a raging Celtic brood....

The glorious Celtic music coming from my living room is doing little to dispel my gloom.....I am privy to an impressive practice session with College Boy on guitar and his former teacher/mentor on harp. Normally, Celtic music stirs my Irish Blood - leaving me feeling simultaneously empowered and relaxed - today it only serves to remind me of dreams long dead and far off lands that I will never see.....It started on Christmas Afternoon - a sense of malaise and melancholy. At first I attributed it to how sick I have been (Nasty little upper respiratory bug, that still has me sounding like I belong in a TB ward), we had a lovely Christmas, all of us together, so that couldn't be it.....I still can't put my finger on the "why", but that vague sense of sadness has become a full blown case of the blues. Yesterday, I took desperate measures and declared a Pajama Day with a Harry Potter marathon....that ALWAYS makes me feel better - until yesterday. Baby Girl and Babiest Girl were scheduled to help deliver Mobile Meals today, with some folks from Church.When I awoke this morning, and Baby Girl was too sick to go, I thought "That's just what I need - getting out and doing something for someone else....I'll take Baby Girls' place". I was paired with an older woman that I have long admired - she took the drivers seat - I became the navigator....I glanced over our route sheet - well done, with detailed directions. The more closely I read, the more uneasy I became - for on our list were people I knew....parents of kids I grew up with - one, a parent of a boy that I dated in High School. Some of the folks were still in their homes - homes I had ridden my bike to... others were in small, ramshackle apartments. Back in my car after all of the deliveries were made, I gave in to the tears that had been threatening for the last 2 hours..."That will be us....John and me" - I said, over and over in my brain until it became the cadence of my tears. Once home, I cleared the kitchen table for lunch, and that is how I found myself staring down into a picture of a green sea, cradled by an azure sky - the cover of John's Men's Journal (I don't know.....is this somehow the male equivalent of Southern Living?)...there, in the middle of the water, resting on a gossamer bar of sand, was a sea plane...and sitting on the wing, gazing soulfully out towards the horizon, was such a specimen of man flesh that it momentarily roused me from my self centered well of woe.Unfortunately, the headline above this photo read "Climbing Mount Impossible"....and those three words sent me right back into the well. Because some days (and these days especially) that is exactly how I feel.... Climbing Mount Impossible - with a fiscal cliff on one side, and general mayhem on the other...and today, in my state of blue, I see my Mount Impossible ending with me sitting in a ramshackle apartment, waiting by the door for the knock that will signal that some nice stranger has brought my lunch, in a styrofoam to go box....one that is mushy and smells strongly of institutional canned food. Call me Debbie Downer, and I will answer, cause today.....that's just where I am - in a raging Celtic brood - morose as any Irish poet....On the up side, my mood has an outstanding soundtrack, emanating live from the next room, and I take hope from the fact that as I type, I am tapping my feet to the mesmerizing Celtic rhythm... directly to my right, in my oven, is tonight's dinner -  two wonderful looking Quiche Lorraine's, made with eggs from my very own back yard (The Chickens have turned into such wonderful layers, that I have forgiven them for any resemblance they might bear to birds....). In my pocket book, on the hook by the back door, is a gift certificate for a massage at my favorite day spa - a gift from some  friends (and in the words of one of the givers - "you look like you could use it!" - he was being kind...what I really look like I could use is a week at an extreme makeover show, or several days in one of those hyperbaric oxygen chambers), and while I surely do not have a pocket full of sunshine at the moment, my coat pocket does hold the most beautiful pair of red leather gloves with kissy red bows - a gift from another friend. I will eat my supper.....I will clean the kitchen...I will kiss all three kids goodnight, and I will go to bed and read (Harry Potter) until I fall asleep (These days, it is usually less than ten minutes!), and I will hope that my Irish Blood will take a turn for the happier - because, to quote another Southern Irish lass....."Tomorrow IS another day".......

Fah who For-aze, Dah who Dor-aze....

Somehow, just like in the Grinch, Christmas has managed to arrive - despite all of our human tragedies and woes...even though the lights on my Tree don't give me the shivers this year, and the Christmas cookies don't go down quite so easily ( some would argue that this might just possibly be a good thing, given the size of my ever expanding rear end....). The presents are wrapped, the baking is done, and the Christ Child is ever ready to be born in a manger. Soon, the soup will be simmering in the crockpot - awaiting our most beloved Christmas tradition - It was a fluke,really...born out of desperation. The Christmas of 1998, I was great with child...like, Biblically....like, miserably....Babiest girl was a few short weeks away - we had just moved into our storybook cottage - all 1200 feet of it (bear that figure in mind, so you can be properly astonished when you hear how many house guests I received!). Faced with the imminent arrival of  John's Mom and Dad, his Sister, her husband and their 2 teenage daughters - I was somewhat panicked, and believe it or not, my main concern was NOT where to put everybody. ( In Law's in our bedroom, John on Den sofa, Me on recliner, College Boy and Baby girl in his room, Sister In Law and her gang in Baby Girl's room - easy peezy lemon squeezy, as long as you don't dwell on the fact that there were only 2 very small bathrooms!) My main concern was how to feed everybody for a WEEK! I was a stay at home Mom, and most times it was a challenge to stretch the budget just to feed ourselves - much less at Christmas, when I was pregnant  and for 6 extra people for 7 days....Lots of casseroles, and a cheap cut of Roast - slow cooked for Christmas Day, but what to do for Christmas Eve? It needed to be special, but it had to be cheap....SOUP! Soup is cheap - but not very special....unless.....what if you paired it with a story.....the greatest story ever told?! So on that first Christmas Eve, all snug in our cottage - after Christmas Eve service, and a ride by the tallest ever decorated Christmas Tree (our second favorite Christmas tradition), I lit every candle in the house, squeezed 10 people around my dining room table - and served up the Christmas Story....Crackers, Cheese, Fruit and Nuts - to symbolize the traveling food that Mary and Joseph might have eaten on the long, uncomfortable journey to Bethlehem.....Soup to represent the warmth and safety of the dark little stable......and cookies to represent the sweetness of Jesus' birth. That year, the soup was Potato, this year - Chicken and Tortellini... it changes from year to year - depending on our taste - but the thing that never changes is the feeling we get - as the candlelight flickers on each dear face, as the Story is retold.....as our personal story unfolds and our laughter fills the air.....the feeling that we are blessed beyond measure - to have each other,  to have food to eat and a home in which to eat it - to be able to share it with what ever guests might be at our table, to celebrate the birth of a baby - Emmanuel - God with us....that is the true gift - the gift that changeth not. "For unto you is born this day, in the City of David - a savior which is Christ the Lord......".....My Christmas wish for you this day is that you will be filled with the "peace which passeth all understanding" - no matter your life struggles....that in whatever direction you journey, you are filled with the knowledge that you do not journey alone.....that you find warmth and safety in the presence of those you love.....and that you find the sweetness of the season as you sit down to your dinner tonight.....that you wake in the morning, singing along with Cindy Lou Who...."Fah who For-aze, Dah who Dor-aze, Welcome Christmas, Christmas Day....".....God bless us, everyone.......

Liberty and Justice.... for whom?

"Food insufficiency".....Why do these things always happen to me when I am driving? I don't know if it was the low grade fever I was sporting, or just my opinions, too long held in check in regards to the swirling debates focused on the events of the last few days, that caused me to start raging into the emptiness of my vehicle.  The offending reporter on NPR was talking about the BackPack Program in schools, of which I am a great supporter. Over and over again, she kept using the phrase "Food insufficiency" , when what she really meant was hunger. And that.....did me in. The BackPack Program has been set up to combat H.U.N.G.E.R....in children.....in the United States of America - and using antiseptic phraseology does not change the facts....it only makes it seem more removed - more clinical - less visceral. Which brings me around to what was really bothering me....once you wade through the arguments of Gun Freedoms/reforms,  the God's vengeance camp vs. the God is Love camp, and the myriad Mental Health issues, there are, to my way of thinking giant elephants in our collective rooms in regards to the Connecticut massacre that no one is addressing. For those of you who don't know me well - let me introduce myself. I am not a friend of the NRA. I do not question your right to own a rifle to hunt with - as long as you eat what you kill, or use your kill to feed someone else. I do not question your right to own a handgun to protect home and hearth. I do believe that your right to carry concealed weapons infringes on my right to have a sense of  peace and personal security (which for me does NOT include a gun)- my right to know when there is a weapon in my presence. I believe that there is no reason on earth for anyone to own an assault rifle - the true and original weapon of mass destruction. If you are a person who believes that God sent this massacre as a punishment for any of the multiple reasons that I have seen bandied about - I do not know your God - this God that would seek vengeance against little children. I have yet to see any mention of the problem that goes back to the "Food Insufficiency"....that we, as a society, have become afraid of, or too lazy, or too inured , to take a stance....to call a spade a spade (I know - that phrase might be politically offensive, but it is the only one I can think of that really fits) That said, you may want to stop reading now - if you don't, I warned you - because here comes my two cents...... I am of the opinion that we have become a society that is unwilling to call out the bullies, wherever they may be - to enact swift and substantial punitive consequences - to have a zero tolerance policy - to say what we mean, and to mean what we say . We have become a society that is in many ways completely and totally immune to violence - we allow our young children to play video games and watch movies and TV shows that are rife with gun play and gore. Each time they play or view, their young minds (already unable to completely find a clear line between fact and fantasy, because of the limitations of their growing brains) find it a little less scary, a little more exciting, a little more normal - more acceptable...the "lives" of those killed while gaming become nothing more than points on a tote board....chipping away at the much touted "sanctity" of human life....distilling it to nothing more than killing for sport, or worse, glory. I do not believe everyone deserves a trophy - I believe that it not only gives our children a sense of entitlement, it sets them up for disappointment and an inability to cope with the "real world". I believe that we have a health care system that is corrupt and broken and that extends to mental health...especially mental health. I believe that parenting is too often viewed as a hobby, to be put aside when it becomes too messy and time consuming, and not as a sacred responsibility. I believe that we are laughable if we, as a society, have come to believe that we can "Keep God Out" by enacting a little bit of  mortal legislation - yet I also believe - quite strongly- in the separation of Church and State...."Render unto God that which is God's....render unto Caesar that which is Caesar's." I believe that we have become a society that refers to Childhood Hunger as "Food Insufficiency", thereby removing the unpleasant images that the word HUNGER conjures up...making it more P.C.....more palatable....like the "mechanical soft" pablum that Nursing Homes give to their patients that have difficulty swallowing. I believe that we have lost sight of personal responsibility when it comes to how we spend our "free will" - In our zeal to be right, we have lost sight of the true freedoms our country was founded upon,(of which Religious Freedom was front and center, and that included the right to have no religion if that is what one so desired) and the call to work for the greater good.... I believe that there is no one solution to the problems that we face as a people.....but I know that each part of the collective solution has to begin with putting aside our respective agendas, rolling up our sleeves and trying to be a part of the solution, instead of screaming about the ways in which we feel we have been slighted....to really MEAN that Pledge of Allegiance that so many folks are so riled up about....you know.....the one that ends "With Liberty and Justice for ALL".....

Laughing into the Wind....a Christmas Story.

It could have been worse....that Damned Christmas Shoe song could have come on the radio. Today has been one wild day....but I could have told you that it would be, before my feet touched the ground this morning...you see - it's December 15th, and for the last 34 years, this date has possessed it's own juju - this is the day my Mother went to Glory....in 1978..... At 10:22 p.m. (but who's counting - let's just say I ALWAYS try to be in bed by 10:00 p.m. on this date.) ...34 years.....and in all that time, I only remember one good 15th of December - it was in 1995, and although I am certain that this falls under the heading of TMI, it is the day that Baby Girl was conceived. I know this only because we were having a hard time getting pregnant (Not so with College Boy - we conceived the first week we were trying with him!) and we were keeping a chart. But back to this morning - If that Shoe song had come on the radio, I am certain I would have wrecked the car. I was driving with one hand on the wheel, and one hand holding Crackhouse Puppy's head - College Boy had the rest of him....we were rushing to the Emergency Vet, where my sweet Puppy remains in the Hospital tonight - Chocolate Poisoning -toxic levels... it was touch and go for awhile, but he seems to be holding his own, and at last report was resting (after pulling out his IV and Catheter - he is now wearing the Cone of Shame). After everything that has happened in the last couple of weeks - Chuck's death, yesterdays' massacre, Clancey's near death experience today - I am not really feeling the Christmas Spirit....I am sure I am not alone in this...so, to lift our spirits, I am going to relate one of my favorite Christmas stories - in honor of the 15th of December, in honor of my Mom. The Christmas I was  17, my Mother wanted to go shopping - she wanted to find me a Christmas present that I would really love. So we began the laborious process of getting ready. Mom was paralyzed from the waist down by this point, so getting her dressed was no mean feat. Once the clothes were on, I got her in the wheelchair, and rolled her to the vanity, where we put on the makeup, then the wig. Because it was winter, we then made a stop by the closet in the front hall....wheelchair locks in place, I lifted her to standing, and propped her against my hip with one arm, while I put her good coat on with the other... then I settled her back  into the wheelchair, out the door, down the ramp, Wheelchair locks on again, transfer Mama to the car, put the chair into the back of the car, and away we went - all in all, it took almost 2 hours. Even still, we were at the Mall when they opened the doors, and Mom was in high spirits. Into Belks we went, then Thalhimers, and at last - our favorite store - Tobias....where I found the most divine full length wool cape with hood. It was the most dramatic thing I had ever seen, and from the moment I tried it on, I wanted it with all my heart - but it was pricey, and needed to go back on the rack, but before I even got it back on the hanger, Mama looked at the saleslady and said "We'll take it!"...."Mom, NO!" I said. She pulled me down to her chair, so we were eye to eye and said "I want you to have this. You will be able to wear this long after I am gone, and you will remember this day - and me." And quick as a wink, she had signed the store charge slip, and we were out the door, my beautiful cape resting across her lap....but what happened next ensured that I would never, ever forget that day. I pushed Mom back down the mall towards the main entrance. As we opened the big double doors to go out, we noticed that the weather had changed. A bitter cold wind had whipped up, and the sky was dark and stormy. It was at that moment that everything switched to slow motion. We both noticed a couple walking towards us....folks we knew well....friends from Church. This might be a good time to remind you that even sick unto death, my Mother was more than slightly vain, and she was especially particular about her wig. Just as we were about to greet the friends, a huge gust of wind blew right past us.....and carried my Mothers highly coiffed, very expensive wig with it - turning it into a tumbleweed across the parking lot full of Christmas shoppers (most of whom we knew....it was a small town, after all). I gaped at her...I was frozen to the spot, certain that she was about to dissolve into the worlds largest  fit of histrionics...ever! There she sat - my beautiful, proud Mother - bald. as. a. cue. ball....in front of people she knew! She threw her head back and howled....with laughter! Big, hearty, body shaking laughter! Holding her sides, and gasping for air, she managed to get out a directive...."Don't just stand there Kelley - get that wig - it cost a fortune!" Before you could bat an eye, I threw the brakes on the wheelchair, and went chasing across the parking lot, after my Mama's store bought hair. Once I retrieved it (Trust me...it  really was  worse for the wear...), I turned back towards the mall entrance, to see my Mother holding court, her head bald, but held high... surrounded by people - all of whom were laughing and hugging each other, leaning over Mama's wheelchair, hugging her...shaking their heads, and wiping the mirth from their eyes. Uncertain as to what to do with the bedraggled wig, I halfheartedly held it out to my Mom. "Just put it in your purse," she said to me....."And give me your scarf....it's a bit airish out here". She took my scarf, and draped it about her head and shoulders - looking regal and exotic, as only she could,  waved good-bye to her admirers, and pointed towards the car....laughing all the way. My Mother taught me a valuable lesson that day...you may not have any control over what happens to you - but sure as the sun will rise tomorrow, you have control over how you respond.
That Cape was the last Christmas present my Mother would ever give me....and last night, as my family went outside to look for shooting stars during the meteor shower, that self same 35 year old cape was around my shoulders - keeping me warm, inside and out. I remember December 15th, the day she died - but more importantly, I also remember that December day, when my Mother showed me by example, how to live - choosing to keep on the Sunny Side...bald and beautiful and laughing into the wind.

"I will not leave you comfortless...."

I've been to the mountain top.....to retrieve College Boy. This morning, I had plans to blog about my Christmas Tree tonight....so many ornaments with so much sentimental value. And then my friend's phone pinged (A great friend, she drove me to the Mountain - because she knows how anxiety provoking highway driving is to me....),once, twice, three times in a row - alerting her to a news flash. This is how we discovered that a tragedy was unfolding in Connecticut. And now, once again, death is on my mind. The death of those whose lives were just beginning, the death of their family's hopes and dreams for those lives, the death of that community's sense of security. A couple of hours ago, I stood at my kitchen counter, cutting up chicken and onions and garlic - preparations for the Chicken and Dumpling Soup we were to have for supper. (As always, it hit the spot - comfort food at it's best) The house phone rang, and Baby Girl answered and held it to my ear for the shoulder hold (My hands were covered in raw chicken). My Brother was on the other end, and for the second time in less than three weeks, my mind could not wrap itself around the words coming out of his mouth...it would seem that my nephew will live on, because his Beautiful Widow has discovered that she is pregnant....tears coursed down my cheeks as I tried to picture the child of these two loved ones. Tears of sadness, because Chuck would have been the best Father...Tears of happiness, because a part of Chuck remains for us - for his parents, for his wife - for those that loved him. As I hung up the phone, John 14:18 came to my mind - "For I will not leave you comfortless...." As I sat with my family - all five of us - snug in the den, eating our soup by the light of the Christmas Tree, I marveled that a human could feel so many things at once - happy, sad, relieved, complete, distraught, angry, joyful, exhausted - my belly was so full of emotion, that it left very little room for supper....Comfort however, like dessert or cheese straws can always find biding room in a person, no matter how full (Of supper or conflicting emotions), if you only open yourself to the possibility. In the midst of this crazy day, my Brothers phone call brought unexpected comfort.Tonight, for my friends of faith, I pray that you will call upon the promise of John 14:18....For my friends who profess no faith I pray that you will surround yourselves with loved ones as day ends, and take comfort in their presence....For those families whose arms are empty at this moment, who lost their beloved children to senseless violence in a little school in a little town (That could just as easily have been your town, or my town) I pray that you feel the cosmic outpouring of love and prayers from a world full of people that you have never met - I pray that you find some measure of comfort in the hard days to come. Tonight I give thanks for the three heads snuggled under blankets watching TV in a room glowing with Christmas - Brother and Sisters together again - safe in this moment....for the risen sourdough, waiting to be made into loaves for the weekend...for my Husband, baking cookies for the neighbors...Thankful for the coats waiting to warm us, as we go out to look for meteors...for a young woman carrying new life....for the hope of Comfort, when all seems lost....thankful for all of you - my friends....a comfort indeed.

The opposite of "Haute for the Holidays".....

You know how your house just smells so great at Christmas, with the live tree and all of the baking? Well, the last few days....not so much. I have been all over this house, sniffing - on my hands and knees even - looking for signs of accidental puppy spots, inspecting all trash cans, cat box, sinks, laundry bins, toilets, sofa cushions....not an offensive sign anywhere - yet there is a lingering odor. Maybe not so much lingering....more like an in your face, "I'd be embarrassed if anybody came in the house", what died, kind of odor. This morning I was up before the chickens - literally.(The chickens generally sleep in until about 7:30 or 8:00!) I'm still not sleeping well, and I count it a victory if I sleep later than 5:00a.m. The upside to this is that I drink coffee and clean....and lately, search for the source of the olfactory offender. As this was my day off, once I got the family out the door, I grabbed another cup of coffee and sat down for a few minutes with Matt, Savannah and Al. I caught the interview with Ina Garten.....funny thing about Ina Garten - I have a serious love/hate relationship with her. I am an admirer of many of her recipes, and have several in my repertoire...yet I can't help but notice that she and I bear more than a passing resemblance to each other. Therein lies the hate part....because I don't think she is very attractive, and I look just like her! I was already more than slightly annoyed by the house stench, and then there is Ina...wearing my face and remarking that she just likes plain, simple food -staples - common things - like Pasta in white truffle sauce (At which point I said to myself..."self - let's go to the pantry and grab up the truffles and make a simple little supper"...NOT!)I did a couple of loads of laundry - sheets...I mean shepherd, angel, Mary and Joseph costumes for tomorrow night's big Nativity, and then I opened all of the windows - hoping to air the house out. I even left them open as I headed off to work (I know.....day off....but that's mostly just a theory right?). It was actually more like a field trip, as my neighbor(a fellow Children's Minister) and I went on a little road trip to check out a new camp location for this spring's 4th and 5th grade retreat. As we pulled back in to town, I realized I had just enough time to run to the Teeter (Grocery Store, for all you Non Southern types) before I picked the girls up from school. Pasta (NOT served with truffles), fruit, milk....just a few things to tide us over till shopping day. As I waited in line, I picked up my favorite magazine to flip through it. I was going to purchase it, until I came upon a feature that put me off.....it was entitled "Haute for the Holidays", and included  a $22.00 bobby pin (That's right....just one - with a little flower doo hickey on the end)....that was actually the cheapest thing in the whole article - and I don't know....it just made me aggravated again.... like Ina....and the mystery odor. I picked up both girls, dropped Baby Girl off at work, and came home - ready to start the supper. Tonight's orchestra concert (Babiest Girl), and Art Show (Baby Girl) necessitated an early eating time. Just as I got the Chicken going, Crackhouse Puppy started barking like a junkyard mongrel. I went to find him, and as I rounded the dining room, I looked through to the living room, and saw that he had left me a little deposit...of the solid kind. He does this from time to time - sometimes with repulsive frequency, and ALWAYS in the living room (Friends, if you have ANY suggestions on how to halt this behavior, I want to hear them - although, we have tried almost everything we can think of). As I got closer (let me say, in my defense that I did NOT have my glasses on), I realized that there was a chewed off sprig of ivy laying beside his offering (He also has a bad habit of chewing on my plants if he is bored)..."That excrement sure is a funny color," I thought to myself (Possibly, just possibly, "excrement" is not the word I used....just sayin)...."and an odd shape too" my inner monologue concluded....This might be a good place to remind you that all of my windows were open - so I can only say to any dear neighbors who might have been outside (although, it is within the realm of possibility that you heard me even if you were inside) I apologize for any alarm I may have caused you. For just as my foot hit the living room floor, I realized that the offending brownish lump was not the result of any canine bodily function, but possibly WAS the cause of the offending odor that has held our home hostage. There, laying mangled and desecrated was a rather large, very dead Mouse. It is really quite impressive that the human vocal mechanism can produce that kind of sound, even in the throes of laryngitis....I made it back to the kitchen a full 10 seconds before my crawling skin caught up to me. Babiest girl stared at me with eyes the size of saucers, as she half rose from her chair. I fleetingly wondered if it would be wrong of me to make the 13 year old get rid of the remains, but I quickly dismissed that as going directly against the "I won't ask you to do anything that I wouldn't do myself" rule. No College Boy to rescue his dear Mama....no John - he's working late....What to do?! Now, this is not some run of the mill dead mouse. This is a mouse that has been tortured for days....has possibly been dead for days....a chew toy that Crackhouse Puppy has carried from room to room, hiding it....saving it for later (Which could explain the transitory nature of the odor). I may not have White Truffles in the pantry, and I may not subscribe to the "Haute for the Holidays" theory, but I am nothing if not resourceful....with that in mind, I set about  finding the proper tools for the corpse removal. Long yard broom....check. Empty cereal box from the recycling....check. I tiptoe back into the living room (don't ask me why....), and carefully, whimperingly lay the cereal box below the poor little thing. I then took the broom, and thanks to all the Childhood years of PuttPutt playing, I chipped that bad boy right into the box. As I gingerly carried it out through the kitchen, Babiest girl says angelically, "Mom....can we give it a proper burial?"......."Yeah sure", I say....."I got your proper burial right here", as I ran out  behind the shed and flung as far as I could fling....As I stood at my sink, scrubbing the first two layers of skin off of my hands in the hot soapy water, I thought about Ina and her white truffles, the lingering odor of an uninvited guest and the opposite of "Haute for the Holidays".....

The secret knowledge of the power of red leather...

I have a thing for red leather shoes.If anything can bring me to a screeching halt in a store, it is the sight of shoes in red leather.When I was a little girl, my Mother made certain that I got a new pair of them every year in November - just in time for the Christmas season. We would go down to Main St. and search until we found just the right ones. I loved them all, but a particular pair stands out in my mind. It must have been the Christmas I was 12, because that was the year my Mom let me start wearing a shoe with a little heel...The 70's were just getting revved up, and groovy was in. My Mother was clucking and tutting the lack of "suitable shoes for a decent young lady", and we were just about to give up on the search when we spotted them....red crinkled leather - a little shiny, but not quite patent leather - not flat, with just the right amount of heel, and best of all, they sported a big red sassy bow. Now, to my way of thinking, if anything can improve upon red leather shoes, it is a big red bow. How I loved those shoes - I crammed my feet into them long after I had outgrown them, unable to give them up. I can still remember the feel of those shoes - how slipping them on seemed to put a zing in my step, causing me to prance rather than walk. It was as if they possessed their own red leather magic charge. It has been an eternity since I owned a pair of red leather shoes - these days I am more about function than form (hence the Crocs - although they ARE red....). Today I dragged my carcass to Target in the rain, despite my hacking cough and dripping nose (yes, I finally gave in to the cold that has been threatening me for days). I am encouraged to know that my overall health appears better than I feared, because I did not suffer apoplexy upon seeing the Fifty Dollar Neiman Marcus Christmas Ornaments as I entered the store (FIFTY DOLLARS?! Who pays Fifty Dollars for Christmas Balls for heavens sake.....don't even get me started!). Neither did I keel over when I saw that Cough Syrup has gone up to ten dollars a bottle (When the heck did THAT happen?! And, may I add that it has not helped one iota, which would explain why I am sitting in front of the computer at 3:00a.m.). I meandered a little bit on my way to the check out - looking at this...looking at that, when the heavens opened, and the angels sang....for there, right in front of me, was a pair of red leather gloves - with kissy little red bows at the wrists. Unable to resist, I put my germ infested hand right into those babies, and sure enough - I felt the tingle of red leather...so... it is not exclusive to shoes - it must be in the leather itself! My old wrinkled hands were transformed in a twinkling - they felt alive and pretty.....and young. It was with great effort that I removed the buttery leather, and hung those beautiful things back on the display...like the Neiman Marcus ornaments, they were priced outside the realm of my pocketbook (Unlike the Neiman Marcus ornaments, they were worth every penny!). I made my way to the checkout line, a smile on my lips - the memory of red shoes of Christmases past prancing about in my head. Lost in thought, I didn't really take note of my surroundings as I waited...until I was brought out of my reverie by a tiny blond head bobbing up and down in front of my buggy. There she was - in all her glory - a little girl of about five - unable to stand still, she was dancing in place and as I looked down, I saw the cause. There, on her baby feet, were the most remarkable pair of red leather boots....complete with a bow at the top. Unable to resist the electric charge of red leather, her feet danced in time to the music in her heart. "Those are the best.boots. EVER", I said to her, as she looked up at me. "Yep", she said,not missing a beat - a smile on her face - the secret knowledge of the power of the red leather shining through her eyes. As her Mother finished paying and they walked away, she turned to me and said "Merry Christmas!"....."Merry Christmas to you too", I said...happy that I have not forgotten what it felt like....to be a child possessed with the magic of  Christmas shoes....I left the store, coughing up a lung, but with a spring to my step...fueled by the memory of the power of red leather.

Shiva....and Birthdays.....

Shiva is the Jewish  period (Seven days) of mourning. The word Shiva is taken from the Hebrew word "Shiv'ah" , which literally means Seven. Seven is considered by Jews and Christians alike to be a mystically sacred number, signalling completeness. It occurs to me that in the last week, I have observed my own  Baptist girl Shiva, as I have grieved for my Nephew. Although our Jewish friends sit Shiva and mourn privately, I have mourned in a very public way. Today marks the seventh day, and accordingly, if I follow true Shiva, it is the day that I get up and go about the business of living. Oddly enough, this seventh day falls on my Father's Birthday - and this was a man who was all about the business of living. Were he alive, he would be 93 today, and I daresay that he would have been just as full of love and life and good humor as he was in his younger years. This is a man who loved to laugh, loved to celebrate...loved to live. This was a man who adored a good joke, and was the master prankster. As I wrote a few weeks ago, he put a cow in the Bell Tower at College - in the dead of night, tied the bell's rope to her collar, gave her a good smack on the hindquarters and ran. (How he ever got the cow up all those steps, I will never know). This was a man who, weary of the long winded Dean, put an alarm clock deep into the bowels of the pipe organ, and set it to go off (in repeat mode) in the middle of Convocation at the same College. This was a man who, although possessed of tremendous innate dignity, could not abide a stuffed shirt. I tell you this, because I need you to understand that no one on the face of the earth would have loved the story I am about to tell in honor of my Dad's birthday, as an end to my self imposed Shiva, more than my Dad himself. In the interest of full disclosure...this story, although absolutely, totally, 100% true, might not seem entirely appropriate....might seem more than a little irreverent...which would have made it all the more to my Dad's liking. My Father died very suddenly, with no warning whatsoever. Daddy was beloved by everyone who knew him, and was something of an institution in my hometown, so it came as no surprise to the family that the visitation at the Funeral Home the night before his Service, was worthy of Military Crowd Control. Scheduled to go from 6-8 pm, we were there until almost 10, and still there were people milling about. My sister and I, once safely back at the house, ensconced in our pajamas, sitting on the floor in the hallway (I have no idea why we all gathered there....there were lots of rooms - perhaps it is because we couldn't bear the thought of being in any of those rooms without Dad...) decided that we had not had enough private time with our Dad, so we determined that we would return to the Funeral Home in the morning, for a last visit. When we arrived, around 10:00am, there were still people coming to pay their respects. With the aid of the Funeral Director, we made a plan - the guest book would be moved into the main hall, so that folks could sign their condolences, and the entry to his viewing room would be closed off. I would sit guarding the door while my sister had her time, and then she would do the same for me. As I closed the door on my turn, I realized that there was really nothing left unsaid between my Father and me - in his last years, we had developed an enviable closeness, and we were fully at peace with each other. I stood over the casket, touching his suit sleeve, his hand - noting that death did nothing to diminish age spots. I prayed Thanksgiving over his life, and begged strength to live the rest of mine without him. After a period of time, I opened my purse and took out the small pair of scissors brought just for the purpose of taking a small cutting of his hair - a talisman for the remainder of my days.  Once that was done, I leaned over to put my head on his shoulder, one last time.... Now let me say, in my defense, that my Father was a man of substance.... that is to say, he was.... stout....well on his way to being as wide as he was tall (don't be too alarmed...he wasn't that tall!)....And the Casket....it has to weigh a ton, right?......well, the only thing I can figure is that the shiny box was sitting all wheewhompered on the base, because when I laid my head on my Dad, I felt movement....of the sort you never, ever want to feel. In an instant, the Casket AND it's contents were tipping over, in slow motion. With Ninja quick reflexes, I crouched and grabbed, halting the overturn mid way. So there I was - in my dress and my highest heels, trying to keep my Dad from falling out of the coffin that was turned almost upside down. Alerted by the banshee quality of my screams, my sister burst into the room - assessed the situation with lightning speed, and dashed to lend me a hand. With one mighty shove, we managed to right the offending object and it's inhabitant. Stunned and breathless, we could only stare at each other. And then, as if on cue, we sunk to the floor, amid gales of laughter.....the kind that makes you snort and cry and holler and hold your sides and roll around. Funeral Home employees came from all directions, baffled, I'm sure as to the source of the noise. We must have been a fearful sight, because none of them came near....just backed out of the room and closed the door on those poor dear girls, overcome with grief. (Or maybe they thought we had been on the receiving end of an instantaneous Pentecostal conversion) In the moments after we regained our composure, it seemed as if our Father had laughingly and lovingly taught us one last lesson - one that I will call upon today as my Shiva draws to a close....that life is to be lived...that loss and grief will come again and again...but that mirth and joy are never dead to us, if you only open yourself up to it....Happy Birthday Daddy - today's laughter is my gift....to you.

Breathe....air is your friend.....

If you knew me in my teens or 20's, more than likely you were aware that I had pretty wicked anxiety issues. Born of my constant  worry for my Mother as a child, my anxieties pretty much ruled the roost of my life...even in the early days of my marriage. If John so much as drove the 1/2 mile from our house to the corner store, I would be sick with worry until he returned. Just as I had tortured my parents with constant "How are you feeling"......"Can you breathe OK?"......."Do you have any chest pain".....I transferred those persistent queries to John, and bless his heart, for the most part he was patient with it....because he understood the root of my fears. It was not until I became a Mother myself, that I got a grip on it...I didn't want my children to be the beneficiaries of a legacy of panic, so I worked - really, really hard to eradicate extreme, crippling anxiety from my life...For the last 10-12 years I have been relatively free from hard core, bring you to your knees anxiety (Other than at Mammogram time....some things will never change.....) That's why this morning, when John made a passing reference to not feeling up to snuff, and the first question out of my mouth was "Do you have chest pain", I froze like a Popsicle. I had an inkling that my Nephews death might be messing with my hard won state of Zen, when I panicked Sunday as I dropped College Boy off to catch his ride back up the Mountain to school. I was able to talk myself down before it got bad, and went on about the rest of my day....But this morning made the second time in less than 48 hours that my old self reared it's ugly head - I mean, I thought myself a battle scarred, tough as nails survivor - the conqueror of anxiety and panic attack - I have even made it through years of John's un/under/employment, two kids getting their drivers license, and one going off to college, for goodness sakes. Yet, Chucks sudden death has summoned the ghosts of Christmases Past.....my past. I don't think I've mentioned that he, in the prime of his life, suffered a massive heart attack while trying to drive himself to the Emergency Room.(We are still awaiting results of the autopsy for answers as to why the attack occurred) I guess we will never know if he had been feeling poorly, or had any warning signs in the days leading up to last Tuesday. There is no way of knowing if the outcome would have been different if he had called for an ambulance, instead of trying to drive....but I will say to you, my friends, that which I have been saying to my children and my Husband for the last week (with annoying frequency I am sure), if you experience Chest Pain, or any other life threatening symptoms - call 911 - open the front door if you are able, and put yourself right by it. Take no chances - an ambulance is full of life saving equipment. As for me, it is time to plunge into some remediation on the Zen front - reminding myself that I can solve nothing, prevent nothing, fix nothing by worrying. It is time to remember that the only thing worry can change is the quality of my life. So I will begin again....air in on a three count, air out on a three count and repeat, over and over - my mind chanting my mantra "Trust the gift, trust the giver....." And though, in the last years I have said it laughingly as a gentle nudge to myself and my circle of people, I say it now therapeutically, as I did in the early days of my struggles to free myself  from the ever present grip of anxiety.... I say it now to nip it in the bud...."Breathe.....air is your friend"

"For now we see in a mirror, dimly....."

"For now we see in a mirror, dimly....." This is a line from a passage of scripture from I Corinthians (13:12 to be exact) that was used in the Memory Card, handed out at my nephew Chuck's funeral yesterday. And it describes exactly how I am feeling - as if I am viewing the world through a fog...everything dim and distorted. If I had to guess, I would attribute it to intense emotional and physical exhaustion. The odd thing is though, that there are some things that stand out in sharp relief...as if they had been filmed in HD in my minds eye. First to penetrate the fog yesterday, was the face of my niece-in-law - the beautiful widow. The abject despair etched into that face is not something I will ever be able to erase from my memory. Never before have I beheld such wrenching, wretched pain. Her body bent double with the weight of the reality of the day as she clutched Chuck's suede jacket - the very jacket he was wearing the last time I hugged him....For all the loss and grief that I have experienced in my life, never have I seen or heard such raw, unadulterated, articulated anguish. The clarity hit me again, as I stood by the Casket preparing to sing...College Boy strumming the introduction to Amazing Grace (He played so beautifully - he gave every ounce of talent he possessed to the moment, and his arrangement was powerful and healing). It came to me that he and I have made music together at the funerals of both of my nephews....For Chris, I was carrying College Boy inside me, dealing with the most intense Braxton Hicks contractions as I struggled for breath to sing (Then, as now - I found that it is impossible to sing a decent note when your throat is tight with grief....). For Chuck, I had College Boy beside me - my partner in music once again. The next snapshot came at the cemetery, as Chuck's casket was placed beside the resting place of  his brother...I saw them as they once were - two little boys, twin beds side by side, sharing a sleeping place that was crowded with toys and clothes, and the trappings of daily living....once again they lie side by side - an image that caused the incessant shivering to return, and the fractured pieces of my heart to splinter once again. The rest of the day revolved around coffee and cheese straws, hugs, quiet times, and the gentle laughter of recollection, as story after story was told...no sharp edges - just soft ripples in the gloom.Today dawned dimmer than yesterday - perhaps a result of the grief hangover. As I rolled out of bed this morning, I was confronted by a face that looked as if it had been on a five day drunk - swollen eyes, blotchy skin...sad to say, I looked better than I felt. But it was the Lord's day...a work day for this Children's Minister, and as any good Baptist can tell you, a Sunday in December is bound to be one long day....As I made my preparations, I entered into our first Service on Auto....sing the songs, light the candles....please be over soon.....and then - the unexpected moment of clarity - a snapshot to be treasured - a yin to yesterdays yang, the light to the dark, the hope to the despair.....The gift of song, by brother and sister. I sing with the Brother every week, his voice is almost as familiar to me as my own, and he was in fine form this morning. As I left the podium, and settled in my pew, he helped his sister up the steps...not a gesture to be taken lightly, for this beautiful red haired woman has a sinister disease - one that has robbed her of her hearing, taken a portion of her ability to speak, and left her with difficulties in mobility. Brother helped her into a chair, and then took up his acoustic guitar - starting the introduction to What Child is This....never taking his eyes off of his Sister. As Brother sang, Sister signed - in perfect time, to the beat she could not hear. Her movements were so beautiful, so profound,so lyrical, such a blessing - I was undone. The music in her soul, and the worship in her hands were a balm to my raw, wounded heart....a welcome moment of brightness, in a dim and desperate week. I am exhausted, I am grief stricken, I am fearful to let my family out of my sight....but there is a small kindling of warmth, somewhere in my core, thanks to this unexpected moment in my dreary day....a snapshot of hope - more clear than drear....a reminder of the remainder of the verse in I Corinthians...."For now we see in a mirror dimly, but then face to face. Now I know in part, but then I shall know, just as I am also known...." The word of God, for the people of God.....Thanks be to God.