Monthly Archives: March 2014

My 6 year-old nephew, Z, has this long, skinny body with long, skinny legs.  I think it’s safe to assume that the first thing you notice about him physically, other than his tiger-gold eyes, is how much of him is all leg and arm.  And the child can’t sit still to save his life – constant motion: hands, legs, fingers, probably even toes.

Z is 100% boy.  His XY chromosome probably leans toward chopping of the leg of even that one X.  His room is army green with camouflage bed spreads.  Even his laundry hamper is camo.  (From my days in the Air Force, I’ve worn enough camo to wonder why anyone who isn’t mandated to do so thinks it’s cool.  But that’s totally a different topic.) Back to Z, he’s smart and funny and (sometimes) cuddly, but what I love most about him is that he’s a crack-up.  Sometimes Z means to be funny, but mostly not; he just is.

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My parents married 44 years ago tomorrow.  There was no beautiful, extravagant wedding, no dresses and cakes and centerpieces to worry about.  Nope, just two crazy kids in love who drove across the Virginia state line into North Carolina and made do with a Justice of Peace.  (In point of fact they were married later by a priest with a janitor and a school secretary as their only witnesses, but, hey, sometimes, I think God takes what we can muster and blesses it amazingly.)

You see, my parents weren’t “allowed” to get married.  My father was the son of an impoverished Methodist minister while my mother came from one of Norfolk, Virginia’s oldest (read that as privileged) families, and my mother was raised Catholic to boot.  The only thing my maternal and paternal grandparents could agree upon was that their kids wouldn’t get married, wouldn’t have a life together, wouldn’t have children.   But you know what happens when you tell someone barely out of their teens what they can’t do? Yeah, that forbidden thing, it looks a lot more tempting.

I forgot to tell you, my father had dropped out of college to join the Navy so he could go to Vietnam.  Actually, he was politely asked to leave Virginia Tech when he went bowling instead of taking his exams.  Good girls from good Norfolk families, in those days, didn’t marry sailors.

My father was engaged to three women at the same time when he was 21, one of whom was my mother.  You’d never know it to see him now, but he was quite the player.  In the end he chose my mother because she was the one to break up with him when she found out about the other girls.  He’s just that stubborn, and since then she has been his entire world.

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The clock ticks at 4:00am, and I find myself sitting on the living room couch, wondering what exactly has me up before it’s even occurred to the sun to make an appearance.  No nightmares, no dreams of any kind that I can remember, just the tender prodding out of sleep a little after 3:00.  I am bone tired, but begging didn’t lure the Sandman back to me.  So, here I sit, laptop open, and I wait.

Most of the time, when I find myself awake at this unseemly hour, it’s God calling to me.  Does that sound strange?  I guess it doesn’t matter if anyone else considers it odd, but as I stare blankly at the darkened TV in front of me, I wait.

He’ll come; he always does, but patience is so difficult to achieve these days.  I want my conversation, my connection, and I want it now!  But the Almighty does not keep to my schedule.  And so, I wait. Continue reading →

I acquired a piano last week – a digital ebony baby grand.  Now, when I say “baby” think newborn because this tiny  bit of preciousness fits perfectly in the corner of my townhouse living room.   It’s beautiful, and every time I see it, my heart smiles.

I don’t play piano with an abundance of talent; I just love music.  Like every other little girl I knew growing up, I took years of piano lessons; I took 10 to be exact.  But that’s been lifetimes ago, and since I’m not telling you my age, all you really need to know is that I haven’t played for a long, long time. (To paraphrase Oscar Wilde, a woman who tells you her real age will tell you anything.; so, don’t trust her.)  Oh, but I’ve desired that piano, that outlet of my spirit so badly for so long.

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Yesterday I saw a magnet quoting Winston Churchill: “If you’re going through hell, keep going.” Of course, his “hell,”  well, I’m assuming he meant it  metaphorically as he was still alive and able to speak.  I’ve thought a lot about that word, “hell,” and how frequently I use it, just as WC did, to describe difficult situations in my life.  I think, perhaps, I need to stop using that word, because what do I truly know about  Hell other than that it involves separation from God, and He has yet to let loose of me.

I’ve always considered the awful or difficult things in my life to be “hell”- things I never thought would happen or never thought I’d say or do.  My list of “impossibles” grows by the day.  Actually, I’ve started measuring them by decade, the same way I have decided to age (i.e. at 30, I celebrated the first anniversary of my 29th birthday, but as I crossed  that 35 threshold, I decided that was just, uhm. . . stupid.  So, now, I will be “35” until I’m 40.  Just go with it, so much easier than trying to figure out my brain.)

The bottom line is that (so far) I have survived – survived things I thought would kill me – both literally and metaphorically.   But that survival , well, it’s  not on my own strength, but on the strength of One who is much greater.  How can I be sure?  Because when I lie prostrate on the floor, tears streaming down my face, there’s no way these weak human knees have the wherewithal to get me back on my feet.  You’d think I’d have learned enough by now to stand on my own, but in fact the opposite is true.  I’ve been battered and beaten enough by life to know that standing on my own isn’t even an option.  I’m lifted and held by my Creator – day by day and moment by moment.

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When I was a little girl, a picture hung on our Sunday School room of a very anglicized Jesus surrounded by blonde haired children.  Jesus is depicted as gently holding one adoring little face cupped in his tender hands  – God as Man enraptured by his own creation.  I could relate to the children in that picture because they looked so much like me; I loved that picture.  At various times throughout my life, I’ve owned copies of that picture, but there was always someone who needed it more than I.  I don’t even know if that particular picture is still in print, but if it is, I’ll find it again.

I’d like to think that those children knew Him for who He was, the Lord God Emmanuel, Lord and Giver of Life, the Word Made Flesh.  I’d like to think they knew it deep down to the dusty soles of their feet, deep into their beautiful souls and hearts, because, while children are born into this tainted world, sin nature intact, they have yet (mostly) to have had the opportunity to explore/exploit that nature.  Children are as close to pure innocence as we get to experience until we are fortunate enough to be called Home.

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We, my mother and I, took my nephews, Z and Auz, to see Mr. Peabody and Sherman.  Now, Mom swears that I watched this cartoon as a child;  it was part of the Rocky and Bullwinkle Show.  But I promise you, I could not have watched “Mr. Peabody” because I refused to watch “Bullwinkle” and the annoying talking squirrel with the improbable flight cap on his head.

Now, I was willing to suspend my concept of reality for the Justice League – I mean, who doesn’t want an invisible jet, but one of the things I always wondered was why we could still see Wonder Woman through her invisible jet.  What purpose did the incredible Invisible Jet serve if you could still see Wonder Woman herself?  Yes, it would be freakishly frightening to view this woman hurtling in a seated position through the sky at supersoinc rates, but once everyone knew what it was, wouldn’t you just point up and wave, “Hi, Wonder Woman.  Bad Guy #3 is still going to see you coming , you know?” Continue reading →

Sometimes don’t you just want to sing and dance through the streets at the wonder and glory of God?  It’s early here – night sky that inky blue tinge with the promise of the sun, like the Heavens themselves are holding their breath; will the Sun show itself, or did it decide to stay home and put its feet up just for the day? I’d say after at least a billion years it might deserve a day of vacation, but that never happens.  The sun always winks over the mountains and gently spreads itself over the rooftops until it gets to mine.  And I’m filled with the simple joy of being.

If you’d have asked me three months ago “who ” I was, I would have answered without hesitation: I’m a runner, a writer, a volunteer, a veteran, an ex-nurse, a daughter, a sister, an aunt.  Notice, please those are all description of what I do or did, how I live day to day.  But they do not define me. In answering those questions, I missed one: I am a daughter of the King.   How in the world did I leave that one out, because that one, that is perhaps the only one that matters? Continue reading →

I have a dirty little secret that, if I can rely on your discretion, I shall share.  I am, uhm, addicted to “The Price is Right.”  This is not a new issue for me.  No, unfortunately, I have been enamored of this totally American game show since I was three – knee high to a grass hopper as most Southerners would understand – three, when it was still acceptable to take  your security blanket everywhere – in public sight.  (Come on, ladies, you still have a security blanket; it’s called a purse, and as we get older they get bigger.  Men, don’t ask why because we don’t know.   It’s best to just accept the phenomenon.

So, as I’m typing this, Drew Carey is accepting over-enthusiastic hugs from a young, pretty, blonde woman whom I am willing to wager  he has never met before, and I smile because, while I love, love, love this show, this subtle Southern personality would no more be capable of climbing all over drew Carey like a rhesus monkey than I would be of designing and executing the building of one of those houses that cling to the side of the cliffs above the beaches of California.   In other words, highly doubtful I will be making my TV debut with Drew Carey handing me Plinko chips.

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When I was 4, and my brother, M, not quite 6, we lived in Dallas, Texas.  I remember that Spring being, oh, so very windy.  Every kid in our neighborhood had a kite.  Back then no one I knew had the fancy expensive kind you buy down at Kitty Hawk, but the cheapy K-Mart plastic kind with the thin white string that if you flew the kite too high, well, that string would snap right in half, then bye-bye kite.

My father took us to K-Mart, and I don’t remember what M chose, but one look at the bumblebee kite, and I was captivated.  Now, this was a bit of a strange enchantment as I am allergic to any and every kind of bee – carry that epipen in my purse or in my running/hiking Camelbak. But perhaps that was the fascination – here was a bee that could finally not hurt me.   I could touch it, play with, and it could not do one blasted thing to me. Nothing would do but that bee kite.  So, dutifully, my father paid, drove us home, then began to put the kites together without reading the instructions.

My father never, ever read instructions.  Printed instructions were for those not savvy enough to figure it out on their own.  Most of the time his projects came together well but took a little longer than if he’d read the directions.  So, my bee kite, which should have taken all of about 5 minutes took about 30, and I was not a patient pre-schooler.  (I’m sighing as I say this.  God has used much of my life to try to teach me that particular virtue.  Sometimes I want to scream at Him, “Fine, I get it.  Next, much, much less painful lesson, oh, Father God, please?”)

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