Yet I will rejoice in the Lord

It wasn't easy to choose to stay at home and take on a full-time job when it seemed like just about everyone else was moving away and starting their freshman year of college.

 Honestly, every morning is a struggle. But the struggle is sweet when it is from, with, and for Jesus.

I have learned so very much about things I never thought I didn't know. Funny how we don't know so much that we don't even know we don't know. If that makes any sense at all.

Anyway, I've learned everything from how to [magically] fold cardboard into a perfectly-shaped shipping box, how to balance finances, how to convince telemarketers that we're not interested, and even just how to use the drive-thru at the bank. I'm experiencing things I've never done before. And I'm thankful for that. But more than anything else, I'm thankful for the precious lives I am able to come across, speak to, and encourage. I'm thankful for the stories and laughs, the wisdom and the advice they have given me.

I'll share one story a sweet lady told of her great-grandson.

~

When she was taking him to his Kindergarten class one day, he spoke up, pleading, 

"Mamy, would you pwease tell Ms. Julie (his teacher) that I'm sick and can't come today?" 

"But, dahlin' (it didn't matter who she was addressing, to Mamy, everyone is dahlin'), you're not sick."

"Yes, I am. I, I... I had a heart attack!"

Mamy stifled a laugh and decided to play along with him. She called Ms. Julie and told her what he had said. His teacher then said, 

"Well, in that case, we'll have to send for an ambulance right away."

When Mamy relayed the message to the backseat, he said, "Tell her it's too late! You and Mamma done buried me already."

~

Throughout this year, Habakkuk 3:17-18 has been such a comfort:

Though the fig tree may not blossom,

Nor fruit be on the vines;

Though the labor of the olive may fail,

And the fields yield no food;

Though the flock may be cut off from the fold,

And there be no herd in the stalls - 

Yet I will rejoice in the Lord,

I will joy in the God of my salvation.

An Excerpt From the Week In Which I Played Mommy

As I drove out of the George's parking lot, everyone was happily sipping on his milkshake (except Rachel who chose a cone, unfortunately, as we will see), and I was wholly unsuspecting of what the near future held.  It was dark and the headlights were bright as we sang and danced and I drove--simultaneously singing and dancing. You can't do one without the other, unless of course, you just sang, or danced, or drove, or drove and sang, or drove and danced, or danced and sang. Anyway. Back to our story. We laughed and giggled and had a fantastic time while we consumed an inordinate amount of calories disguised as a perfectly spun chocolate milkshake sent from heaven above. I guess Rachel had gotten a little too into the laughing contest because by this time, she wasn't laughing at all, but screaming "Ahhh!! There's ice cream all over me!" and so on and so forth. 
Sure enough, she was right. 
There was ice cream on the floor of my car, on the passenger seat of my car, on her pants (which were in my car), on the dashboard of my car, even on the window of my car. I was the epitome of calm and almost entirely forgot these travesties were occurring in my car. As these thoughts ran through my head, Rachel was scrambling out of her seat and somehow perched entirely on her two hands, closely resembling a monkey in its natural habitat. This image was not a little bit funny. It was a lot funny. The ice cream had slipped right out of the cone and into her seat. This left her no choice but to stuff the rest of the cone into her mouth. She had no choice, guys.

Meanwhile, there was a voice from the backseat. "Um? I think my pants are wet." It was Will. Is this real life? I thought for the thousandth time. Unfortunately, all I could do from the wheel was to glance back and tell him everything would be okay. And breathe. I couldn't forget to breathe. Rachel had to surrender her ice dream endeavor to check his pants. 
Dry.  
Praise to the heavens! There was only one problem: a hole in his milkshake, and ice cream dripping all over the backseat. Oh yeah, did I mention we were in my car? 

This too shall pass. I kept my eyes on the road and thought of things to be thankful for.

The sky is not falling.

The aliens have not invaded.

My tires are not flat.

His pants are still dry.

So are hers.

So are mine.

Rachel's…were.

Pretty soon, I felt fairly cheered up and you might say my middle name is Calm. And Awesome. But that's another story for another time.

Soon enough, everyone was fairly wiped off and only a little sticky and we were singing, dancing, and laughing yet again. We made it home alive and well. And there's only the faintest bit of ice cream residue on my passenger seat.

I'm glad I'm not a Mommy yet. I'll stick with my full-time job, thank you.

A land called Honah Lee

Her girlish eyes were completely and entirely enraptured with the world he painted through his calm, deep voice. She knew the tale almost as well as the voice which told it. This time every night was sacred to her little heart. Hanging on his every word, she once again entered the land far away and full of enchanting fairies and delightful creatures - a world as real and familiar to her as our own is to us. He sang the words, while she lived them. Her ears tingled with glee at his tale, though she did like to imagine herself as a female Jackie Paper. Or just that she was a boy. (Because, truth be told, this girl truly believed - or wished so earnestly that she thought she did believe - she would one day grow up to be a boy, though evidence and everyone around her protested.) A soft, clear voice rang out these words and filled the little white room with melody, much as the sun fills the earth with light:

Puff, the magic dragon lived by the sea
And frolicked in the autumn mist in a land called Honah Lee,
Little Jackie Paper loved that rascal Puff,
And brought him strings and sealing wax and other fancy stuff. Oh

Puff, the magic dragon lived by the sea
And frolicked in the autumn mist in a land called Honah Lee,
Puff, the magic dragon lived by the sea
And frolicked in the autumn mist in a land called Honah Lee.

Together they would travel on a boat with billowed sail
Jackie kept a lookout perched on Puff's gigantic tail,
Noble kings and princes would bow whene'er they came,
Pirate ships would lower their flags when Puff roared out his name. Oh!

Puff, the magic dragon lived by the sea
And frolicked in the autumn mist in a land called Honah Lee,
Puff, the magic dragon lived by the sea
And frolicked in the autumn mist in a land called Honah Lee.

A dragon lives forever but not so little boys
Painted wings and giants' rings make way for other toys.
One grey night it happened, Jackie Paper came no more
And Puff that mighty dragon, he ceased his fearless roar.

His head was bent in sorrow, green scales fell like rain,
Puff no longer went to play along the cherry lane.
Without his lifelong friend, Puff could not be brave,
So Puff that mighty dragon sadly slipped into his cave. Oh!

Puff, the magic dragon lived by the sea
And frolicked in the autumn mist in a land called Honah Lee,
Puff, the magic dragon lived by the sea
And frolicked in the autumn mist in a land called Honah Lee. 

The Little Girl is not so little now, and her Daddy doesn't sing to her every night before bed anymore. But occasionally, she'll slip away to Honah Lee, rekindle old friendships and frolic with her dear magic dragon.

 {listen here}

The Neshoba county fair

Since 1889, ladies and gentleman, young and old, have gathered together for the attractions of the Neshoba county fair in South Mississippi. Festivities last over one week. Brightly-painted and incredibly decorated wooden cabins that have been passed down through the years from one old Southern family to another line every nook and corner of the fairgrounds. In its early beginnings, attendees would hear political candidates speak while they sat on wooden benches under the pavilion or under the nearest shady oak. They fought the penetrating heat with forceful strokes of their paper fans. Others would sit under the comfort of their cabin porches while gingerly sipping on an ice cold glass of sweet tea. When lunch time came 'round, they would take turns providing a meal of southern staples - barbecue sandwiches, potato salad, baked beans, watermelons, and fresh banana pudding for dessert. The men talked business and politics. The women spoke in quick, excited whispers about one another's hair and dress or laughed over the matches they prophesied between the young men and little ladies. The children giggled and played as all young children do. The horse and buggy races would begin in the late afternoon and all would gather to see the excitement for themselves.

The fair hasn't changed much, even after over 120 years. It still looks and feels almost the same way as it did in 1889. Men and women still come from all over to hear politicians, sit on their cabin porch, eat quintessential southern foods, fan away the July heat, watch the horse races, and visit with friends, old an new. The Neshoba county fair is like taking a glimpse at the Old South and having a small taste of simpler times.

a man's best friend.

I always laughed at those people who seemed a trite overly-dramatic at the death of a beloved pet.
But now I know. I understand now the devastation of losing an animal dear to my heart. After more than ten years, Duke, our big, sweet, harmless, and faithful Great Dane passed away. Duke proved the old saying that a dog is a man's best friend to be more than myth or legend.

Duke was always waiting at the door with a warm, delightful, tail-wagging welcome for me. And for the first time, he wasn't there when I came home.
Duke took with him both a part of me and a part of my childhood. For as long as I can remember, my big black and white playtoy was always there to be ridden like the miniature horse he was (or rather, what I thought he was), to be hugged and pet, or he was waiting at the family dinner table hopeful of the scraps that would "accidentally" fall from my plate into his mouth. He didn't like to be forgotten and would remind us, lest we forget him, during the day with a conscious bark, groan, or whine, and even at night with unconscious snoring. And, boy, could that dog snore.
He could bite a tennis ball in half or swallow a sock (yes, that fact is one of many that made Duke Duke) faster than you or I could say Jack Robinson. But this was just one of his many talents. He could also patiently watch a game of wiffle-ball in the front yard - and only snag a few balls for himself every now and then.
He always let me lug him around as my cow when we played prairie in the backyard. He was protective of we kids and never took his eyes off of us. He was a great listener. He let little Sam (his best friend) sleep on his pillow sometimes and endured Macy's rowdy playfulness with quiet patience.
I was about 6 when Duke first came to live with us. Some friends of ours had told us about an ad in the paper for a free Great Dane. When Dad and Jamie went to pick him up, they found him tied to a truck and as skinny as a rail. When we took Duke home, he refused to walk inside. He was terrified and trembling all over and had obviously never set foot indoors anywhere. When we finally got him inside, he wouldn't go back out. Eventually, he was comfortable going inside and out. And soon enough, he had learned to open the backdoor and would let himself out whenever his little heart desired. Unfortunately, he never learned to shut the door.

As I grew older, so did he. I grew taller, he grew fatter. My hair got longer, his got more gray. He even conquered heart worms and various other health issues veterinarians had warned us of. But while I was away at camp, he showed his age more and more. He lost weight, became weaker, and found it hard even to perform menial tasks such as eating, drinking, and walking.
My Dad was forced to make the executive decision to put Poor Duke out of his misery. On Tuesday morning, we said our goodbyes; one of the hardest goodbyes I've had to say, though I'm sure I'll face harder.
Duke lived to the ripe, old age of 77 in dog years (11 in human) and lived what I believe was a full and happy life filled with a warm bed, good food, and a family who loved him - still does and always will - dearly.

Memories of Spring

Why is it that I always feel the urge to write late at night? Why does my mind work best in those quiet moments just before I fall asleep?
These questions are left unanswered. I can't tell you why this is - but tonight I'm taking advantage of it. (That, and I can't sleep. It's that Sunday afternoon nap, I tell you. And the bug buzzing around my room probably has something to do with it.)

It seems to me that memories are best triggered by smell. The sweet fragrance of the patches of yellow and white honeysuckle bushes wafts through the air. At the smell, I remember Springs past: running barefoot over the soft, green grass, bouncing, flipping, jumping on that old, worn trampoline while the metal springs whine and screech in rhythm, or playing as a pilgrim in a lonely, consecrated cabin in the prairies, or a passenger on a boat, or a superhero with super strength, or the power of flight or X-ray vision, fighting the good fight in an old warehouse -- all from the real protection of the four walls of the wooden tree house which took on many forms back in its prime.
I thought of those soft giggles of dear, little friends, the wild, silly games of Tag, the enticing fear of slipping from the safety of a wood plank, the fence, or trampoline onto the "lava" ground. I saw the bright sunshine cast its rays on familiar faces, and of course, I remembered the piles and piles of sweet, luscious honeysuckles we plucked from the bushes and sucked and sipped on until there was not one more drop to be sucked or sipped.

What is it about childhood memories that is so bittersweet? Perhaps it's sweet to revisit happy, simple times and places, but bittersweet to come to realize these are times and places we will never again live in.

This is the part where I tell you about my Christmas. Just like everybody else.

How original.

(This is assuming you actually care. If not, you can stop reading now.)

(Or now.)

(Now would be good.)

For those who do care, Christmas morning went something like this: My little brother was up and pacing the hallway at precisely 6:20 A.M. on Christmas day. Just waiting. He had to wait. He knew no one can go downstairs until at least 7:00 A.M. It's a rule. Always has been. Always will be. It's funny how that rule used to torture me and now I could go for a little more sleep on Christmas morning. Funny how things change.

But I woke up soon enough. Just to humor myself since I had heard so much talk about the chance of snow, I looked out my window.

I saw this:

Okay, okay. So it actually looked something more like this:

Which was a welcome sight on Christmas morning to a Mississippi girl!
My reaction went something along these lines: "A white Christmas! In Mississippi! It's a Christmas miracle! I think all my dreams just came true."

So, it was around six in the morning, I was tired and a tad bit delirious. But it was awesome! When I showed my sister the snow, she literally jumped up and down on the bed.

My sister's 22.

We all were pretty ecstatic and immediately turned this on, just to really characterize and dramatize the special moment.

This quickly became the theme song of Christmas 2010. (Except we didn't even have to dream!)

Christmas morning and a gimplse at the "Christmas Spider web."

Christmas afternoon/evening is usually a let-down. Every year, we have our Christmas dinner on Christmas eve and on Christmas day, after all of our morning activities, we have an annual brunch at our house with different families from around here. So afterward things are usually slow and boring. But this year, we ate chips and dip and some sandwiches and lounged around in our pj's watching Wives and Daughters. Good movie. Good time. I love my family. I love Christmastime.

I think I can safely say this was the best Christmas ever.

Portrait of a sunset.

I didn't have my camera, but I do have words.

As I lay upon my back, the grass as my pillow, the sky as my ceiling,
I saw a sunset
Not of passionate streaks of violent reds and burning oranges.
'Twas a quiet, wintry sunset of pale yellows,
Soft blues and violets, each blending
Hand in hand,
One with another,
Sweetly, gently singing a story of forgotten winter eves.

Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."

On Saturday, Katie, Kelley, Jonathan, Savannah, and I took a road trip to Memphis to see Wicked! We listened to Wicked on the way up, had the "best meal on Beale," (or so they say), and walked down to the Orpheum to see the play! It was. . .well, wicked. Even better the second time. On the way home, we definitely would have listened to the soundtrack and re-hashed every detail of the play, had Savannah not convinced us it was "overkill."

When we drove back into the neighborhood (good ol' Woodside), I was delightfully reminded that it was Halloween Eve, given that there was a 7-car traffic jam, hay rides, golf carts draped in twinkly lights, more people than usual walking outdoors, oh yeah, and they were all dressed as cats, superheros, witches, movie characters, inanimate objects (personally, I think those are the funniest), etc. That kinda tipped me off. We pulled up to our house. The one with the lights off full of people pretending not to be home. Yeah, that one. We (and our whole street) happen to be the Scrooges of Halloween, you see. Trick-or-treaters just love us.

Well, in the back of the house (for the front was blacked out), we ate homemade pizza, sipped on hot cider, talked, laughed, ate ice cream, and talked some more. Afterward, Daddy and I read Poe by candlelight. It was delightful.

Gone.

He was gone. Her best friend.

Gone.

Forever.

Only the memories remained. She was 19, he was 21 when they first fell in love. He was in the army, she was a nurse. He was tall and dark and handsome, she had big, blue eyes full of hope and dreams that twinkled when she laughed. They were crazy about each other. They were married that year, and only grew happier with every passing day. Together, they had had three children, who grew, married, and had children of their own, who in turn, raised families of their own.

Together they had shared the happiest years of their lives. They had shared laughter and joys, tears and sorrows, trials and tribulations. They had seen so much, experienced so much.

They had grown old together.

Now, he was gone. After seventy sweet years of marital bliss, he had gone ahead of her. He was now somewhere between this world and the next, or perhaps his soul only slept until the coming of the Judge at the end of the age.

The room was cold. The white sunbeams glittered on the walls through the small crack in the shutters. The bed was made, the sheets pulled up. He would lie there no more. No longer would she see that sweet smile or hear his silvery laughter travel through the little white house. She would, she must, live out the rest of her days alone.

What would she do? How could she face this world without him who had so long been her comforter?

The shutters creaked as she pulled them open. She looked out through the dusty windowpane, out over the field and watched as the tall grass gently swayed in the October breeze. The world seemed empty now.

He was gone, yet still there. Through her tears, she smiled. There was still hope. He had gone ahead of her, but she could rejoice. For he was face to face with One far greater than he or she. Someone worth living for. Worth dying for. She would be happy.

She would wait.

~

"All that remains for me
Is but to love and sing,
And wait until the angels come
To bear me to the King."

Sittin' on the back porch in the mountains of Tennessee...

In a small Tennessee town of about 1100 people, there's a grand firework festival that attracts multitudes of people (hillbillies) from miles away. They pile into their big ol' trucks and come and down for the day (maybe two) to the grand Fireman's Fourth for some fried Southern food, cold drinks, and time to spend with old friends and new (although we might have been the only new faces there... it is a small town), there they hear banjo-pickin' and country-singin'. (This was not a festival with a bunch of overall-wearing country folks, smelly rides, and loud, ear-piercing "music," mind you. Oh no. Not in the least.)

We walked around a bit and rode some magical rides (magical in the sense that they did not just fall apart as soon as even the smallest of children eagerly stepped onto the rickety, worn, metal platform held together by a few measly nails). In all honesty, I only watched as Kelley, Jonathan, and Daddy risked their lives on these so called "rides," were thrown and tossed around on the Scrambler and its lovely cousin, the Twister. (Don't they just sound scrumptious?) Afterward, we walked through the downtown (which was not a long walk in the least), and reached the suburbs. We strolled along the cool, shady street in the warm, late afternoon to an old family friend's home, waving to friendly passers-by on the way. We came to a large, white, Southern-esque house, with a beautiful side-paneled, wrap-around porch, complete with porch swings, rocking chairs, welcome rugs, and all. We drank ice cold lemonade while we sat on the back porch which overlooked a large hayfield. We rode the monorail (a glorified zipline), talked, laughed, held the family pet... not a dog, no, not even a cat, but an ugly, big, black snake (okay, everyone else held the pet snake while I acted sensibly and sat across the table), we shared stories, and watched dazzling fireworks in the cool of the evening. All from the back porch.

Yesterday I was reading outside on the back porch. The weather was perfect, but the sky looked something like this...

It was as if the black, menacing clouds wanted to conquer the bright, blue sky. Or perhaps it was the other way around...
In the end, the blue sky was victorious. The angry clouds scurried East (I think), the sun shone much brighter than before, and the birds came out once again and sang their happy tune. It turned out to be another lovely Spring day after all.

Blessed.

It's that time of year again. Tax season, I mean. That means Mom's working at home preparing other people's taxes, dealing with the darling and dearly beloved to all to whom it is known, the IRS, and that also means we get the pleasure of having strange people come in and out of the house morning, noon, and night. Sounds delightful, no?

Well, one day Mom had a client with four little girls. These girls were just dying to look around and go upstairs. That's when Mom said they were welcome to explore. They were upstairs in no time. I gave them a tour and heard many simultaneous wow's. They were astonished by the striped walls, my pet fish, our 3 dogs, beds, mirrors, everything. And I was struck. Struck with my own ingratitude.

These four little girls live with their mother in a tiny apartment. Their father recently went to jail. They don't have many of the privileges we do.

I am so blessed. So very, very undeservedly blessed. I don't deserve a house with room enough for all of  us (plus more if they don't mind sleeping on the floor),  I don't deserve all these nice things, a warm bed, food enough for quite a while, a wonderful family, a Christ-centered church, and wonderful friends who are a daily encouragement for me. I don't have a right to own all these things. God has been so kind, and I certainly don't deserve His many kindnesses.

Psalm 103:8 &10 say, "The Lord is compassionate and gracious, slow to anger, abounding in love...He does not treat us as our sins deserve..."