It was a Tuesday evening. The supper dishes had been cleared off the table and the kids were in their rooms doing homework and who knows what else. At the kitchen sink, the mother takes off her yellow rubber gloves and yells for the children to come to the den. The father sits in his chair in front of the TV and the children file in to see why they're being called. The mother makes her way into the den and turns the round TV dial on the big console set as she instructs them all to sit down and be quiet. "Billy Graham is coming on and we're all going to watch it."  This was my house, when I was growing up, anytime there was a televised crusade. Billy Graham specials were required viewing from beginning all the way to the last verse of Just As I Am.

I thought about what it would've been like in heaven, yesterday, when he got there. I'm sure he was beyond ready to get home. He was such a gifted, anointed man. I remember how he could fill stadiums just like any big sporting event. All the people pouring into the aisles during the invitation. All over the country.....all over the world. I can't imagine how many souls were saved because of that one man's life. He took "Go ye, therefore..." and ran with it with his whole heart.

Even in his elderly years, he seemed to serve as our country's spiritual leader. The one we wanted to hear from in times of sadness. The one we craved insight from on our modern society's problems. The one we paused and listened to when he had something to say.

Our nation has lost a great man of God. A leader above reproach. I know when I get to heaven, I won't live anywhere near his subdivision, but I sure hope we bump into each other down by the crystal river or somewhere. I'd love to meet him. What great work he did for our country and for God's kingdom.

Take your rest, Reverend.  

And, now, if you'll allow me to make a bumpy and outright awkward transition from Billy Graham to mammograms, well, I had my mammogram, earlier this week. You, girls, know I try to always mention my mammogram in order to encourage you to get yours. I think I've gone at the topic from all angles and so, this year, I'd like to take a different approach to breast health awareness.

It occurred to me that we have appreciation weeks which celebrate the difficult tasks of nurses, teachers, ministers, administrative assistants, doctors, and such, but where is the celebratory week for the work of the woman who wrestles our breasts into those mammogram machines? I mean, really. Bless her heart. Have you ever noticed all the different shapes and sizes and levels of perkiness of those things that are walking around? Can you imagine that it's your job for 8 hours a day to try and wrangle up all that and pin it down with a vise? Today, we'll just skim over the part about their cold hands and just try to concentrate on their unmatched ability to make the experience seem so nonchalant as they initiate pleasant conversation about anything and everything in order to distract us from the somewhat unnatural and potentially awkward encounter. And they're always so cute the way that they tell us to hold still while they take the picture as if there's any way that even an EF-5 tornado could move us a single millimeter from that grip. And thorough. Did I mention thorough? Not wanting to miss anything, they will work and work and pull and maneuver until they have every little smidgen of you corralled in there all the way up to your armpits. Talk about a work ethic
.
So, as this year's mammogram reminder blurb, I'd just like to send a hats off to all the mammogram operators out there. You have a tough, tough job and you do it so well....making us feel so relaxed.....as if having our exposed breasts run through a dough press is just a normal, everyday occurrence about which we should have no reservations. Only a skilled, thoughtful healthcare worker could achieve that level of professional care and empathy. So, here's to you for helping us, your fellow women, stay healthy. We appreciate the work you do.

And for the rest of us, go get your mammogram. For yourself and for your people who love you.

And, lastly, Davis and I are celebrating our 26th anniversary today. The mammogram to anniversary transition seems much less dicey than the Billy Graham one, but I digress. On February 22, 1992, Davis and I decided that we'd both found the person we'd like to do life with and we married in a full church surrounded by all the people we love. 26 years later, I could string him up by his toes, sometimes, and he wishes he could duct tape my pie hole, but all in the most loving way possible, of course.
I wish I could go back and choose another dress and veil. Tone down the big, early 90's hair. I'd love to go back and register for gifts again and make different selections. I'd probably choose to save my parents some of the money they spent on that big wedding. I wish I could change the bridesmaid's getups and their color. Yeah, there are a lot of changes I'd make to that day, looking back with 26 years of experience and maturity under my belt, but I still would choose my kindhearted Davis, every time. Every day.

What I'm lacking, he has plenty. Where he runs thin, I've got him covered. God knew what we both needed and helped us find it in each other. Now, we're treading new waters with a married daughter, a son-in-law, and a graduating son. Every day, we're getting closer to the way we were in this picture. Back to just the two of us.

And we'll be just fine with that.               
 
We're taking a quick trip to the beach to celebrate.

Y'all have a great weekend, too!

   

Well, I'd planned to write my usual Valentine's Day post, today. Maybe share a few funny retail stories from this last week. As you know, by now, I do love to observe the holiday shopping habits of men. I was going to tell you about the Instant Pot I asked Davis for, which arrived early, and my first cooking experience with that. (Just to be clear here, guys, a woman should never be given a small kitchen appliance for Valentine's Day unless it is upon her clear and specific request.) I was probably going to tell you about our Valentine plans for the evening and things such as that.

But, then, that didn't seem fitting as, on this day when love is celebrated and announced from the rooftops, well, hate was on full display. And in such a horrific, destructive manner which has, sadly, started to lose its shock factor with us.

While it's easy to watch the news and begin to believe that hate has taken a sizable lead over love, I'd like to disagree. Most acts of love don't get 24 hour coverage or minute by minute updates. But, I've observed some beautiful love over the last handful of days in my little corner of the world. Things that weren't televised. Didn't make any paper's headlines. Known by very few, actually. Most don't even have a corresponding picture. But, I think, on this Valentine's Day, which has been viciously attacked by evil, that it would do us all well to hear from love.

Carson and my nephew took their grandmother out for dinner on Valentine's Day. Their Grandpa would be so proud of them if he could see what good men they've grown up to be and how they take care of her. My dear friend happened to be eating at the restaurant at the same time and she captured the sweetness.
We have twin boys, who live across the street. They're six years old and think Carson is pretty great, because he takes up a little time with them when he can. One of them left him a letter in our mailbox.

I'm a little late posting about the Super Bowl, but it is what it is. We're not really big fans of pro football, especially, this year, with all the flag disrespect, but we kept hearing about the spiritual revival that's been going on with the Eagles and so, of course, we wanted to cheer for the God-honoring boys. Also, my sweet aunt's nephew is Stefen Wisniewski, #61, and so we felt a little connection even if it was stretching it quite a bit. So, yeah, my mother's brother's wife's brother's son, who we've never met, is the center for the Eagles, so if you'd like me to sign any of your Super Bowl memorabilia, I'd be happy to as I'm obviously very closely connected to the championship team, you see.
Anyway, usually, I'm way more interested in the party food and commercials than the actual Super Bowl, itself, and, while everyone was so fixated on the Eli Manning commercial, I was more intrigued with the Aerosmith commercial for KIA for some reason.

In case you missed it.......
So, the once dark haired, tight bodied, often shirtless, rocker Stephen Tyler of the 70's and my decade, the 80's, appears on the scene with the signs of aging etched in the deep creases of his face. It was obvious that the passing of time and fast rock and roll living had caught up with him as he walked over to the Stinger. Cranking the car, he does something unexpected. He slams it in reverse and burns rubber headed backwards. Faster and faster he drives in reverse. Farther and farther away from where he started. Until, finally, he stops and steps out of the car as a much younger version of the rock legend he is to meet a hysterical crowd of screaming fans dressed in their finest late 70's attire. He'd been transported back in time to his prime. The peak of his career. The height of his fame. Possibly what he'd look back on as his finest years.

I suppose the suggestion here by Kia is that if you drive their car, you, too, can recapture all the passions and feelings of being alive that aging can, sometimes, drain from us. And all for a little money down and a low monthly payment. I'm thinking that's a stretch to think a car can bring back the feelings of days gone by, although, I'm sure, if it was possible, we'd all have some place in time we'd like to go back and visit if we could.

It would be hard for me to decide. Maybe I'd stop back in at my elementary school Valentine party and open some dime store Valentines dropped in my decorated shoe box and munch on some conversation hearts and a cupcake. Then, I'd like to go home and change into my play clothes and take the ol' Big Wheel around for a spin and maybe swing so high that the legs of my old green and white swing set would come up out of ground. I'd like to have nothing more pressing to do than to climb trees with my friends until I'm called home to the dinner table to enjoy a meal I didn't have to cook.  

I think I might love to put it in reverse to high school and pull the coiled phone cord under my bedroom door for a couple of hours of good laughs with a friend. I'd like to get in my BIG, first car and pick up all my girlfriends with the windows down and my favorite mixtape in the cassette player. I believe I would like to go back to being oblivious to the cost of car insurance and more concerned with if I'd see Amanda in the hall to pass her the note I'd written and folded into a triangle, while the teacher talked on and on about polynomials. I also believe I would be willing to trade in my current metabolism for that stomach, so flat, you could play Yahtzee on it.      

I know I'd like to go back and rock my children again. I even remember thinking when they were ages 6 and 1 that I would love to freeze time right there. To just stop the calendar from ever turning another page because everything was just so perfect in my world. I'd linger longer in the nights they begged me to lie down next to them in bed until they fell asleep. Maybe I wouldn't be in such a hurry to get up. I'd love to go back to when they sat in the seat of the buggy at the grocery store instead of the low-fat milk that sits there now. I'd even like to suck Barbie shoes and Legos into the vacuum and hear the annoying hum of Blue's Clues while I make supper.

I had lunch with my 93 year old friend, today, and I thought it would be interesting to ask someone who's lived through so many decades and seasons to pick one age that she'd go back to as her favorite. She said she'd like to visit 17 or 18 again because of its first taste of freedom and independence. Something about the excitement of just beginning to chart her own course and choose her own steps stood out in all the 93 years of memories.

There are thousands of times I'd like to go back and visit. I imagine we all have those. Maybe it would be to a time before we suffered a loss that we still carry around. Or to relive the moment of a great success. Maybe we'd like to go back and fix a mistake that still haunts us. Maybe we'd like to return to the time before diagnosis or a separation or a failure. It's undeniable that, sometimes, there are things in the past that look awfully nice compared to the realities of the present.

It's the year of my 50th birthday. One by one, my friends have started celebrating their half-century milestone year. Yes, this is the year of the colonoscopy and the higher powered readers.......and maybe buying a red convertible Kia Stinger and changing our hair color in an attempt to not become our parents just yet. Turning fifty, along with my last baby graduating soon, might be why I was pulled toward the car commercial.

The way I see it, though, the only thing we do by hanging out in the past is to miss the present....and all the new moments that we'll look back on as favorites as more and more years appear in the rearview mirror. It's easy to wrap up in the fuzziness of yesterday and nestle in the warmth of its good feelings, but we can neglect the gift of today if we're always reliving the gift of yesterday. Yesterday is a gift card that's been used up, but, today, well, it's still alive with possibility. There's still time to cash it in on something worthwhile. After all, if we're honest, memory lane is just a place where we romanticize times that were riddled with their own forgotten challenges. I guess you could even say objects in the rearview mirror aren't as rosy as they appear.

"Forgetting those things which are behind and reaching forward to those things which are ahead, I press toward the goal of the high calling of God in Christ Jesus." Philippians 3:13-14        


"This is the beginning of a new day.
You have been given this day to use as you will.
You can waste it or use it for good.
What you do today is important because you are exchanging a day of your life for it.
When tomorrow comes, this day will be gone forever;
in its place is something you have left behind...
let it be something good."

Author unknown



Y'all have a great weekend!
           

Sorry I haven't checked in, this week, but I've been sick since Sunday afternoon with some type of illness, so this will be brief. It's had the fever and malaise of the flu, but the aches and sore throat of only a cold........and, oddly, the raging appetite of a third trimester pregnancy. I guess if the flu and a cold had a baby, it would be what I've had. A flold. It's just been weird. I've never had anything like this before, where I've felt so awful but, at the same time, couldn't think of anything except how bad I wanted tacos, Cheetos, lasagna, and fudgecicles.

I'm feeling better today, which is good, because, well, I was starting to put on weight lying in bed with this unappeasable appetite but, mostly, because Friday is Carson's senior night for basketball and, aside from starting some type of deadly, sweeping epidemic of the flold virus, I wouldn't miss that for anything. Blair and John Samuel are coming and so it will be a good weekend.

I can't believe his senior year is more than half over and I'm trying so hard to document everything he's doing. It's becoming increasingly apparent how difficult it is to record a teenage boy's life through pictures. They'd rather have their molars pulled with no anesthetic than pose for a picture. As a matter of fact, even the suggestion of it to a group of teenage guys produces the similar agonizing sounds as molar removal. Come to think of it, it takes about as long, too, hampered by all the protests.

It was so different with Blair and her friends. Girls are all too eager to pose for pictures. You just told them where to stand and they'd run there with the speed of a gazelle. Then, they'd find mirrors to check the hair and apply fresh lipstick, shrieking with excitement as they'd line up. The only problem with them is that everyone in the group has to sign off on the picture as photos must be flattering of everyone in girl world. It's an unspoken pact. Because of this contract, unanimous agreement on a picture could take 5 or 6 takes. So, going from a daughter experience to a son is proving to be a challenge as I try to gather a respectable amount of pictorial memories for him.

This past weekend, Carson and a couple of guys went to Mississippi State on their own for a basketball game. Our sweet friends had given us tickets and I thought it would be something worth noting for my senior year record keeping. So, all I asked was that they take a quick picture of themselves while they were there. One picture. Very discreetly. Nothing posed. Nothing fancy.

After a gentle reminder text, I received what resembled a gang recruitment poster for Death's Angels............or possibly a resume photo for the casting of an overnight laxative commercial.  Either way, they looked pained with some homicidal undertones. I will have it printed and add it to the others in my modest but hard earned stack. I just wanted to share that the struggle is real for teen boy moms behind the camera.

Let's meet, next week, and talk more.

Y'all have a good weekend........and use that hand sanitizer!

Or just stay home.

It's awfully germy out there.









    

Carson is on the high school basketball team. His school is fairly small and their team is very young with only two seniors.....and only one of those has played all the way through high school. But, they do have a lot of talent and potential. A lot of heart. A lot of fight. And a great coach, who we all just love....parents and kids alike. One thing they don't have, though, is height. I guess you could say that we generally don't grow them very tall in this part of our Mississippi county, at least, by basketball standards. And there have been a couple of injuries, which have taken out what little height they had. So, in conclusion, they're a talented, hardworking albeit young and somewhat vertically challenged group of guys. 

Well, two or three weeks ago, our team traveled, a couple of counties away, to play one of their regular season games. The parents started to trickle in and fill up the visitors' side just about the time the teams came out to do their warm-ups. First, our team ran out and did their pre-game drills. There weren't a lot of them but, as usual, they looked awfully sharp with their well-oiled routine. We, parents, were confident and proud of our boys with absolutely no reason to doubt a victory.

Then, all of a sudden, the home team came charging out of their locker room and jogged onto the hardwoods to the rhythmic beat of their enthusiastic band. It was a long train of grown men with 5 o'clock shadows is what is was. They looked like the Lakers. The Lakers had shown up to play our small high school team. And there seemed to be 100 of them. And they all had on these blue and gold warm up suits. I think the garish colors marching in unison past our somewhat less imposing team in their more muted hues, well, that made them look even larger. Their gold basketball shoes gave their feet a Big Bird appearance. We, visiting parents, all exchanged concerned glances as they dwarfed even the dads in our stands. Maybe we came to the wrong gym. Maybe we'd gotten the nights mixed up.

Well, the game got going and the score quickly grew as uneven as their sizes. It almost became painful to watch. We'd make strides by getting a shot, but they'd always answer. We just couldn't seem to gain any ground. Our guys were having trouble covering the Lakers, who seemed, at least, a foot taller than them. They were sinking threes, over and over. I even believe there was a dunk or two with some rim hanging. We'd need a ladder to do that. It was just a miserable matchup, so no one minded a bit when they decided to leave the clock running in the second half. Our side of the gym just wanted to be put out of our misery. But, our boys played hard until the final buzzer. Even with the lopsided score, they ran and fought and got their hands up in their faces .....as difficult as that task was.

I don't know about where you are but, where I live, there have been so many tragedies and losses, and so much sickness, over the last few months. The last several weeks have really seemed bad for people we know. It feels like we learn of something new almost every day and, after a while, it's hard not to carry that around with you. Maybe you've sensed it in my writing.

I guess I had a lot on my mind as I sat in the basketball gym, that day. I thought about how when we show up for this life, we never know who we'll have to face. Sometimes, we encounter some pretty intimidating foes......and their blue and gold warm up suits cause them to look twice their already daunting size. When we eyeball cancer, a wayward child, being widowed way too young, or an undiagnosed illness, well, we can feel painfully small and insufficient to take those things on...to stop their destructive threat. I guess we can be like our basketball team. Sometimes, we walk in the gym, see the competition, and feel pretty confident about our chances for victory that day. Other days, the looming shadows of the oversized opponent shine a bright light on all of our shortcomings and we feel insecure......and fear quickly follows.

God never promised that we'd always have it easy. Life is a continuous battle. He knew we'd be outmatched, sometimes, at least from the human perspective. He knew that we'd have days when we'd just be too tired to face a seemingly insurmountable opposition. He knew that some adversaries would hit us where we're weakest and, some nights, we'd go to bed feeling the soreness of battle.

That's why He promised to be strong in the places where we're frail. To stand tall for us when we feel like we don't measure up. To give us strength even when everyone around us is exchanging concerned looks at the sight of the uneven matchup. "My grace is all you need. My power works best in weakness...." If victory was only up to us, we might have good reason to sit down and forfeit in fear. But, thank God, the One who put us together and knows where our most fragile parts are and where our deepest fears live, well, He promises to shore up all the wobbly places and become "the One who lifts my head" (Psalm 3:3) to face each and every day no matter what opposes me.

"So now I am glad to boast about my weaknesses, so that the power of Christ can work through me."  2 Corinthians 12:9

I pray that you'll have the strength you need to stand tall today.

Your God is bigger.


Have a great Tuesday!

  

Well, Mississippi has gotten its second round of snow in one winter, which is almost unheard of, and, thus, we are starting to feel pretty seasoned and sassy when it comes to icy travel and calm and collected preparedness. I don't want to sound too cocky about us but, yesterday, when I ran to the store for a few survival essentials, I found the pandemonium level to be only low to moderate as opposed to our usual high level hysteria which basically resembles an episode of Supermarket Sweep.
Last night, our low was 11 degrees and when the temp hit about 19 with a wind chill of 12, Davis comes out of the bedroom in his Carhartt coveralls, hat, earphones, and gloves. I asked if he was going somewhere or if he was just cold, at which point, he announced he was going to get a walk in for some exercise. He was tired of sitting around and felt the urge to get up and move. I wasn't having those same urges as I was kind of enjoying the sitting around thing, myself, so I decided that I wouldn't join him as (A) I wasn't in the mood for frostbit extremities and (B) I didn't want to hinder my body's valiant attempt to layer itself up, this cold winter. So, he headed out into the frigid darkness and I felt like Ma Ingalls watching Pa go out into the blizzardy night to fetch a doctor for Laura.....not knowing if I'd ever see him again.
This morning, when the thermometer had climbed up to about 15 degrees with the roads iced over, I staggered out of the bedroom around 9:45 to find him checking reports on the weather and road conditions in a desperate attempt to find a way, any way, to salvage the work day. With sleep gunk still in my eyes, I decided, then and there, that there were simply two kinds of people in this world. The kind of people who want to get out there and work and exercise, despite all the legitimate excuses that are handed to them on a silver platter, and the kind of people who think those people are nuts. Davis is the first kind. I am the latter.

Today was his birthday and, since Carson was on his second snow-ish day out of school and it was too risky for Davis to travel where he needed to work, the three of us went out for lunch and celebrated the man of our house. I think I'm so amazed by him because he belongs in that first group of people of which I'm not a part. The kind whose feet hit the floor before 6:00 am, so excited to start their work day. The kind who can't think of one, single thing they'd like to get for their birthday. The kind who stick to their disciplined routine and don't jump on every excuse that comes along. The kind who order broccoli as a side at their birthday lunch.

Yeah, he's everything I'm not and that's what I love about him. We're thankful to celebrate another year with our steady, dependable, hard-working, selfless Davis and we'll continue the celebration, this weekend, with Blair and John Samuel.

Happy Birthday, Davis!  
 Y'all have a great weekend!

      

I'd gotten home from church, last night, and was sitting in my chair doing some ordering for the stores when Sugar, our aged Chi-Weenie, started to whimper at the front door. She was wanting out....for the thousandth time since we'd been home. In and out. In and out. It's what she does.

Anyway, Carson was close by and I called for him to open the door for her, so I wouldn't have to get up from all the comfy-ness. It's one of the many reasons I dread the empty nest.....no one left to get up and do stuff for you. Anyway, of course, it wasn't long before we heard a scratch at the door and he let her back in again.

No one was really paying attention to her. Carson let her in and walked away. Davis was busy in another room. I was looking at my laptop. I did notice, after a while, that she was still hanging around the entrance area and so I looked up to see what she was doing.

She was chewing on something. Hmm. She'd gotten a toy skunk and a stuffed chicken for Christmas. Maybe that was it. Wait. No, I could tell this was indeed something animal-like, but it appeared to be no toy. I mean, none of her toys ooze blood or crunch when she chews on them. "Oh, crud. What is that?!!" 

I ran over and grabbed her collar because she was headed to the carpeted area with whatever kind of bloody carcass it was. She dropped the remains on the floor. What gruesome injuries the poor creature of God had sustained. And, at this point, only God knew what it once was. It had spent enough time between Sugar's jaws that it was unrecognizable. Yes, there were eyes. And legs. And some kind of claw-like things. Was it a bat? A kitten? A rodent?   

Hanging onto her collar so she'd stop crunching on the oozing snack, I let out a desperate, "DAVIS! DAVIS! CARSON! DAVIS! CARSON!!" I just needed a man. I've never been a feminist and I don't know about y'all, but I couldn't care less about gender equality when it comes to getting dead animals out of my house......or killing snakes......or a host of other unpalatable chores that I deem to be a man's job.

I remembered reading that when your dog brings a dead animal to you, they're trying to impress you with their prowess. An offering of sorts. So, I'm sure Sugar was awfully perplexed by my unhinged and feverish reaction as I pulled tighter on her collar and screamed for help. I could imagine her thinking, "What's the problem here? I'm just trying to display how I protect the premises and destroy invaders thereof."

Well, at this point, Sugar had obviously misinterpreted all the collar tugging for me wanting to get in on her nighttime snack, so she made a sort of instinctive growling noise as if to say, "Hey, this one's mine. Go out in the yard and get your own if you're hungry."

Finally, the boys come running into the room as I'm sure they thought that, by the sound of it, I'd fallen, cracked my skull, broken my leg, and the bone poking through the skin was shooting blood out like a geyser and splattering off the ceiling. I'm almost certain they were relieved that it was only a dead mammal in the foyer. 

"What is this, Davis?" I demanded answers. I knew he'd know. You see, he grew up a country boy and, for all I knew, had even likely eaten one of whatever this was on my floor, so I looked to him to I.D. the body. Upon close inspection of the mangled parts, he suspected it was a mole and scooped it up with a paper towel. I commenced with the disinfection. Even so, I've come to terms with the fact that my mother will likely never visit our home again after reading this. Sugar went to bed still unsure of what she'd done. And I continue to take the long way around the sterilized scene.

One thing's for certain.

Even after a couple of beef flavored DentaStix, there will be no dog kissing for a while.

A long, long, long while.   
 The hunter.

Who knows what all is in that bulge, really.


Y'all have a fun weekend!