5/28/2010 Into Light

Note: I wrote this short story in celebration of all the people who have believed in me even when I didn't believe in myself. As I read the result, however, I found a loving tribute to the One who held the greatest faith of all - my God. Writing Forty II 40 has been one of the greatest blessings of my life. Thank you all for reading, but this marks the final Forty II 40 entry. Enjoy!

Darkness cloaked the room so she could no longer see her way to the door. Her heart beat slowed with the comfort of solitude and the familiarity of non-existence. She felt her way to the desk, fumbling for pen and paper. A strand of hair fell in front of her eyes, and she tucked it behind an ear.

The chair scraped across the bare concrete floor, but she almost missed it sitting down. Adjusting herself, she took a deep breath. The musty damp smell assaulted her nose. Did the rain fall last night? She remembered loud claps of thunder from her dreams. Her fingers felt for the paper on the desk, and she angled it to where she thought the first line might be. She began to write.

Imagination took over, and she forgot the darkness for awhile because all she saw was a story. Long fingers flew across the page, painting words on what she remembered to be a plain white sheet of discarded notebook paper. Time became unimportant. The writing commanded her. The stories refused to quiet until she purged them onto paper.

In no time, she was at the end of the sheet, but she didn’t notice until she heard the scratching of the pen against wood. Putting the first page aside, she felt for another piece, angled it, and continued to conduct the characters’ symphony floating from her mind and through her fingers.

The blackness swallowed all other sounds. The silence was seductive – a siren’s call beckoning her to the far recesses of imagination where stories waited. The images danced onto the page even when she could not see to read the words. Droplets of sweat fell from her chin, and onto the paper. She incorporated the feel of exhaustion into her plot like she would all the senses of the past, present and imagined future.

Suddenly, through the darkness, a distant voice tunneled its way to her ear. She couldn’t understand what he was saying, but she somehow recognized his voice. The chair squeaked as she put down her pen and turned.

“Is somebody there?” Her voice trembled with anxiety at the interruption. She was used to the darkness. It was common and predictable. Silence was one of her companions – unworthiness the other.

His presence threatened both.

He said her name louder. She didn’t know the person – only the sound of his voice as if the deep resonance sang her lullabies. Impossible, but familiar just the same. This time the voice grew louder and closer.

 “Are you almost done?”

Her shoulders turned away from the sound, embarrassed, because he had caught her writing. He’ll think I’m foolish. She felt her eyebrows furrow in despair. He’ll be right.

“I don’t know if I’m finished.” Her voice was barely audible.

The voice called to her again. “I think you are.”

She panicked, reaching for the papers on her desk so that she might hide them from his eyes. Her fingers met the wood and nothing else. “How do you know that I’m done?”

He gave a short laugh. “Because I know you. Don’t you realize that? I’ve known you forever. Trust me, you are ready. Come, let me show you.”

The faint outline of a hand reached through the wool of darkness and took her bare arm. Chill bumps interrupted her skin when his fingers touched her. He gently pulled, and she could hear the rustle of papers. The room began to form, or maybe his presence brought light. Either way, the darkness didn’t seem quite so heavy.

“Here,” he said, placing the papers in her hand. “It’s time you really see what you are capable of doing. Let me turn on the light.”

“NO!” Her scream shattered the room. Suddenly, she pulled away, yearning for the comfort of the dark and the whispers of unrecognized dreams. If he turned on the light, she’d have to read what was on the paper. Or even worse, what if others were to find the stories? No, it was better to stay here where no one could see her.

He stepped closer and placed both hands on her cheeks where smiling dimples reigned so long ago. He drew his face toward hers and whispered, “It’s okay. I think you’re going to like what you see.”

He left her side then. She didn’t want him to leave. She heard him climb the rickety wooden steps. The door creaked. Light eased into the room, and she shielded her eyes from the intrusion.

“Go on, look.” He opened the door a little wider and sliced the darkness with his light.

She sank down into the chair and held the papers in front of her squinting eyes. She dove into the story she had written in the darkness – an intoxicating river of words that flowed along a plot-line that was both funny and sensual. His belief in her offered new eyes in which to read her work. That same belief struck a fatal blow against despair and futility. She looked up in amazement.

He grinned. “I always knew you could do it. You just needed to see for yourself.”

He threw the door wide open, hard enough to crack the hinges – never to be shut again. He returned to her and held out a hand. “You no longer have to live down here alone. You need to know that I believe in you and more importantly, I know your soul because I created you.” He placed a hand over his heart. “There’s no telling the things we can create together. Come on.” He smiled at her.

She returned the smile, surprised at how easily the joy came. She took his hand and left the darkness behind.

5/26/2010 Praises for the Syrup

A don't know how to can - vegetables, jellies, nothin.

At this moment, countless gasps from Southern women through the ages rattle the earth. Not so much because I don't know how to can, but due to the fact I admitted this out loud. But it's true. I have no idea how to grow something in the ground, pick it when it's ripe, cook it and then can it in such a way that my family can eat it six months from now and not end up with salmonella poisoning. I do, however, envy those that know the process as the benefits are numerous - family bonding, a return to simplicity and even a nod to Mother Earth by staying put on your own soil.

Last Sunday, a husband spoke of his wife's adventure of making blackberry jelly. After too much time passed and the jelly still hadn't done whatever jelly is supposed to do, the wife left to busy herself somewhere else. The husband, however, decided to make use of what now amounted to blackberry syrup. He poured a little into his lemonade. Mmmmmm, delicious. Other uses came to mind - pancakes, biscuits maybe even a blackberry syrup sandwich. The list of possibilities grew along with his sugar level.

That got me to thinking. I'm quite certain when God designed me, He had an end product in mind. As He stirred and stirred, I worked in counter balance to the force trying to keep me on the right path. Eventually, my free will prevailed and the end result was syrup instead of jelly. But God, like my Sunday School friend, recognized a different potential other than the original intent.

You see, God uses the time we walk out of covenant with Him to prepare for our return. Much like the prodigal son, the ingredients He mixed to form us will eventually work together for His good. He creates syrup when our choices make the jelly impossible to achieve. Next time you feel like kicking yourself for not being what you think you should be, praise Him for the syrup that you are!

5/22/2010 A Taste of Heaven

For over a month now, my husband pounded me with questions about my upcoming 40th birthday. "Do you want to take a trip?" "How about a throw-down party with friends?" "What do you want to do about a family get together?" Bless him, he wanted to please, but I have to admit being slightly disappointed with all the questions. After all, aren't birthdays supposed to be filled with surprises?

I settled on a custom arbor over our back patio. Once completed, the entire back of our home looked as if it changed into fancier clothes. Thrilled, I thanked Brian and settled with a book into the pinch of shadows created by the pine slats. Birthday questions ceased two weeks before the big day, and that was fine with me.

Then my dad called. "Lynne and I want to take you to dinner next Saturday, but we won't be getting home from Atlanta until later. We'll plan to pick you and Brian up at 7:45." GULP! Has this man met me? I eat at 5:30 and am asleep no later than 9 p.m. The only view that late at night is from my bed.

"Um, Dad, we don't have to do this dinner before my birthday. We all have so much going on. Why don't we wait until June?" Please say yes, please say yes.

"Well, Christy," he said in a tone that returned me to my teenage years - that non-negotiable one. "I want to do this for you, and this is the night I want to do it."

Sigh. "Yes sir."

The week progressed with me whining to anyone who would listen that my father was making me stay up until all hours of the night rather than simply waiting a week. In fact, this guy I work with said, "I think it's funny that it's your dad wanting to go out late, and you're the one complaining about it." Even I laughed at that reflection. But still.....

Saturday dawned hours after I coughed myself awake. I've been on the losing end of the allergy battle for days, and sleep deprivation had beaten me to a pulp. Still, I laced my tennis shoes and joined hundreds of others for a 5K fund-raiser for a young boy who's battling back after his heart stopped due to a freak baseball accident. I ran, walked and yes, even picked up trash, along the route with the weight of May's sun on my shoulders. I finished, but it wasn't pretty. I limped home only to vacate an hour later due to a real estate showing.

As the day progressed, my mood to go out shrank to nothing. Several times, I picked up my cell phone to text (I know - coward) my dad and cancel the evening. When Brian came home, he said, "I think it's awful nice of your dad to take us to dinner. You should think about that." Ouch. OK, he was right. Plus, reservations waited at Arricia, a wonderful restaurant about which I profiled in a magazine years ago. A shower, dab of perfume and a husband whispering, "You are so fine," helped nudge me out the door.

As we entered Arricia, the host gestured us to follow him toward the back. A four-top sat before closed doors. As he pulled back my chair with his left hand, his right hand opened the French doors to reveal a room full of my friends. "Surprise!" They yelled and clapped while my mouth dropped wide open. I have never experienced a feeling like that - to have people reserve their time, arrange their children and cluster together in anticipation of my arrival. The joy in the room was palpable, and in those few moments, I tasted a little heaven.

To all my friends who celebrated with me, thank you. To those unable to make it, you were there in spirit. And for those forgotten because my poor husband can't keep up with all the circles in which I run, your love and friendship are the best presents of all. To my family who ignored my poor attitude and whining and loved me enough to pull this off, well, I am blessed.

5/21/2010 The Seed Sower

Note - I asked my friend and critique partner, Tim Martin of Buckmasters, to write a guest column for today's post. Selfishly, I hoped he would share one of his previously posted columns from Buckmasters magazine entitled "Deer Camp Diaries" that are not only hilarious, but are accompanied by a mouth-watering recipe. When I opened his email attachment, I was humbled by the words he wrote. While we're forced to trudge on through our day without the recipe for Old Fashioned Two Crust Apple Pie (hint: July 2009 issue of Buckmasters), Tim offers a better recipe for how to live your life. Enjoy!

I’ve had the blessing of being Christy’s writing critique partner and dear friend for several years now. She’s my go-to critic and the first wall I bounce ideas off of before allowing the public to chew up and spit out my work. More importantly, she’s inspired me to become a better writer and encouraged me to continue working through career lulls when putting down the pen seemed like the easy way out. As many of you probably already know, Christy is a world-class encourager.

But Christy’s gifts for friendship and writing Christian fiction aren’t the only ones she possesses. Her latest observations in this Forty II 40 blog surprised me by revealing a cache of talent I wasn’t aware she had — a gift for gleaning biblical meaning and spiritual insight from even the most mundane and unnoticeable things we all breeze past in everyday life.

Take for instance her 5/15/2010 entry, “A Rose By Any Other Name.” While spending a day touring gardens with her mother, Christy took notice of a rose bush growing through a rusty fence behind a dilapidated old building. Now mind you, this was across the street from an elaborate botanical garden. Most passersby would have never noticed anything beautiful growing behind a redneck’s garage, but here’s our girl, finding God in a space better suited for rats.

Here’s the excerpt that got me thinking:

Her analogy jolted me into thinking about a real, yet symbolic rosebush in my own life, and the inherited blessings I may have taken for granted for more than 30 years now.

In the early 1970s, my Great Grandmother, Rosa “Granny” Graham, planted a rambling rose bush alongside a road that leads to my parent’s house on their farmland in north Alabama. Each May, the bush returns to full blossom beside a split-rail fence — a pink explosion of joyfulness in a harsh place otherwise devoid of color or human attention. I must have driven past those flowers a million times, smiling and remembering Granny each time I passed. But there’s a bigger picture here — and questions I hadn’t thought of until reading Christy’s entry. Will future generations of my children smile when they think of me? Am I sowing seeds that will grab their attention? Will my legacy honor God?

It’s been many years since my Granny passed away, but the seeds she planted — both literal and spiritual — still flourish! Generations of my family have reaped the benefits of life choices made long ago by a woman who, despite being a 30-year-old widow with three children, desired to raise her family by following God. Like the flowers, my children’s children will likely be touched by the legacy of a woman they never knew. And, because Granny took the time one summer’s day to don a floppy sunbonnet, slip on gardening gloves and endure the sting of sweat bees as she dug holes in rock-filled, mountain soil, my family honors her with a smile each time they round that dusty curve.

My family also honors Granny each time we open the ancient Bible that sits in a place of honor in my house. I realize now that this book was the seed that sprouted into a sprawling family tree of Godly people.

But still, the question remains of how I will be remembered long after I’ve left this earth. It’s time for me to work harder for that answer.

Christy, I believe I can speak for all of us who know you and enjoy reading your works. Thank you for taking your precious time to share with us your God-given gifts of insight, encouragement, love and good humor. When it comes to flowers growing in untilled soil, you are a walking botanical garden.

And, from all of us … HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!!!

5/20/2010 Lost Stamina

As I run this morning, I'm reminded of the extra weight I allowed to creep back onto my frame. I curse the six-month sabbatical I took from exercise and long to return to last spring when three-mile runs invigorated me instead of the mile runs that now age me through tender calf muscles. Seems like everything man made or man controlled is easy to do away with, but harder to re-build. For example, the health I enjoyed last year was easy to lose through inattention, but now frustratingly hard to get back. Same thing with relationships. It's easier to tear down someone you care about, but harder to fix once broken.

Our God works in contradiction to the world. His love is easy to obtain and impossible to lose. Our relationship with Him is mend-able through prayer and repentance. When we accept Christ as our Savior, He remains in our heart through the Holy Spirit. He never leaves, but we may choose to walk out of covenant with Him through sin. Unlike my lost stamina, God's love never fails even when we turn our back on Him. And while it will take diligence to work my way back to last year's shape, a return to God only takes a prayer. His Spirit cares for us as we rest in His love - even our aching calves.

5/18/2010 Garbage and Missionaries

It's garbage day. You would think this would thrill an anti-litter zealot, but the garbage trucks tend to sling as much junk on the roads as they put in their bins. And so begins my morning.

God wakes me at 5 a.m. as I asked Him to do. Although isn't there a song out there about unanswered prayers? Anyway, I strap on my tennis shoes and begin what I hope is a revisit to last year's morning runs. I start with a steady beat until I pass a red Dixie cup. I jog a few steps only to be jerked around by my conscience and return to pick it up. I jog a few steps more until my eyes shoot to a plastic water bottle. Sigh. I stop, bend and pick it up. Now I'm jogging with a red Dixie cup and a plastic water bottle stuck inside it. I could continue the description, but you probably get the picture by now. Thankfully, green garbage cans stand beside each driveway so I don't have to run far with my litter.

After a while, though, I'm burdened by this extra activity. I mean, this isn't what I set out to do this morning. The mission is to carve a few off, not add more to the pile. I stop my anti-litter campaign and continue to jog while ignoring the cries of a Chick-Fil-A cup crushed in the middle of the road. There's so much out there anyway. What difference can I make? Plus, these workers get paid to clean our roads. Maybe I'll call the city and complain.

Hang on while I stretch this scenario all the way to Jinja in Africa. Here a missionary named Katie faithfully serves God through tending the needs of outcasts. They populate a slum called Masese, and Katie blogs about the experience at http://kissesfromkatie.blogspot.com/. One post stays with me long after I exit her site."I want to help them all, to fix all their problems, to successfully find a solution to their horrendous living conditions. But sometimes in an unideal situation there is not an ideal solution. The projects Amazima has started in this community, are wonderful, but only meet the needs of some of the people, only scratching the surface of the problems. God assures me this is ok."

I slow my jog. Okay, so I am a little winded, but mostly the memory of reading this post leaves me humbled. Here I am overwhelmed by garbage in the road - waste because of human consumption. Here is a woman who wakes daily to a mountain of human suffering, and yet continues to make a difference through one act of kindness at a time. We're not all called to be missionaries in Africa. But all of us wake daily to problems we view as insurmountable, whether they are our own, our community or our world. As Katie writes, sometimes there is no ideal solution. But the power God exudes through one act of grace, no matter the size, is amazing. We simply are called to perform the act.

As I reach my driveway, I struggle to open the garbage can with arms filled with trash. I'm sure to find more litter when I drive to work this morning, but I can smile knowing I contributed a small part in cleaning up the waste. It may not be to the level of missionaries in Africa, but it's a start.

5/15/2010 A Rose By Any Other Name

I treated my mother, Marsha, to a tour of gardens for her birthday. Truly, it was a day to treasure. As life spins and slings us off the ride from time to time, we forget what it's like to spend a few hours with someone dear to our hearts. Mine filled today with love for the woman who gave me life.

The tour consisted of a map and two giggling women trying to make sense of it. "Turn here." "Wait, that's a dead end." "Oh, turn around." The navigation skills left much to be desired. We took pictures, laughed and made friends at each stop. When we touched at the end of the day, I drew into her as a child and hugged this beautiful woman from which I came. I can't remember the last time we devoted this much time to each other. I promised myself that much time wouldn't pass again.

At one stop, we crossed the street to a beautiful cottage. It was an older home that someone painted a bright yellow with a red door and black trim. Updates abounded everywhere you looked from the checkered back patio to the strategically placed perennials and garden statues. Someone obviously spent a great deal of money and time creating beauty in this back yard.

But as we left, I nudged Mom with my elbow. "Look at that rose bush." We had parked across the street from the garden in a church parking lot, next door to a run-down home. Weeds stood knee-high as paint peeled off the trim. A scanty chain-link fence bordered the back yard. But in front of the fence stood a majestic rose bush, which climbed up the rusted fence and along the side of the house.

I pulled out my camera and snapped pictures of that bush like I did the gardens that we toured. I smiled in thinking that no matter how much money and time we spend on making our selves, our homes, our everythings beautiful, God shows off by plucking down a gorgeous rose bush in the middle of rubble. I know He's done that in my life countless times. I praise Him for the rosebushes that push out of an untilled ground, creating beauty where once there was none.

5/14/2010 The Bug Man

A Terminix truck pulls into my neighbor's driveway. A monthly service call from the bug man prevents unwanted "guests" from assuming residence. If the man did not visit their home, the bugs would slip in a few at a time, unnoticed, until the walls tumble due to infestation. Instead the bugs cower as he puts the white truck into park and walks toward the door.

What are the structures we should protect with preventative maintenance?

Our physical bodies come to mind. We protect our health through diet and exercise. Although it feels like weight jumps on quicker than skeeters after rain, the gradual blooming of my backside isn't noticed until my jeans won't snap. If I paid attention to this daily, the pounds would not stand a chance. I would be healthier and maybe eliminate that third cup of mid-afternoon coffee. Spirituality is another structure, albeit intangible. We reinforce this through worship, Bible study, fellowship and/or prayer. Days pass until I notice I have not maintained my spirituality. Unlike my backside, my spirit dissipates rather than expands. By practicing a routine of spiritual maintenance, I make certain my faith remains strong and healthy.

What about others? How do we prevent foreign substances from infecting the walls of our relationships? Just like our physical bodies, if we neglect a regular routine of love and appreciation for those important to us, the structures begin to weaken. Remember an early love - those first few dates, that sweet baby's breath, the adoration you felt for your parents - and more importantly, show the person why you fell in love with them even when they're not being lovable. (BTW - this is a do as I say moment rather than a do as I do moment. I definitely need to work on this.)

The Terminix guy drives away and leaves my neighbor's house protected for another month. I'm prompted to make a list of unwanted guests in my life and mix up a few chemicals. It's time to be my own bug man (or woman).

5/11/2010 Little Debbie and Toilets

Note: If you hold a tender stomach, you might want to skip this post! LOL

I work in my home office with an ear out for a retching ten year old upstairs. Seriously, this kid is skinny as an Olson twin - the last person in the family who needs to lose a fingernail much less several pounds. Yet, the old stomach virus hits him first. Poor baby.

After checking on him a few times and then later hearing snores that would make the less experienced run under the stairs, I consider maybe we're on the tale-end of the booger. A short while later, I hear from his bedroom, "MOOOOOM."

I turn the corner as Billy says, "Hey, Mom. I'm watching these Little Debbie Swiss Roll commercials, and they're killing me. I want one so bad, but I don't think it'll taste that good coming back up."

Later I reflect on how sin's alot like Little Debbie Swiss Rolls during a stomach virus. The temptation is so inviting, tantalizing, that you begin to rationalize it in your brain. All you can think about is how good it will taste going down. The memory of hugging the toilet six times in twelve hours leaves your brain. Mmmmm, Little Debbie.

Then you dig in and the yummy chocolate comes right back up. Believe me, Little Debbies don't taste as good the other direction and neither do the consequences of sin. If I allowed Billy a bite of Swiss Roll, he wouldn't thank me for it five minutes later. If a friend, loved one or even the Holy Spirit stops you from sinning, try to consider the view of the toilet from which you were saved.

5/10/2010 Rewind

 I became a growing statistic in what seems like a lifetime ago. With one signature, my marriage became what's now called the starter marriage, and I was once again on my own. Only this time, I held in my hands the mental stability of a five-year-old and a three-year-old. Scared was an inadequate adjective to describe my fears post-divorce. Failure stamped my passport that moved me into this unfamiliar life while wiping the tears of my confused children and choking back my own.

Easing into the dating world proved less complicated as God brought my future husband to my work desk disguised as a friend. What followed next was another example of God's grace in my life for with Brian came a skittish, wary, red-headed, green-eyed little girl who would become my bonus daughter. Brittany was tender from the break-up of her parent's marriage; skeptical of new things entering her only-child world. The kids and I landed on her like a hurricane, and I'm sure all Brittany wanted to do was find shelter 'til the storm passed. I wouldn't let her. I wrapped her in both my arms and forced her to talk when all she wanted was for me to go away. I showed her that I had staying power. Eventually resentment gave way to head rubs and tears at sappy movies.

Today is her seventeenth birthday. She told me yesterday of her cap-and-gown pictures in June. I wanted to stick my fingers in my ears and hold my breath so I didn't have to hear those words. These past eight years have flown by, and I want to go back for the sheer pleasure of reliving that time with Brittany since I missed her teeth falling out, her first day of school, ballet recitals and baby steps. The love I feel for her is no different than if I had given her life.

We've been through a lot together, and I'd hit rewind anytime.

5/7/2010 A Balanced Scale

I believe it was Erma Bombeck who wrote that having children was like taking your heart out of your chest and watching it walk away from you. That is as good a description as Carol Burnett's one of childbirth - you take your bottom lip, stretch it over your face, the back of your head, down your back and touch your heel. Both nail each experience. Writers strive to pull the intangible feelings from a reader's soul, knead them in their brains and roll out words to relive emotions. One of the most challenging I find to describe is the love a mother has for her child.

Whenever I hear of someone else's tragedy, of course my first thought is, "That poor family. Please, Lord, guide them and heal them." My second thought, although it follows so closely that it could be a continuation of the first, is "Thank you, Lord, that didn't happen to one of my children." I realize the selfishness of that thought, but there isn't a mother out there who doesn't feel the same relief at dodging another bullet. Although we have our fair share of bumps, bruises and broken bones, tragedy has skipped our doorstep as if it's colored in lamb's blood. I fear these words I type as if fate will remember our good fortune and intervene. But it's true, and if I thought the lamb's blood worked, I'd bathe my kids in it daily.

Nothing catches my breath more than the sight of my children. They are perfect creations with such individual personalities. They're not perfect - but they are perfectly created. I don't take credit for that's all God. They walk this Earth as physical reminders of God's grace in my life. I serve a Lord who, in spite of myself, blesses me each time they fill their lungs with air.

As I approach Mother's Day, I fall to my knees in gratitude for the children God allowed me to birth and the fourth child He has permitted me to help raise. Brittany, Abby, Billy and Trent drive me to distraction, raise my voice to uncharted decibels, tire this old body to no end and break my checking account due to the amount of money it takes to color the gray. BUT, one smile from each balances the scale. Thank you, Lord, for the privilege I have in being their mother.

5/6/2010 Washed Away

I watched a video on a friend's facebook page. A winding road crosses over a bridge with a small puddle of standing water. Literally, within minutes, the water rises and eats the asphalt until the entire road is consumed by a raging river. I marvel at how quickly something so tranquil evolves into danger.

As I watch the video, I reflect on how much life is like this road. Familiar in the sense that we travel over it a thousand times a day. The asphalt seems harmless because it's part of a routine destination. As we drive, our eyes focus on what's ahead, and we don't notice the waters rising around us. Satan distracts us with busy thoughts, beautiful scenery or even squabbling kids in the backseat.

What once was routine has now turned deadly, and we never see it coming.

Scripture tells us that His word is like a lamp unto our feet. God doesn't flood the entire path with light. He illuminates enough for one step at a time because that is where He wants our focus. If our eyes remain on His light guiding each step, we notice when the water reaches our ankles and escape satan's snare before we are washed down the river.

5/4/2010 Re-molded Clay

A steeple rises against a darkening sky as clouds envelope the main house that built me. Red brick encapsulates the sanctuary where I sing on Sunday evenings following MYF. A little room sits behind the wall where Miss Pat teaches us Sunday School. Here we plan our Easter sleepover when twenty-or-so giggling girls get no sleep and pile into cars to watch a sunrise service. Angels walk upon this Earth, and one of their names is Patricia Bishop. I remain her Christy-poo.

Poor Miss Becky suffers through my pitiful attempts at piano playing. I am a hostile participant who longs to be outside in the dirt rather than sitting upright on a hard, wooden bench. At the first pound of my fingers, she knows there has been no practicing. We gather in this same room to dress for choir plays in which the Israelites battled Philistines, or we danced "Down By the Creek Bank By the Old Hollow Log." Years later we gather as women to precede friends down the aisle as bridesmaids.

I receive God's word for the first time at First United Methodist Church in Demopolis - a tattered Bible that now rests in my bedside drawer. Although my husband gives me a newer, shinier version as a gift, I still treasure this red book with its missing binder, dog-eared pages and words upon words highlighted in yellow. Favorite verses smother the inside cover along with my name scrawled in fourth-grade handwriting. Walter Albritton, a man incapable of frowning, leads me to Christ at my childhood church. Brother Albritton plants seeds in a little girl's heart that remain hidden for twenty-something years. Although I accept Christ as my Savior at this time, I have no personal relationship with Him until my thirties. Praise Him for Brother Albritton and for seeds now blossoming with a hunger for the Light.

The Great Potter takes a lump of clay years ago at the First United Methodist Church, lays His hands upon the formation and molds me into His creation. Even though we revisit the Potter's Wheel often to smooth out the chinks my poor choices create, the clay remains the same. Of all the houses in which I live, this will always be the one the built me.

5/3/2010 A Stretch of Yellow Brick

I grew up mostly in Demopolis, Alabama, a beautiful settlement at the junction of the Tombigbee/Black Warrior rivers. I can't remember my street number, but the ranch home on Olive Ave. held the majority of childhood memories. My father was from this small French settlement, and we moved a block from his parents the summer before second grade. Neighbors didn't mind you cutting through yards and a golf course sat a few blocks over with the blessed pool at the 18th hole.  While about four of those houses could fit into my home today, plenty of room existed for a young girl's dreams.

The yard backed up to woods in which I built forts out of fallen trees. I slaved under a summer sun while my brother and friends watched through a window in the air conditioned den. As soon as I left to hunt for more material, they descended upon my fort and claimed the Indians raided my hard work. Years passed before I learned the truth. Behind the trees, a dirt road bordered the property with a tin-roofed shack tucked into some pine trees. Miss Essie Burrell lived inside, a funny black woman who took pity on me during periods of too much time on my hands. I brought her gifts from my dad's clothing store, and in return, she shared her stories. Can't remember a one of 'em now, but I see her snaggle-toothed smile in my mind. That same dirt road knocked a hole in my head in which "Aunt" Martha McDaniel caught me walking home with blood pouring down my chin, took me to the hospital and stitched me up before my parents ever knew. Of course, there were no cell phones back then.

This house listened to my hopes and dreams; shared my joy at love's first taste and caught my tears as it departed. My bedroom changed from Holly Hobby to Andy Gibb and eventually Bon Jovi. The small stamp of concrete in the back set the stage for many a roller-skate performance in which admittance was only a quarter. I burned my hand on Rob Fleming's go-cart muffler, got my first kiss on the golf course and rode my bike two thousand miles over the years to Tanya Williams' house and back. Mama screamed herself hoarse for me under the streetlights.

We watched wrestling, Charlie's Angels, Love Boat and Fantasy Island on Saturday nights, and if Mom cooked Stouffers French Bread pizza, that meant date night for the grown-ups. That and the smell of nail polish. I dressed up in my mother's slips and wondered if I would ever grow boobs. I played hide and seek with the best dog in the world - Black Dog - and slept with his head in my lap when he lost his eye to a neighborhood fight. I wore a clean path to the mailbox after checking it countless times on Saturdays just waiting for a cute guy to drive down the road.

We played yard tennis ball at Rob Fleming's house and loved it when his mother Anne drove carpool because she let us say damn. "That's not really a cuss word," she told us, only we weren't brave enough to say it outside her car. I climbed the tree outside my brother's window to the roof where I wrote stories. The problem was, if I didn't like a particular passage, I wadded up the paper to toss into the chimney. Dad showed no appreciation for my literary abilities when he built a fire the next winter.

Thousands more memories reside inside this home that barely stretches past 1,000 square feet. It was the longest stretch of yellow brick on my road to the Emerald City and most certainly deserves the title of the house that built me.

5/2/2010 Revelation

Two boys, ages five and ten, load into the Chevrolet truck, trying their best to be good during Daddy's visit to Lowe's in Columbus, Ga. Mama promises them if they behave, they MIGHTstop by Toys R Us for a treat. Ten year old leans over to his brother and whispers, "Puuuuleez be good, Trent. I brought my money from home so I might can get an extra toy. Puulllleeeez." To his credit, five year old bobs his crew-cut head up and down rather than launching Billy into a headlock as normal behavior. Mom looks at Dad and winks while he wrestles a straight face as the truck eats up Alabama asphalt.

After crossing the state line with Phenix City at their backs, Billy perks up. "Hey, this looks like the way to that place where we watched the rodeo that time." A thought inches across his face, and his head volleys back and forth as if he's watching a tennis match. "Mom, did you know WWE Raw is in Columbus tonight?"

"No, I didn't know that. Why in the world would I know that?"

Billy sinks a little in his seat. "John Cena's gonna be in Columbus on May 3 with Big Show, Mark Henry and those other guys."

"Well, son. I guess we're a day early. Today's May 2." Mom lengthens the conversation as the truck draws closer to the coliseum. A few more minutes remain until the revelation. "Hey, look, there's a minor league baseball game going on. Maybe we can go when Dad gets through at Lowe's." Dad hides behind quivering lips.

Both boys are quiet as Billy fights disappointment. Oh the feeling to be so close to a hero and yet so far away.

The truck slows as Dad turns on his blinker. Billy's eyes swallow his entire face. "Mmmom?"

"Yes, honey?"

"Um, well, this is where the WWE Raw is playing today."

Trent grows two feet in his seat while looking out the window.

"It is? Well, since we're here, we might as well go."

Two young boys hoop and holler as if Christmas comes early. Mom and Dad share that sweet and rare moment of pulling off a complete surprise. "I can't believe I'm in the same parking lot as John Cena!" Billy yells to the passing crowd as Trent follows with, "Yeah, baby!" Fist pumps and chest bumps carry them across the parking lot along with at least a thousand fellow WWE fans. Although the day started with the feeling of taking one for the team, the evening surprises Mom with theatrics and drama. Good guy versus evil enters the arena every fifteen minutes peppered with acrobatics and flying leaps from corner ropes. Perhaps the best moment of all was when the toothless woman behind Mom screams, "YOU THUCK!" followed by a challenge to one of the Divas, "Yank out that guhl's weave!"

As the truck chases the sunset home, Mom smiles at her sleeping boys in the back seat. She turns to Dad. "Did you have fun?"

"I had more fun watching you have fun. I never knew you liked wrestling."

"Neither did I." Mom holds a secret close to her chest. John Cena looks good and plays to the crowd, but nobody holds a candle to Tony Atlas, Mr. Wrestling #2, Ric Flair, Andre the Giant and the others that entertained a young girl through the small television many Saturday nights ago. She keeps that revelation to herself.

5/1/2010 A Change of Habit

I am detouring off The House(s) that Built Me for one post. Today I attended a first communion celebration for my Catholic cousins. I was knee-deep cleaning out my closet when I realized the family gathering was today rather than tomorrow. Lickety split, I caught a ride with my dad and Lynne, and boy was I glad I did. I sipped my Pinot Grigio while my dad's cousin (I guess in the South that would make her my cousin twice removed?), Helen Marie, shared the funniest story of entering the convent. I hope my re-telling does it justice. As you read, remember this is a deep South, Mobile-accented, retired woman-of-the-cloth. Mother is pronounced mothah and such...

The juniors and seniors came to see us off. I sat in my airplane seat, waving to mother. I realized then I still wore my rings, and the sisters were sure to take my jewelry when we arrived. I asked the flight attendant if I could run out to mother real quick. Even though they had already pulled up the embarking gate, they allowed me to exit the plane.

Now, keep in mind, mother was vehemently opposed to my entering the convent. She had even hand-written a note to the Pope and listed all the reasons why I should remain home. So, when she saw me exit the plane, she shouted, "It's OK, Helen Marie! You have a right to change your mind! Hold your head high!" I'm sure in her heart she was thinking, "Yesssss. The girl has finally come to her senses." Imagine her surprise when I handed her my rings, kissed her on the cheek and returned to the plane.

 Years later, I was teaching in a Catholic school in Maryland. One of the sisters asked me where I entered. I told her Mobile, Alabama. She said, "I thought that was you. I was on the plane when you left to see your mother. We all had bets on whether you would get back on the plane or not."

Now, stories like these may only be funny to those telling and to the family members listening. But they serve to remind us all to never miss a chance to listen. These memories are our heritage, and the snapshots in our minds are to be preserved. Ask another generation a question, and then settle in to hear the answer.

4/30/2010 The House(s) that Built Me

Country singer Miranda Lambert sings a song titled "The House that Built Me." The haunting words describe a woman returning to her childhood home in the hopes that touching the cornerstone will fix her broken parts. Every time I hear it, I think about the houses that built me. In the next few days, I'd like to share a few with you.

A white house, several stories (I think) high, sits behind dogwood trees in Summerville, Ga. Holes dot the front yard from the water hose I use to find buried treasure. A man-made crawdad pond rests beneath the pine-tree shade, and oak roots jut from the ground like an old man's veins. A concrete walk with rails lays across her backyard, installed for my late grandmother, Lillian Lowry. Grandmother endures her stroke therapy here. Down the walk, a swimming pool waits for me, my brother and my cousins Kim, Karen and Reed. I say KimKaren as if it is one name unless I sing "Karoni Bologna, fee fi maloney...." We walk single-file behind Bea, a woman my grandmother took in at 14 years old, and who remains with us until her death. She carries a hoe to chop off the heads of garden snakes while a cigarette dangles from her mouth. Bea laughs with her lips pursed, a high-pitched giggle sound I miss as much as her fried pies. A scar that looks like melted cheese disturbs the smoothness of her arm's black skin.

I sit at a small card table by the driveway as the weeping willow tickles my ear when the wind blows. Scabby knees bounce under a checkered plastic cloth as I wait for the bell down the street to release teenagers from the high school's purview. A glass pitcher of lemonade sweats beside stacks of paper cups - the kind you get in Vacation Bible School - while pollen floats around me. In front of the aluminum chair, feet with too much energy pound the shoebox that holds a few quarters for the rare student needing change from a dollar. An hour later, I count my fortune.

When I long for simpler days, my mind wanders to the white house on a street I can no longer name. Pop and Grandmother's house now resides on old film reels in my closet and photos in the attic. But the memories lie in the recesses of my mind, forming the woman I am today. This is one of the houses that built me.