheered for me and told me how good I was doing. You treated me like I was the only person that mattered to you at that moment. I remember you.

I was a first time mother and it was time for her first shots. I brought my mother along with me, so she could hold her, while you gave her the vaccinations. So fresh into motherhood, I didn't think I could bear to be an accomplice in causing her pain. I sat in the chair and cried, while you and my mother took care of business across the room. You were soft-spoken and gentle with her and quite proficient in making the heart-rending process go quickly. I remember you.

I came in with my husband for an unplanned C-section to be done during the doctor's lunch hour. I was awake and there were some problems that arose, but I never knew about them until later. The tone of your voices never changed and the rhythm of your conversations with me never missed a beat. I remember you.

My firstborn had her tonsils taken out. You brought her back to us and talked so sweetly to her; just like she was your child. You had assured her that she could take her teddy bear along and, when she got sick, you cleaned his fur until he was good as new. I remember you.

You came and got me for surgeries and brought me back. You talked to me and laughed with me and gave me the feeling that I was in good care. You got blankets when I was cold and ice chips when I was thirsty and sat with me as I woke up from deep sleep. Sometimes, I could hear you, but couldn't see you, but it was so comforting to know you were there. I remember you.

You were in the emergency room, those nights, when we'd bring our young son in for asthma problems. Sometimes, home treatment wasn't enough to give him relief. You understood that struggling for breath and watching someone you love struggle for breath were among the most distressing experiences. You worked fast and got him the help he needed, so we could all breathe easier. I remember you.
    
I visited my daddy at the hospital in his last days. We all knew he wasn't going home from there. You'd come in and speak to him with the cheeriest voices. You'd laugh and joke with him like he was a person and not a patient. Even though you'd seen death come there many times before, you didn't act like he was just another case or a chart number. You treated him like you'd want someone to treat your daddy. I remember you.

You came in with the doctor to assist with a test. I was anxious about what the spot in question might be, but you had a way of making me feel at ease. You talked to me about different things that got my mind off of all the possibilities and you were as relieved as I was when we got good news. I remember you.

We never forget the nurses, who've taken care of us or someone we love. What they do may seem routine to them, but, when you're the one in the bed, how you were made to feel in those happy, scary, painful, or life-altering moments, becomes an indelible memory.   

Thank you, nurses, for taking care of us! You make a difference, every day.  

Happy Nurses Week!

We remember you.    

  

Well, after the "Easter Past" post, I enjoyed hearing about your personal experiences with pear salad. Seems like it struck a chord as the infamous pear salad appears to have made quite an impact on so many of our lives. Some good, but, mostly, painful. I even received some pictures of the pear salads that graced your tables on Easter Sunday. Bless your hearts. I'm happy for all of y'all, who can find pleasure in such, but I'm also glad to know I'm not the only one who's never known what to make of the puzzling concoction. And, yes, I was also reminded that, on really special occasions or when company was coming, my mother did accessorize each of the loaded pears with a cherry. Oh, so fancy.

Here in the South, we have such a love relationship with our food. I mean, when it comes to eating, we don't play. We all have a long culinary heritage, down here. Each of our families has its own rich, savory written history of gourmet treasures, which are scribbled down on old index cards or note pad paper and passed from generation to generation. These secret formulas are among our dearest and most valuable possessions. Dog-eared and torn and splattered with grease, they hold the key to our most scrumptious memories. They protect the sacred Thanksgiving cornbread dressing recipe from ever going to the grave with grandma and safeguard against the old, sacred caramel icing secrets from ever from getting lost right along with great-granny's memory. These are the main, flavorful characters we expect to see on our holiday plates, each year. The dishes that awaken our deepest memories of the all the love that has happened around our families' tables.
    
I made a quick road trip, yesterday, and had lunch with Michelle. She asked where I wanted to eat and I told her I was craving real food. Real food is code for a meat and three vegetables. Well, she took me to this local place I'd never heard of that is known for its good ol' southern food. The choices were endless. Never mind that Michelle had a little tablespoon of this and a little teaspoon of that, while my mounded plate looked more like the truck driver's Thanksgiving special at Earline's Gas-n-Grub.

I had fried chicken, turnips (sometimes, referred to as greens), black-eyed peas, and a squash casserole that was just divine. That's what I love about our food in the South. We can take a vegetable like squash and mix it with cheese, some version of cream soup, butter, and cracker crumbs and still feel good about having eaten a vegetable. We also don't consider vegetables that have been dredged in flour or corn meal and fried to be any less of a vegetable. We just don't discriminate in that way. Furthermore, we don't question it, but macaroni and cheese also qualifies towards your daily vegetable count when in the South....just so you know. It's listed there with the other vegetables on menus everywhere and we're just fine with that. Starchy field peas and white potatoes also hold as much merit as the leafiest of green things around here, too.

Even surrounded by so much deliciousness, there are a lot of Southern dishes that I just don't get. Some might even require that my southern girl card be revoked despite my rather lengthy southern genealogy. The surname council may even rescind my maiden name and all ties to my mother's maiden name due to the defamation of some of these long-standing delicacies that I'm about to question. But, I mean, with our reputation for such rich, delectable cuisine, down here, I think there may be a few of our dishes that just don't represent us all that well. Of course, this is an opinion piece and I'd love to hear your arguments in favor of any of the following:

Carrot raisin salad- This one really baffles me. Ok, so whose ancestor can we thank for having this great idea- I'm gonna grate some carrots, throw some raisins up in there and cohere it all with a jar of mayo. My mother loved to make this when we were growing up and I am still at a loss for words.
Tomato sandwiches, pineapple sandwiches, and banana sandwiches- Cold, thick slices of fruit between Sunbeam bread (or light bread as we call it, sometimes) with mayonnaise gushing out on all sides. I know I'm going to lose a lot of friends on the tomato one, especially, but come on, people. What that sandwich is missing is some meat, cheese, and a trip through the panini press.
Cornbread and milk- This is where my maiden name is in peril. This was one of my daddy's favorites. Why? I don't know. After his Sunday nap, the leftover cornbread from lunch was going to be crumbled up into a glass of cold milk. Buttermilk, if available. I can't explain it or defend it.
Ambrosia- This was a special occasion dish. It was colorful and, for some reason, my mother always considers the colors of dishes when meal planning. There has to be a pop of color somewhere on the table. No matter how radiant or flashy, I'm not a fan.
Congealed salad- the obligatory food of southern funerals and family reunions. You take fruit, marshmallows, cottage cheese, nuts, or whatever you can find and suspend them in a lime or strawberry Jell-O. When molded into the shape of a bundt pan, well, nothing says we're so sorry your mother died like that does. Um, none for me, thanks.
Hummingbird cake - Ok, well, first off....the name is disturbing. It conjures up memories of that nursery rhyme our mothers read to us about blackbirds being baked in a pie. So, even though no hummingbirds are harmed in the making of this spice cake, they are about the only ingredient omitted from this chunky baked good.
Deviled eggs- The few friends, who remained faithful after the tomato sandwich remark, will fall by the wayside here....and right here after Easter. But, people. Boiled eggs smell to high heaven. Fancy them up with paprika and a cute serving dish all you like, but it does not change that.
English pea salad- My dear, sweet Grandmother, who I loved with all of my heart, made this all the time and if you'd like a copy of this dark blot on my family's rich culinary history, I'd be happy to share it. She loved it and so did both of her sons-in-law, so not everyone agreed with my assessment of the dish.   
Seven layer salad- also known as let's clean out the refrigerator and layer it in a fancy bowl salad. It requires no culinary skill to prepare. Just an aptitude for stacking. Come on, southerners. We're better than this.
White gravy- should not exist. Gravy is not white. Gravy is brown as it is colored with pan drippings from the meat for which the gravy is being made. No meat drips white. Why would you ruin a perfectly good piece of country fried steak or chicken with this unnatural, pale gravy imposter?
Crawfish- And the very last of my friends will get off the bus here, I'm afraid. I'm all about eating some crustaceans, but I'm not much for eating the ones we used to catch in the drainage ditch after a hard rain. They're called crawdaddies if you're 10 and you and your friends are hunting for them in the culvert under your driveway with your sand pail. They're called crawfish if someone is inviting you over to have them for supper with corn and potatoes. The yellow substance is where it all ends for me.
In all fairness to the dishes listed, I have to mention that I am not a fan of cold, crunchy, uncooked food. I am also not a partaker of mayonnaise. Considering those aversions, it's no wonder I have these questions about our southern cuisine as we seem to have a real affection for holding cold, crunchy things together with the popular white adhesive, down here. But, to each his own and if that's your thing, then eat up, I say!

Did I forget anything?

I hope you all enjoyed some of your family's traditional culinary delights, last weekend. We just killed off the rest of the strawberry cake, tonight. Merciful heavens!

Y'all have a good rest of the week.  

    

It's been a crazy week. Holiday weeks usually are. My to-do list was so long and sprawling that I had to break it down into several smaller lists- one for each day. I thought I'd be less likely to overlook something that way, while also making things appear less insurmountable. I'm sure your list looks about like mine. You've probably got a ham to pick up. Eggs to fill. Dry cleaning you can't forget. Desserts to make. And somebody is probably needing a new tie or church shoes as we call them down here in the South. We've talked a lot about the pressure we put on ourselves at holiday time to make everything nice for our families. When we heap that on top of work, church, family, and social commitments, well, we can allow the activity around the holy day to engulf our consciousness of the reason for the holy day.

I got to church for our Maundy Thursday service, tonight, and headed to choir practice to go over the songs we'd be singing. My head was pounding as it had been all day. A mix of a weather front, allergies, and I'm sure a little stress, too, as I'd been checking items off my list, most of the day, and was already thinking about tomorrow's. I put my choir robe on and headed to the sanctuary with the rest of the choir, wishing my ibuprofen would hurry up and kick in.

Just before the sermon, scenes from The Passion came up on the screen. A series of crucifixion clips were set to beautiful music. For those few minutes, I sat and watched the depiction of what Jesus did for me. Some, terribly hard to watch. Some causing me to shift in my seat or look down and wince. Suddenly, all the things I needed to accomplish before Sunday didn't seem to matter so much in that moment. This was the reason for Sunday and it was all that really mattered. I felt like I'd failed in my effort to be intentional with my thoughts when all the activity came swirling around the holiest of days. I'm guilty of getting so wrapped up in my little world and my busy schedule, my people, my plans, and my family that, sometimes, I can feel a million miles and a million years away from the cross.

Scenes from the movie steered my thoughts back on the right track. We can’t really imagine, here in 2019 America, what Jesus' life was like or the brutality of the time in which He lived. Heck, we can hardly wrap our brain around a world without granite countertops, Wi-Fi, and Starbucks. Portrayals of Jesus in His last days can be so hard to watch, but it's good for us to experience the rawness of the atrocities that He endured for us. It helps us grasp these things that are so foreign to our time and the lives we live here.  

I've tried to imagine being Mary, a mother who loved her son with all of her heart. Just like me. She’d carried her Son. Held Him. Watched Him grow. And I imagine, worried about Him. Just like me.  She loved Him just like I love my children. Knowing that kind of love, myself, I imagined watching one of my children being beaten and then crucified. I wondered how a mother’s physical body could survive the trauma of seeing her son tortured and killed right there before her eyes- how a mother’s heart wouldn’t just stop its beating. Not only was her call to be mother to the Savior a difficult and awkward thing when she was a young, unmarried, pregnant girl, but it also locked her into some devastating pain and grief, later in her life, too. She was part of God’s plan to save us. My life's path has never been comparable to Mary's, but, sometimes, what God asks us to do can be so very hard. I want to trust that He has a reason and a plan like Mary did.

I've tried to imagine being Peter after he realized he’d denied knowing Jesus just like he said he would never do. I’ve never denied Jesus in person, but I’ve tried to distance myself from Him in more subtle and “acceptable” ways. There have been times when I should have spoken and I stayed quiet. There have been times when I should've done something and I did nothing. Maybe because of who was around me. Or maybe I didn't feel comfortable being associated with Jesus stuff in that particular situation. There weren’t any roosters that crowed to alert me to what I’d done and I didn’t have to look directly into Jesus’ face, but the sin was just the same. I’m sure Peter was in agony; feeling like he’d blown his chance to prove his faithfulness, but Jesus came back, and showed him mercy, and reestablished him....pointing him forward and not backward. There was a job that Jesus needed Peter to start on right away. Sometimes, God has to grow us before He can do His work through us. I want to learn from my mistakes, forget them, and move forward with what I'm supposed to be doing like Peter did.

I tried to imagine being the thief, who turned to Jesus as he was hanging next to Him. I wonder how it would feel to know that you’re in your last hour of life. I can imagine the thoughts come fast and hard at a time like that. Thoughts about eternity and self-reflection. I’ve never been on a cross at the point of death, but I’ve hung very anxiously at the end of my rope. The times when I’m shaken by my own insufficiency is always when I'm likely to look for God in the most serious way. Sometimes, He has to take us to the end of ourselves and to the end of our options to remind us to depend on Him. I want to know where to turn like the thief on the cross did.

I tried to imagine being Jesus. I tried to imagine knowing the horrific things that were about to happen to me, while watching my closest friends scatter. My mind couldn’t grasp the idea of asking for God’s forgiveness for people who’d whipped me, spat on me, and mocked me. How do you ask for mercy for people, who've harmed you so savagely and unapologetically? I also tried to imagine hanging on a cross for the sake of a woman, who'd live thousands of years later….a woman who’d be a blogger, a busy wife and mother...a stubborn, complacent, undisciplined woman, who'd disappoint and offend me over and over and over again....a woman, whose life would be so full that she wouldn’t give much thought to what I'd done for her on an average day. I tried to imagine the kind of love that you'd have to have to die for someone like that and I couldn't. I want to love people even when they're hard to love or don't deserve it.....like Jesus did.

In the quietness of these first few moments of Good Friday, my to-do lists have receded to the back corners of my mind, where they belong. In their place are simply the whisperings of my soul to my Savior, "I'm so sorry for all that you went through for me, Jesus. Thank you for your amazing gift."


I hope you have a wonderful weekend celebrating the hope and joy of Easter with your family and friends!

See y'all next week.

It's about that point of the Easter week when our mothers used to check to see if our Buster Brown patent leather shoes had scuff marks all over them or if she thought they were in acceptable Easter condition. If they didn't pass the Easter inspection, she'd load us all up and take us down to Mel-Mac shoe store and let the man measure our feet. He'd sit on the stool and we'd hold our foot out on the ramp thingy, while he buckled them. This could take longer if you chose to don the fancy double-strapped Mary Janes. While we were there, we'd always pick up a new pair of knee socks, lacy ankle socks, or a pair of white hose, because, likely, all the socks had picks in them or the hose had runs and that sort of nonsense would never do for this special day. I remember my brothers having the lovely brown, lace-up loafers, but it seemed their Easter readiness shoe inspection wasn't near as stringent as mine. Resurrection Sunday was not to be greeted with anything less than spotless patent leather.
There was always the annual Easter egg dying. This process usually took place on Saturday night at our house. By then, I'd usually had my Saturday night bath and my hair was in pink sponge rollers for the night. Was there anything more uncomfortable than sleeping on a head full of those?  It was the price we paid for beauty, I suppose. Anyway, no Easter was complete without fingertips stained with PAAS and wreaking of vinegar. There were none of those plastic eggs stuffed with money and candy. No, we had one dozen real eggs to work with, on Sunday afternoon, and the only prize inside those was a smelly clump of yuck. But, we didn't know any better. We had the best time hunting and throwing those crumbling eggs on top of each other in our baskets over and over again.
 
Of course, you'd set out the baskets before bed on Saturday. Not those fancy personalized ones they have now. Back then, your Easter basket may have held magazines, the rest of the year, but, on this special day, it was going to gird your allotment of confectionary delights. It marked the boundaries of where your siblings' rights stopped and where yours began. Our baskets didn't rival a visit from Santa, like they do now. There was just enough candy to cover the top of the dark green plastic grass. Easter was the one morning of the year when it was not only acceptable, but expected, that breakfast would consist of just eggs.....Heavenly Hash eggs, peanut butter eggs, jelly bean eggs, marshmallow eggs, and foil wrapped solid milk chocolate eggs.....and whatever those weird shaped, colored eggs were that had the white chalky stuff inside. What was that? Toothpaste? Anyway, it was the one day we were allowed to eat candy for breakfast and that made for a really good day.
The Easter bunny in the mall/department store has come a long way, too. Now, he looks like he might not actually kill you in your sleep when he comes to visit your house in the night. I'd say that's an improvement over yesteryear. A real advancement in fostering pediatric mental wellness.

And no Easter was complete without a big lunch after church. Usually, there was a ham, a roast, and a cake fashioned with coconut also acting as grass to some jelly bean eggs. And, at our house, there was always the pear salad. A half of a pear topped with a dollop of mayo and sprinkled with cheese. I don't know what intoxicated person first came up with this, but it has never graced any plate of mine. But, to each his own. If you go to my Mama's house for Easter, you'll likely be offered one.
  

I hope you're having a great Easter week!

I'll see y'all back here in a couple of days, friends.
 

I saw Lori Loughlin and Felicity Huffman made their first court appearances, last week, for their involvement in this college entrance scandal thing. I'm certainly not a movie enthusiast or even a big TV watcher, for that matter, so the only role I remember Felicity playing was Julia on one of my very favorite oldies, Frasier. She played a smart-mouthed, sarcastic co-worker of his. Her character was cold and always wore a smirk on her face on the sitcom, so it wasn't a big leap for my mind when I heard "Julia" was involved in such a scheme. But sweet Aunt Becky? Come on. Who would've ever thought she would've done anything like that? Next thing you know, they'll be telling us Tootie is now a lady of the night and Mary Ingalls runs a pot farm.

Will we ever get over the fact that Dr. Cliff Huxtabel was not who we thought he was, while he was giving all that good fatherly advice to Theo? And, each time, I've seen Alyssa Milano in the news, lately, I've wondered what in the world has gotten into little Samantha Micelli? Tony taught her better than that. All of this conflicted confusion is because none of the headlines match up with the roles we remember these people in or who our minds thought they were.

There are some people who'll never be able to shake the roles they once played on television or the movie screen. No matter how many years go by or what else they accomplish in their lives, some will always remain a particular character with certain attributes in our minds. I mean, after The Andy Griffith Show, Don Knotts was never seen as anyone but one bullet, bug-eyed Barney. Period. No matter how many TV shows Delta Burke starred in, she could never be anybody but our beloved Suzanne Sugarbaker, an icon among Southern women. And let's face it, if we were stuck in, say, a bank vault and the oxygen level was getting low, we'd probably all feel a whole lot better about the situation if Lynda Carter was in there with us. Not that she could do anything, but still. Chevy Chase will live out the rest of his years as Clark Griswold, who'll always be the driver of the coveted family truckster in metallic pea green. Patrick Dempsey probably wishes people would quit asking him for medical advice. Can you imagine being Steve from Blue's Clues trying to land a date with a girl when the whole world thinks you only own one green striped shirt and get way too excited about the mail? And Maureen McCormick, well, she might as well just go ahead and have her headstone engraved with Marsha, Marsha, Marsha.

And it's not always an endearing role that gets stuck in our minds. I'll never get over Glenn Close boiling the little girl's rabbit. You just don't do that, Glenn. That's what I think about when I see her to this day. I mean, I'm sure she's a nice enough lady, but I'd never ask her to feed my dog if I was going out of town. You know, just in case. I still wouldn't want to be left alone in a closet with Faye Dunaway. She was so wrong for that. I don't care how many characters she's played since then, I see her face in my head when I come across a wire hanger. I'd most likely go digging for my mace if I met Christopher Walken in an alleyway. And I'm pretty sure I'd turn down Kathy Bates if she ever offered to take me to her house to convalesce after an accident. Appreciate it so much, Kathy, but I wouldn't want to trouble you. 

Actors aren't the only ones, who have trouble shaking roles or images. We all have the tendency to lock ourselves and others into certain parts, but, sometimes, roles are cut or changed. They're no longer needed. Become irrelevant. Or are recasted. With my grown up kids, I can tell you if I try to go back and reclaim my past role as mother of small kids, well, it is never very well received. It's because I've moved beyond the part of my life (and theirs) where that role is needed or wanted, but it's something I really, really enjoyed being. There are just some things that we won't be forever. A student. A caregiver. A nurse. A supervisor. A daughter. An athlete. Life changes. Death, divorce, job loss, aging, health diagnosis, retirement, financial changes. There are a million reasons that can cause us to change roles or suddenly lose a part we once played. It's almost never easy to suddenly be cut from what we've been doing for so long. Especially from that one thing we've always been known for. Sometimes, we can feel like our identity has been lost and we're left not really sure what to do with our hands.

"There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under the heavens."
Ecclesiastes 3:1

"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 a hope and a future." Jeremiah 29:11

We can also chain ourselves or others to a particular part by hanging onto assumptions based on past performances. We form our estimations of people as we see them early on and they become cemented in our minds. We've all made different names for ourselves. Some are good and we're awfully proud of those. Some are bad or regrettable and still have the power to make us blush if we let them. Some names were lost along the way. Maybe that was a good thing. Maybe it wasn't. Some, we'd give our right arm to get back. Some, we'd do anything if we could just forget. Maybe it was just one bad decision that took it away. Maybe a series of missteps. Or it wasn't even our fault. Could be we'd just like to move on and be known for something else. Something more honorable and meaningful. Sometimes, we just don't feel like we live up to the roles we play or the characters we like to portray. We disappoint. We get disappointed. We're all human. Needing forgiveness. Mercy. Grace. And a chance to start again when we mess up. We crave those things from each other. We crave those things from ourselves. We crave those things from our Creator.

"Anyone who belongs to Christ has become a new person. The old life is gone; a new life has begun. And all of this is a gift from God, who brought us back to himself through Christ."
2 Corinthians 5:17-18

"And be kind to one another, tenderhearted, forgiving one another, even as God in Christ forgave you." Ephesians 4:32

Jesus understood the importance of fresh starts and the significant impact that role changes can have in our lives. He changed Peter's name when He called him to be one of His disciples. He was Simon, the fisherman, and Jesus changed him to Peter, the apostle. "Now I say to you that you are Peter (which means 'rock'), and upon this rock I will build my church, and all the powers of hell will not conquer it." Matt 16:18  It was a new name for a new role he would play. A new direction his life would take. A new purpose for his days. He'd be known for playing a much more important part than his old role as a fisherman. And he'd always be remembered for being so much more than a denier.

Good or bad, we've all played a number of parts in our lives and, positive or negative, there have been a lot of estimations made about us based on those performances. But, the most important role we could ever sign up for is follower of Jesus. And the only judgement we should ever fear is His. He can give us a new name and a new identity. He offers a new purpose and a new start to anyone who believes in Him.        

"If you declare with your mouth, "Jesus is Lord." and believe in your heart that God raised him from the dead,  you will be saved." Romans 10:9

"See what kind of love the Father has given to us, that we should be called children of God; and so we are." 1 John 3:1

"Forgetting what is behind and straining toward what is ahead, I press on toward the goal to win the prize for which God has called me heavenward in Christ Jesus." Philippians 3:14 


I hope y'all have a great Tuesday, friends.