Hope for the New Year

 When I was an awkward teenager, I found great solace in being a part of our school's Glee Club. I was an alto, and likely a poor one, but the fellowship I felt in blending my single voice with others to create a beautiful sound was magical. 

                                            

Awkward Alto at 15

 

Our choir director, E. Carl Witt, aka Mr. Witt, took our musical offerings seriously. He brought talent, patience, and true enjoyment to a group of first time singers. How he impacted the lives of so many students is a topic for another day, but suffice it to say, his positive influence and teachings flourished in our rehearsals and performances. 

School Choir with Mr. Witt, far left

Our Christmas concert was always highly anticipated.  Mr. Witt was above the challenge of well worn Christmas carols. Instead he stretched our ability and knowledge by introducing such beautiful pieces as Hark to the Bells, Lullay Lullay, and Here We Come a Caroling. Accomanpied by my dear friend, Jill Glover (Upchurch), we sang our hearts out trying to perfect each carol.We worked on each part in turn then pieced them together with astonished pride. 

The song that most warmed my heart with the wonder of season was, and is, Lo, How a Rose E'er Blooming. It's beautiful lyrics tell the story of the sacred birth through beautiful language and imagry. The almost mournful melody with it's unexpected pauses bring the words to vivid life. Originally published in German in 1599, it has stood the test of time. Robinson Myer of The Atlantic wrote "This is a hymn about beholding and listening. It's about watching revelation flourish." 

1. Lo, how a Rose e’er blooming
   From tender stem hath sprung!
   Of Jesse’s lineage coming,
   As men of old have sung.
   It came, a flow’ret bright,
   Amid the cold of winter,
   When half spent was the night.
2. Isaiah ’twas foretold it,
   The Rose I have in mind;
   With Mary we behold it,
   The virgin mother kind.
   To show God’s love aright,
   She bore to men a Savior,
   When half spent was the night.
3. This Flow’r, whose fragrance tender
   With sweetness fills the air,
   Dispels with glorious splendor
   The darkness everywhere.
   True man, yet very God,
   From sin and death He saves us,
   And lightens every load.

The image of a rose blooming in the midst of winter, which chases away the darkness with a "glorious splendor" is an image that is as relevant now as it was in 1599,  As we wrestle with this Terminator of a corona virus, worry over national politics, and despair over climate change we need to be reminded of the birth of the Christ child, again, and again, and again. 

While walking this week, I  passed the home of my neighborhood friend Diane Hill. She carefully tends her beautiful yard and it is not uncommon for me to see her carefully caring for her charges. On this day we looked in wonder at the Clementis entwined around her mailbox post. The vine was dried and brown, a dead thing. But in the midst of it's decay sprang the most glorious lavender flowers, as healthy and fresh as if it were spring. We marveled at them and Diane commented that she usually sees blooms only once a year. It is a surprise, beautiful bright blooms nestled in brown and crumbling leaves. An explosion of color and hope in a sepia landscape. 

And isn't honoring the birth of Christ the same? Is he not  the one who "Dispels with glorious splendor the darkness everywhere?" 

May the Rose bring you peace, comfort, and above all, hope in 2022 and beyond. 

The wilderness and the wasteland shall be glad for them, And the desert shall rejoice and blossom as the rose... Isaiah 35:1

If you'd like a listen, here's a lovely (and amazing) version of the carol. Enjoy!  

Happy Birthday, Baby Boy!

So, yes, it was my second pregnancy, and no, I didn't know a lick about having a baby. 

During my first pregnancy, in the seventh month, our workaday life turned upside down at a visit with the obsterician when I was told, in no uncertain terms, "Go home, get in bed, lay on your left side and don't get up, unless it's for the bathroom, a daily shower, or a doctor's appointment." I did as I was told, and our firstborn was delivered by C-section, at eight months, because "it was safer on the outside, than on the inside." We were thrilled and grateful to bring home a son, even if  at 4 lbs  11 oz, he looked very small, indeed. 

Life has a funny way of erasing challenging pregnancy memories and when we looked at our precious one and a half year old, we took a deep breath and tried for another. And except for a few bumps along the way, this pregnancy went, mostly, according to plan. 

Except, I had little knowledge of what a typical plan was. 

We attended childbirth classes, absolutely clueless, and with a baby in a punkin' seat. We got a fair bit of side eye. 

And then a surprise at 8 months. It was a Sunday morning, around 7 am and I popped up as quickly as woman  the size of a manatee can pop up. Firt stop, bathroom, because  I felt like a manatee with a bladder the size of a pea. I settled in for a quick pee, which I realized was taking an inorinately long time. I peed, and peed, and peed and seeminly with no effort! And then it the question slowly formed - had my water broken? I had no idea. 

The optimum solution seemed clear to me. It was early morning. And I was only 8 months along. Nat, our firstborn, was still asleep. I wasn't even sure what was going on, so I would drive myself to the hospital, while Earle stayed home with Nat. En route, I realized, yes, I really did need to go to the hospital. But there was no rush, labor takes a while, right? Earle called my parents and told them they had time to go to church before they headed to Durham. "No rush," we both said.

I was fine. The ER staff was less so. "Where is the baby's father?" "Who drove you?" I did a fair amount of explaining as I was rushed up to the Labor Ward. I was quickly evaulated and it was decided, for a variety of reasons, that I was to have a pitocin drip. This would speed up labor. Okay. No problem. Called hub, who called parents. Arrival would still be after lunch. So I hung out by myself. No worries, I had a book. And then, things began to speed up.  Our wonderful next door  neighbors welcomed Nat so Earle could join me sooner rather than later. 

And a good thing. The pitocin was cranking up the labor pains so I asked for an epidural. (OF COURSE I DID. MAMA DIDN'T RAISE NO FOOL.) The anesthesiologist just about got it going when some kind of emergency took precedent over me (IMAGINE!)  and I was left with only partial pain relief on one side. But okay, I can breath through labor. Millions and millions of women do it every day! 

But on TV, the push stage lasts many 3 pushes at most. NOBODY TOLD ME I'D BE PUSHING FOR AN HOUR. I heard other women yelling and screaming in other rooms and I was Pretty. Darn. Uncomfortable. I was holding Earle's hand which was beginning to look like a crushed tomato.  I needed...SOMETHING TO HELP WITH THE PAIN. So I causually asked the nurse between contractions: 

"Would it be okay if I scream on the next push?" 

She was nonplussed. 

"Sure, go ahead." 

So I screamed. I gave it the old college try. I gritted my teeth and grunted and groaned. I let out the mother of all screams. A  real Rebel Yell. But...

It did no good. I looked at the labor nurse. "It didn't help." 

She arched an eyebrow. "I didn't think it would." 

But she reassured tha us that  I was getting close. By now it was around 4 pm. I'd only been in labor proper since about 9 am. My hair was soaked from effort and I was ready to meet this baby. The obsterician and the resident were in deep discussion at my nether regions. She was expaining to the resident that she was going to demonostrate how to do an episiotomy on me. 

I leaned back to the labor nurse." I really need to push again, can I push?"  

"Go ahead," she responded, expecting very little as I'd been pushing for some time. Maybe, I wondered, the episiotomy would help me push that baby out like a cork out of a champaigne bottle. 

Turns out I didn't need the episotomy after all. The last push did it and I heard the doc say "Never mind about the episiotomy." to the resident. She moved into catcher stance and she said quickly afterwards, "Look at those cheeks." And she wasn't talking about mine. 

Zack came busting into the world on his on terms. One more push and he was out and on my chest, covered in white, pasty vernix. One eye cracking open to look up at me. And he seemed enormous. In my mind I was prepared for a baby, like Nat, small because he, too, was a month early. But Zack looked like a linebacker, weighing in at whopping 8 lbs, 5 oz. And yes, blessed with cheeks that quickly earned him the moniker "Chairman of the Board" from Earle's dad. 

And that's still Zack today. Busting into the world on his own terms.  Always a bit ahead of the curve, including  grad school in California, first job in Japan. (Was his love of Japan influenced by the fiirst face he saw? His Japanese OB?)  And today, on his birthday, in Utah, on a hiking trip, still discovering new worlds. In many ways, he still feels larger than life. He brings joy, humor, love, compassion, and smarts to the table and we couldn't be prouder or love him more. 

Yep, He's a grown ass man. But he'll always be my baby boy. 

The Sign

 My sister went to school to become an RN when I was 9. I was in awe of her bravery, knowledge, and ability to care for the sickest of people. I learned to see all caregiving/nursing/doctoring skills as in her forte and not mine. 

As my parents aged, my sister stepped in to help when needed, taking them to doctor’s appointments and for minor procedures. She often said to me “You couldn’t handle this” or “You’d never be able to handle that” and it became a refrain that took up residence in my head. It confirmed my belief that I really couldn’t handle medical things. That she was strong. And I was weak. 

On Thanksgiving Day in 2005, my beloved Dad had a stroke while napping after lunch. My mom, disbelieving and afraid, talked with her neighbor (and dear friend) Laura, who in turn called my sister’s son, Shawn. He arrived and lifted Dad from his recliner and carried him to his vehicle and on to the local hospital. I will never forget his call from the ER. 

After hugs from family, I headed to hospital nearest my hometown. After a brief period of awareness, Dad sank into unconsciousness. Ultimately my sister, mom, and I set up a vigil in his room. It soon became clear he could not recover and as the days ticked by, we knew the inevitable awaited. 

On Friday afternoon, which turned out to be his last day on earth, Dad had a visit from one of his very dearest friends, Joseph Long. Joseph had been a constant throughout my entire life. He and Dad shared so much: love of God, love of family, love of the land. On that afternoon, my sister had briefly left the hospital to play piano for a wedding at her church. My mom and I were alone with Dad and his quiet yet labored breaths when Joseph arrived. 

Joseph Long and me, circa 2019

Joseph’s presence has always flooded me with affection and love. That day, he visited a few minutes. then addressed me specifically. He reached his hand deep in his pocket and pulled out a gleaming white piece of quartz. “I brought you a little something,” he said as his eyes twinkled. “It’s not an arrowhead, it’s a spearpoint. Spearpoints are much older than arrowheads. This one is a Halifax spearpoint, I found it and I wanted you to have it.” 

The Spearpoint

Joseph had long been an arrowhead hunter, searching for and amassing a beautiful collection, from his farm, our county, and nearby areas. I understood what a rare and precious gift this was. I was filled with gratitude and awe. The idea of holding such an ancient thing was overwhelming. 

Joseph said his goodbyes and I was left holding that precious piece of stone. I sat and turned it this way and that, observing the way it was carefully crafted and it’s sharpened point.   And it came to me then, an image of a ancient hunter, the one who had created and used this spearpoint to provide for his family, his tribe. The symbolism took my breath away and filled the empty bits of me. It felt like a sign, that I, too, had the strength within me to care for my family, too. 

When my sister returned, my Dad was in his final minutes, a few breaths followed by a long pause, a few more breaths followed by another long pause. At the very moment my dad’s breathing completely stopped, the morphine drip alarm suddenly blared. My sister, wailed in her grief. My Mom looked sad but accepting. And me? 

I took a deep breath, uttered a silent prayer – a plea for God’s presence - and got to work. I turned off the alarm, I alerted the nursing staff. I contacted the funeral home. And I continued to step my family though the days to come. And God was with me to lift and support me every step of the way. I wasn't weak. I wasn't less than. I was strong for my family.

Joseph’s generous gesture was one of kindness; one that held a deep and reassuring message of strength that continues to sustain me. A few months after Dad’s death, I sought out a goldsmith, Jenny Garret McLaurin in Pittsboro, NC. She expertly fashioned a necklace out of the spearpoint and added a small blue topaz from a birthstone ring that Dad had once tucked in my Christmas stocking. She created a geometrical design around the stone that honored my dad’s penchant for math and science.  She took that precious moment at my dad’s bedside and made a beautiful piece of wearable art.

That necklace is my totem. It has seen me though the last 16 years, 10 of which have been caring for my now 95 year old mom. When I need courage, or just to feel close to Dad,  it takes me back to that sacred moment of my father’s death and it’s call to the strength within me. It rightly aligns that strength with God’s presence. 

God is like that. When we think we cannot see the next step, He will help us find a way. He will metaphorically straighten our backbones and help us achieve things we never thought possible. He will remind us of His love and His power. He will strengthen us.  And He will lift us, again and again. 

God is our refuge and strength,

    an ever-present help in trouble.

Therefore we will not fear, though the earth give way

    and the mountains fall into the heart of the sea,

 Though its waters roar and foam

    and the mountains quake with their surging.

There is a river whose streams make glad the city of God,

    the holy place where the Most High dwells.

 God is within her, she will not fall;

    God will help her at break of day.

Nations are in uproar, kingdoms fall;

    he lifts his voice, the earth melts.

The LORD Almighty is with us;

    the God of Jacob is our fortress.

Come and see what the LORD has done,

    the desolations he has brought on the earth.

 He makes wars cease

    to the ends of the earth.

He breaks the bow and shatters the spear;

    he burns the shields with fire.

 He says, “Be still, and know that I am God;

    I will be exalted among the nations,

    I will be exalted in the earth.”

The LORD Almighty is with us;

    the God of Jacob is our fortress.

-Psalm 46 (NIV)

Special thank you to John David Jewelers at 4015 Univeristy Drive for restoring my necklace’s shine! 

Hidden Things

 

Dad 

Since Father's Day, I have had my dad, Thomas Jackson Draper, aka "Jack" on my mind. I was an unabashed "Daddy's Girl" and  loved spending time with him anywhere and for any reason. Many is the time I crawled up in his Chevy pickup and rode with him  - to the farm, to the gin, to  the shop - everywhere. The cab of his truck was peppered with tools, and a distinct oily smell. It was heaven. 

By training, Dad was an NCSU mechanicall engineer. Lifewise, he ultimately chose to be a farmer. He loved being his own boss and tending to my mom's fields of corn, cotton, soybeans, and peanuts. He was a wicked mechanic and had a true aptitude for fixing anything with a motor. He was happiest when he was elbow deep a motor. I credit my mini-bike to his desire to built one himself! 

His hands were quick and sure and remembering him put me in mind of a the strange little bump  he had on the side of his index finger. As a very young girl I can remember holding his hand and examining it closely. (He probably allowed me this to keep me quiet in church.) The knot was small and hard and jutted out oddly. It didn't hurt my Dad and he didn't often give it a thought. 

In his later years (which I realize means when he was about the age I am now) the knot got bigger - it remained hard, but not discolored like other skin abberations. Finally, at the urging of my RN sister, he went it to his family doctor to have it removed. 

After the mystery knot's removal, and it's accompanying stitch Dad had quite a tale to tell. The doctor was as surprised as he was when an incision into my dad's finger revealed to the astonishment of all - - a tooth! Indeed, the small knot was a specific type of tooth - that of a baracuda! 

Dad reached into his memories and dusted off a story from his teenaged years. While visiting family in Florida he went fishing - caught a barracuda - and received a bloody bite for his trouble. His folks took him to the local doc, who cleaned off the wound and stitched it up. The working, and likely theory, is that a tooth broke off deeply in the wound. It took years, but it finally worked its way out. 

It occured to me that sin can be just like that tooth. Buried deep inside where we can go about our day to day business, completely ignoring it. Some sins are visible - overeating, overdrinking, overspending, but many, many are hidden away: pride, hatred, resentment, selfishness, greed, cruelty, classism to name a few. Only by taking a moment to actually identify and acknowledge these "invisible sins" can we begin to be free of them. 

And this year - of all years - I invite you to call into the light the little sin known as racism. Because it is embedded deeply in the American psyche and desperately needs to be called into the light. 

I was one of those people - those people who said "I don't see color!" and with one santimonious comment denied the deep roots of racism that are as much a part of life in the South as the sandy soil that raised me. I was blessed to have parents who did have black friends, and was raised to extend every kindness and courtesy to people both black and white. But despite how enlightened I thought I was,  I completely ignored the fact that systemic racism exists. Which - and here all caps are necessarry - MEANS NOT THAT I HAD A LEG  UP SO MUCH AS I WAS NOT BESET WITH BARRIERS THAT KEPT ME FROM SUCCEEEDING.  

The death of George Floyd made a giant impact on our country and I will tell you it made a giant impact on my heart. Because I saw, and you saw, a white police officer kill a black man in front of our very eyes. This absolute horror drove me into books, into studies in my church, community, and with friends. It drove me to listen to my black friends (with my own mouth closed) to hear how race has affected their lives and the lives of their forebears. How things I have never even considered affect their lives daily. 

Not only have I reached for religous books (most noteably our church study The Cross and the Lynching Tree by James H. Cone) and contemporary titles (How to Be Antiracist by Ibram X. Kendi and White Fragility:Why It's So Hard for White People to Talk About Racism by Robin DiAngelo) but I am now just beginning to dig into different historical tones. My complete lack of knowledge of so many of the struggles of Black Americans has left me ashamed and astonished. I have just started reading Wilmington's Lie: The Murderous Coup of 1898 and the Rise of White Supremecy by David Zucchino, This book won the Pulitzer Prize and rightly so. The fact that I heard so much about the Nat Turner Insurrection but never ONE WORD about Wilmington, is a telling observation of what it means to grow up white in the South. 

Yes, this is painful to admit, especially in a public forum. But as Maya Angelou so wisely said "Do the best you can until you know better. Then when you know better, do better." I'm taking that quote seriously and inviting you to inventory your preconceptions and biases honestly, to read and most importantly listen.  Work at incising the racism that hides deep inside and dedicate yourself to making this a country where equality is a reality.   

Showing Up

Friday I had THAT procedure. You know the one. You have it at 50 and if you are lucky, you will have it again in 10 years. It's the experience that reminds you of how utterly human you are, simply a skin sack fully stuffed with bits and bobs surrounded by various types of ooze and ick. The one that makes you feel like you have been turned inside out. 

10 years ago, I had this procedure at nearby Duke University Hospital by a physician, who while perfectly capable, looked to have just stepped off the little league pitcher's mound. I anticipated the same this year.  I was indeed scheduled with the same physician, but he now worked out of Briarcreek 20 minutes away. Okay, not that much further, I told myself. But surprise! I was contacted mere days before to learn that my guy's patients had been moved to Duke Raleigh, a 30 minute drive away. This caused some consternation as there is a fine bit of scheduling and work to get in on time and ready. But okay.

Duke Raleigh

So the glorious prep day came and I followed my instructions with the precision of a scientist attempting to perfect cold fusion. I measured and timed and double and triple checked my directives. Sleep became only a memory. 2:30 AM arrived the day of my ordeal and I was awakened from a brief snooze by the harsh ring of an alarm to further prep. We left the house at 5:45 am, and headed to I-40 in the dark. I was hungry, I was cross, I was exhausted, I was anxious, I was sleep-deprived, and for the love of all that is Holy, I was wearing one of my mother's Depends. I was not happy. 

We arrived at the hospital, husband dropping me at the door when I refused to walk in from the parking deck. I lurched inside and was beckoned over to the intake desk. And then an amazing thing happened. The woman working showed up. 

And I don't mean she got to work on time. I mean at 6:15 on a Friday morning, she brought her A game. She was welcoming, efficient, helpful and clear. I was a bit astonished. After a very brief wait and reunion with hub, transport arrived and I was walked back through the maze of procedure rooms and curtained areas and introduced me to my pre-op nurse. And you know what? She showed up too. 100 percent focused on me, my comfort, my needs. "Your chart says you're a tough stick, let me get something to warm the skin. We'll try this vein here, it's not typical but I want to get it on one try." And you know what? She did. 

Then the revovling door of attendants showed up like clockwork, each thrusting aside the preop cubicle curtain and stepping into my space. The anesthesologist, the specialist (who, declared that yes, he had actually aged 10 years but that I couldn't see the gray in his hair.) And each of these people, including my GI guy, who completely ignored the clattering phone in his pocket, was laser focused on me.

Before I knew it, the nurse anestitist showed up and wheeled me to the procedure room, where I was met by two other nurses that descended on me in the very best of ways. introducing themselves, asking if the gentle music in the background was a bother, settling me into place and adding an oxygen canula. They chatted, reassured, and explained in warm exchanges.  One could sense my spiraling anxiety and placed her warm hands on my shoulder and back, offering physical comfort as if it was her second nature. I felt protected, reassured, and safe. I  heard my specialist come in and on the stroke of 8, when I was scheduled. The nurse anestitist explained she was starting my meds. And then all was darkness.

I came to in the post op area, and felt 100 percent like myself. The GI guy whisked in and explained my results and made a date for 10 years. Again, the post-op nurse was thorough and kind and by 8:50 am I was dressed, in a wheelchair and waiting for transport to roll me out the front door to go home. Elated with my good results, I clamored in the car and dozed as we drove the miles  back home. 

But it's an odd thing. That elation stayed with me. Over the weekend, I kept going back to the experience  searching for what made me feel so good about it. Of course the results were a major relief so that was a big part of it but there was more and in the wee hours of this morning I found my answer.

Simply this: everyone showed up. 

I'm a 61 year old woman and I know that nurses, doctors, administrators, technicians don't always show up. In fact, their jobs are hard and I don't really expect it. I've seen cranky nurses, preoccupied MDs, bored staff. But not Friday. Every single individual I interacted with brought their very best selves to me. Their care and interaction provided a web of assurance that buoyed me through that procedure and beyond. 

And you know what?

They didn't care if I was black or white or other. (And they were all races and ethnicities.) 

They didn't care if I was male or female. (And there were some of each.)

They didn't care if I was gay or straight. 

They didn't care if I was a democrat or republican. 

Heck, they didn't even care if I was a Tarheel. (Or at least I hope not!) 

They set aside themselves for my brief time at Duke Raleigh and they made it about me. 

And there is a powerful lesson there, and, in fact, there is a powerful directive. And it is this: SET YOURSELVES ASIDE AND SHOW UP FOR EACH OTHER. 

It's hard. We Americans are such a ME socieity, made even more so in recent years. We  see everyone though the  cracked glasses of our own prejudice and small-mindedness. We post ALL LIVES MATTER, WHEN IS STRAIGHT PRIDE DAY? IMMIGRANTS ARE TAKING AMERICAN JOBS! 

Instead, what if we consider each other instead of ourselves? If we try to understand what systemic racism is instead of denying it? Try to imagine growing up closeted and denied by our own familes and churches? Think of a family so desperate to be Americans that they are willing to pay coyotes all that they have on the mere chance of crossing the border. 

Instead of expecting the world to conform to OUR vision, what if we let each person rise and grow in their own way and in their own time and we simply show up with our best selves?  What if we extend our hand to other people who are different from ourselves. If we listen, learn, and help?

It's really what Jesus meant when he said "Thou shalt love their neighbor as thyself." He didn't add ANY  qualifiers  He didn't say "love people who look like you, who vote like you, who love like you."

 It is the foundation of our faith. The judging isn't ours to do. Our call is clear. To listen to others, to lift others, to affirm others, to help others.  To set ourselves aside and  SHOW UP. 

Which is really another way to say our call is to love. 

To love.

To love. 

And then love some more. 

 

Dear friends, let us love one another, for love comes from God. Everyone who loves has been born of God and knows God.  Whoever does not love does not know God, because God is love.  This is how God showed his love among us: He sent his one and only Son into the world that we might live through him.  This is love: not that we loved God, but that he loved us and sent his Son as an atoning sacrifice for our sins.  Dear friends, since God so loved us, we also ought to love one another.  No one has ever seen God; but if we love one another, God lives in us and his love is made complete in us.    - 1 John 4:7-12 (NIV)

 

Life Lessons from a Harris Teeter Sheet Cake

 My friend, Nancy, is an amazing person and an amazing mom of two spectacular daughters. They are both kind, smart, beautiful, and accomplished. I, myself, came out the other end of parenting two boys with a head full of gray hair, deep wrinkles, and a twitch in one eye. Nancy has come through parenting her girls (now young women) with deep friendships, mutual respect, and real joy. I am in awe. 

Carly, Nancy, and Ashley

This spring, Nancy's younger daughter, Ashley, graduated from Vanderbilt with a double major in political science and neuroscience. She swung through Chapel Hill for a night or two before continuing on to her first post-graduation job in Charleston. Nancy quickly put together a family celebration and her dear hub, Dave, suggested  a cake. In a flash of inspiration, Nancy ran by HT, picked up a prepped sheet cake and asked to have #ADULTING written on it in icing. 

When the cake was ready, the bakery attendant tenatively placed it in front of Nancy seeking her approval. "Does it look okay?" 

Nancy peered at the cake, smiled, and met the attendant's eye. She graciously replied "It looks PERFECT!" 

And it WAS perfect! 

There, written in frosting, was a timely and wise life lesson for a newly minted college grad.

We are surrounded by perfection. Movies, TV, and magazines show us men and women tanned, slim, and coifed to perfection. Facebook and Insta boast breathtaking homes, high achieving  families, exotic vacations. Its easy to think that if our lives aren't equally perfect, we've somehow failed. We  look at our own lives with disappointment and regret.

I see you using photo filters to  soften wrinkles and smooth wayward hair. 

I see you posing at an angle to minimize your body and suck in your tummy while someone says "cheese."

I see you  stressing  out over dirty dishes and sagging couches and overstuffed closets.

I see you despairing over junker cars and older mobile phones and sneakers from Walmart. 

I see you fretting when your kids don't make the team, or the A honor roll. 

I see you  stepping on the scale a 2nd or 3rd time to make sure it's accurate. 

I see you wrestling with anxiety that sits daily on your chest like an unwelcome elephant. 

I see you squinting at your pay stub and feeling the weight of your credit card debt.

I see you living with your parents post-graduation because you can't find a job in some kind of unplanned gap year.

I see you huffing and puffing on a walk while a sleek runner passes you with the grace of a gazelle.

I see  you looking in the mirror and thinking you're not enough. 

But there's a secret to  being a happy, well-adjusted adult. 

It's knowing  that  

You

Are

Enough. 

And that your messy, chaotic life is PERFECTLY imperfect.

 Because the things that really matter, a kind heart, grace, humor, joy, compassion and love can't be seen, or measured, or photographed, or posted. Those beautiful etherial things are woven into who we are by a loving God who never asks for perfection. 

The paths that unfold before us sometimes  lead us far away from the future we had mapped out. Yet the real secret to ADULTING is to roll with our imperfections, to appreciate where we are, even when we step off the path we imagined for ourselves. Adulting is to see our lives from the 30,000 foot view and to  look for the good in our situation whatever and whereever that might be. 

Because you know what? 

 Your life, even with its misteps and mishaps, is like the cake with the misspelled hashtag. It is beautifully sweet and absolutely perfect. And when you slow down, and take the time to savor each bite, it gets even better. 

Congratulations, Ashley! 

When a Hyacinth is a Hyacinth

 Both my parents were children during the Great Depression. They learned their lessons early - to use what one had, patch what could be saved, and be extremely careful with money. Dad was a handyman's handyman; it seemed he could repair everything from a toaster to a tractor. Mom did her part by SAVING. EVERYTHING. Milk cartons, twist ties, magazines, aluminum pie plates, toilet paper rolls. Though we rarely needed any of those things, she was a hero come VBS craft time! 

Yet, she did allow herself occasional treats. A book, or a dress. Maybe even a new hat. And we were allowed these treats on occasion as well, a toy, bubble stuff, orangeade from Seaboard's drug store. Mom called  these treats "hyacinths." 

Dad's love of poetry ran deep and strong and he often astonished me by repeating a lengthy poem in it's entirety. Mom had fewer poems by heart most notably The Cremation of Sam McGee. But the one she recited most often was a short one attributed to a Persian poet Sadi. 

                                 

If of they mortal goods thou art bereft,

And from thy slender store two loaves alone to thee are left,

Sell one, and with the dole

Buy hyacinths to feed thy soul.         

My mom, my sister, and I have lived our lives truly appreciating the little extras.  When one of us received a little something new just for us, she'd say "Well, you needed a little hyacinth." 

So yesterday, when the Instacart delivery arrived, I presented Mom with a springtime "hyacinth." Because she needed it.

                   

Never a Bad Hair Day

This morning's endeavors

Mary Frances has always been a proper Southern Belle. For as far back as I can remember she got her hair "done" every week. She'd grab her Reader's Digest (for time spent under the dryer) and her wallet and sashay down to Mattie's beauty parlor - a establishment  in the heart of downtown Seaboard. (That's a bit hoity-toity. Mattie's was a matter of yards from our front yard and the entire "downtown strip" accounted for about 1/2 a block. Nonetheless.) 

When I would pop by for one excuse or another, a clumsy tween in a true women's inner sanctum. I'd be greeted by the unmistakable aroma of perm solution and hairspray and the constant hum of over-the-head hair dryers and the dripping spritz of the shampoo bowl. In a real sense, the beauty parlor provided a sanctuary where the 60's and then the 70's woman could literally let her hair down. The laughter, the gossip, and the pleasure of a new "do" was palpable. 

When Mattie's closed  Mom sought and found other friends to help with her hair. For a time it was Marcia, out by Ramsey's Crossroads and their friendship grew deep and rich. Then, another blessing came her way when her beloved neighbor, Laura, gave her a refresh every Friday. Faced with having to shampoo her own hair (horrors) she turned to my Dad who graciously and lovingly gave her a shampoo in the kitchen sink, just in time for Laura's arrival.  Laura had her style down to a science, one which my nephew Shawn described as two "hairballs" but I think it was more "stylish gentlewoman of a certain age." 

Laura, Mom, and great grandchildren Caleb and Molly

Mom, Kaylee and Molly

Nephew Shawn with Mom and her "hair balls"

But things continue to change. And Mom became a Durham girl in her late 80's. She resisted going to my "guy" (dear friend Earl- not to be confused with my husband Earle ) because she was so happy with Laura's handiwork. But at last she relented and we began our regular appointments together, including her occasional perms. It became a regular shared pleasure, generally finished off with chocolate chip cookies from Hardee's.  I'd marvel at Earl's patience as he listened attentively to the same stories she told him delightedly every week. He treated her with such care and patience and she left with such pride in her look. 

Earl and the "Barbara Bush"

Once her forays to the salon became too difficult for her, Earl would drop by out of kindness and restore her hair to a semblance of order. Prior  to Earl's arrival, I'd call up my girlfriend, Geri, and she and I would have a meeting of the "Rub-a-Dub Club" at which she and I would wrestle Mom into the tub for a bath and shampoo and have her sitting pretty for his arrival. When he left, she'd once again be beaming with pride!

The Rub-a-Dub Club

But again disruption happened. And here we sit. At home. For months. Mom is medically fragile so her world shrunk even more than most. So out of necessity, I became shampoo girl. And hair stylist. Let's just say it's a blessing Mom can't write a YELP review. Sadly, her current cut looks a bit like I mangled a bowl-over-the-head look. But we persevere. We laugh. This morning Mom reminded me she had to remove her glasses. I watched, amusedly, as she reached for them and found nothing but air. I'd removed them before I wheeled her into the bathroom. She laughed in delight and so did I. Once again, her hair is refreshed and she sighs with the simple pleasure of a clean scalp. 

Life changes. We change. One of my jobs as caregiver is to bear witness to the changes old age brings to my mother. At times it is excruciatingly difficult to see her lose a capability - especially when she slowly gave up reading. But other times, I am astonished by her capability to accept change. It's something she has always taught - acceptance. It keeps her heart light and her focus on God. She has never complained about her proximity to the end of her life or expressed fear of any sort. She lives in the moment and  graciously accepts where she is - in all regards. 

That is perhaps  her biggest Christian witnesses. That we trust trust God and accept the challenges that life sends our way. She's learned it the hard way, losing her brother in WWII, then having to move home to care for her grieving parents from a teaching job she loved.  But yet she pulled it off, with grace and love - that same grace and love with which she faces her twilight years- and the grace and love with which she faces a really bad haircut. 

Today's "after" picture. Not much in the way of style, but clean as a whistle. 

Do not be anxious about anything, but in every situation, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus. Philippians 4:6-7

Life Stages in 3 Rings

I was a senior at UNC when Earle proposed. He teasingly got down on one knee and presented me with a lovely box containng a stunning solitare. It had been his mother's and she had given it to him to give to me. If made me feel welcome and a part of the family. I wore it with pride and great hope for the future.

A few years and two sons later and I am frequently wrist deep in mud, playdough, sand, and worse. I find myself at a jeweler's who offers to clean it for me. Upon returning it, he remarks, "It was a really valuable diamond. Too bad you chipped it." I peered closely and sure enough there was a visible chip on one side. My gut clenched. When I admitted my transgression to my mother-in-law it clenched even tighter. She was disappointed, and I, even more so. I ultimately slipped the ring off in fear of doing more damage. 

 And then came our fifteen wedding addiversary. I had been wearing a plain white gold band for years, a little jealous of friends who showed off their new anniversary bands, or other such sentimental pieces given from husband to wife. To rectify the situation, Earle took me to Jewelsmith and together with a jeweler we designed a sturdy ring with a lovely diamond, encased in a bezel to protect the stone. I loved the final product and wore it with pride for many years. A single glance at it made me feel special. It was a one-of-a-kind ring born of our union.I was finally coming into my own and this ring echoed my new sense of self.

But life happens. And late in 2019 the band broke. I was so busy with the whirlwind of Christmas and caregiving for my mom that I slipped it off and went back to my original plain band. After so many years my finger felt bare again.

 On Christmas in 2019 my son and his wife gave me a delightful ring stamped with tiny mushrooms. I loved it! It joined other silver rings in a small bowl from which I selected a ring to wear daily. But soon, I wasn't dressing to go out of the house. Including no visit to get my ring repaired. Finally, in the summer, in an attempt to reclaim a bit of normal, I made an effort to wear an occasional piece of jewelry. I was drawn to the mushroom ring. It was a bit snug on my right hand, but fit beautifully on my left. And so I began to wear it, paired with my wedding band.

My first ring told the world I was to be married. My second ring told me I was valuable and unique. But this ring, in the time of a global pandemic tells me even more. Nat had Lilly had had it inscribed inside with the words EVEN IN THE DARK, GOOD THINGS GROW. This ring tells me joy, peace, and happiness can be found even when life seems devoid of light. It urges me to name those good things, cherish those good things, express gratitude for those good things and hope for more good things. This ring tells me to look for the good, to expect the good. And to grow, despite the conditions.

I have had others admit to me, in an almost an embarrassed way, that they have prospered during this time. They have stayed home, they have cooked in, they have spent more times with the ones they love, treasured the quiet, and walked closer with God. They have read more, created more, written letters, taken photos and done many things they have never had the time to do. And while we all ache for those lost, including my own precious first cousin, Marcia, we have learned to take this pandemic, one day, one hour, one minute at a time while we wait for a vaccine, for the return of spring, for a healed nation, and for that far off day when we can hug one another again.

 But for now, we stay still and quiet, full of peace and hope, and like a mushroom flourishing in the dark, we wait.