The Call

A few weeks ago while working at my tutoring job at Georgia Perimeter College, I was catching up on the students' reading lists so that I could better assist them with their writing assignments. On this quiet evening I was reading the short story, "The Story of an Hour" by Kate Chopin. Inspired by the concept of an entire story taking place in the time frame of a single hour, I decided to try my hand at writing a short story with the same theme in mind. The last short story I wrote was in the seventh grade (I still have that particular story, and coming from a 12-year-old writer, I consider it quite good). I've always heard that you should write about something you are familiar with, and being a preacher's wife is something that I know a lot about.

For those of you who continue on with this blog who are familiar with my history, I want to assure you that this short story is FICTION. The minister husband is not David, my minister-ex-husband, and the wife is not me (although her questions about The Call are similar to those I asked God from time to time during my minister's wife years). Please do not think of this as an autobiographical sketch. It isn't. Angela and Matt are both my own creations, and are not based on either David or me, or my experiences as a minister's wife.

Here is:

THE CALL

Angela could tell from the way the door to the garage slammed that Matt was upset. As she stood at the kitchen sink scrubbing potatoes for dinner, the old familiar lump in the pit of her stomach bubbled to the surface and swelled, making her immediately nauseous. Matt would be standing behind her in less than a minute, bear-hugging her and giving her a peck on the nape of her neck – a sure sign that something was wrong. She wondered what she had done this time.

A million scenarios raced through her mind in the time it took for him to cross the foyer, traverse the family room and enter the kitchen. It amazed Angela that so much could flash across her brain in such a brief time. Maybe this time it wasn’t some transgression belonging to her; perhaps he was perturbed by something, or someone, else. She prayed that this might be the case.

The life of a minister was not an easy one, she knew that. Matt had to deal with a church full of strong-willed individuals, each carrying his or her own ideas of Christianity and how they believed the church should be run. Why Matt chose this path in life she couldn’t understand. What was this thing - The Call - that he had to follow all the way to the church pulpit and parsonage? Why couldn’t he be satisfied with simply being a good church member, like everyone else in the congregation?

Sure enough, her fears were realized. Before she could turn off the water at the sink or put down the potato in her hand, she felt Matt’s arms wrapping around her middle, upsetting her stomach even more, and the familiar nibble below her ear lobe. Recognizing that this expression of affection was a bad sign, she hesitantly asked, “Rough day?”

“You could say that,” Matt answered stiffly. “We’ll talk about it later.” With that, he released his grasp on her and headed to the bedroom to change from his preacher attire into more comfortable sweats.

Angela knew in her heart that she was the cause of the so-called rough day. Still standing at the sink, she absent-mindedly continued scrubbing the potato and gazed out at the field behind the parsonage, looking at nothing in particular, but taking in the late afternoon beauty of the sun caressing the wild flowers and bending the daisy faces toward the west. A lone tear tracked its way down her cheek, where she quickly lapped it into her mouth, tasting the saltiness of her fear.

“Why is it that God’s call hurts so much?” she quietly asked herself and whoever spiritual might be listening. “And why didn’t you call me, too?” she addressed God directly. Life had been good before The Call. She and Matt were happy, or at least she thought they were happy. Maybe they really weren’t, or he wouldn’t have wanted to leave a good job as marketing director of a successful firm to make such a drastic change in his life. Or maybe something was lacking in their relationship to make him go in this new direction. She had no answers, but plenty of questions.
Angela snapped back to reality as she realized the water was still running in the sink and the potato was just about scrubbed to death. Poor thing, its skin was nearly gone. She could almost identify with it.

Suppertime was quiet. While Matt hungrily chowed down on pork chops and fried potatoes, Angela could hardly swallow. She couldn’t help but wonder what their after-dinner conversation would be. She didn’t dare broach the subject while Matt was eating. He liked to enjoy his meals without the added challenge of a conversation. His typical response to her whenever she tried to start one, “Angela, I talk to people all day long. I’d like to eat my supper in peace, please,” kept her from saying a word. As they sat in silence, Angela reviewed the previous day, Sunday, in her mind, trying to remember if she had said something inappropriate of a preacher’s wife, or had snubbed someone. It had been an ordinary Sunday, as far as she could recall, but she had that familiar sinking feeling that she had done something that would come to haunt her until she and Matt moved on to their next church. She hated these silent meals, but in the six years since Matt had become a preacher, she had gotten used to them in a strange way. As long as he didn’t have anything to say, then she didn’t have to come up with a response, or more often a defense.

Last month, it was a cold-shoulder that she didn’t even know she had committed when she brushed by Eleanor Porter in the church hallway without stopping to chat. She had been late to her Sunday School class, and simply didn’t think to stop and engage in a conversation with that hypochondriac of a woman. And then, last year, Mr. Wilson, chairman of the pastor-parish relations committee complained to Matt that Angela needed to dress differently for the Wednesday night suppers. She had made the mortal mistake of wearing a skirt that was a tad short, and a sleeveless knit top that wasn’t two sizes too big on her, like most of the clothes that met Matt’s approval. Before that, in another church, there was a complaint that she sang too enthusiastically in the church choir, and a big hub-bub when she declined an invitation to fill in for the church pianist who was going away on a two week vacation. It seemed to her that someone was always on her case about something, and Matt never came to her defense, at least not that she knew of. Instead, he’d come home, give her the silent treatment for awhile, and then spring on her. Angela wondered if he ever supported her in front of his parishioners. She was glad that they didn’t have children yet. She shuddered to think about the complaints that would fly over the way she’d raise their kids. She had decided a couple of years ago that she didn’t want to bring a child up as a Preacher’s Kid. Matt still talked about having a family from time to time, but recently he’d been too preoccupied with the church to even want to have sex more than once or twice a month. She didn’t think she had much to worry about in that department. “Thank you God, wherever you are,” she silently mouthed.

She sat across the table from Matt, watching him eat, her thoughts drifting on and on. As she recalled all the times she’d gotten into trouble with him about her lack of preacher’s wife skills, she wondered if maybe there might really be something wrong with her. Was she a snob? Was she truly insensitive to church members? Did she portray a poor example of a minister’s wife? Matt had accused her a few months ago of being a weight around his neck, and she was beginning to believe that she really was dragging him down in his profession. Her own career was second-fiddle to his, even though she put her heart and soul into the community day-care center where she played games every day with senile senior citizens and listened hours on end to tales of younger years, lost loves, and unappreciative children. She loved these old folks. Why didn’t she feel the same about church members?

An ah-ha moment slapped her in the face. Maybe it wasn’t her after all. Could it be Matt? She suddenly realized that she wouldn’t have known anything about these offenses of hers if Matt hadn’t brought them to her attention. And, like the peace-maker that she was, she took to heart whatever the issue of the day happened to be, always trying to change to please him so that his life would run more smoothly. She suddenly felt very weary, and silently addressed the only God that she knew, “OK, God. I’m not the person Matt wants me to be. And, I know very little about The Call. But I’m tired of trying to be someone I’m not. I need your help with this.”

With this simple prayer, a new resolve took root. A stronger spine began to grow, giving Angela audacity she didn’t know she had. She looked across the table at Matt, not knowing what was on his mind, and realizing that she didn’t want to know. He pushed away from the table, having finished his dinner, gave her a peck on the cheek, and moved into the family room, leaving the kitchen for her to clean up. This gave her a little time to prepare, and to breathe another prayer, “God, I really, really need your help.”

With dishes in the dishwasher and the counters sparkling clean again, Angela wiped her hands on a dishtowel and moved toward the family room. This time, she wasn’t afraid of what was coming, but was armed with a newly found invisible shield. Before Matt could say a word, she stood in front of his recliner, firmly planted her feet, and said to her husband, “Matt, I’m sorry that you had a rough day, but I don’t want to hear about it tonight. If it has something to do with me and some member’s feelings I’ve hurt, you can forget about ever telling me. I don’t want to know.”

Matt sat upright in his chair, a look of sheer puzzlement on his face. “Angela, I had a long talk with Marcia Taylor today…” He didn’t have a chance to finish.

“Whatever Marcia Taylor had to say about me is not my concern,” Angela cut him off, “and I don’t want to hear about it. I’m tired of trying to please everyone, and I’m tired of not being able to count on you to back me up.”

Matt was uncharacteristically speechless. Angela had never spoken to him in this manner. This wasn’t like her, and this outburst baffled him.

She took a deep breath and continued. “I’m going to the gym to work out now. I’ll be back in a couple of hours. This will give you some time to think about things and decide who you are married to, me or the church. We can talk when I get home.”
With that, trembling inside with fear, but also feeling a strength she didn’t know she had, she spun on her heel, grabbed her gym bag and car keys, and exited the room, her head held high.

By the time Matt could jump out of his chair and run after her, the garage door shut in his face, and she was gone.

Spontaneous Creation? Has Anyone Asked God About This?

I recently read an article about Stephen Hawking’s latest book, which included his thoughts about creation and God. The article quoted Hawking, “Because there is a law such as gravity, the Universe can and will create itself from nothing. Spontaneous creation is the reason there is something rather than nothing, why the Universe exists, why we exist.” He added: “It is not necessary to invoke God to light the blue touch paper and set the Universe going.” And then, "The question is: is the way the universe began chosen by God for reasons we can't understand, or was it determined by a law of science? I believe the second. If you like, you can call the laws of science 'God', but it wouldn't be a personal God that you could meet, and ask questions." (http://www.telegraph.co.uk/science/science-news/7976594/Stephen-Hawking-God-was-not-needed-to-create-the-Universe.html).

I usually don’t write about deep theological insights in my blog, but I can’t let this one go without a comment from Jennie Lou. I have been thinking about this for the past several days, and while I don’t possess the mind of a genius like Dr. Hawking, I do claim to possess a sliver of the heart of God, and have spent a lifetime asking God questions and kneeling in awe of God’s scientific mind in creation. It seems to me that Stephen Hawking has never taken a few minutes to ask God a question or the patience to wait for the answer. I have. I have felt the presence of the spirit of God, in what Marcus Borg describes as “thin places” in his book, The Heart of Christianity. Thin places refers to those places, times, and situations where I have felt God’s spirit near me, bringing me a sensitivity to the presence of God, often with tears streaming down my face. I feel very sorry for Dr. Hawking, that he has spent a lifetime looking for answers only in science, but hasn’t experienced the personal God who is ready to listen to, and answer, questions.

Spontaneous creation? God. The laws of gravity and science? God. The origin of the universe? God. Easy peezy for me. I don’t need to be a genius to see this.

But then, I would like to ask Dr. Hawking a question. I’d like to ask him how he explains music. Whenever I get discouraged or have doubts about God, all I have to do is listen to music to bring me back to his side, both human-crafted music and the music of nature. For me, music is the window into God’s heart and mind, both here on earth and throughout the universe. I know that there are laws that define music, like those that set the universe into motion, but there is no scientific explanation that can explain to me why music brings me to my thin places. Music can calm me down, bring back both sweet and painful memories, set me to twirling in dance, put me to sleep, wake me up, lift my spirits. And, while Dr. Hawking is a genius in the area of scientific theory, I wonder if music touches and moves his soul. It is through music that the heart of God is revealed to me, and as I believe, music is one of the avenues God uses to reach out to us humans. God is the master scientist, musician, and creator, and most definitely a good listener.

Try asking God a question, Dr. Hawking, and then listen. You might be surprised.

As Summer Comes to an End.....

It’s finally happening. Summertime is releasing her hot and humid grip on rural Georgia. And not a minute too soon – I was becoming very weary of endless days in the high 90s, nights that felt more like Florida than Georgia, and a monthly electric bill that made my heart stop momentarily when I opened it.

The skies are changing to that beautiful autumn blue that doesn't have an adequate word to describe it. It reminds me of the Wedgwood china that I loved as a young girl, and the term “Carolina Blue” comes to mind, even though it’s a Georgia sky! Wispy, cotton candy clouds are now gracing the azure dome, replacing the puffy animal shaped clouds that gather together in the summertime to send us our summer thundershowers.

The breeze carries the fragrance of autumn, enticing the senses with the fragrance of kudzu blossoms and cut hay. While the days are still warm, the air holds a hint of autumn coolness, refreshing the face and neck during long walks in the countryside. The heaviness of summer air is gone; the weight has been lifted.

Even the okra is beginning to show the weariness of summer. While it loves the hot sultry days, and produces in abandon when the other vegetables have given up for the season, it is showing signs that it is tired of summer, too. The pods are beginning to curl and have funny little bumps on them, and I don’t have to pick twice a day to keep them from growing too fast and too tough. It continues to bloom, and the butterflies love the delicious butter-colored blossoms, but its days for this season will soon come to an end.

It won’t be long until the bright colors of Fall will replace the rich greens of Summer. Goldenrod will grace the fields, delicate fall wild flowers will replace summer daisy faces, and an entire wild garden of color will replace those of summertime. Leaves will begin to drift to earth, pecans will drop from the trees, and earth will prepare herself for the cold months of rest.

It has been a wonderful summer, despite the heat. Our garden produced an abundance of produce; our freezer is full, and our pantry shelves are sagging from the weight of canned goods. I loved the summer, but I am ready to shift gears and focus on something other than vegetables, fruit, and herbs for awhile. I welcome the Fall breezes and bright sky, and the coming days of winter hibernation.

Goodbye, Summer. I’ll see you again next year, and I’ll be ready to welcome you with anticipation and joy!

Breaking Up is Hard to Do

They say that when you break up after a long relationship, you shouldn’t jump right into another one. They also warn against dumping a lover or partner for a new one. “They’ve” also been telling me for months, “Jennie, you have to get a new washing machine and dryer.”

I have had a 17-year relationship with my faithful Kenmore washer and dryer. We’ve been on intimate terms since BP (Before Phil). I knew two years ago that our relationship was on the skids, but I persevered, and my washer and dryer kept on chugging along, always loyal, but beginning to make funny noises of complaint. I love my washer and dryer. Both have lived through abuse, neglect, over-loading, and being moved from place to place, never skipping a beat in their performance. I always knew I could count on them, and they never disappointed me. Until recently.

I first noticed the struggling sounds my washing machine was making about a year ago, and it wasn’t spinning the water out of the clothes the way it had in its younger days. And my dryer began leaving me little messages on my clothes, telling me that the drum was beginning to rust. I ignored them as much as possible; yet, on the sly I began doing internet research on new models. Feeling guilty, I couldn’t let them know that I was contemplating replacing them for newer “trophy” models.

Two weeks ago, when I had to turn up the volume on the tv in the living room to drown out the noise in the laundry room on the other side of the house, I knew action was required. I worked up my courage, sneaked out of the house, and drove to the nearest Sears store. A very nice and friendly salesman, Nick, was sent to me by the washing machine gods that day. I told him what I had, and what I thought I wanted in a new washer-dryer set. He showed me everything on the sales floor that came close to my list of requirements without making a single recommendation. He then let me ask questions, and answered them professionally and honestly. (I slipped in a few trick questions to make sure he was on the up-and-up). I finally decided on a Maytag set, with visions of the lonely Maytag repairman in my mind, and the deal was done.

Five days later, Nick and his co-worker, Charlie, appeared at our door with two huge boxes, ready to install my new washer and dryer. I watched as they unplugged and unhooked my old set, almost breaking into tears as I watched them roll them out of my home. An hour later, my new Maytags were ready to use, and my laundry room sparkled. As I washed my first load, I had to keep checking on the washing machine to make sure it was working. It was quiet!! The same with the dryer – I had become so accustomed to the clanking and grinding of the old ones, I was amazed at the near silent whirs and whispers that emitted from the new Maytags.

Even though I am pleased so far with my new set, I miss my old Kenmores. They are still with us, sitting in our carport, waiting to be taken to laundry room heaven. Whenever I pass them on the way to my car or to the garden, I pause to touch them and thank them for all they did for me. I also tell them I’m sorry I had to replace them! Seventeen years is a long, long time, and they never let me down.

Yes, breaking up is hard to do!

Dog Days of Summer

I don’t think I’m alone in thinking that this has been the hottest summer in Georgia history! We have had week after week of temperatures in the 90s and 100s, with no relief from the summer heat wave. I don’t ever remember a summer being this hot for this long, or one that didn’t give us a little relief from the heat at least a few times during the season. Being a warm-weather person, I’ve never complained about summer – until this year. For the first time in a long, long time, I am actually looking forward to Fall, brisk breezes, and a chill in the air.

Our garden finally succumbed to the heat, with the exception of the okra and jalapeno peppers. They thrive in hot house conditions! We have more okra than we know what to do with, and I’ve been giving it away to anyone who expresses the slightest interest in it or reveals a twinkle in the eye at the mention of fried okra. It will probably continue bearing into September, unless I go crazy and pull all of the plants up in protest for their love of this stifling heat! It looks like I’ll have jalapenos for a few more weeks, and I know that they will sell well at the Saturday market if I don’t have a use for them. I’ve been making candied jalapenos this summer, so I’ll probably make another batch of this delicious concoction before offering up peppers for sale or as gifts. The butterflies also love this last hurrah of summer, as they feast on the nectar of the okra and zinnia blossoms. The heat doesn’t seem to bother them at all.

This is the last week that the blueberry farm is open, and I am already in mourning. Yesterday morning at sunrise I was at the farm picking my last bucket of berries, knowing that it would be my last until next summer. I’ve feasted on fresh blueberries all summer long, and it’s truly a sign that summer is coming to an end when the gates close to my beloved blueberry farm. I am sad thinking about it, and it seems like a long, long time before next summer comes around again.

Yes, the Dog Days of summer are upon me, and I am tired. Tired of being outdoors at the first hint of daylight picking vegetables, tired of standing at the kitchen sink and stove half of the day preparing vegetables and fruit for preserving, tired of weeding, and tired of worrying about critters getting into my garden and feasting on the fruits of my labors. But I know that by March 2011 I’ll be excitedly planning a new garden, selecting seeds and getting them started in tiny pots indoors, wishing for days of wearing shorts and t-shirts with no layering involved in my daily attire, and longing to get my hands into the dirt. All I need are a few months of cold weather to forget these August Dog Days, and I’ll be ready for a brand new summer.

In the meantime, I think I’ll escape into my air-conditioned home for these last steamy summer days, and begin thinking about some cold weather projects, all the while giving thanks for our bulging freezers and overflowing pantries. It’s been a hot summer, but it’s been a very good one.

Loving and Hating the Town that Always Seems to Be Asleep

I was reading my friend, Natalie’s, blog recently (http://nataliebuster.blogspot.com/)about loving and hating New York City. As I read her thoughts, I longed to walk down some New York streets, stroll in a park with Brian and Roy, and step into one of the many little eating places they have found to share with me. I wanted to smell the city smells, listen to the city noises, and taste the city food. I also wanted an afternoon of window shopping in the city (although I always feel like country-come-to-town), keeping alert to avoid bumping into a constant throng of people on the sidewalks, and dreaming big dreams. There is something about the city that sparks my imagination and revitalizes my creative energy.

Like Natalie, I often feel like I don’t belong in the city, even though I love it every time I go to New York to visit. But, I’m always glad to get home, which brings me to my own reflections on “Loving and Hating the Town that Seems to Always Be Asleep.”

Social Circle, Georgia – my hometown for the past seven years. I don’t live inside the city limits, but on a dirt road about three miles from the lone traffic light in the center of town. Except for 3:00 pm on a weekday school day, the town is pretty drowsy. But when the school buses roll out in the afternoon from the local schools, you don’t want to be at the main intersection, or turning left out of the post office parking lot, unless you have plenty of time to spare. It’s also very important to abide by the 25 mph speed limit in town, because the Social Circle policemen absolutely love to pull over speeders and write out tickets. They are especially visible on Sunday mornings – I've decided that they are on the prowl for people who are running late for church. The townspeople are friendly enough, but very few know me by name, except at the bank, which I visit on a pretty regular basis, and at the post office, where I pick up my mail a few times each week. I’ve been a member of the Methodist Church since moving here, but still only know a handful of people. Like Natalie in New York, I just don’t feel like I quite belong in Social Circle. I don’t have any family members in the local cemetery, and no streets are named for my family. I don’t live in one of the many historic homes in town, in one of the few trendy subdivisions or on one of the rambling horse farms outside of town – I sometimes think I’ll always be an outsider here. There are times when I feel as much out of place in this little town as I do when I’m in New York.

I miss the conveniences of living in a bigger town. With only one little local grocery store that is actually very well-stocked with fresh produce, local eggs, and great meat, the pickings are sometimes slim (and a little more expensive) on other items that we like to stock in our pantry; thus, we make regular treks to the nearest Walmart, ten miles away, for a wider selection of food and other necessities. We also have to travel a minimum of ten miles to get to the restaurants we like; eating out is an event. Luckily, we’ve found a good dentist and a wonderful family doctor in Social Circle, so at least we don’t have to travel far for our health needs. We also have “Fred’s”, a Walmart in miniature, that carries a nice variety of greeting cards, canning jars and lids, cheap Crocs knock-offs and discount jeans, and other odds and ends that we can pick up locally.

Even though I have not fully acclimated to small town life, I love my five acres on my dirt road. With my gardens, the forest behind our house, and all of the beauties of life in the country, I wouldn’t want to live anywhere else. We always have something new to learn and experience. For instance, last Saturday morning at the crack of dawn, Phil and I watched in amazement as our colony of bats returned from their nightly feeding frenzy to the bat house he built for them on the side of our house. We laughed and cheered as we watched them zoom in toward us and then slip into their house to sleep off their nightly carousing. I never thought I’d be excited about providing a home for bats, but this country living is catching on, and I find myself finding wonder and enjoyment out here every day. I love the dark starry nights, listening to the quiet whispering of the wind in the pine trees, watching the beautiful butterflies sipping nectar from the thistles and other wild flowers, and relishing the solitude of sitting on my porch sipping a minty mojito or glass of crisp wine. When I think back to my days of commuting to work in Atlanta, I shudder, take another sip of wine, and thank God for blessing me with my home here on my dirt road, and my newly-found simple way of living.

I’m always ready to visit New York, but I think I’ll stay here in Social Circle, where life is very, very good.

Hitting the Wall

On Saturday afternoon about 4:00 PM, I hit the wall, figuratively speaking. It had been a long time since this had happened to me, and I was somewhat miffed that I ran out of steam a couple of hours before going out to dinner with friends. It had been a busy week, but I hadn’t been aware of how draining it was until Phil reminded me, reciting a list of things I’d done during the week, as I was struggling to get back onto my feet.

One of my main tasks for the week was watching my leg wound on a regular basis after getting the stitches removed on Tuesday, and fretting that it wouldn’t heal the way it should. I obsessed over my leg - the shade of red, the warmth of the wound site, the formation of scabs, and the lumpiness underneath the skin. It was either on my mind or lurking in the shadows all the time. This alone was enough to exhaust me!

I was on the go all week long. The garden kept me on my toes, as I picked okra, beans, peas, tomatoes and peppers, and then had to do something with them after coming in from the garden. Much of my spare time was spent in the kitchen, washing vegetables and preparing them for the freezer. I even made a new creation, candied jalapenos, a recipe that I came up with after extensive internet research and taking what I hoped was the best from several recipes I found online. The result was a delicious combination of hot and sweet, and I was very pleased with myself. One of our huge pumpkins found its way into the freezer as I labored over lugging it upstairs to the kitchen, cutting it up, cooking it, and then blending it into a creamy puree.

Besides all this, I tutored at the college one evening and helped out my friend, Beth, in her site selection business two days. I also found time to pick blueberries, knit a wash cloth, and bake bread for the Saturday market. Saturday morning at the market was extremely busy, as I sold out of almost everything at my booth, and commented along with everyone else how hot and humid it was.

So it was that at 4:00 Saturday afternoon I sat down to rest for a few minutes and crashed. Somehow, I managed to get myself out of the chair an hour later and freshened up enough to go to our favorite Mexican restaurant for dinner. Once there, with a few chips and salsa in my tummy, and sipping on a strong margarita, I artificially perked up and enjoyed dinner immensely. But by the time we reached home after dinner, I was done. I managed to dredge up enough energy to call Brian to wish him a happy birthday before my lights went out, and didn’t regain consciousness until the sunlight hit my eyes yesterday morning.

And so, now, it’s another week. And it looks like it’s going to be a full one. I hope I learned a lesson last week, and I plan to spend a little more time with my feet up and my eyes closed each day. No more crashes for me – that wall I hit was no fun!