My grandson Andre is ten years old, 59 inches tall and 69 pounds. His arms are long, his legs are long, his neck is long, his feet are long, really long. In fact, most of his 69 pounds is probably in his size 10 men's feet. To say he's thin is a gross understatement. If it weren't for skin and bones, he'd be invisible. Subsequently, Andre is almost always cold. He is fond of curling up in a ball, yanking his T-shirt over his knees down to his feet, and then pulling his arms inside like a cocoon. But my daughter Shelley can't stand to see him do that because it stretches out all his T-shirts and then he looks even skinnier.
Last week, Shelley, her two boys and I visited my sister Anne in Oklahoma. While we were there, the outside temperature stubbornly hovered at a sweltering 100 degrees. But, thankfully, Anne's air conditioning unit worked overtime, keeping the house a pleasant 70 degrees. Pleasant for everyone but Andre, that is. If he wasn't outside in the pool, he was miserable and made the rest of us miserable with his complaining about being cold. Anne helpfully pointed out that he should always carry a jacket. She must have been remembering Mama's oft-spoken advice, "It's better to have it and not need it than to need it and not have it." Of course, Shelley commented, "We all know who would wind up carrying that jacket," and I added, "Or if he's like you all were, he'd end up losing jacket after jacket."
I've been doing some deep thinking, and I've decided that what Andre really needs is some fat. I used to be cold, but I gained ten pounds and now I'm quite comfortable. So if anyone looks at me as if I'm a fatty, I tell myself, "I'm getting ready for the last days. I'm storing up energy. After all, it's better to have it and not need it than to need it and not have it!
Thursday, July 29, 2010
Thursday, July 22, 2010
Awakening
It's 5:20 in the morning, and I've been awake for an hour and a half. No, I'm not an over-achiever. Just a woman who can't go back to sleep. It's so frustrating, sometimes, lying there in the dark in the bed, willing yourself to close your eyes and relax. Thinking maybe this night will be different, that tonight a miracle will occur and your mind will give up its circling. Circling like a vulture, waiting for just the right moment to swoop down and snatch your sanity in its talons. Sounds kind of strange, doesn't it? Losing one's mind to one's mind. If you are familiar with sleeplessness, you know what I mean. The mind gets cranked up, and you just can't stop it. If only it would ... Oh, well.
So I'm at my computer, and I hear it. Though it's still dark outside, I hear a lone bird singing an upbeat melody. The sweet song trills through the trees, through the air, through the window into my ears. I start thinking about our back yard. It's a mess. We have a broken pool that has metamorphosed into a frog pond - not the idyllic kind with the picturesque lily pads and pink blossoms. The grungy, murky, algae-filled kind. The surrounding trees and bushes and grass are overgrown. Beyond this tangle of green, there is a creek and beyond that, the woods. Kudzu has claimed many of the trees in the wood, and it is hanging low over the creek, threatening to leap across to our trees. From there, I imagine our house being taken over much as briars overtook the castle when Sleeping Beauty pricked her finger and fell into a deep sleep. People will drive by our lot and say to their children, "See that large green blob? That used to be the Bazemores' house, but then...."
What a dark scenario. What a hopeless imagining. The night is dark, the kudzu is aggressive, the snakes and spiders are real, and my mind is a vulture, not letting me sleep. Yet the bird sings. The creek tinkles by. Then the bullfrogs join in with their guttural bass voices. The song seems to say, "Your Creator is here. I'm keeping watch in the dark. Don't be afraid."
Psalm 121
So I'm at my computer, and I hear it. Though it's still dark outside, I hear a lone bird singing an upbeat melody. The sweet song trills through the trees, through the air, through the window into my ears. I start thinking about our back yard. It's a mess. We have a broken pool that has metamorphosed into a frog pond - not the idyllic kind with the picturesque lily pads and pink blossoms. The grungy, murky, algae-filled kind. The surrounding trees and bushes and grass are overgrown. Beyond this tangle of green, there is a creek and beyond that, the woods. Kudzu has claimed many of the trees in the wood, and it is hanging low over the creek, threatening to leap across to our trees. From there, I imagine our house being taken over much as briars overtook the castle when Sleeping Beauty pricked her finger and fell into a deep sleep. People will drive by our lot and say to their children, "See that large green blob? That used to be the Bazemores' house, but then...."
What a dark scenario. What a hopeless imagining. The night is dark, the kudzu is aggressive, the snakes and spiders are real, and my mind is a vulture, not letting me sleep. Yet the bird sings. The creek tinkles by. Then the bullfrogs join in with their guttural bass voices. The song seems to say, "Your Creator is here. I'm keeping watch in the dark. Don't be afraid."
Psalm 121
Thursday, July 15, 2010
"Crying Won't Help Anything"
Yep, those were some of my Daddy's wise words to me. I've thought of them several times since he died a month ago. And I've had to disagree. Though crying over his death has not brought him back to us, the tears have not been in vain.
Maybe I need to back up, w-a-a-a-a-y up. To 1960 (the olden days, for some of you). I was six years old, sitting on the front steps of our red-brick, tri-level house in Richmond, Virginia. The morning was hot, the gnats already swarming. It was a perfect day to go swimming, and my Daddy was walking to the car to take me to Three Chopt Recreation Association, aka the pool. Yet I sat there bawling. That's when Daddy turned to me and said, "Crying won't help anything, Joy."
Now that I think of it, I guess you could say he was being kind because what I was doing was not simply crying. I was having what my Mama called a hissy fit, dramatically throwing myself on the steps and wailing like an ambulance siren. I had already tried the martyr's silent crocodile tears thing, but it hadn't seemed to phase Daddy, so I had moved on to the hissy's loud real tears fit. Why? Swimming lessons. Yes, my mean old parents were making me take swimming lessons. They wanted me to be able to keep from drowning. They wanted me to enjoy jumping off the diving board, doing handstands under the water, having relays with friends and other such torturous activities.
Truth be told, I wanted to do all those things, but I was afraid of any water deeper than my knees, and I just knew those swimming lesson teachers were actually sadists who looked forward to throwing innocent children in deep water and watching them sink. Hence, the hissy fit.
Of course, I ended up going to swimming lessons because in those days, a child's histrionics did not change a parent's mind. I cried all the way, mind you, hoping that at the last minute Daddy would choose the humane road and turn the car around. But he made the left into the parking lot. W-a-h! He pulled into the first available space. W- a- a-h! He came around and opened the door for me. Wa - hunh -ah! He "helped" me out of the car. Wa - hunh - hiccup - unh - ah! And he unceremoniously propelled me into the pool area, where he gave me "the look" and left. Oh, well! I learned to swim and have been grateful many times, although I never learned to enjoy the water like my brother and sister did.
Crying didn't help. In that situation, Daddy was so right. And there've been other times in my life when his wise words have applied and I've skipped the dramatics because I learned a lesson that day. But I think Daddy meant more than meets the ears here. I think he meant that we can rebel against life, kick against reality, even throw a hissy fit every now and then, but we won't be the best we can be if we don't face our fears or do the hard thing.
I have found that crying doesn't help everything, but crying out to God does. Listen to this wonderful story from Mark 10.
verses 46-52:
As he went out of Jericho with his disciples and a great number of people, blind
Bartimaeus, the son of Timaeus, sat by the highway side begging.
When he heard that it was Jesus of Nazareth, he began to cry out and say, "Jesus,
thou son of David, have mercy on me."
Many charged him that he should hold his peace: but he cried the more a great deal,
"Thou son of David, have mercy on me."
Jesus stood still and commanded him to be called. And they called the blind man,
saying unto him, "Be of good comfort; rise; he calleth thee."
And he, casting away his garment, rose, and came to Jesus.
Jesus answered and said unto him, "What wilt thou that I should do unto thee?"
The blind man said unto him, "Lord, that I might receive my sight."
And Jesus said unto him, "Go thy way; thy faith hath made thee whole." And
immediately he received his sight, and followed Jesus in the way.
I am reminded of the Chris Rice song -
Weak and wounded sinner, Lost and left to die
O, raise your head, for love is passing by.
Come to Jesus
Come to Jesus
Come to Jesus and live!
Now your burden's lifted and carried far away
And precious blood has washed away the stain, so
Sing to Jesus
Sing to Jesus
Sing to Jesus and live!
And like a newborn baby, don't be afraid to crawl
And remember when you walk, sometimes you fall, so
Fall on Jesus
Fall on Jesus
Fall on Jesus and live!
Sometimes the way is lonely and steep and filled with pain
So if your sky is dark and pours with rain, then
Cry to Jesus
Cry to Jesus
Cry to Jesus and live!
Oh, and when the love spills over and music fills the night
And when you can't contain your joy inside, then
Dance for Jesus
Dance for Jesus
Dance for Jesus and live!
And with your final heartbeat kiss the world goodbye
Then go in peace, and laugh on Glory's side, and
Fly to Jesus
Fly to Jesus
Fly to Jesus and live!
Maybe I need to back up, w-a-a-a-a-y up. To 1960 (the olden days, for some of you). I was six years old, sitting on the front steps of our red-brick, tri-level house in Richmond, Virginia. The morning was hot, the gnats already swarming. It was a perfect day to go swimming, and my Daddy was walking to the car to take me to Three Chopt Recreation Association, aka the pool. Yet I sat there bawling. That's when Daddy turned to me and said, "Crying won't help anything, Joy."
Now that I think of it, I guess you could say he was being kind because what I was doing was not simply crying. I was having what my Mama called a hissy fit, dramatically throwing myself on the steps and wailing like an ambulance siren. I had already tried the martyr's silent crocodile tears thing, but it hadn't seemed to phase Daddy, so I had moved on to the hissy's loud real tears fit. Why? Swimming lessons. Yes, my mean old parents were making me take swimming lessons. They wanted me to be able to keep from drowning. They wanted me to enjoy jumping off the diving board, doing handstands under the water, having relays with friends and other such torturous activities.
Truth be told, I wanted to do all those things, but I was afraid of any water deeper than my knees, and I just knew those swimming lesson teachers were actually sadists who looked forward to throwing innocent children in deep water and watching them sink. Hence, the hissy fit.
Of course, I ended up going to swimming lessons because in those days, a child's histrionics did not change a parent's mind. I cried all the way, mind you, hoping that at the last minute Daddy would choose the humane road and turn the car around. But he made the left into the parking lot. W-a-h! He pulled into the first available space. W- a- a-h! He came around and opened the door for me. Wa - hunh -ah! He "helped" me out of the car. Wa - hunh - hiccup - unh - ah! And he unceremoniously propelled me into the pool area, where he gave me "the look" and left. Oh, well! I learned to swim and have been grateful many times, although I never learned to enjoy the water like my brother and sister did.
Crying didn't help. In that situation, Daddy was so right. And there've been other times in my life when his wise words have applied and I've skipped the dramatics because I learned a lesson that day. But I think Daddy meant more than meets the ears here. I think he meant that we can rebel against life, kick against reality, even throw a hissy fit every now and then, but we won't be the best we can be if we don't face our fears or do the hard thing.
I have found that crying doesn't help everything, but crying out to God does. Listen to this wonderful story from Mark 10.
verses 46-52:
As he went out of Jericho with his disciples and a great number of people, blind
Bartimaeus, the son of Timaeus, sat by the highway side begging.
When he heard that it was Jesus of Nazareth, he began to cry out and say, "Jesus,
thou son of David, have mercy on me."
Many charged him that he should hold his peace: but he cried the more a great deal,
"Thou son of David, have mercy on me."
Jesus stood still and commanded him to be called. And they called the blind man,
saying unto him, "Be of good comfort; rise; he calleth thee."
And he, casting away his garment, rose, and came to Jesus.
Jesus answered and said unto him, "What wilt thou that I should do unto thee?"
The blind man said unto him, "Lord, that I might receive my sight."
And Jesus said unto him, "Go thy way; thy faith hath made thee whole." And
immediately he received his sight, and followed Jesus in the way.
I am reminded of the Chris Rice song -
Weak and wounded sinner, Lost and left to die
O, raise your head, for love is passing by.
Come to Jesus
Come to Jesus
Come to Jesus and live!
Now your burden's lifted and carried far away
And precious blood has washed away the stain, so
Sing to Jesus
Sing to Jesus
Sing to Jesus and live!
And like a newborn baby, don't be afraid to crawl
And remember when you walk, sometimes you fall, so
Fall on Jesus
Fall on Jesus
Fall on Jesus and live!
Sometimes the way is lonely and steep and filled with pain
So if your sky is dark and pours with rain, then
Cry to Jesus
Cry to Jesus
Cry to Jesus and live!
Oh, and when the love spills over and music fills the night
And when you can't contain your joy inside, then
Dance for Jesus
Dance for Jesus
Dance for Jesus and live!
And with your final heartbeat kiss the world goodbye
Then go in peace, and laugh on Glory's side, and
Fly to Jesus
Fly to Jesus
Fly to Jesus and live!
Thursday, July 8, 2010
Pressing Matters
I didn't want to do it, but I had to. That is, iron my skirt. My linen skirt - you know the kind that gets wrinkled again as you are putting it on after ironing it. Probably no one else at the conference would be able to tell I had ironed it, but I had to do it because I would know. So I went to the closet and removed the ironing board. Then I reached up on the shelf for the iron. Wow, I said to myself, this iron is so light. This won't be bad at all.
With a lighter heart, I set up the board and plugged in the iron. After looking all over it for the on/off dial, switch, button or something, I finally noticed a raised button that extended the length of the handle. Sure enough, when I pushed it, it lit up and the iron began to warm up. There, I congratulated myself, now I'm ready. This'll be a cinch.
By the time I had the skirt situated just so on the board, the iron was hot, so I began sliding it over the skirt. It was so light that I decided to be really playful with it. I stuck just my index finger under the handle and with a mere nudge of the knuckle this way or that, the iron continued to glide over the linen. But then I noticed that the wrinkles were not actually disappearing. I picked the iron up and felt the skirt. It was barely warm. So I looked at the iron, and that's when I realized the on/off button must have been pushed by my palm because it was no longer lit. Undaunted, I proclaimed aloud, "No problem. I'll just continue ironing with one finger. That way I won't press the handle at all," and I pushed the button again.
My blithe attitude lasted about thirty seconds because as I ironed, making very sure that I didn't press the handle, I began to notice once again that the wrinkles weren't flattening out. Oh, my goodness, I shouted silently, the thing has turned off again, all by itself. However, the skirt was only half pressed and unfortunately, it was the back half. So I had to press on (pun intended :)
I examined the iron one more time to see if there might be some dial/switch/button or something I had inadvertantly touched, but there was nothing. So I pressed the handle and began in earnest to push that baby over the skirt. It had become a contest, a race if you will. I held my breath, pursed my lips, crouched in a Ninja position and attacked. Yet the iron cut off after twenty or thirty seconds. By this time, my original delight with the iron had disappeared. I am ashamed to say that, even though I was attending a Christian conference, I said to the offending piece of plastic, "You're stupid, stupid, stupid. Why won't you just iron my skirt?!?"
My next inoffensive thought was, This would have been so much easier if the iron had a manual. Of course, I don't know if I'd have taken the time to read the manual until after all this stuff had happened (after all, the iron was so light and I knew how to work an iron, didn't I?). But reading it certainly would have saved me time and trouble.
There's a spiritual lesson in this. Do you get it? Psalm 119:105
With a lighter heart, I set up the board and plugged in the iron. After looking all over it for the on/off dial, switch, button or something, I finally noticed a raised button that extended the length of the handle. Sure enough, when I pushed it, it lit up and the iron began to warm up. There, I congratulated myself, now I'm ready. This'll be a cinch.
By the time I had the skirt situated just so on the board, the iron was hot, so I began sliding it over the skirt. It was so light that I decided to be really playful with it. I stuck just my index finger under the handle and with a mere nudge of the knuckle this way or that, the iron continued to glide over the linen. But then I noticed that the wrinkles were not actually disappearing. I picked the iron up and felt the skirt. It was barely warm. So I looked at the iron, and that's when I realized the on/off button must have been pushed by my palm because it was no longer lit. Undaunted, I proclaimed aloud, "No problem. I'll just continue ironing with one finger. That way I won't press the handle at all," and I pushed the button again.
My blithe attitude lasted about thirty seconds because as I ironed, making very sure that I didn't press the handle, I began to notice once again that the wrinkles weren't flattening out. Oh, my goodness, I shouted silently, the thing has turned off again, all by itself. However, the skirt was only half pressed and unfortunately, it was the back half. So I had to press on (pun intended :)
I examined the iron one more time to see if there might be some dial/switch/button or something I had inadvertantly touched, but there was nothing. So I pressed the handle and began in earnest to push that baby over the skirt. It had become a contest, a race if you will. I held my breath, pursed my lips, crouched in a Ninja position and attacked. Yet the iron cut off after twenty or thirty seconds. By this time, my original delight with the iron had disappeared. I am ashamed to say that, even though I was attending a Christian conference, I said to the offending piece of plastic, "You're stupid, stupid, stupid. Why won't you just iron my skirt?!?"
My next inoffensive thought was, This would have been so much easier if the iron had a manual. Of course, I don't know if I'd have taken the time to read the manual until after all this stuff had happened (after all, the iron was so light and I knew how to work an iron, didn't I?). But reading it certainly would have saved me time and trouble.
There's a spiritual lesson in this. Do you get it? Psalm 119:105
Thursday, July 1, 2010
Who's to Blame?
There she sat, her pageboy cut chestnut hair framing her young, pale face. Her eyes scanned the room looking for what? We weren't sure. Then we noticed her eyes stop. That I'm thinking, I'm wondering, should I or shouldn't I? look came upon her countenance. She stood up from her table, you know the square kind with four chairs, one on each side. She scooched like a miniature Mata Hari over to the nearby booth and carefully but quickly moved the newspaper and sundry items from the booth to the table she had just vacated. Then she flew into the booth just in time to see her brother and mother come around the corner with breakfast. The innocent family members took their seats in the booth, and all three began to cheerfully eat bagels and sweet rolls.
We, the audience, sat on the edges of our mental seats and waited for Act I, Scene 2. We didn't have to wait long. A man, probably in his early sixties, rounded the corner, coffee and pastry in hand. He headed straight for the booth, then stopped short in dismay. He glanced at the booth beside the first one, gave his head a slight shake, then gazed back at the family enjoying breakfast in the first.
My friend and I exchanged quick, amused glances, then turned back to the scene playing out before us. By this time, the old man had noticed his newspaper on the table. He set his coffee down and took a seat, facing the booth! Though aiming a few disgruntled looks towards the unsuspecting mom in the booth, he began to eat, picked up his newspaper and opened it wide. There, I thought. He's just going to move on. Not so. He closed his newspaper and folded it in half. Then he said, loudly enough to be heard by the family in the booth - and us, for that matter, "Is there any particular reason you moved my things over here to this table?"
"Wha'? Hunh? Who, us?" the mom answered.
"Yes." He was sort of glaring now.
"You mean your stuff was on this table?" The woman was still perplexed.
"Yes, and someone moved it here," he continued. "Didn't you do it?"
If I had dog ears, I believe I would have heard squirming going on in that booth as the mom finally caught on. "Anna, did you move the man's things over there?"
"Mm-mm," we barely heard.
Well, the mom apologized, of course, but there was no swift movement to try to undo the wrong. The family went on eating, and the man took up his paper again.
We went on with our conversation, and were just beginning to think the play had ended when Mata Hari herself, red-faced and tentative, scooched up to the table and muttered, "I'm very sorry for moving your things, sir."
To which he replied, "Okay," and went back to his paper.
Being me, I thought, "There's a spiritual lesson in this!"
The man assumed the woman had done it. He couldn't imagine that it had happened any other way. But how wrong he was! The little girl's mama made her say she was sorry, and I guess it would've been a little awkward for the man to turn to the mom and say, "And I'm sorry for assuming it was you who did it." He probably did the best thing to just say, "Okay" and move on.
What about us, though? What about all the times we place blame on someone when we don't have all the facts? How many of us would need to scooch up to someone and say, "I'm sorry for assuming you were in the wrong"? I know I am quick to judge. I think I deserve to feel disgruntled, even angry for all the injustices in my life. Who's to blame? I want to know.
No wonder Jesus' model prayer included the lines, "forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us, and lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil."
We, the audience, sat on the edges of our mental seats and waited for Act I, Scene 2. We didn't have to wait long. A man, probably in his early sixties, rounded the corner, coffee and pastry in hand. He headed straight for the booth, then stopped short in dismay. He glanced at the booth beside the first one, gave his head a slight shake, then gazed back at the family enjoying breakfast in the first.
My friend and I exchanged quick, amused glances, then turned back to the scene playing out before us. By this time, the old man had noticed his newspaper on the table. He set his coffee down and took a seat, facing the booth! Though aiming a few disgruntled looks towards the unsuspecting mom in the booth, he began to eat, picked up his newspaper and opened it wide. There, I thought. He's just going to move on. Not so. He closed his newspaper and folded it in half. Then he said, loudly enough to be heard by the family in the booth - and us, for that matter, "Is there any particular reason you moved my things over here to this table?"
"Wha'? Hunh? Who, us?" the mom answered.
"Yes." He was sort of glaring now.
"You mean your stuff was on this table?" The woman was still perplexed.
"Yes, and someone moved it here," he continued. "Didn't you do it?"
If I had dog ears, I believe I would have heard squirming going on in that booth as the mom finally caught on. "Anna, did you move the man's things over there?"
"Mm-mm," we barely heard.
Well, the mom apologized, of course, but there was no swift movement to try to undo the wrong. The family went on eating, and the man took up his paper again.
We went on with our conversation, and were just beginning to think the play had ended when Mata Hari herself, red-faced and tentative, scooched up to the table and muttered, "I'm very sorry for moving your things, sir."
To which he replied, "Okay," and went back to his paper.
Being me, I thought, "There's a spiritual lesson in this!"
The man assumed the woman had done it. He couldn't imagine that it had happened any other way. But how wrong he was! The little girl's mama made her say she was sorry, and I guess it would've been a little awkward for the man to turn to the mom and say, "And I'm sorry for assuming it was you who did it." He probably did the best thing to just say, "Okay" and move on.
What about us, though? What about all the times we place blame on someone when we don't have all the facts? How many of us would need to scooch up to someone and say, "I'm sorry for assuming you were in the wrong"? I know I am quick to judge. I think I deserve to feel disgruntled, even angry for all the injustices in my life. Who's to blame? I want to know.
No wonder Jesus' model prayer included the lines, "forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us, and lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil."
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