Good Ol' Days with Granny and Papaw

A small tribute to my paternal grandparents, who celebrated their 50th Wedding Anniversary in August. 

***

Someday, when my children ask me to tell them about the good old days, I will smile and attempt to tell them of summers spent with Papaw and Granny.

I will inadequately describe just how itchy, hot, and sticky it is to work your way down rows of green beans, corn and peas. They will not be able to comprehend how long it takes to shuck, shell or snap through a season’s crop. Pity the poor things; they will probably never be able to truly appreciate the resulting satisfaction of a meal of homegrown vegetables or the taste of grape juice squeezed fresh from the vine.

I will fondly recall evenings spent chasing ‘lightning bugs’ with Granny and the unexpected thrill of catching baby bunnies. Granny was always patient and feigned excitement, no matter the size and shape of the creatures we dragged in. She would help us fix up a box for a temporary home and then gently convince us to release the sad, traumatized things at day’s end.

Unlike kids these days, we poor Chambers grandchildren only got to indulge ourselves properly in cable television on trips to Granny and Papaw’s. Whether it was rising unusually early to catch the morning cartoons or enjoying a bowl of ice cream with Papaw for a late-night western, we must have worn holes into the tan spinning armchair that saved our spot in front of the old Zenith television. References to icy pops and Oatmeal Crème Pies will probably be lost on my children, but I’ll tell them all the same how no trip to the local Food Valu was ever complete without such treats.
The best toys also resided at Granny’s house, where long-loved remnants of my father’s and uncles’ days were stored. Instead of boring old Ken, Barbie had wild romantic adventures with G.I. Joe and Johnny West. And though Granny kept the toy closet stocked with girlish favorites like Pretty, Pretty Princess, it was at her house we first learned to love Battleship and Lincoln Logs.

On particularly hot days when the garden wasn’t calling our names, Granny would set up her craft supplies and we’d do ceramics or any number of other crafts. To this day I have a collection of comical attempts recording our visits through the years, a product of each successful visit. But we all knew that Granny was happiest in her kitchen. She would toil away faithfully to put meals on the table and keep our tummies full of chocolate chip cookies, which we dutifully consumed. And while it was always a thrill to help, we’d often sneak away to peek in on Papaw.

Papaw was happiest tinkering away in the heat, whether in the field or his wood shop. I am saddened to think that my children may not be able to appreciate the wonders of a proper woodshop. That they will not know the slightly-burnt smell of freshly spliced pine as it comes out of the saw, new shavings splayed in piles about the floor. Later in life, Papaw has found a new love: tractors. We grandchildren have admiringly traced the details of these antique wonders and squealed in delight as we took them for a spin about their large front yard. Perhaps when the time comes, Papaw will show my children his newest creations and half-finished treasures hidden among the sheds and sawhorses.

Of one thing I am certain, my children will experience the common Chambers initiation which every child, in-law and near-enough family friend has undergone: skiing. Each child will be dutifully dunked in whatever river, lake or dam and coaxed, coached and cajoled as they are dragged through (and consume countless gallons of) the water until at last they rise victoriously, if only for a few shaky moments before collapsing. And they will know the satisfaction that comes from reaching this momentous milestone, with full support from each and every other excited (and relieved) boat passenger lucky enough to share in the occasion. It is my fervent prayer that at that time, whether 80 or 90, Papaw will still be able to hop out of the boat and show ‘em how it’s done, as he so ably did this summer.

I didn’t spend my summers witnessing spectacular romantic gestures, extraordinary acts of chivalry, or wild outpourings of admiration between Papaw and his “Sugie.” Life probably didn’t seem so glamorous and magical for them at the time, and I’m sure there were many instances of frustration, disappointment and anger that passed over my young head. I can even remember a few times that did not. But for me, life at Papaw and Granny’s was a magical and fantastic time during which I, like their children and many children to follow, reaped the benefits of a loving family and a home built steadily on Christian morals, hard work ethic, and Southern comfort. Those are the timeless principles I have been blessed to observe, and what truly made these good, old days.

They are the same principles that will make coming days worth living for me and my children. Thank you, Granny and Papaw for your example 50 years in the making.

***

A Thousand and two

She hadn't considered it in a very long time,


Maybe never.

What was it that made man worth the trouble?

Better yet, worth a desire?



Now that she thought of it, she had to acknowledge,

It could not be wholly separate from divine revelation,

Divine intervention.

The drawing that drew her, or any woman for that matter.

But especially her, with her principles and standards

Her need for the Divine.



Those details she had once dismissed

As nonessential to the foreordained scheme.

Or at least assumed would fall neatly into line with.

The one surely would not err out of line,

As he would follow The One, act according to plan.

That would be her sign, her comfort, her peace.

God only knows it was peace above all else that she craved.



The things that drew her, what whet and warranted desire,

Those had gotten lost in the formula,

In the well-meaning spiritual speak.

All she knew was when the time came, they must be squelched

Until all else were tested, tried, true.



It wasn't until one reminded her,

Spoke to that part of her soul where desire lay dormant,

Hidden, ignored.

Not only of the desire itself,

But of the sources, the stimulants that possessed the drawing power.



This one spoke truth in substance and in nature,

And glimpsing signs of life,

This one called her out.

This one spoke truth.



It was the truth that resonated.

That forced her to gaze in the reflection,

In the mirror of that soul's truth,

That reminded her of her own.



This one was not the first to do so, and perhaps he would not be the last.



She had known true devotion of the greatest self-sacrifice.

Unmoving, stable, steady

Strong arms to hold her when the world spun out of control.

That held her so tight they magnified the differing beats of their hearts,

Pressed tightly, clamoring against one another.

And when the world stopped spinning, those arms didn't let go.

Strong arms became shackles, and true devotion no longer bore the mark of truth.



She had known artists, wordsmiths, thinkers.

Each coming close, yet falling short of the mark.

Digging in vain to unearth desire, offering up their best.

Some bore false witness, others' efforts fell on fallow ground.

She could not be prompted.



A thousand had attempted and failed.

A thousand and one were not worth mentioning.



It was this kindred truth, and that spoken in her language,

Which drew out  desires she had long dismissed.

Demanded she be true to self; demanded she follow.

It astonished her to think perhaps she could follow.



She hadn't considered it in a very long time,

But perhaps The One had been winking at her considerations all along.

Great Expectations for Something Out of This World

I keep getting a whiff of something great.  It's just enough to keep me going, keep me searching, keep me hoping. 

It's the nights spent in sweet fellowship with girlfriends.  A stimulating conversation with a stranger.  The warmth and comfort of your loved one's arms.  A Sunday afternoon drive with a very young old soul. 

Let's be honest:  I'm chasing something I'm never going to find or fulfill- not completely.  And that is part of the tragic beauty of it all.  Yet, I refuse to believe God is a cruel, irony-laden tease.  It's just not so. 

We're made to seek out something more, and we're made to work passionately to improve the fascinating yet fallen world around us.  It's called pressing toward the mark. 

We won't be able to fully experience that high we're craving in a sustainable way this side of new heavens and a new Earth.  But I'm convinced that the more time we spend wth the Creator of all things good, the more we can taste and see here.  And it's well worth the investment.

Waltzing in Warm Rain

I had forgotten how nice a good rainshower can be. 

We were sitting at dinner last evening with a few friends when the bottom dropped out.  Torrential rain pounded down in sheets for what seemed like an hour.  Rivers flowed through the streets and the trees strained under the weight of water.

As others lamented forgotten umbrellas, a girlfriend piped up, "Oh, I love the rain!"   

Another friend, laughing, confirmed the fact, "Yes, just last week you went dancing out the door in a storm.  I've never seen you so happy." 

I was struck by the childish simplicity of her statement and all of a sudden the evening's shower didn't seem so bad.  And it hit me how often that is the case.  How a situation that might look dreadful, a shower that threatens to soak, might be just the refreshing cleanse that I need.  And how something as simple as the way you deal with a rainstorm reflects so much about how you deal with life. 

This evening, as the rain came down once more and I sat late at the office, I felt my spirits rise in anticipation and I rushed to finish my work that I might catch a few drops. 

Sure enough, I made it out in time for a waltz in warm summer rain.  And it was glorious. 

Like swimming in ditch rivers and taking mud baths with my sister.  Like front porch swinging, book in hand in the midst of a thunderstorm.  Like getting caught mid-hike in the woods with your first love.  Like shielding a bride in a golfcart as you dash across a courtyard.

I had forgotten how nice a good rainshower can be.  Thank you, Lindsey, for reminding me. 

Love letters

I must credit this post to Tim Keller's The Prodigal God.  There are no original thoughts, simply original expressions. 

I lost myself down memory lane one recent evening and decided to make note of a few old flames. 

At one point in my life I was enamored with the sweet, funny guy with striking eyes and witty ways.  He knew how to catch and hold the attention of a crowd, and for a brief moment held mine as well.  Fluffy blonde hair you loved running your hands through and sea blue eyes that feigned innocence with dangerous ease. 

The athlete was cut, disciplined, gifted to be sure.  His talent was equal parts genetics and dedicated hours of practice.  Watching him perform, maneuvering through the court or on the track, was truly exhilirating.  The same resolve that made him a great player kept him by my side for years.

For a snippet in time there was the wildchild thrill-seeker.  Never still and never dull, he was always looking for a sidekick for his next adventure.  I admired and identified with his spirit.  Spending time with him gave me an opportunity to break out of my mold in the least daring way possible.  It was a slow trudging start on the long road to freedom.

The musician I entertained more for my own selfish pleasure, enjoying the adoration he showered upon me.  My appreciation of the songs he wrote in my name was more a testament to my overgrown ego rather than musical ability on his part.  He had a way with words, but the experience merely renewed my appreciation for a more emotionally balanced, self-respecting "manly" type. 

The former athlete turned politico took me back to younger, fonder times.  He shared my campaign-crazed mentality and obscene work hours which made our time together all the more convenient.  He possessed a savvy, an instinct, and a fearlessness that propelled him far past his contemporaries.  I admired the fact he was different in every way, yet we shared the same spirit.  He was a breath of fresh air I'd badly needed at the time.

The wordsmith was many things but each stemmed from his zest for life and people and new experiences.    His finesse with language could cut you to the core one moment and lull you into an admiring stupor the next.  And as maddening as I found other qualities of his, he just might be one of the most honest people you'd ever meet. 

For each of these man-children I developed a fondness (however fleeting) based not on their actions toward or for me; no desires and requests met;  certainly not their abilities to fulfill all my wildest dreams.  While the ways they showed affection, admiration, and pursuit all played a part I found myself endeared to each one simply for his own being.   For his essence, for all the qualities that made him; for his very nature. 

Why is it so easy for me to admire and communicate and engage with these, and yet a struggle to enter into fellowship with my God?  With the embodiment and originator of all noble, intriguing and praiseworthy qualities?  Who has very personally, intimately, patiently, persistently rescued me from my own silly self time and again.  From death and the grave, from very real and present perils.  Such a shame that my natural tendency is to approach this Jesus coldly, with the likes of a laundry list rather than a love letter. 

Why do I thank him for what He has done for me, but forget to marvel at all He simply is?  Yes, he has a track record, a resume of faithfulness, but do I love Him solely for what He has done for me?  Is He not worthy of my affection regardless of my state, regardless of outcomes or results?

Just as the gap between my sin nature and His perfection separates me from Him, so it is an appreciation of His very being that draws me into deeper relationship.  Into a more joyful and purposeful existence.

A purer motive and a truer heart of worship. 

Counterfeits

Lately my girlfriend and I have been talking about counterfeits and how to spot them when making major life decisions.  Sometimes things can look deceptively right, too good to be true.  And sometimes they are.  But I would be amiss to assume any good thing is not simply a good thing from above.  And I don't think that gives the proper due to our Savior.  So how to tell the difference?

Everything isn't always laid out clearly in black and white, this I know.  Yet we too often try to tiptoe through the minefields on our own and end up in a world of trouble.  The one thing I do know is the Lord likes to be consulted in the matter, and he does answer prayer.  I've watched it happen too many times to discount.

What brought this all upon us was the visit of my girlfriend's girlfriend a few weeks ago.   This darling girl was sharing with us a prayer she had prayed in her own life: 

Lord, I'm tired of doing things my way.  Please work out your will in my life and keep the counterfeits away.

Granted, in this case she had been praying specifically for the Lord to bring her her husband.  The fact that that same weekend she was also spending time with her soulmate and new fiancee made her approach all the more appealing. 

What is easy to overlook is the fact that God was faithful in every way he answered her prayer:  he certainly kept away the counterfeits for a time.  She recounted how for a while it seemed nothing worked out and there were more than a few heartaches along the way.  Times of loneliness, impatience, frustration.  I'm sure there were times she regretted praying that prayer. 

But still I'm praying it, in every area of life. 

Lord, open the doors you would have me go through and slam the others shut, definitively.  Help me to accept and let go of the things you do not have for me, as painful and unpleasant as that might be. 

And thank God for that testimony, and for the very present answer to a friend's friend's prayer.  Seeing them together, sharing a little in their excitement, while knowing with every fiber of my being that they truly are a match made in heaven, is the best hope and encouragement a girl could have.  It reminds me that God knows what He's doing, even when we don't.  And the best things in life:  career choices, education, friendships, relationships--- all are worth waiting for His best. 

Dear Lord, keep me in your way and keep away the counterfeits. 

Walking the fine line

A strange feeling hit me the other day, and it still lingers. 

Its as if I've just woken up from a long sleep only to find I've realized a dream.  And I have. 

Four years ago, if you had told me I'd be where I am today, doing what I do each day, having these kinds of experiences and opportunities, meeting the people that I meet - I would have said you were crazy.  Or maybe I'd have gazed wistfully just before reconciling myself to the fact that it wouldn't happen, couldn't happen, didn't fit into the box I'd pegged myself into. 

A very idealistic me once promised myself that if I were to have the kinds of opportunities I now have, if I were to live and work in such a place and time as this, if I were to answer the highest calling I might imagine, that I would never, EVER take it for granted.  That I would always stay true to the cause and the course. 

You would laugh at idealistic me in the fall of 2006, and you would have good reason.  I have many times since.  But there's another side to my faded Pollyanna attitude that can't be overlooked.  And here is where the fine line is drawn. 

Just as absurd as the thought that this place, this job, this life is the end-all be-all is the thought that it's no big deal that I am here.  That it doesn't really matter.  That I should just enjoy myself and experience this city.  That I shouldn't still seek to serve a higher purpose and calling. 

On the one hand, a calling suggests an inflated sense of self.  On the other, a blase and uninspired approach denies the very real blessing, opportunity, and privilege I've been charged with.  To deny would be to squander.  And to squander would be the kiss of death to the part of my soul from whence the Pollyanna still escapes, wizened though she may be.  And it's just plain irresponsible.

I owe it to myself and to my Maker who placed me here to walk the fine line.  To acknowledge the opportunities and bear the responsibilities; all the while realizing it's not about me and it's not about the stone and marble and egos.  I began to err on the side of pessimism, but I've been reminded of the bigger picture, and I'm seeing things anew.     

An Ode to Girlfriends

When your nails are unkempt
And your spirits are low
I will love you

When you bail on plans and oversleep
Choose the boys over me
I won't judge you

When you drive us in circles
Ignore the GPS's heedings
I won't nag you

When you're feeling 5 pounds heavy
And you wonder if you've still got it
I'll remind you

When you need to melt down
Pitch a fit, cry and moan
I'll cry with you

When decisions press upon you
And there seem to be no answers
I'll pray for you

When you think you're all alone
That he's the only one to call
I'm here for you

When the day has been long
And the boss has been cruel
I'll wine with you

For when I was hungry
You fed me
And when I was thirsty
Gave me drink
Clothed me
Loved me
Forgave me
Took me in

- The gifts we have in girlfriends
Are the purest forms of grace
Little tastes of heaven
We must pass on to appreciate -

When life's seasons nudge us forward
And we no longer walk in stride
I'll celebrate our times and thank God for you

Rediscovering the Crockpot

Watch out!  I've just rediscovered my crockpot (and my chili pepper apron!) and I'm getting down and dirty in the kitchen. 

I've missed my slow cooker.  Once upon a time I put it to good use at least twice a week making roasts or stews or various beef and chicken concoctions.  Tonight I finally faced the pheasant in the freezer and decided the crockpot was the only way to go. 

I've actually learned quite a few kitchen lessons today: 

1) Pheasant is supposed to be that bloody-scary dark shade of reddish-purple.  And I thought all poultry was white meat...

2)  It is ok to use an onion that has been sitting out for over a month.  Limes are a different story.

3) Two clueless kitchen-ettes can conquer something domestic, even if it is just reassembly of the blender (thanks Lacelove!)

4) You can plug the coffeepot in,  fill it up with grounds and pour in the water, but you still have to turn it on

5) Recipe for a fantastic evening:

1 bottle red wine (the cheaper the better)
2 sassy Southern women (add to suit to taste)
1 bag tortilla chips
1 container salsa

Combine ingredients in urban kitchen and let simmer for 10 minutes.  Remove from heat when beginning to boil (be careful when inserting men and mothers into the mix!). Stir well, and allow to cool.  Serve in heels and pearls.  Enjoy!

God's resume

Living in this town it sometimes feels like life revolves around a constant stream of resumes.  Whether it's scanning for potential hires in your office, passing a friend's along for consideration, or getting barraged via email by various network acquaintances ("just in case you hear of an opening"), or busy distributing your own, we've all seen our fair share.

What does a resume tell you?  Past performance, specific tasks and responsibilities, and in my humble opinion, a good resume shows results.  Like doubling a client base in 2 years, or increasing sales by 5%, or successfully managing a campaign to victory.  Verifiable facts, best backed up by references; you get the idea.

So it just hit me funny tonight when, whilst talking about our experiences with God's faithfulness, my dear roomie actually used the term "God's resume".  Hmm.

Doesn't it make sense though?  And how often I do go looking back over his resume to reaffirm my faith!  Just think about it:  most of us have points in our life to which we can point and say undoubtedly, "That was the Lord."  Some times are more obvious than others, but get enough years under your belt and you'll be amazed at what you'll find.  Like intervening in a might way in major life decisions, providing a job or unexpected income or furniture, or delivering me with only so much as a scratch from a car I rolled six times.  And time and again I find him answering specific prayers, whether it takes a day or a month or a year.  I like to keep a journal and flip back through to glean encouragement from all the ways things I once dealt with were resolved.  Perhaps I will type out God's resume for my life and post it to have an even more visual reminder of his faithfulness. 

Sixteen Elizabeths

I have been in serious need of some Bob time. 

Last Sunday as we were catching up at the kitchen table he proudly showed me the program from Tony's graduation ceremony a few weeks earlier.  (Tony is another adopted grandchild from across the street, and Bob had attended his MBA graduation ceremony with Tony's parents.) I flipped through the pages as he recounted the ceremony, the Maryland Transportation Secretary's address, the rain, Tony's honors. 

I noticed how he had circled Tony's name each time it appeared in the program.  He truly is proud of all his "kids" and their accomplishments.  I also noticed he had placed numbers beside other names in the program, names I didn't recognize.  But I decided against interrupting him for an explanation:  he went on to recount mowing the church lawn, Ben's birthday party and his most recent meeting with his lawyer.  This month he has big plans to go to an Orioles game with Tony and then he's coming to a Nats game one night as well ("Honey, I want you to meet us if you can").  For the 4th he's going on a boys' trip with Harvey and Ben and they'll have a huge family reunion at his brother's cabin in the West Virginia mountains.

"And honey, wouldja believe they had sixteen Elizabeth's at Tony's graduation?" his eyes got big behind his thick frames and a grin spread across his face. 

"See I counted 'em, and I marked 'em all in that book,"he pointed to the program. "That's a lot now isn't it?"

All of a sudden I'm imagining him sitting there under a large tent watching in anticipation each time he hears the name of his beloved late wife being called.  I feel the ironic twist of pain and hope and happiness he must have felt to watch each stranger-Elizabeth walk across the stage, a reminder of all he has lost.  Sixteen of them, one by one.  I remember the Sunday a few weeks earlier when he draped a strand of her white beads around my neck and choked out, "Happy Future Mother's Day, honey, I want you to have these."  Right before we both melted into tears in the same kitchen. 

But this Sunday he was smiling at me expectantly as I stared back, a bit surprised and feeling his pain.  All I could do was smile back and answer, "It sure is, Bob, it sure is." 

"She's been gone 10 months on the 4th," he reminded me.  Still no tears, as I held my breath and searched his face for signs.  He chuckled softly and changed topics, leaving me in a daze. 

These have been a rough few weeks for him, and I'm still not sure how to react to his sixteen Elizabeth's. 

All I know is the Bob I love and adore has experienced loss to a degree that I may never understand.  He is not too proud to cry or to tell me when he's having a hard time.  He's not too independent to ask for help when he needs it.  And he still finds the strength to smile, serve and keep living and loving. 

And to find some odd, small joy in counting Elizabeth's. 

   

A Taste of Italy

We gazed over the muggy, miserably crowded room and laughed. I don't recall what it is we laughed at, but it doesn't take much: Stephanie's pessimistic spin on life and the legal system proves comedic, especially when mixed with my naievete and daring spirit. Which, oddly enough, seemed to wane with each glass of champagne. We were there to enjoy and be amused, but neither of us felt like making an effort to socialize.

Think Italian Embassy, modern architecture, fabulous pasta and a melting crowd of diplomats sweltering in the D.C. heat. And of course we two Southern girls happened to corner one of the few U.S. military men there. And of course he's spent the majority of his service time in Ft. Rucker, AL. We would hunt down the one Alabama connection in a room full of Italians!

Oh to speak Italian, just a teensy bit. To know more than bellissimo. We did happen to make one new friend, to neither of our credit. He approached, interrupting our fits of laughter and humoring our cultural whims. We learned the word for the national guard-like military men patrolling the room with their flared up caps and cross-shoulder belts. Bellissimo Carabiniere!

Two comments endeared us immediately:

"I can't stand Nancy Pelosi!" and "I went to Cornell. You know, like Andy from The Office."

I enjoy being silly with old friends and new ones. Comfortable, snorting-giggles, fake accents, feet-on-the-dash silly. And who says you can't do that in a fab environment surrounded by fashion superiors and foreign dignitaries?

I love this town. And sometimes, I think it loves me back.

When the quest for truth turns sour

I ran across this phrase yesterday afternoon and I've been trying to decide whether I think these words, taken from a letter written by C.S. Lewis, are absurd or sheer genius:

"Of course reality must be self-consistent: but till (if ever) we can see the consistency it is better to hold two inconsistent views than to ignore one side of the evidence."

Does this principle, applied across a wide spectrum of issues and highly-contested debates, hold true? Is this the inevitable conclusion we must sometimes face when at a loss for understanding (as in a scientific example Lewis cites earlier in this piece to bolster his argument) or do inconsistencies simply imply there is more work to be done toward reaching understanding? At what point is it (if it is ever) wise, prudent, and noble to acknowledge that no more can be done and the best explanation is that we simply can't know the present answer; to assume that all the presupposed assumptions that have led us to a crossroads are true, regardless of seeming contradictions?

I have a need to make sense of and find the logic in order to accept something as truth. I assume that contradiction and inconsistency indicate a flaw among whatever has been presupposed. Which is why at first glance I shrank back at Lewis' words, scratched my head and thought I must be reading him wrong.

To be fair, Lewis isn't saying there is no absolute truth. He's just acknowledging our human incapacity to always see it clearly, and sometimes the best thing to do is lay down your shovel and stop digging. And I'm sure Lewis would be the first to say this principle should be applied sparingly on a case-by-case basis, as a last resort, once all other forceivable explanations and options have been exhausted. Still, it feels like intellectual laziness, doesn't it? And if there are absolute truths, they will eventually come to light, won't they?

I'm beginning to see where my continual 'digging' doesn't always even produce the real results I'm looking for. Sometimes it just means I'm attempting to force an issue so I can feel more comfortable with it. So I can feel I have a neat little answer, the right answer, the superior logic. And sometimes that's more damaging and futile than if I had just left it alone.

The funny thing is, after pondering this all night, I saw a tweet this morning with another quote, also attributed to Lewis: "It's not the things that I don't understand that convict me, it's the things that I do understand."

I don't know if he actually said this because I can't seem to find the quote, but it struck me as something of a rebuke for my earlier tirade and I find it ironic that both are at least attributed to Lewis. As if God was saying,
"You just worry about doing the things you know you ought to be doing and stop worrying about figuring it all out." Just goes to show, it's forever a balancing act...

Tales from a Wedding Weekend

Those of you who are aware of the seemingly crazy circumstances surrounding my sister's recent wedding have asked how last weekend transpired.

The short answer is - they're hitched!

Theirs has been quite the story. Coming together from a half a world away, falling hopelessly in love in a matter of weeks, threatened with separation by their respective governments (and a mountain of paperwork!) and a whirlwind of wedding, house and marriage prep in another few short weeks --- I get exhausted just thinking about it! But those who know them, who have experienced them together, can attest to the way they take it all in stride. As they did on one of the most adventurous wedding days. EVER. I recorded a few thoughts from the day in an old diary from the fourth grade, which I found while rummaging through my things at home.

It is my sister's wedding day and the rain pours. I am sitting in the dark with a head full of wet hair and no power to dry it. Jess puts on a brave face and we laugh at the disastrous circumstances: the semi-outdoor venue will not shelter us from sideways rain, hail, and lightning that have been forecast for the entire day and well into the night. The photographer hasn't returned a call in days and this morning persists in evading us. As I leave another message on his voicemail, I realize I neglected to charge my Blackberry last night and it is dangerously low on power. Too late to charge it now. Jessica is beautiful, natural, calm, and as low-key as ever. It is the perfect day for a wedding. This is a perfect chapter in their story.

Getting to that wedding complete with makeup, hair and unsoiled dresses was quite an adventure. The hair stylist worked her magic via generator during a critical 3-hour power outage, and we made use of the natural lighting on the deck (under the covered walkway and out of the rain) to apply makeup and finishing touches. The dynamic duo of bridesmaids (including yours truly) provided escort with a host of supporting cast in the safe and unspotted transport and upkeep of the lovely bride in and out of cars, golf carts, and cave paths. Helpful hint: Keep a supply of baby wipes handy on your wedding day- they work miracles.

It was a perilously perfect day, complete with the impeccably-timed whine of tornado sirens during the vows. (Who wants wedding bells when you can have tornado sirens, anyway?) We sent them off with waves of handheld sparklers and collapsed into exhausted, joyful tears. Would that every bride's day might be half so momentous; would that every bride would weather (pun intended) the minor catastrophes that might arise on her wedding day with half so much grace and ease as Jess.

XOXOXOXOXO

These Nights

I don't often wax poetic, but Thursday night's walk down the mall provided inspiration and I had to "pen" this down.

These Nights
These nights make my heart race with endless, untapped possibility,
Make me ponder the sweet, fleeting moments of yesteryear,
Wonder how it can be these are memories so soon?

The dome-lit jogs among the stone and glory, beating down our demons with every step and drop of sweat,
The forgetting of troubles in gleeful coasts down Air Force Memorial hill,
Adrenaline pumping, midnight Potomac excursions, navigating turbulent waters by flashlight,
The thrill of each new explosion lighting up the night sky over the Lincoln again and again, bathing it in color as a million mesmerizing glows fade,
An unfamiliar crowd in a crushed velvet limo celebrating safe arrival in our noblest of steeds (How I still jump to think of the shot of cork out the moonroof!)
The man-child grinning maddeningly on the step as if he possessed a secret, took some secret pleasure in my presumptuous scoldings.

And the night of that very first glimpse, with a friendly stranger and ill-fitting heels.
A moment was all it took to take my breath, my heart.
One glimpse of the temple was sufficient to instill confidence in us both,
As we ventured onward sharing lives, loves, ambitions,
Taking the very world, as it were, at our command,
The same as we'd won the bar at Old Ebbitt's;
We came away feeling grand.

These nights make it all too easy to forfeit the mornings,
Forget my ne'er fulfilled vows to be rested.
Now I vacillate 'twixt hopeful joy and aching sadness,
Yet the feeling of it is one in the same.
It is the feeling of it, the very feeling ---
Spurs hope for unscathed, kindred souls yet unmet,
Assumes heart-to-hearts over botched culinary feats,
Anticipates passionate exchanges in the most unexpected of places,
Assures of a thousand experiences yet to be shared,
A thousand more breathtaking glances to be had ---
Makes these nights worth the sacrifice.

Of sleep.
Of reason.
Of inhibition.
Of pride.

And so, dearest ones, I bid you good to these nights.

A Sense of Belonging

I can romanticize just about anything. And I have.

I can remember visiting home last Spring, somewhat depressed and extremely homesick for familiar faces and dialects. I needed my dearest friends around me. I needed to sit around the kitchen table with my family or talk in the living room or outlast my brother in a grueling game of Scrabble. I needed hikes in the mountains and drives through forgotten scenic valleys. I needed late night heart-to-hearts with my sister and pep-talk coddle -time with my brother. I needed just enough time with my mother to remind me that my love for her is strong enough to reach across several hundred miles and states, and that for sanity's sake it's better off that way.

And those times, those experiences were absolutely wonderful. They were a salve to my aching soul. But still I wasn't ready to throw in the towel and come home. I knew I had to stick it out. I knew there was a bigger world I belonged in. If only I could feel I belonged...

Fast forward a year and my longing has taken on a different tone. I lie in bed in the room I occupied from the time I was 12 until I moved out of my parents' house and let the tears fall. I can't say that I am crying because I am homesick. I have built community in DC, and I can't imagine living anywhere else. I cannot attribute my emotion to my sister's impending wedding. He loves her. He really does, this free-spirited manboy who resents my attempt to define him in anyway (even as a free-spirit!), capable of crooning us all into hypnosis with his soft voice and guitar, yet recklessly charging up the skate ramp on his newfound rollerblades. I cannot explain the peace I have with this whole crazy situation. I cannot comprehend how happy they are, and I do not even understand how a most self-absorbed individual such as myself could be this excited. Especially given the circumstances. The Lord has answered prayers and he's prepared my heart for this somehow.

I recognize the roots of this new ache driving through the rundown town. I've seen the sights a million times before: the gossip cafe multitasking as a gas station and mini-mart, the downhome buffet in it's 3rd pair of ownership hands in 10 years, the vacant old autobody shop next to the tiny brick post office. The junior high girls laying out on the sidewalk, feet dangling over the drainage ditch bring back memories. Sarah and I used to run or walk or rollerblade our way around the square that makes up the neighborhood. Any given Friday evening or Saturday morning there we were, fantasizing about a similar batch of oblivious redneck boys I'm sure.

It's pangs hit once more at Ben's ballgames. The foreign-sounding dialects discussing matters most pertinent to their world: the dismal season, state rankings, new Mustangs and pimped-out old ones, the sale at the mall, and parent and student plans alike for the upcoming prom season. To be fair, political affairs receive a fair amount of negative attention (I'd challenge anyone to find a place where the topic does not incite anger these days). For the most part, I find myself an outside observer, at a loss for words and ever at a loss for understanding.

Those tears bring up a burning question: Have I ever really belonged here? I confess I can't remember a time when I did.

The lack of a sense of belonging stretches past a place to the time. This is a time in life where I am all but at a loss for a sense of settlement. The subsequent, haunting question that remains is this: Will I ever be in a place and time where I feel such a sense of belonging?

Something in my own restless, free-spirited heart answers in the negative. Perhaps I am destined to roam about the earth, about this life, without the burden and the blessing of belonging.

"You know, I didn't understand it at first, and I kind of thought you were crazy to just up and moved off," Jess reflected to me not long ago during a phone conversation. We had been talking about how the Lord had provided me with community and Bob and a dear church in this area. "And then, the other day I was thinking how that song really fits you, "Anywhere is Home."

Earthly wealth and fame may never come to me
And a palace fair here mine may never be
But let come what may, if Christ for me doth care
Anywhere is home, if Christ my Lord is there

The apostle Paul said that one of the most important lessons he'd learned from his vast experience in the Christian walk was to be content with his circumstances:

I know both how to be abased, and I know how to abound: everywhere and in all things I am instructed both to be full and hungry, both to abound and suffer need.

I can do all things through Christ which strengtheneth me.

Phil. 4:12-13

He says he knows how to handle his circumstances and he can be content with them; that he has been instructed in the appropriate manner he ought to behave.

I can think of no one biblical figure who was put in so many different circumstances, found himself in quite so many different locations, and I can't imagine he felt comfortable or happy or like he belonged in all of them. Pretty sure he felt out of place more so than not, from a purely natural point of view. Yet he was given the ability, nay the power to do whatever task he was chosen for, because Christ was his commissioner. And his reliance on Christ and all the hard, new situations it put him in only served to grow his faith and make him stronger.

I don't mean to raise myself to the ranks of the apostle, and I'd hesitate to say my relocation in geography, in career, in numerous life circumstances have been especially appointed by Christ. But surely, I can point to the very real ways he's been with me along the way, and I can take comfort in that fact if in nothing else.

Besides, at the end of the day, I'd rather experience a little discomfort from growing pains than die slowly of a comfortable, familiar and complacent existence.

Sometimes it takes getting lost to find your way

It had been one of those days.

I had stumbled around the basement for months now, and thought surely I had discovered every little turn, crook and corridor. I thought I had the place mapped out, thought I could handle taking a slightly different route. Wrong, wrong, wrong.

I checked my pride at the desk as I asked the security guard how best to find my way back to the office. I took comfort in the fact he had no idea how long I'd been working here. As I followed his directions and finally found myself in familiar surroundings, I began to ponder just how many times I'd gotten lost before finally finding my way.

That was how I'd learned how to get around in this city. I wouldn't know my way around half so well if I hadn't spent 6 months driving in circles, taking wrong turns down one-way streets, beating my steering wheel crying hysterically. Let me tell you, that was not fun in the process. And please, don't interpret the past tense to mean I've mastered DC driving. Now I'm simply fortunate enough to rely on GPS. But I can make my way to a few familiar places without it.

I'd had to lose myself a little when I changed life courses. When I walked away from my apparent career path, my family, my home, my intended--- all my future plans. I certainly didn't have a backup plan and I didn't have a clear alternative road mapped out. I'd charged blindly ahead, and I'd made more than one wrong turn in the process. Today, I could not be more thankful for that experience.

I found myself smiling outwardly as I made my way down the hall on the last familiar leg of my route. Some people responded in kind, some stared ahead or at the floor in order to avoid the offenses of my enthusiasm, and still others gave me confused sideward glances. A stranger with an open, friendly face is not common in these halls, and I relish the varied reactions. I find my own little predicaments amusing; why shouldn't I laugh at the mess that I am?

Right now, I feel like I am lost in life once more. I have shaken my steering wheel, beat my fists against closed doors, pulled out my hair and screamed like a banshee in frustration. Yet this simple reminder, that sometimes it takes getting lost to find my way, gives me comfort. I find a joy and a peace that allows me to step back away from my immediate circumstances and glimpse the bigger picture, if but for a moment. And it compels me to cast foolish grins at strangers and let them wonder why I'm so contented in the midst of it all.

Confessions of a Vinegar-laden Lady

My roomie rushed down the stairs upon hearing my banshee cries of frustration.

"What's the matter?" she asked, alarmed at my outburst. "We thought the dog next door was going crazy."

Still sobbing angrily, I held up my ticket. My $100 moving violation for talking on my cell while driving in the district.

"That jerk!" I growled. "This jerky, cocky a-hole of a cop just gave me a ticket. And he was SO rude!"

I hadn't handled it too well when he rolled up next to my window while I was attempting to park. First of all, he was too lazy to step off his segway and walk 10 feet over to my car. Secondly, his smug demeanor and the arrogant glances he shot his cop-buddies on the corner stunk reminiscently of a senior high boy about to pick on the freshman at the bus stop. Everything about him said: "Watch this! I'm about to get her."

Even the tone of his voice as he quipped rhetorically, "Do you know there's a $100 fine for driving and talking on your cell phone in the District of Columbia?"

Ok, so in my defense, let me say that at first I tried to go the sweet, compliant innocent route, even though his manner was already compelling me to whip out my 'angry eyes'. "No sir, I didn't know that," I replied in my most innocent tone, still with phone in hand, my mother waiting patiently on the line.

He motioned toward my reciprocity sticker and all but barked, "Well darlin', that right there means you assume all rights and consequences of operating a vehicle in the district. Get out your license and registration."

GRRR. He had used the dreaded "D" word.

I scrambled frustratedly to find the necessary documents. Surprisingly, I do have them all neatly in one place, but heck if I could find them now. As I searched my messy car and he sighed exasperatedly and rolled his eyes, resentment rose in my throat. My thoughts toward this guy were not G-rated, nor were the words I wanted to say to him.

And then, the moment of truth; the moment I should have let my words be few.

As I whipped out my paperwork and fought back angry tears I let it fly: "Gee, nice to see you guys out," I quipped. "You know, I really hope y'all hang around more, say at 2 am when I'm about to be carjacked or mugged." (And YES, I've had my second scare this year just last week!)

Well, that did it. He looked across the hood of my car at his buddies watching from the sidewalk, "Boys, she just signed her own ticket."

"Excuse me?" I asked indignantly. He knew he'd crossed a professional line, even if I had been the one to draw it in the sand.

"Nothing," he retorted gruffly.

A few minutes later he shoved a ticket through my window and I huffed and stomped my way through my front door. Which is where my dear roomie found me, ugly crying and howling aloud in frustration.

Isn't it funny how the stupidest things can sometimes send you over edge? True, this jerk had known just how to push all my buttons, and apparently I had reciprocated rather well. True, it was frustrating to "lose" the altercation, and take the ticket powerlessly. And true, I was already broke and had no extra money to spend on frivolous tickets. But somehow in the crying my fit became about every other ounce of pent-up frustration: feeling left out of my sister's impending wedding, my mother's frustrations and worries about my sister's wedding (at least bad cop had interrupted that conversation- should I thank him?), job frustrations, money frustrations, the extra five pounds I'd gained. The list goes on and on. They had all culminated into the perfect storm of ugly crying.

As I began to recover over a few glasses of wine with the roomies, one girls' comment from the previous evening came back with a vengeance and I had to laugh at my own stupidity. Upon failing to draw a guy friend out for a night of dancing, she had remarked, "Our strategy was all wrong. We should have been less antagonizing and stroked his ego more. You draw more flies with honey than vinegar, you know."

In light of my ticket, I mulled this over a bit more. Was I much too good at baiting with vinegar to be bothered with honey? Sometimes, it seemed that was the only way to survive, and I could think of fellow acerbic-leaning individuals who mutually respect a smart-mouth girl who can hold her own. And it didn't hurt when fending off the creepers I tend to attract when out.

But a much more substantial record seemed to speak in affirmation, that perhaps I am too acidic for my own good. In addition to the cop, and failure draw my friend from his couch, I could think of a string of other incidences where I'd cut off my nose, so to speak. There are the little altercations with an old coworker I tended to miscommunicate with from time to time, the backlash of a girlfriend's wrath. Even the creepers should be handled with care --- it is best to avoid making blatant enemies of the creepers in this town, though they might deserve to be taken down a few notches. You never know who someone works for, or who you might need to work with in the future.

Why it is so much easier to default to vinegar rather than honey, I will never know. All I know is, for all my Southern charms (and yes, I have a few and I know how to use them!), too often I play my cards foolishly and end up paying the price. This time, it just happens to be a $100 ticket. But perhaps, if I learn my lesson and let my biting words be few, it will save me from an even more costly mistake the next time around.

60 Degrees of Separation

I smile fondly across the table at him and take his hand as he graces our food. What a warmth and comfort it is to know him, to share another meal. It is our tradition now, this Sunday afternoon date at the Old Country Buffet.

His gnarled and disfigured hands grasp his utensils and slowly cut away at his baked potato. I chuckle as I survey his plate. His diet of starches and meat is a stark contrast to my vegetable-laden spread. He peers over his glasses and asks about my week as I pick at green beans and black-eyed peas.

This is not how I would have imagined it. He is certainly not the companion I had picked out for Sunday dates, or any dates for that matter. At 84 (turning 85 this year, he reminds me), there are 60 years between us. Sixty degrees of separation that should make this afternoon, and so many preceding ones preposterous. But it works somehow.

"She's my girl," he tells everyone we meet. "She's good to me, y'know? She's like my own granddaughter. I don't know what I'd do without her."

At first I almost bought into it. Even tried to live up to the saintly title I'd been bestowed. I was going to be his perfect little angel, his saving grace. I baked and called and cleaned up after. I visited weekends and came up during the week, especially those first few months. It was a gesture of love, but I'd be kidding myself not to acknowledge there was a measure of pride in the mix as well. Bob needed me. And I was not about to let Bob down.

It took more than one instance of emotional breakdown for me to realize the fateful truth: God had placed Bob in my life every bit as much as he'd placed me in his. How he knew just the right words to say to a heartbroken, distraught, hormonal woman in her mid-twenties on a number of different occasions, I will never understand. Outside of divine wisdom, there really is no clear answer.

It's been said that the most brilliant politicians are those who lull you off your defenses with the illusion of simplicity--- I've heard this especially applied to Southerners. Though he is no politico, the same might be said of Bob. With his West Virginia dialect and jovial light-heartedness, I am ashamed to confess I almost dismissed him as a simpleton. Yet, when I survey all the lessons I've learned over the last year, some of the most profound I attribute to him.

He loved her more than 60 years steadily, dearly, sacrificially, if imperfectly. He was not afraid to show her or let anyone else know, just as he is not ashamed to love me or any of his fellow men openly. He must have had pride all those years, and thoug h I've seen his a time or two, it doesn't rule him and doesn't threaten his love of others.

More than that, he's taught me what it is to accept love from others. To allow another to care for me, to breathe a moment and let my defenses down. Truly, this is the hardest thing for me. But I know it's possible, and I have Bob to thank for that. He's one of the few who have earned the right to call me "sweetheart", EVEN the dreaded "darlin'" is welcome coming from this dear man. Ignoring my futile protests, he tucks me in for afternoon naps, makes me fried ham sandwiches, and pays wherever we go. Let's face it --- he's spoiled me clean rotten.

And he keeps me laughing. I can't help but mirror his squinted smile as his glasses slide down his nose and he giggles in boyish contagion. Whatever pressing matters of life we might discuss later, for now he is content to tell jokes and remind me that whatever it is I'm eating "makes your hair grow, mmph!"

A few moments later, I glance around in disbelief and mild embarrassment as he returns from the dessert bar with no less than 10 cookies piled on a plate. "These will last me all week, hon." And he proceeds to wrap them each in a napkin, stuffing them into the bulging pockets of his Ralph Lauren blazer. We erupt in fits of laughter once more, drawing suspicious looks and raised brows from nearby tables. Never a dull moment.

Before we leave, he has to look around one more time for 'his girls'. He hasn't seen Sandra in weeks and Gail isn't working this section today. So he hands his ones to a grateful Anne instead. She winks and thanks him, reminding him of the Easter morning special next week. He wouldn't miss it for the world, he assures her.

He trustingly tosses me his handyman-assortment ring of keys and we climb inside his F-150. He knows I love that truck, and he knows I love to drive. My heart skips a beat as I crank 'er up and the sound of banjos and fiddles greets us. Instinctively, we burst into "I'll Fly Away" as we back out of the lot and make our way back to the house.

No, this is certainly not what I ever had in mind. Thank God, life rarely is.

Heels and Pearls

I walked in like I owned the place (what other way is there to enter a room?) and asked the hostess where the happy hour was being held.

"Downstairs," she motioned.

I slid into a nearby chair to change out my flats for heels and dropped my slippers into my favorite, if raggedy, oversized bag. As I made my way down the stairs, I grinned to myself on the inside. There is something truly gratifying about venturing out on one's own. Perhaps I don't do it often enough, because I still get a rush. The thrill of possibility of meeting new people, the surprise connections and acquaintances. The new ideas, new concepts: simply the novelty of the new. This is what I live for.

When I came downstairs into the much smaller-than-expected room, I realized that the speaker had just begun. Perfect timing. A lady leaning against the reception table turned to smile at me warmly and assist me in finding my nametag, but a brief glance was all it took to realize it wasn't there. Confused I began to scroll through my emails.

I promise, I RSVP'd. Is this the Fillmore Room? I'm at the Boulevard Woodgrill?

Reality check--- the email read "this Thursday" but the date clearly read 2 weeks from today. Ha! I was actually attempting to crash an IT conference reception. Lovely.

I laughed with the ladies at the table, and went to option 2. (There were about 4 options for this particular evening.) As I walked back to my car grinning at my own scatter-brained ineptness, I wondered aloud, "Lord, is this a sign? Life has been crazy lately, do I need to just take a break tonight?"

Jumping into my car and heading to destination no. 2, I received various texts from friends: "Where are you?" "We are in the back." "You're still coming, right?"

And then, I could swear it was providential, option 2 fell through: "Girl, sorry, we are leaving. Want to meet at Pourhouse?"

I laughed. Ok, Lord. I hear you, loud and clear. Time to park my pretty fanny at home. Taking the night off, I get it!

Which is how I ended up here:

A little baking therapy, that's what I needed. And I did have the Breakfast for Dinner girls' night tomorrow. Might as well go ahead and whip up some cinnamon pancakes. But dang, I looked too good to waste it. So, I tackled the task June Cleaver-style: in my heels and pearls and networking-best. And of course, I was belting Trisha Yearwood all the while.

"Got a picture of her Momma in heels and pearls/ She's gonna' make it in her Daddy's world..."

I needed this night in. I needed cinnamon pancakes, and the girl-talk that ensued with my roomies. I needed to don my chili-pepper apron, (inherited from Mrs. Elizabeth, courtesy of M'dear Bob) and lose myself in praise music coupled with some good country.

This was really my only a-social night in for the entire week. And I wouldn't have spent it that way given the choice. Isn't it fabulous and comforting and overwhelmingly humbling the way Jesus just steps in sometimes and takes care of us? Gives us exactly what we need, even if we don't realize it at the time? Even if it's not what we think we want?

Even if it's to just slow down, take a little time at home and bake some pancakes.

Southern style, in heels and pearls. Night y'all.