Wind beneath my Wings

Mother's Day reminds me of my very favorite person in the whole wide world. My Grandma Monica was a treasure in my life. She blessed me everytime we saw eachother. She always had a good word, an encouraging hug, an uplifting thought for me. We never had enough time together. She spited my sports time and study time and anything that kept us from being able to go over to her house. We sat around her death bed, unwittingly and she encouraged me to take posession of this marriage on her behalf. Don't miss this ride, her eyes seemed to say. She said, I told Gloria the same thing with Milton. Don't you dare, not marry that man, she encouraged. I thought I wouldn't make it, because she died three days before the wedding. I didn't understand that she didn't have a marriage and that was why she was so descriptive and deliberate to us of what we should do. We just went on with the plans, as she encouraged us to do. She said, I love Bethel, because you have 2 aisles to walk down, so you can take the picture coming in the door and then get to your seat before the bride, she spoke to Aunt Lorraine. I had almost forgotten that she had gone on before us, until I saw Aunt Lorraine standing there taking the picture. As she ran to her seat, I started sobbing. People probably thought it was a shotgun wedding how we carried on. Sister Paris encouraged me to smile and I enjoyed the beauty of the moment, in spite of my initial sob. We were grabbing the ring on the merry-go-round that my Grandma had missed so sorely in her life. Weeks later, I was still crying that I hadn't gotten to sing Wind beneath my Wings to my Grandma on her deathbed. So, I was sitting in the car crying about that loss and the Holy Spirit spoke to my soul and transformed that song into this one and turned my mourning through that Evvy song, right then and there. Everytime I hear that song, I imagine my Grandma and me dancing at the Wedding of the Lamb, which we both would have missed, had it not been for the sacrifice of a perfect Savior. Halleluia!

Bumping your head against Heaven

Often I have thought of falling to my knees in prayer in relationship to my short volleyball season. Falling on the knees over and over, to get in the proper position to hit the ball. The knees are always the humble position to be in. This morning, though I think of the jump. I think of the awe that was ours to see our coach leap and hover in the air, as though he had wings. He taught us to hover, somewhat. For the spike and for the aggressive points in Volleyball, most of those points are hit with feet off of the ground. Sometimes, we hit our head against the ball, inadvertantly. Sometimes, I believe that we hit our head against Heaven, in prayer and in purpose for God. The aggressive stances of the Church militant, may be with feet in the air. When we hit our head against Heaven, though, it may not knock us out, it may just wake us up. :)

Fierce Kiss Volleys

I felt a kiss from Dad, today. I know it was him because it scared the bejeebers out of me and it was cold persperation on my cheek. I think the hours of volley practice teaches you to catch more than just a volley. Your reflexes are ready to receive the volleys of kisses from "those whose rest is won".

Dad and Baby Ben in '89

Oh happy ones and holy, Lord, give us grace that we, like them, the meek and lowly, on high may dwell with Thee!

Em not watching and Ez got lost!

We miss your pesky double checking where they are. We miss your constant yelling about where are they going and to whom will they be talking and how long will they be there, etc.
While I was driving around the neighborhood, I knew it was because my Emily wasn't at her post that this happened. 2 hours later we found him where he was all along. You would have known that already. It wouldn't have cost the years off our lives that we worried looking for him (Ez).
Thanks for all you do!

This morning Ezra and I took a trip back in time, as usual.

I look into his face and it takes me back to third grade and 5 younger siblings, at that age and how little of the concerns and cares look to be on his face. He wanted more sugar on his Cream of Wheat and that started my story telling of my sugar consumption. I "stole" all of the sugar cubes in the cabinet that were for the Rosarian luncheon. It was me. I had eaten them a little at a time, everytime, I hid in the cabinet to be alone or for "hide and go-seek". Little squares of sugar were the topic. I remembered out loud to him, as I sprinkled more sugar on his already sweetened breakfast. I remembered Grandma and Auntie, coming to our kitchen and letting me stir the gravy and offering tastes of this and that. "No, thank you!" No, Thank you, I was trained to say that and could say nothing else to them. I felt like Gram and Auntie were here with us as we reminisced. One day, Uncle Pat came with a brown paper bag and some egg custard for me. That started me eating some solid foods, more and trying things outside the box. I declare, Gram and Auntie must have prayed for a remedy to my hunger strike. The egg custard did it. That was the end of my eating the curtains and other pica problems and growing in health. Egg custard and prayer.

Myths of Marriage, at Christmas and New Years.

When you are single, you walk around singing and thinking about the holidays as this wonderfully romantic time. (I do remember before I was married, even though I was only 5 years old back then) Maybe you will meet him or her, this year. Maybe you are with him or her, this year. Some years all you need is mistletoe and some years all the mistletoe in the world is not enough. The same is true at seasons of your marriage, should God trust you with that field to sharecrop. Some seasons are easy to think romantical and some seasons take work to dig up some romance and thoughtfulness. When you mix children and finance problems and work stresses and home struggles and car breakdowns and health issues; what are you doing New Years? is a joke, sometimes. Where is it? Last year, or the year before the romance was on the front burner. This year, I went out into the yard and dug as deep as I could and there was not a drop of water in the romance well. That is where trust comes in. God is the river of romance. God is the filler of the well, not us. If you think that is boring, you don't know what is excitement.
I love the romantical seasons and the dry. I love the reality of waves of joy and tumult. I love the excitement of the marathon of marriage. I go to sleep and know that God is there, even when I am not sure if I am there. Earth to Jayne. God is still there, even when the romance is a fight to the finish. Maybe we need to hire a well digger, but either way, there is water down there somewhere and we'll find it.

Now, At 50, I labor to learn to...

Confess and forsake my sins.

Young people think that their elders have given off learning. I used to wish to be 50 years old and only teach and not learn. I find that I am learning more everyday. I am seeing more of myself and others and God that teach me. Young people are eager to direct the paths of their elders. They say, if you had only known about the green economy and the health initiatives that we have discovered you would not have gotten us in the mess that we are in. Perhaps, we elders say. The lessons of the years past is that covering our sins can only exacerbate the problem. When people were distant from their foibles and the seas could cover a boatload of sunken souls and no one would confess for fear, we were in sin and we didn't even uncover our shame. God knows that confession and forsaking the sin is always in order. We cannot build buildings big enough to house the blankets we try to cover them over with. Psalm 51 is the aid to the public soul and the private.
Lord, when we had covered our sins our bones grew broken and groaned. Take not Thy Holy Spirit from us. You said that if Your people would humble themselves...and pray...and turn from their wicked ways, You would heal our land. We need Your healing in our souls and in our government and certainly in our insurances. We would give You the secrets of our souls and ask for wisdom and righteousness to be learned of our younguns so that they can inherit a blessing out of decay.

This Thanksgiving, I had a meditation of baking pie with cousin.

We have never taken the luxury of setting time aside to bake, Lauren and I. But somehow, this Thanksgiving I had a fond remembrance of the many enjoyments of her delightful pie.
I suppose that my life, I have attempted to imitate the taste, if not the look of that divine confection, for my children's sake. So many times, at home, I have asked of this or that detail of her pie, while eating it. Is it nutmeg, and cinnamon? Is it a normal crust, or some secret? I couldn't get every taste coded into my buds before I moved so very far from the taste of home. "The Christie taste" Lauren has risen to the upper eshelon of Christie representation of pie. Perhaps because she made it every year, since we were very young, perhaps, because she is a grandchild and not a great-grandchild like myself. Whatever the reason, I accepted the challenge in my mind to take the time and try again for the ?llionth time to recreate that taste of home that I am so very sick for.
Wow, Laur...This year I got pretty close. It had the look. Not quite the combo of nutmeg and cinnamon and sugar that I would have liked and certainly, I forgot the lemon. Then, Laur would say to me, that is not lemon, that is some other secret ingredient. I nearly ate the whole thing myself and my hips will not be happy at the result. I do love my cousin and miss her pie as well as her hugs.

And the stars did a dance for free.

When the sun went down, the stars were peeping into the window in the house on the mountain. We have a show for you, they beckoned. I ignored them and told them that the fellowship was much to fun, for me to go outside and watch the Star's Thanksgiving Day Parade. I didn't know that we were going to a parade. When we decided to go home, when we had drunk as much of the fellowship as we could, within reason, we walked outside. We hardly had to look up and a star darted here and there, seemingly on cue. It was musical. It was syncapated and it was all the sky. Thank God, from Whom all blessings flow. Then we went home.

Blackbeans and rice for Thankful Monday!

A hazy fog was upon most of the area in eyeshot, this morning. Out of my back window, I saw the most beautiful sunrise. A sliver of sun shone through a peep hole that the clouds split for it. There was a pink and yellow and a tiny strip of red and then the brightness of the sun, in the middle. It was breathtaking. I thought of how much we have to be thankful for.

Many people enjoy the thankfulness of bounty all year round. This is America. We are so blessed that the poorest of us feast, far more frequently than we would like to admit. We are averse to the sin of discontentment that we live with. We complain about the weather and the food and the places we live in and only when our discontentment reaches the stench of making us look and feel bad do we confess it. God is so patient with us. We have so much to give God thanks for, in the best of times and in the worst of times.
Thank God for the blackbeans that will be our dinner tonight. Thank God for the preachers who study and give us direction from God for our lives. Thank God for the relationships of mother and husband and siblings and children and friends, who accent life with all their concerns. Thank God for caretakers, such as teachers and doctors and police, firefighters and governors, who concern themselves with protection and instruction and healing. Thank God for loves and neighbors who beautify the world around us and ask nothing in return but a greeting, every once in a while. Thank God for Blackbeans and rice. etc.