Well, I was so sad about Queen Elizabeth. God bless her. I don’t know what it is that fascinates us about the royal family. What makes us set our alarms for awful hours to watch them get married and crowned and such? Could be that their way of life is only found in children’s stories and scarcely used history books on this side of the pond. Handsome princes, kings and queens, fairytale weddings, horse drawn carriages, firmly held traditions. Seems a little fancier than, say, most things we’ve got going on over here and so we like to look in on them from time to time. 

Since her death, I’ve become curious about what a typical day of the Queen may have looked like and how she was able to keep up in her 90’s, so I starting reading about that. There were many slightly varying accounts, but I compiled some of the consistencies. 

She would get up around 7:30 each morning. The maid would bring in her morning tray of tea and biscuits, open the curtains, and turn on the radio. Her assistant would draw her bath using a thermometer to ensure it was the right temperature and exactly seven inches deep. After her bath, she dressed in her first outfit of the day which was selected by her assistant. She’d enjoy her Earl Gray tea and cold milk while dressing and then her hairdressers would fix her hair in her usual style. Her dogs were brought to her after their morning walk. 

When she was all ready, she’d go to the dining room for a light breakfast at 8:30 or, sometimes, take breakfast alone after Prince Philip died. When she ate in her room, she kept her cereal in Tupperware to keep it fresh. She preferred cornflakes and fruit or toast and orange marmalade. She would give most of the bites to her little dogs. When Prince Philip was living, he would join her in the dining room from his separate bedroom for breakfast. The healthy spread was served by a footman in tails. Then, she and the prince would spend a few minutes reading the morning paper together. 

 At 9:00, a kilted piper would play the bagpipes beneath her room for 15 minutes each weekday morning -rain or shine- of which she was a big fan.

By 9:30, the Queen was doing paperwork, reading official state papers and signing documents at her desk in her sitting room. She would then select a few pieces of fan mail to personally respond to each day and a lady-in-waiting would answer the rest.

Around 11:00, she started meetings with officials and dignitaries. She dedicated 20 minutes for each one-on-one meeting with guests such as ambassadors, members of the armed forces, and High Commissioners. 

Lunch was served at 1:00 and was usually some kind of fish over wilted spinach with zucchini and she usually ate alone. On occasion, a lady-in-waiting was invited to join her. The Queen avoided carbohydrates- God bless her. After lunch, she’d stroll around the palace gardens with her dogs to get a little exercise. After walking, she’d relax for thirty minutes while reading the Racing Post as she was a big horse racing fan. 

Around 2:30, she’d go on outings for appearances, speeches, and royal engagements. Visits to schools, military bases, hospitals, or charity headquarters were common. Engagements ended by 4:30 and high tea started at 5:00 in the queen’s suite. Earl gray tea, scones, and those little sandwiches with the crust removed. Her favorite were the jam sandwiches called jam pennies because of their size. 

She’d take time out of her schedule to enjoy her four dogs, two Corgis, Sandy and Muick, a Cocker Spaniel, Lissy, and a Dorgi, Candy, a cross between a Corgi and Dachshund. She worried about what would happen to her pets after she was gone as she realized no one in the family cared for them as much as she did. Prince Andrew is set to get custody of them. 

Family visits had to be arranged in advance as there was no dropping by the palace to see grandma without booking it first. She’d take a little drink in the evening before dinner, but was advised by her doctor to give that up at the age of 95. At 7:30, she would read through reports of the daily parliamentary happenings. When she wasn’t entertaining or at official events, she’d have dinner in her room on a silver tray. Usually beef, venison, pheasant, or salmon with no starch being her rule- God bless her. No rice or potato or pasta was ever on her menu. Dessert was something like a Windsor-grown white peach or similar. The Queen relaxed in the evening by reading, watching television, or doing jigsaw puzzles. She always wrote a page in the diary she’d kept since the beginning of her reign and was in bed by 11:00. 

Of course, there were always visiting dignitaries, receptions, luncheons, award ceremonies, and travels by helicopter, plane, or royal train on top of her usual routine. Prince Charles had taken over most of the traveling recently. 

So, I decided I’d go back and read through what I’d learned about the queen and highlight the similarities I could find in my day and the queen’s day. Ok, so nothing looked remotely familiar until I got to the part about Tupperware. I, too, have some Tupperware. Then, I stop at the line about feeding the dog under the table at breakfast. Yes, I am with the Queen on that. Ok, I love bagpipes, too, but I usually only get to hear them on the news when they’re playing for her. Then I scan further and I did have one-on-one lunch meetings, twice this week, with people who, if you use the term very loosely, could be considered dignitaries. I was also feeling her about loving the fish. I did run to the grocery store today and got a fried catfish plate lunch from the deli as they were out of pheasant. I brought it home to eat alone just like her, but then she lost me again when I got the two starchy sides and ate it right out of the styrofoam container. Ok, so I picked up with her again down at the part- wait a minute- walking the dog. Yes, I recognized that. I do that. I have more of a mongrel street mix than a royal bred pooch but, still, it counts. Ok, then I go back to relating with the Queen when she worried about what will happen to her dogs if something happened to her. I mean, Davis loves Ruby but would he stir the “gravy” around on her dry food so that it coats all the pieces and cover her up with her blanket at bedtime? I wonder. I’m feeling the Queen’s apprehension on that. I go on and see the part about her reading and watching television before bed. Yes, I am also a reader of books and viewer of television at night. Amazing the similarities, really. 

I really do admire the Queen’s long and faithful devotion to her inherited duty of service. I adored her brightly colored dresses and hats and the way she always held her purse close to her. I loved hearing stories of when her sense of humor and personality would shine through her dignified exterior. I respected the fact that she spoke of her faith outwardly and often with no apologies to anyone. I thought the addresses she delivered to her people were beautifully worded messages and composed with much thought and care. She was very much an admirable woman. 

“For me, the teachings of Christ and my own personal accountability before God provide a framework in which I try to lead my life.” Queen Elizabeth ll 

May God rest her soul. She will be missed. 

JONI 

Last week, I got word that an elderly friend had died. It seems strange to use the word, elderly, to describe her. By almost anyone’s standards, a nearly 91 year old is indeed elderly, but it just never seemed to fit Mrs. Helen. In the South, if an older person is just an acquaintance, we call them Mrs. (Last Name), but if someone is particularly close or endearing to us, we use the Mrs. (First Name) option. It signals an extra level of fondness and attachment and she was definitely Mrs. Helen to a lot of people. She and I just talked a couple of weeks ago and arranged a visit for this week, but it was never to happen. Sometimes, we realize we have put things off just a little too long and that made the news a little harder to swallow. 

I carried on with my day with memories of Mrs. Helen on my mind. After lunch, I got a call that my across-the-street neighbors’ house was on fire after a nasty lightning storm had come through the area. No one was home, thankfully, so I told the person who was calling from the scene where my neighbor worked and to tell the firemen they had a little Yorkie in their house. I jumped in my car and headed this way with a knot in my stomach. By the time I got here, our street was packed with emergency vehicles. I parked at the end of the road and walked toward my house. They’d opened all the doors in the burning home, but there had been no sign of their pet. There was thick black smoke billowing out and all I could think about was Bentley, the Yorkie, being inside and this sweet family losing all of their things. It’s one thing to see footage of a house fire or to watch a house fire in a movie or to hear about a house fire, but when you see the home of people you care about burning before your eyes, I learned really quickly that it’s a very emotional experience. 

We live in the county with the volunteer fire department system and I’m not sure how many fire departments responded to the call, but there were a lot of boots on the ground. In the chaos, I have no concept of how much time passed but those volunteers fought that fire for hours. It would get under control and then start up again. There were firemen everywhere - some sank into the grass with exhaustion- all of them red-faced from the heat and the prolonged exertion. The family arrived and, when it was finally safe for the firemen to enter, they went in to search for Bentley. We were all teary- not giving much hope for what appeared like a futile effort. We’d all seen the black smoke and angry flames. We’d all felt the heat from across the road. But, after what seemed like an eternity, one of the volunteer firemen came out holding the most unexpected sight- a soaking wet, wiggling Bentley who was covered in roof shingle debris. The entire neighborhood was ecstatic. God knew the family needed that victory. At the end of such a traumatic day, if you’ve got all the lives you started with, you can cope with just about anything. 

With the fire out and all the family and living creatures accounted for, another mood settled over the neighbors gathered. Relief. Joy. And a motivation to get to work. I’ve never seen so many people working together to get this family what they needed for getting through the next few days. Shopping, free storage space, moving trailers, money, hot food, gift cards, child care, donations, strong backs, and sweat equity. Tears turned to joy turned to helping hands. 

All day and night long, I received so many texts from people wanting to know if it was our house they’d seen on the news. I assured them it wasn’t but that our neighbors had lost almost everything. Without missing a beat, many wanted to know where they could donate money for them- people they didn’t even know. The next couple of days, the neighborhood was still busy seeing that it had done all it could do to help the family through the initial shock and need. In the background at the same time as all of this were daily updates on a more personal matter that seemed to be up and down and up and down- taking me with it. Good news and then bad news which eventually landed back on good news. It felt like we were on a week-long roller coaster ride and I was ready to get off. 

I walked into the church for the visitation for Mrs. Helen at the end of the week. I was exhausted in every way a person could be exhausted. I felt like I could burst into tears with little provocation or fall asleep standing up and I wasn’t sure which one would happen first. Inside the church walls, I saw the faces of old friends. People I’d known since childhood who’d moved away. Women who were my second mothers growing up. Ladies I call Mrs. (First Name). Men I call Mr. (Last Name). Girlfriends I’ve loved for most of my life. It was like a healing warmth that covered my tired soul with each hug. I’d been stuffing my grief down all week to attend the crises, but when I saw Mrs. Helen- her beautiful signature eye shadow, her lovely jewels, her pretty blue dress- it finally came bubbling up from all the places it had been shoved. Not in a dramatic kind of way, but in soft fallen tears- the kind that recount the love and life of a friend who’s gone. 

I don’t want any comments of sympathy for my week. None of it happened directly to me. The significant losses weren’t suffered in our family. That’s not the point of this rambling post. I was just reminded over and over again that life can be so unpredictable. Everyday is routine until it’s not. One day is up and the next is down. But, when bad things happen around us, God always blends in His goodness in such obvious ways that we can’t help but see Him providing in the fires and storms and valleys. He never allows the dark shades of loss to blot out His beautiful use of the rich colors of goodness. Goodness found in a group of volunteers who would leave their jobs and families to fight fire at someone else’s house. Goodness shown in the mercy of a safe family and a saved pet. Goodness in the eager generosity of a community. Goodness seen in the kindness of strangers. Goodness He gives through the love of friends. Goodness in the healing we feel in each other’s presence. Goodness in His kept promises. Goodness contributed to us through a life well-lived. Goodness that surrounds and supports a grieving family. Goodness given in the hope of eternal life. These are the victories of goodness that stand tall in the losses. 

Thanks to God for His goodness. 

Sunday night, Davis and I were watching The Price is Right reruns. Yeah, you read that right. Sunday is and always has been the worst TV day. As a kid, I remember how long Sunday afternoon was with only the Wide World of Sports, Bob Ross, and Justin Wilson’s Louisiana Cookin’ to entertain us. I “gha-rawn-tee” it was a long afternoon. It was a good thing the comics came in the paper, at least. Anyway, I stumbled across The Price Is Right on Roku. It was young Bob Barker in the days of his dark hair and plaid pants. Y’all know how nostalgic I am. It’s crazy, but the familiar music, buzzers, and voices all made me feel like I was in the 3rd grade- home on the gold plaid couch with a fever and sore throat. All I needed was ravioli and Jell-O on a TV tray with my mother standing over me with pink amoxicillin in a spoon and some makeup worksheets on diagramming sentences sitting nearby. There was something so comforting about watching that. It really took me back. If you all haven’t noticed by now, I look back on my childhood with much cherished delight. 

I loved The Price Is Right and how they’d have all those prizes arranged on those shag carpeted platforms that would turn around to reveal the glorious treasure trove of the latest and greatest. I don’t care what game they were playing, there always seemed to be a grandfather clock or a baker’s rack or an organ on the line. There was a washer and dryer and an electric range up for grabs on this particular episode we were watching. The washer/dryer combo was harvest gold- the range was avocado green and I told Davis they’re all probably still out there working just fine- unlike the ones we buy now. I love a stroll down memory lane and I really enjoyed finding that show. 

Other things from childhood I miss include but are not limited to: Kool-aid popsicles made in Tupperware molds. Digging for prizes in the cereal box. Saturday morning cartoons. Sporting new clothes the first week of school. A fresh minty jar of paste. Circling coveted things in the Sears Christmas Wish Book. Playing in the rain. Neighborhood games of whiffle ball. Spend the night invitations. Brach’s candy counters. Pick up sticks. Cut-off blue jeans and bare feet. Big Wheels. Weekly Readers. The smell of Doritos and duplex cookies in a metal lunchbox. 

What is it about childhood memories that makes them so dear? I think it might be that we like to remember the safety we felt then. A time when we weren’t in charge or responsible for much. If there was something unsettling going on, we were protected from it and were blissful in our ignorance. Someone else was paying the bills. Watching the weather. Keeping up with what size shoe we wore. Shutting off the television when the news was scary. Buying our toothpaste. Making our doctor’s appointments. Scooting us out of the room for serious discussions. Deciding what was best. Our only jobs were to climb trees and ride bikes and maybe vacuum the carpet when company was coming. When we get older, we trade all that play for work and soon we become the person in charge. Other people become dependent on us. With that come responsibility and worry- concepts we’re not too familiar with when we’re young. There’s no longer anyone standing between us and the knowledge of the realities of life. 

I read a story about Corrie Ten Boom today that I loved. As a child, she was traveling on a train with her father and asked him a question which she wasn’t mature enough to have answered yet. “He turned to look at me, as he always did when answering a question, but to my surprise, he said nothing. At last he stood up, lifted his traveling case off the floor and set it back on the floor. ‘Will you carry it off the train, Corrie?’ he said. I stood up and tugged at it. It was crammed with the watches and spare parts he had purchased that morning. ‘It’s too heavy,’ I said. ‘Yes,’ he said ‘and it would be a pretty poor father who would ask his little girl to carry such a load. It’s the same way with knowledge, Corrie. Some knowledge is too heavy for children. When you are older and stronger you can bear it. For now you must trust me to carry it for you.’” 

I look back and am so grateful for the gift of innocence my parents gave me. They guarded it and shielded me and played defense against anything that would threaten to take it from me before it was time. I grew up and we gave the same effort to giving our kids their due time to just be young and free from worry. We live in a day that seems bent on stuffing kids’ schedules, rushing them ahead, and filling their heads with things that are way beyond their years, I hope we, as the adults in their lives, will stand guard for them. They only get one chance to be little. To be innocent. To be blissfully unaware of the harshness of life. To have free time to do whatever they’d like to do. To enjoy the warm security of knowing that they’re being tended to by people who love them. Childhood may only make up a small percentage of a person’s life, but it will be the time the mind travels back to most. Good or bad. 

I remember when Blair was turning 12, she saw a dollhouse she really wanted. She was still playing with dolls which she kept hidden in her closet in case her friends came to visit. She wasn’t grown enough to be ready to give them up, but she was mature enough to realize it could be a source of ridicule. After talking it over, Davis and I decided to go ahead and get the dollhouse for her 12th birthday even though it seemed late in the game for such a purchase. We didn’t just get the house. We got the furniture, the accessories, the whole family, the pets- the entire expensive deal. Even with the arrival of the teenage years practically within sight, if her heart wanted to frolic in the innocence of childhood for a few more months, we wanted to help her squeeze all the good out of that sweet, once-in-a-lifetime stage. As the song says, “Once you pass its borders, you can never return again.” Sure enough- within the year, the dollhouse and all the sold-separately accessories were put away, but she got all the childhood her heart could hold before she left it behind. 

One of the greatest gifts we can give the children in our lives is to let them be little -all the way up to the time they’re not. May we not let one drop of childhood go to waste. There are so many threats to their innocence that they need us to repel. It’s something worth protecting! 

Have a great week! 

JONI 

Well, today was back to school around these parts. Facebook posts were aplenty of kids dressed and ready for their first day of school with their brand new shoes, lunchboxes, and backpacks. All the children were looking just a little more put together than they will, say, a week from now when they have Pop-tart goo on their faces and a nasty case of bed head hair. I remember that first day excitement the parents have, too. Happy to get those kids back in school and in a routine. A few weeks of kids declaring their boredom and half-empty drink bottles sitting all over the house and the sheen of summer break starts to dull. The same excitement parents felt about school getting out in May is replaced with an equal enthusiasm about school being back in session in August. 

I remember back in the winter, I’d hear the constant groaning of my heat-loving friends who proclaimed they couldn’t wait for the long, steamy days of summer. In the chill of the winter winds, the human lizards among us were wishing for the blazing humidity of the southern summer to warm their frigid bones. As we enter month three of a record breaking season, which has not been fit for human habitation, I haven’t heard one peep from them on how much they’re enjoying this, their long-anticipated weather. Nobody is making any moving tributes to this heat. Nobody is celebrating the arrival of its life-threatening warm grasp. No, now that it’s here, they’re looking forward to pumpkin spice and a major cool down. On the flip side, even I, the staunchest winter supporter, admit to wishing for a sunny, warm day when the gloominess of February seems to stretch out forever. 

Remember when we were young teenagers and we couldn’t wait until we would grow up and have all the freedoms to do more things independently. We were ready to forge ahead to the next phase and embrace all the amenities that adulthood had to offer. As girls, we’d draw and color pictures of the houses we wanted to live in and we’d come up with the names for the children we wanted to have. We see how that turned out. We grow up and spend the rest of our days daydreaming at work about the carefree days of our childhood and wishing we could go back to that simpler, responsibility-free stage of life- before we had the mortgage on that house we’d drawn and and car insurance on all those children we named.  

We’re always so excited to get the Christmas decorations up- sometimes, not even waiting until Thanksgiving. Before Christmas is even over, we start thinking about how fast we can get them all back into the attic and get things back to normal. We want to just get our kids out of diapers or grown enough to get in and out of the car on their own power or just get old enough to drive themselves to school. Then, we mourn the days when they were little and cute and mispronounced words and really needed us. We look forward to when we’re having guests and anticipate their arrival with lots of planning and grocery shopping. We’re so excited to see them drive into the driveway but, in a few days’ time, we’re ready to see some taillights and get back to our normal routine. The long-awaited retirement can surprise us with the emptiness of missing our work and camaraderie. And even the most anticipated trips and vacations usually draw to their close with a growing desire to be back in the familiar comforts of home. 

What is it that keeps us looking to the next thing? There’s a constant temptation to look ahead and see how another day down the road might be better than this one we’re living now. Almost always, when we get to that day or season or stage that we’d been romanticizing, we end up grieving for the time we let pass by while our mind was wandering. Life happens in this day. Our love and attention are needed in this moment. Memories and growth happen in this season. “This is the day the Lord has made, let us rejoice and be glad in it.” 

“Happiness, not in another place, but this place….not for another hour, but this hour.”  Walt Whitman

Happy Weekend to you all! 

JONI 

I took my mother to Laurel, MS on Tuesday. She’d not seen all of the new things going on there since the HGTV show, Home Town, has changed its vibe pretty significantly. After that Tuesday Elvis matinee we enjoyed, I decided we’d make Tuesdays our regular day to do something fun together and Laurel was what I’d planned for this week. 

We got there around 11 and we were both ready for lunch. We decided on Pearl’s Diner as it was fried chicken day and Mama is a sucker for a fried chicken leg. There was a line already forming outside, so I dropped her off to save us a spot while I parked the car. I easily found a parking space on the same block and I walked back up to join her in line. I came up and she said, “Joni, I’d like you to meet so and so- they’re here visiting from Missouri.” Then she turns around to another couple and says, “and you remember so and so who use to go to church with us.” I thought, “dang, Mama. I just let you out of the car a minute and a half ago and you’ve already met people from Missouri and found old friends who’d moved away.” Before we made it inside, she made friends with a lady from New Orleans and we heard her life story. Before we left, she knew all about the family history of Pearl’s Diner and was awfully tight with Pearl’s son. I’ve been thinking for a while she should either be in charge of the Mississippi Welcome Center system or go to work for the FBI -interrogation division. Terrorists couldn’t hold up under her interrogative powers. She’d know everything about them in a minute and a half. In a world that seems to have forgotten how to communicate normally and effectively, it is refreshing to see it done the old-fashioned way.

My mother and I have always done things together- that’s nothing new. But, when I designated a special day for us to spend together, she remarked that it must mean she’s getting old. Same thing she says around her birthdays when we gather everyone around her for a picture. I guess I’d have to admit there’s some truth to that. She’ll be 80 this year and it does make me more aware of the swiftness of time and how I should utilize it.

Along the same lines, about a week before Blair was to start 7th grade, I woke up early one random morning and a wave of sadness hit me out of nowhere. My mind started spinning and thinking about all the changes 7th grade would bring. She was my first child and there was a threshold we were about to cross and it hit me that morning. I lay in bed and cried the first tears of letting go of her. A process of mourning that came in waves and in little increments over the span of the next 8 or 9 years. She was 13. Asleep in her bed. Couldn’t even drive. She wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon, but the realization that something I loved so much would leave me, one day, started that morning in bed. She was my girl turning into a young lady and, at that point, I couldn’t imagine being without her. 

I think we all look ahead and anticipate changes that will be difficult for us. Maybe we even begin to mourn things long before there’s anything to mourn. Start to miss things even before they’re gone. When we see the very first light of transition far off in the distance, maybe it’s then that we start the process of grieving. Don’t get me wrong, aside from arthritis, there’s not a thing wrong with my mother that we know about- unless stubbornness is terminal. No, I’m just more aware that you only get one mother and they generally don’t live forever. 

Psalm 90:12 says, “Teach us to number our days, that we may gain a heart of wisdom.” I’m no theologian, but I think that could mean gaining the wisdom of how to maximize/take advantage of/squeeze all the good out of our allotted time on this earth. Living for Jesus, loving people, and working out our calling. So, may we rock our babies ‘cause babies don’t keep. Love our mamas because they don’t either. And live for God with our whole being. May we seize the day. 

Happy Weekend, y’all. 

JONI