November 21, 2015

Discerning Minds Want to Know...


I know it is time to vacuum when I put my G-boy on the floor and five seconds later, I am plucking petrified raisins, toenail clippings, rogue Legos or hairy dust balls out of his chubby hands.

If he would just leave all that crap alone, I wouldn't have to vacuum. 

But he doesn't.  You know why?

My one-year old G-babe (miracle that he is) lacks DISCERNMENT.


Okay, maybe I skipped a few core developmental stages in there. 

First, my G-baby will need to develop enough Knowledge to understand what toenail clippings are. But Knowledge alone is not enough. Knowing what a toenail is doesn't mean he won't put it in his mouth because, you know... he's a guy. 

It will take him a bit longer to learn Right from Wrong, and even longer to determine Good from Evil. By then, he'll have grown so tall that the dust balls are no longer eye level. (Though he may still choose to eat petrified raisins in full Knowledge and Understanding that they are going to taste Evil, ala Garden of Eden.)

This is where Wisdom comes in. But only with experience. And often from mistakes. For example, every parent knows to pick up the Legos before getting up to pee in the middle of the night.  It only takes one barefooted misstep to gain such wisdom.

Hopefully, Wisdom eventually leads to Discernment.

I say 'hopefully', because the older I get, the more I realize Discernment is not a developmental tool in everybody's arsenal.

Facebook has taught me this lesson well. The sparsity of Discernment on my news feed is downright depressing. Never more so than during times of social and political upheaval.

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We are at war, y'all.

But our enemy isn't angry young men wielding AK-47's or pressure cookers. 

Our enemy is Satan.  And his weapons to destroy us are many.

He uses hate, bigotry, ignorance, deception, defeat, doubt, division. He breaks our hearts, he confuses our minds.  He paralyses our souls with fear...

Then he sits back in satisfaction, watching as we destroy each other.

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These people we call “extremists”...? 

They are making extremists of us all.

We're acting like a bunch of soulless knuckleheads.

When did we forget that we are spiritual beings having a human experience? 

We.Are.Spiritual.Beings.

Our hearts may be broken, but are souls are intact.  We are not defenseless.

The Holy Spirit dwells within us.

Just writing those words gives me chills.  

Yet there are so many believers who never unwrap this God-given gift.  It reminds me of those little wooden Russian dolls that stack inside of each other.  How sad it would be to never figure out how to open the biggest doll and discover the other little dolls nesting inside.

So it is with the Holy Spirit. Open up the Big Gift and you will find seven more:


Do you realize what a gift this truly is?  We have within our possession – within our very soul – every single tool we need to be More Than Conquerors.

Doesn't it make sense to develop these gifts and put them to use? 

Isn't it time?

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This world can seem very dark. We The People, perpetuate that darkness with our divisiveness and judgment. We rush to jump on bandwagons and leap joyfully into piles of false assumptions, seemingly driven by a self-serving desire to be right

Discernment is not self-serving, but considers the common good. 

Discernment relies on the Holy Spirit for guidance.

And if our guidance is coming from anywhere else, we're nothing but a bunch of fools...


(Which reminds me, I need to go vacuum.)

November 02, 2015

No More Excuses

My husband is a wonderful son.

Every Sunday after church he goes by the nursing home and then goes to church again, this time with his Mama. 

I know. Thatsalottachurch. But he loves it, looks forward to it every week.

Except yesterday. Yesterday, he came home sad.

According to him, his Mama was 'out of sorts'. She had missed her hair appointment earlier in the week and refused to eat dinner two nights in a row. She seemed to be having more trouble than usual communicating, which made him feel as though she was slipping further away.

Generally speaking, poking and pestering the Dickman are high on the list of my favorite activities. I'm really good at it, too. But when my guy is sad...? It absolutely swamps me. His sadness is my Kryptonite.

I knew there wasn't anything I could say to make him feel better. Sometimes there just aren't enough words. But I knew there was something I could do that might help.

I didn't want to do it. Just the thought of it made my stomach all wonky.

'Cause I really don't like to go the nursing home.

There. I said it.

It's not something I'm proud of or even understand. I mean, I work with geriatrics all the time. I've taken multiple courses on how to deal with Alzheimer patients. I know all the tricks of the trade.

But it's a whole nuther deal when it happens to be YOUR geriatric in THEIR nursing home.

I could blame it on logistics, as she naps most of the day and is usually up and alert only for meals.

But that's not really the truth. 

The truth is that I am a wuss and it breaks my heart to see her there. And after I see her, I hate telling her goodbye. I hate driving off without her. Even though I know she's much more contented and settled than she ever was at my house, it makes me cry. 

Every. Single. Time.

But I did what any self-respecting slacker of a daughter-in-law would do. I put on my Big Girl panties, packed up my hairspray and headed out.

She was asleep when I peeked into her room. I stood in the doorway and watched her for a moment, hating to disturb her peaceful rest.

My heart squeezed a little as I took note of her weight loss and her messy hair.

Dora B?” I said as I gently shook her shoulder; “Dora B... your girl is here.” (She had forgotten my name months ago, but still referred to me as 'her girl'.)

Her eyes opened slowly in confusion. She blinked at me as she sat up, no sign of recognition on her face.

“Dickie told me you were having a bad hair day. I came to make you pretty.”

She smoothed her wrinkled hand self-consciously over her hair and stuttered incoherently at me, still trying to figure out who I was and why I was there. 

“I'm Robin. I belong to Dickie. Remember Dickie? He came to church with you this morning.”

Finally, the look of confusion disappeared and her face lit up in a beautiful smile. “Ttttthat's my boy. He, he comes here. Church. Every time. I love him.”

“And he loves you. He loves you very much.”

“Yyyyyyou, you know Dddddd...? I have tttttttwo boys,” she told me proudly as she held up two fingers.

“I know! I know both of them. The other one comes and sings to you all the time, right?”

“Yyyyyes. Oh, yes. And he, he is GOOD!”

I began to comb and curl as her tangled words came out in a jumbled stream. I couldn't understand most of what she said but I got the jest: her beautician didn't show up this week and her hair was ugly and she didn't want anybody to see her like that and she wasn't eating because she didn't like the food and I was a good niece.

After much backcombing and hairspraying (the bigger the hair, the closer to God... amiright?) I walked her into the bathroom to look in the big mirror.

“Oh, my. Tttthat. Gggggood. Better!”

Her delighted expression had me blinking back tears, while giving myself a good kick in the butt for not making more of an effort to spend time with her.

See how pretty you are?! You're gonna have to fight the fellers away at dinner!” I teased.

And I'll be danged if I didn't catch a glimpse of that old ornery twinkle in her baby blue eyes.

“Seriously, Dora B? You still looking for a boyfriend?”

She grinned up at me coquettishly and shrugged her shoulders as if to say, “Why not?!”

We laughed even harder at my pathetic attempts to take a picture of ourselves for the Dickman. I hugged her tight and promised to be back soon.

And I meant it.

Cause sometimes you just need your girl...

(RUTH 1:16)

October 31, 2015

The Times They Are A'Changin'...


"An extra yawn one morning in the springtime,

an extra snooze one night in the autumn

is all that we ask in return for dazzling gifts.

We borrow an hour one night in April;

we pay it back with golden interest 

five months later."

~ Winston Churchill ~


Thanks to ol' Benjamin Franklin, I get an extra hour of sleep tonight. The problem is, I don't need it tonight. I needed it three nights ago.

Wednesday night my sleep was continually interrupted by the snoring declarations of my congested husband competing with blustering wind gusts of biblical proportions. Okay, maybe I'm exaggerating, but they were AT LEAST Wizard of Oz proportions. I eventually dozed off about 2 a.m., only to be rudely awakened by a loud crash on my deck. When I looked out the window, I discovered that our patio table had been blown over. Glass was shattered all over our deck. I looked up just in time to catch Toto flying by...


At that point, I just gave up.  I got out of bed, fixed myself a hot cup of tea and plopped down in my recliner to do some pondering.

Unfortunately, I happen to be one of those wacky people who ponders about a bazillion things all at once. Thoughts flit in and out of my consciousness like a twisted string of twinkle lights, going off like tiny explosions. The derailed dialog of my jumbled train of thoughts went something like this:
Man, those winds are horrible! This is how it must feel to be in a hurricane, except without all the water. If I had been in Hurricane Katrina, I would have totally climbed on top of my roof. I must remember to put an ax in the attic in case I ever need to be rescued.  I remember hearing one of the Cowsills drowned during Katrina. Horrible. I wonder if it was the one I had the crush on? Barry? Paul? Whichever one used to sing Indian Lake.  I used to get all tingle-toed every time I heard that song. Now it just makes me sad because, you know... lake/water/drowning. The Partridge Family was written about the Cowsills. I always wondered why Shirley Partridge didn't marry Eddie's Father. They should've cast Shirley as the girlfriend on The Courtship of Eddie's Father because dang it, Eddie needed a mommy! I also had a crush on Eddie's father but I was way too young for Bill Bixby.  Back in those days, I was still perfecting my kissing technique.  I practiced on my pillow and sometimes on my hand because, well... skin. I wasn't sure what I was doing, but I knew enough to follow the KISS acronym --- Keep It Simple Stupid. Which I later found to be a complete waste of time unless you're kissing your grandparents.  The Dickman certainly didn't believe in simple kisses. Crystal Blue Persuasion... that was my all-time favorite make-out song in high school. I'm hungry! What can I eat that is not a carb??? Peanuts! I used to love to put peanuts in my Dr. Pepper bottles. Pry off the bottle cap, pour in a cylinder of salted peanuts, put the cap back on and punch a hole in it with an ice pick. Then I would lay on the floor and sip on my salty Dr. Pepper while watching Gunsmoke with Mom and Dad. Man, that Miss Kitty sure knew how to work her wiles on the Marshall!  I learned a lot from Miss Kitty.  It always bothered me that Festus walked with such a bad limp. Hmmmm... I wonder if Festus is the reason I became a PT? I think I could help him with that Trendelenberg gait of his.  Is Festus even still alive? My brother dressed up as Festus for Halloween one year. Or was it Daniel Boone? Daniel Boone was a man, was a Big Man; and he fought for America to make all Americans free. Where's Daniel Boone when we need him? Today, all the little munchkins dress up like slashers or even scarier - politicians.  The debate sucked. I really don't like Talking Heads with Bad Hair. Snoopy must feel the exact same way when he listens to Charlie Brown. I would rather watch a dance-off between the candidates.  Yeah, that would be great!  Whoever does the best Moonwalk wins the nomination.  I would also take into consideration anybody ballsy enough to give the Donald a noogie, though I don't hate his proposal to build a wall around Texas because, you know... vampires. Which reminds me, I need to buy some candy.
I finally wore my brain out and woke up Thursday morning all fuzzy headed and fatigued. I spent the whole day yawning in everybody's face. (Which is really attractive. Especially when you're too tired to brush your teeth.)

Anyhoo... the point of all of this is just to say: Daylight Savings Time is stupid, y'all. And the only way it will ever make sense is if the Powers That Be can figure out a way to establish a time bank where we can literally deposit or withdraw our personal hours of time.

Furthermore... We The People should be allowed to decide precisely which hour(s) we want to subtract from our life and which hour(s) we choose to spend more wisely.

For example, I would really like to subtract the hour I spent watching Caitlyn Jenner determine the best way to duct tape her junk so she wouldn't look all bumpy in a one-piece swimsuit. I mean, I feel for you Caitlyn... I really do. And I sincerely hope you find the peace you are seeking (along with the balance necessary to walk in heels).  But I don't need to spend any more time picking up what you are laying down. Capeesh?

There are other hours that I would like to erase... hours that resulted in pain and sadness; hours that could have been, should have been spent dispensing love and kindness rather than anger and judgement.

As for that extra hour of time... ah, let me count the ways! Without hesitation, I would cash in those extra hours for more time with my Daddy and my Grandmother Flodie, and others who ran out of hours before I was ready.  I would spend that extra time just sitting by their side... resting my head on their shoulder... breathing them in... showing them pictures of my grandbabies and doing anything to make them laugh. Oh, to hear their laughter and have another chance to trace the lines of their face until they were memorized in my soul! Because this time I would realize how quickly those memories fade away...

If I had any time left over, I would go back and tuck my little boys into bed one more time... whispering words of thanksgiving into their ears for all the wonderful ways they will bless my life.

Now that would more than compensate for all the time I've lost sitting in the Dairy Queen drive-through or waiting on 'hold' with my homeowners insurance.

The truth is, no matter how many times we set and reset our clocks, there really are no do-overs. And regardless of whether we fall back or spring forward, there are only 24 hours in a day. (This will be proven tomorrow when the analog clock on my Buick will once again be right, by the way.)

Time is an illusion, no matter what the government or Ben Franklin might have you believe. 

Ben Franklin is not the boss of me.

Heck, I'm not even the boss of me. I'm a 58 year old menopausal woman... I can't even control my own bladder.

All I'm in control of is changing the time on my clocks.  And I can't even do that without an instruction manual.

What I CAN do is choose to make a conscious effort to make every hour of every day count.  To find divine purpose amid the frustrations and brokenness of this crazy, happy, heart-breakingly beautiful world. To live my life without regrets for misspent hours and wasted time. 

I'm pretty sure the Lord laughs (politely, of course) at our feeble attempts to add and subtract from the days He has given us.  I doubt he even owns a watch.  But that's okay.  

Because He is my God and my time is in His hands...

PSALMS 31:14-15


September 20, 2015

THE ROAD LESS TRAVELED


I just returned home from a weekend in the Hill Country. I drove my big ass car all by myself. And I got lost all by myself.  Coming and going.

What should've been a six and a half hour drive ended up taking seven hours. Coming and going.

I will admit that my sense of direction is not much better than Stevie Wonder's sight. Still, I'm blaming my lostedness on my low-carb diet.

Carbs give me clairity. And hope.  And happiness.

Nothing happy about This Diet. I can eat anything but sugar and bread and dairy and, well... food. Hardly any carbs. And I'm pretty sure my Spirit Animal is a Carbohydrate.

Whatever the reason, I missed my turn in Abilene. Bless my heart, I was halfway to Fort Worth before I realized my mistake. After much swearing and gnashing of teeth, I somehow stumbled back onto the loop (AKA: The Circle Of Hell). But then I needed to pee. At a Stage 4 level of bladder distress.

I stopped at one of those multi-purpose stations where you can get gas and Burger King fries and a passport and a shower and very likely, an STD.

I mowed over three burly truckers on my way to the restroom and made it Just In Time. I promised myself I would be more disciplined about doing those blasted Kegels.

As I exited the restroom, I noticed a huge sign hanging over the deli: “WE SELL BLUE BELL ICE CREAM”.

I immediately performed a military precision pivot turn and headed straight for the dude behind the counter.

“Blue Bell?” I asked in a reverent whisper. “You have BLUE BELL?”

“Well... not exactly. I mean, we WILL have it when the trucks make their way up to us.”

“And when will that be? Today? Tomorrow?” I asked hopefully.

“Uh, no ma'am. It'll be at least January.”

I tried to hide my utter disgust as I dismissively nodded my head and headed dejectedly to my car.

Not ONLY had I gotten lost in Abilene... my Blue Bell hopes had been crushed to smithereens. Clearly, the universe was in cahoots to keep me carb-less.

Miraculously, by the time I arrived in Fredericksburg I had regained my will to live.

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On the way back home, I found myself lost again.  But This Time, I found salvation instead of frustration.

I had been on the road for less than half an hour before I realized my mistake. Driving into a strange town was my first clue.

I parked in a empty lot in Harper-Freakin-Texas and pulled out my well-worn map (soiled with shame) in an attempted to find myself.

According to my calculations (nebulous,  at best), FM 634 was only a half-inch long and would get me to Mason much quicker than backtracking.

So there I was, cluelessly traversing the backroads of the Hill Country. No phone service. No GPS.  No carbs.   No hope.

Trying to make the best of it, I put on a James Taylor CD and began performing Kegels to the lucid tunes of Fire and Rain.

But then... I started to notice the spectacular scenery outside my windshield. Slowly, I found myself relaxing and actually enjoying my impromptu detour. Because really, who could possibly stay upset while passing flocks of fluffy sheep and herds of long-horned cattle grazing on miles and miles of rolling Texas ranchland?

Apparently, not I.

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I saw the cross from way down the road.

It was beautiful. At least 10 feet tall and made out of hand-carved wood.

Awed by the beauty of the cross, it took a minute before I noticed the old rancher.

He was kneeling on one knee with a hand touching the cross and the other holding onto his cowboy hat. His head was bowed in prayer.

I quickly took all this in as I drove down the country road. When my heart caught up to my brain, I wanted to make a U-turn and go back to the cross.  But I didn't.

I realized what I had witnessed was holy and ordinary; precious and personal.

I imagined the rancher performing the very same ritual every single day of his life... saying his prayers at the cross.

Completely unaware of my presence.  

But I couldn't stop thinking about him. Of his humility and vulnerability.

Of his faithfulness.

These are the days where the darkness of the world is often overwhelming; where the hope of a brighter tomorrow seems like a foolish dream. Where listening to the news becomes a daily test of faith.

Yet, all it took was the sight of this singularly righteous rancher kneeling in front of a cross to restore hope, renew faith and to remind me that God sometimes sends us down the road less traveled to refresh our spirit.

I was so humbled by the old rancher that I said a special prayer just for him. I prayed that God would deliver Blue Bell straight to his door. 

On earth as it is in Heaven.

In Jesus name,

Amen.

July 07, 2015

Independence Day


We turned into the driveway of my brother's home and my Mom exclaimed, "Look at all those little ones running around... aren't they just the cutest things you've ever seen?!"

"They're all yours, Mom," I replied. "You are indirectly responsible for all that cuteness."

She sat through an entire two hours of pyromania display, watching the exploding sky with a smile on her face.  Watching her great grandbabes with wonder in her eyes.

My brother had downloaded a concert of patriotic songs to play in the background.  He's just corny that way.

In perfect time to the grand finale (Big Bad Mudder!) the heart squeezing sounds of 'Proud To Be An American' wafted through the smoke-filled air.

I looked around at the gaggle of squealing cousins defying the darkness with their spitting sparklers and neon necklaces...

Grandparents and Great-grandparents sharing homemade ice cream with the littles...

My son and nephew, once little boys who liked to blow things up, now grown-ass men who like to blow things up...


My eyes settled on my tiny G-boy, lying peacefully on top of his G-dude, eyes wide and shining.

It pulled on my heart to realize there are moments like this he will never remember.  Moments I will never forget.

He turned to me and smiled, reached for me to hold him.

And that's all it took for me to know that he will always remember what really matters...

He will never forget that he is loved.

             

I am mostly proud of this country my G-boy has inherited, though I can't help but wish it was more like the one I grew up in... the one Lee Greenwood celebrated.  

Truth is, some of My Fellow Americans seem to have gone a bit bonkers... climbing upon their high horses, jousting at pastel rainbows, arguing over artifacts, hating the sin of their neighbor because it's different from their own.

Because apparently, voicing one's opinion has become a National Sport.

What a waste of precious time.

They're like buttholes, you know... opinions are. Just cause you have 'em, doesn't mean you should share 'em with everybody.

It's all noise. 

So. Much. Noise.

Clanging cymbals.  Loud gongs being banged in self-righteousness instead of love.


Independence Day of 2015 is history.  

The smoke from the fireworks has cleared.  The bombs bursting in air, the rocket's red glare...? Not even a blip on my G-boy's radar. Loud, bright, explosive... and momentary.

The only thing he remembers is the love that surrounded him.

I'm going to try to be more like that little guy on his first Fourth of July.  


Because everything else is just noise.

May 10, 2015

An Over The Rainbow Mother's Day...


It's Mother's Day and I'm a soggy mess.

My daughter-in-law has been at a homeschooling conference for the past three days, where allegedly an assortment of the Duggar family was scheduled to speak.  I've alternated between worrying that she will return home with a new resolve to out-birth the Duggars or that she will decide not to come back home, at all. 

Meanwhile, I've enjoyed every minute spent babysitting my four little grand-nuggets.  But lawdy, I'm tired.  

It takes an amazing amount of energy to keep a hollow-legged eight year old girl full of food while answering the incessant questions of an insatiably curious seven year old when I am constantly swatting the four year old's hand away from his crotch and educating a two year old on the benefits of pooping in the pot versus NOT eating boogers .

My house looks like it's been hit by a tornado; a M-4 tornado. 

The bedroom...


The toy closet...


And the kitchen...


If it looks like we had fun... we did.  Oodles of it.

We even managed to make a video worthy of America's Funniest. Keep your eye on the innocent-looking short guy on the front left...


(I really hope we win and Tom Bergeron sends us all to Disneyland. Otherwise, M-4 is gonna hate me for the rest of my life.)

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My favorite part of babysitting The Grands...?

Bedtime.

Not just for the obvious reasons, but truly, nothing squeezes my heart quite so exquisitely as the tucking-in ritual with my sweet-smelling G-babes...  reading the old, worn books I read to my sons once upon a time... singing endless verses of "Over the Rainbow" as angel eyes flutter off to sleep.

Last night as I searched for the perfect bedtime story, I stumbled upon this book:


It is a whimsical story about a Mama who rocks her baby boy to sleep every night, even after he becomes a grown man.  And each time she rocks him, she sings to him the same sweet song...


(Okay, maybe the part where she drives across town with a ladder and sneaks into his bedroom is a little bit creepy, but still... I get it.)

I ain't gonna lie... when I got to the part where the grown-up son went home, picked up his own baby girl and sang the song to her, I couldn't finish the story. My eyes got all misty and my voice got all wobbly and snot started running out of my nose.  

My G-babes looked up at me and wondered what in the heck was going on!

How could I explain to these precious ones that the last time I had read this book, it had been my own two little boys cuddled up beside me? What words could I use to make them understand the inter-generational love flowing from my heart to their Dad's heart and on to them?  The melancholy of realizing how quickly the years had passed?

I did what any self-respecting grandmother would do.  I faked a sneeze and told them it was time to turn the lights off.

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Their Dad came to pick them up this afternoon and they scattered like cockroaches.  Both of us were just too dang tired to hunt them down, so I crumpled  into my recliner and Lucas plopped down at the piano.

[I wish I could explain all the feels I feel whenever Lucas plays my piano.  It belonged to my paternal Granddad... my Daddy's Dad. Some of my earliest memories are of him pounding gospel songs out on those keys, surrounded by my Dad and his siblings... all of them singing at the top of their collective lungs, lifting their voices in perfect familial harmony.  It's that circle of life thing, y'all. Gets me every time.]

So there I am - enjoying the beautiful ivory tinkling of my firstborn - when all of a sudden, I look up to see Jacob, my youngest, sit down beside his brother and begin tuning his guitar.  

They ran through a couple of chords, shot me a grin and began to play "Somewhere Over the Rainbow".  

Our song.

The song I sang to them throughout their growing-up years.

The song Lucas and I danced to at his wedding. 

The song that never fails to bring back memories of freckled-faced little boys and bedtime snuggles.

There they were, two beautiful men who once shared my heartbeat... together at my Granddad's piano, playing an impromptu love song to their besotted Mama.

Amid the chaos of the weekend, it was such a moment of absolute perfection...


For as long as I'm living, my babies they'll be.

April 27, 2015

Smooth Heels and Blue Bell...


Last week was My Birthday Week and I gotta tell you, it was almost over before it began.

It's not what you're thinking.  Even though I had not planned on sharing My Birthday with National Hairball Awareness Day...


I was willing to compromise.  I mean, hairballs are dangerous, y'all. Just thinking about it gets me all choked up.

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But, no.  What really got me was that a few days before My Big Day, Blue Bell Creameries pulled ALL THEIR ICE CREAM off the shelves due to a little ol' Listeria problem.

(If you're not from Texas, let me explain... THEY TOOK ALL OUR ICE CREAM OFF THE SHELVES!  WE ARE VIRTUALLY ICE CREAM-LESS!!!

Mighty serious stuff, this is.  

They are holding ice cream prayer vigils in Brenham, Texas.  And rightly so.  Blue Bell comes straight from heaven.  Listeria is from the debil.  Nothing short of divine intervention can help us at this point.

Between the hair balls and the Blue Bell, I was ready to call off the party.  The thought of celebrating My Birthday without Blue Bell Pecans Praline 'n Cream was just downright depressing...


Hoping against hope, I jumped in my car and headed to Walgreen's, praying to Baby Jesus that I would find a rogue carton of Blue Bell. 

Just one little carton... 

I wasn't gonna be picky...

Any flavor would do...

Alas, there was not a single carton of Blue Bell to be found.  The bloody ice cream murderers had done their job well.

(Saddest photo I've ever seen.)

BUT... while I was searching for Blue Bell, in a stroke of serendipity I found this handy gadget:


A battery powered callus remover!  The Perfect Birthday Gift for ME!!

I drove straight home and told Dickie what he needed to get me for My Birthday. (All smart wives know this trick.  Otherwise we end up with stinky bath salts or a weed eater.)

Let me tell you... this man of mine is so well trained that he didn't even blink.  He shut off his power tools, made a precision military turn in his clean white Nike's, got in his truck and drove off into the sunset to buy his woman the desire of her heart.  

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I'm not so far into Blue Bell withdrawal that I can't see all you judgy young brides snickering at me.  I see you out there.  And I fully understand that if you unwrapped a battery powered callous remover from your husband, you would think that the romance is over. 

But you would be wrong.  

Battery powered callous removers are not the end of romance.  You know what is?  The Menopause is.  Just like Listeria, the menopause is the debil.  

You young, moist, nubile chicks need to know this.  Enjoy those plump ovaries while you can, because one day your little nuggets will dry up and unleash a cataclysm causing your body to erupt into night sweats, leaky bladders, weight gain, stray gray hair and funky feet.  

Don't get me wrong.  I can still tear it up in the sheets.  It's just that now... my heels are to blame for tearing up the sheets.  They were so cracked and rough that I could actually file my own toes with 'em.  

And even though I tried really hard to keep my jagged heels off the Dickman, sometimes things would go bump in the night and... BAM! 

Poor guy accused me of wearing spurs to bed.  (Not that there's anything wrong that.)

So keep that smugness to your young, tight-skinned, smooth-heeled selves.  Because I'm here to tell you... True Love is making sure your middle-aged wife has callous-free heels for her birthday.  King-sized sheets are expensive.


DISCLAIMER:  This was not Blue Bell ice cream and I did not cheat.  I only licked the chocolate.

April 20, 2015

BEARING BEAMS OF LOVE


Once upon a time, inspired by the upcoming Royal Wedding of Prince William and Kate, I wrote a blog about love and marriage and fairy tales and cynicism and the intricacies of Happily Ever After

If I may be so obnoxious as to quote myself, I said:
"You wonder how your fairy tale wedding morphed into a marriage that has now become a crazed dance of coming together and pulling apart and twirling around and stepping on toes in a flurry of frenzy and breathless emotion all intertwined with love. The only constant through all the years is love."
We're coming up on 38 years, my Dickman and I.

The only constant through all the years is love.

It's painful to look back and remember wedges that were driven between us, implicit in every relationship.  Satisfying to know that we somehow survived with most of our knees and knobby bits intact.

On the other side of the plighted troth, it's always fun to reminiscence about the varied forces of nature that conspired to cement our relationship: the deaths and births and ties that bind, island sunsets and jungle ziplines, ER trips and midnight promises, two-stepping on decks and driving through  vineyards.

There's a million little things that tie us together, a lifetime of memories over which we have bonded.  But who would have guessed that right smack dab in the middle of our middle agedness, we would be bonding over two of the most important women in our lives --- our Mamas.

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A few months ago, we moved my mother-in-law to a 'rehabilitation and living center'. (It sounds better than 'nursing home', so just go with it.) To our surprise and unending gratitude, she loves it! The staff loves her, she has a roommate who makes her feel safe, and she can find her way from her room to the cafeteria – all by herself.

She was disoriented at first, even to the point of not remembering her own son if she skipped a few days without seeing him.

Shortly after we moved her, the Dickman stopped by the rehabilitation and living center on his way home from a business trip. He sat with his Mom, chatting about the weather and hair color and bowel movements, all her favorite topics. She asked him what time it was and he replied, “It's about 7:00.” She asked if it was day or night and he pulled back the curtains to show her the setting sun. Then she looked right into his eyes and said, “Oh my, it's getting late! Does your Mama know where you are?”

Dickman smiled a sweet, sad smile and said, “You know... I'm not really sure.”

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My Mama knows exactly where I am - straight down the hall and to the right.

I'm pretty sure that living with me and the Dickman was not in her Life Plan. She is a fiercely independent woman, which we strive to respect and honor.

Every morning, I take her a breakfast tray and when she's up to it, she joins us for supper at night.  All the in-between stuff she handles mostly by herself. (Lunch...? She keeps a stash of cheese crackers and pork rinds to drink with her coke. Seriously, don't even go there.)

It's hard not to help when I see her struggling with daily tasks, but I know it's important for her to do what she can while she can. She insists on making her bed every morning, even though it wipes her out and she has to take rest breaks.

This morning I peeked in her door and saw this...


My sweet Mama was sitting on the side of her bed, trying to catch her breath... quietly enjoying some of her favorite pictures. I stood in the doorway and watched, allowing my heart to break into a million little pieces because you know what?  Love hurts.

Nazareth was right, y'all.

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There is a quote by William Blake that I've always loved, but never fully appreciated until recently:
“We are put on earth a little space, that we may learn to bear the beams of love.”

From the minute we are born until the day we die, God is transforming us with beams of love. Sometimes the transformation is painful. Often the transformation is painful.

Love, done right, cracks you wide open and makes you feel all the feels you always and never wanted to feel.

But here's the deal:  it only hurts for a little space.  'Cause that's all we've got.

And though I'm always screwing up, I really, really want to get this right. Even when the vulnerability of loving others knocks me to my knees... or when the sadness of losing my loved ones seems too painful to bear... even when my every instinct is to build up walls of protection around my heart... I pray that God tears me apart with beams of love so heavy and bright that I can't help but shine it all over those around me!

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Obviously... God is not finished with me, yet.

I'm still learning.

But this I know for sure... whether we give it or we receive it, love truly is the only constant.

And it's all we're taking with us when we go.



March 04, 2015

Useless Mittens...


It's been a long, cold winter, y'all. 

I really hate to complain. But seriously, this is what it has come to...


I've been trying to make the best of it,  pull up my big girl flannels and find positive ways to embrace this season of frigidity. But winter has been hard.

I know you've felt it too; particularly so, as the cold and dreary weather has been a direct reflection of the state of our world.

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This is my first blog of the year. It's not that I haven't been writing. Almost daily I sit at my keyboard, clicking out stops and starts of half-formed ponderings and whatnot.

But the darkness of the world keeps breaking through, leaving me speechless, making a mockery of words and inept sentences.

Some days – most days – I just don't know what to do with it.

Just like you guys, I don't know where to put the overwhelming barrage of pain and suffering. Our world is hurting.  Peace is slipping through our fingers.

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Yesterday I bundled up my little G-boys for a walk in the snow. Even though it was a teeth-chattering 28 degrees, they wanted to go feed the deer. (Little boys are silly, that way.)

[It is important to note that my 2-year old G-boy is undeniably the cutest and smartest toddler on the planet. I know some of you may disagree with me and I absolutely respect your right to do so. We shall agree to disagree.]

But even though this little guy of mine is cute and smart and oh-so-precious, make no mistake... he is T-W-O. All caps. Terribly so.

He allowed me to help him with his shoes, simply because he was too fat to bend over in his snowsuit. But when it came to putting on his mittens, he did NOT need ANY help from his MiMi!  He could do 'da glubs' himself!

We trekked stiffly across the yard with our package of corn tortillas, searching for deer tracks while stepping in their droppings. Just about the time the snot in my nose began to form ice crystals, we saw them... an entire family of deer creatures right across the road!!

I tore the tortillas in quarters and handed them to the boys. My 4-year old started hurling pieces of tortilla toward the deer like Frisbees, laughing with glee. In contrast, my 2-year old began stomping his little snow boots and crying, corn tortillas lying at his feet.

“What's the matter, baby?” I asked as I knelt down.

“My thumbs don't work!!! I can't throw!!!”

I looked down at this hands and noticed the thumbs of his mittens were sticking out at odd angles.

“Oh, I see what's wrong... you don't have your thumbs in your mittens. Here, let me help.”

“NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!! I don't WANT you to put my glubs on. I already DID put my glubs on!

Now, listen. There's one thing I know for sure about a 2-year old. You will never win an argument with them when they are upset. 

N-E-V-E-R.

I picked up a tortilla, turned his little hand over and placed it in his dysfunctionally mittened palm.

He stood there a moment, just looking at his hand, looking over at the deer, then back at the tortilla. He watched as his brother kept tossing food towards the skittish deer. And then he did the sweetest little thing...


He reached out his arms, held his hands in offering towards the deer and said, “Come 'mere deer, I'll be your friend!”

He stood like that for a good five minutes, calling to the deer in his sweet baby voice, begging them to be his friend and eat out of his hands.

I don't know how long my little dude would've stood there, just waiting and hoping, because all of a sudden, I let out with a big ol' snot-crystal-blowing sneeze... and the deer scattered like flies.

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There will always be pain and suffering in this world.  More than a lifetime's worth. And sometimes it's hard to hold on to hope, easy to lose faith.

But all it takes is a 2-year old to remind me...

When the darkness is overwhelming and the light is slipping from my hands, I need to lift them high to The One who will straighten out my mittens and make them fit just right. Only then will I be able to use my hands effectively to do their part in healing this broken world...