I’m back in my Collection of Days. I’d like to say that I’ve been suffering from a case of writer’s block for the past month, but if I am going to be honest in my writing, I have to admit that it’s been more a case of writer’s avoidance! It’s not that my days have not been interesting. On the contrary, my dilemma is that I haven’t found the words or the courage to honestly write about some recent special days.
Last month my mother-in-law died. It affected me profoundly, mainly from the perspective that it was a huge relief that she finally let go of her earthly body at the age of 89 and journeyed to her next place. I loved her dearly, and I wish I could say that she was a wonderful person, which she was in some ways. However, in reality, she was very difficult for me to love, and for many years I wasn’t sure how she felt about me. It wasn’t until her final three years of life that we became close, became confidants, and I finally let myself love her unconditionally.
I remember a comment she made to me early-on as I told her that Phil and I had married. Her response, “That’s wonderful, Jennie. We always hoped that Phil would marry Susan.” [a former girlfriend]. Then, one Christmas early in our marriage, she proudly presented everyone in the family with a new pair of bedroom slippers. When she got to me, she said, “Sorry, Jennie, they didn’t have any in your size on sale.” It was comments such at these that built the wall that separated us. I could see how she loved her family and was always helping out people in her church, but I wondered where I stood with her. I also knew that she was always trying to get me to influence Phil to do things that she thought he should do. When I refused to intervene, she didn’t like it one bit.
In spite of things like this, I grew to love Mom. After Pop died and she moved into an assisted-living apartment, we became fast friends. I shared my writing with her, which she seemed to enjoy reading and discussing. She also confided some of her deepest thoughts with me. Whenever I’d go to visit her, she wanted to know about my sons, and how they were doing. She was always interested in hearing about their lives and careers. Up until a few months before her death, when senility took more and more of her away from me, I knew that she was aware of who I was when I’d visit her in her nursing home room, because she never failed to ask me about Wade and Brian.
Her funeral was difficult. Phil and his sister haven’t spoken to each other in several years, and Mom’s death didn’t change anything. While the minister spoke of her love of her family and how much it meant to her, I felt a deep sadness that her family had splintered and was uncomfortably enduring having to sit together in the same pews for her service. I also admitted to myself that some of it was her fault. When something difficult came her way, she’d turn her head the other way, wouldn’t want to hear about it, and would pretend that everything was fine. She just never could admit that things were less than ideal in her family, even though she was always willing to add a critical comment about whatever the issue of the day happened to be. In contrast, she would always find excuses for everyone’s, including her own, behavior, as her way of forgiving herself for making such caustic comments and thinking such thoughts.
Mom was a World War II veteran, and she was buried in the National Cemetery in Canton, Georgia, with military honors, next to Pop, also a veteran. As the bugler blew Taps, something inside of me was released, and I finally let Mom and all of the Lazarus family conflicts drift away with the warm October breeze. I knew that Phil and his sister might never reconcile, and that the awkward times with the family were now a thing of the past for me. In a purely selfish thought, I realized that never again would I have to endure the strain of family get-togethers, when someone was always mad about something, and never have to dread coming face-to-face with Phil’s sister who openly despised us both. Instead, I thought of the good things that I knew about Mom, and cherished the special moments that we had together acting like girlfriends in her apartment, and later in her nursing home room. I remembered the way she would grip my hand, not wanting to let go, and how her eyes would sparkle when we’d share a private moment or joke. I remembered her smile when she’d spot me walking down the hall toward her room, and the delight in her face that I had come for a visit.
No, Mom was not perfect, and she had the ability to get under my skin and irritate me to no ends. But I miss her, and will miss my visits with her. I am happy that she is finally at peace and is exploring heaven with her beloved Trooper.
Good-bye, Mom. I love you. I am now ready to write again.
Sunday, November 14, 2010
Sunday, October 10, 2010
New Cheap Entertainment at Our House
There is nothing like a kitten to provide hours and hours of cheap entertainment. Again, we have a kitten in the house, and our home dynamics have changed once more.
When Diamond and I were on our daily walk on Friday, she took a keen interest in the kudzu –covered bank near the beaver pond down the road from our house. I knew she had found something, but didn’t know if it might be a turtle, an armadillo, a grasshopper, or some other small animal. I let her off leash and began listening. Coming from the undergrowth was a meek little “meow.” Oh no! Not another kitten! I waded into the twisted vines to investigate where she was sniffing. I heard a “PFFFT” coming from deep in the brambles, after which Diamond quickly went into reverse and backed out. I took her over to the edge of the road and put her into a sit-stay, so that I could get a better look at whatever she’d found. Out from the kudzu leaves poked a little black and white face, showing curiosity, fear, and false bravado. I put my hands out, palms up, and this adorable little kitten approached me gingerly, sniffing my fingers. Scooping it up into my arms, I immediately felt a ferociously strong purr box. Diamond waited patiently in her position, but I could tell that she was keenly interested in her find. I released her, and she headed right back into the kudzu. While I held the kitten, now snuggling up in my arms, I heard another “meow”, as Diamond sniffed further into the mess of kudzu vines. I tried to coax this second set of vocal chords out into view, but wasn’t able to see the other kitten. It was too scared to take a chance on us. After about five minutes, with kitten in arms, we reluctantly left the pond bank, and headed back home.
Entering the house where Phil was resting in his lounge chair, I announced, “Look what Diamond found.” Phil knew that it was a kitten, as this has happened more than once since Diamond has come to live with us. I put the kitten into his lap, where he flipped it over, announcing, “It’s a little girl.” I was elated. With two male cats in the house, I was ready for a little female. I took her back from Phil, while he prepared a welcome-home meal for her of cat chow and milk, and loved on her a little more. Her purring never stopped, and she didn’t object at all to being held the way our Rocky does. After letting her down to eat, we let her investigate her new surroundings, and except for being wary of Diamond, who was chomping at the bit to smother-mother her, she settled in just fine.
Big Tom sauntered through the cat door shortly after Little Girl arrived, gave her his typical “ho-hum, another cat in the house” look, went to the food dish, and pretty much ignored her. Rocky, on the other hand, was traumatized. One glance at her, and he went into an over-drive frenzy of kitty panic, zipped through the cat door, and disappeared. We didn’t see him again until suppertime, when he slunk back in, hoping not to encounter this new monster in the house, grabbed a bite to eat, and headed back to the safety of outdoors.
Two days later, the little kitten, still without a name, sleeps next to me as I write. Tom still ignores her, and Rocky has decided that even though she is terrifying, he doesn’t want to leave the good life he has here, and steers clear of her. She and Diamond touched noses this morning, which delighted our sweet German Shepherd mommy dog. Hope springs eternal. For me, I’m in love. She slept on a pillow above my head last night, and I roused once to feel her nibbling on my hair and to listen to her beautiful purr. When I awoke this morning, she was curled up in one of Phil’s big hands, receiving a gentle petting from him.
The little girl has already made us laugh until we just about doubled over. She declared war on her shadowed reflection in the wood floor, attacked the door mouse doorstop, spent twenty minutes wrestling a piece of yarn, chased the laser pointer light all over the living room, doing flips and turns as she pursued it, and practiced her left hook on Diamond’s nose when Diamond got a little too close for comfort. She also got stung on the face by some kind of insect that she captured. But most of all, after figuring out how the cat door works, she proudly practiced going in and out several times in a row.
There’s just nothing more enjoyable than a kitten! Now to figure out the perfect name for her, because we’ve decided she’s a keeper!
When Diamond and I were on our daily walk on Friday, she took a keen interest in the kudzu –covered bank near the beaver pond down the road from our house. I knew she had found something, but didn’t know if it might be a turtle, an armadillo, a grasshopper, or some other small animal. I let her off leash and began listening. Coming from the undergrowth was a meek little “meow.” Oh no! Not another kitten! I waded into the twisted vines to investigate where she was sniffing. I heard a “PFFFT” coming from deep in the brambles, after which Diamond quickly went into reverse and backed out. I took her over to the edge of the road and put her into a sit-stay, so that I could get a better look at whatever she’d found. Out from the kudzu leaves poked a little black and white face, showing curiosity, fear, and false bravado. I put my hands out, palms up, and this adorable little kitten approached me gingerly, sniffing my fingers. Scooping it up into my arms, I immediately felt a ferociously strong purr box. Diamond waited patiently in her position, but I could tell that she was keenly interested in her find. I released her, and she headed right back into the kudzu. While I held the kitten, now snuggling up in my arms, I heard another “meow”, as Diamond sniffed further into the mess of kudzu vines. I tried to coax this second set of vocal chords out into view, but wasn’t able to see the other kitten. It was too scared to take a chance on us. After about five minutes, with kitten in arms, we reluctantly left the pond bank, and headed back home.
Entering the house where Phil was resting in his lounge chair, I announced, “Look what Diamond found.” Phil knew that it was a kitten, as this has happened more than once since Diamond has come to live with us. I put the kitten into his lap, where he flipped it over, announcing, “It’s a little girl.” I was elated. With two male cats in the house, I was ready for a little female. I took her back from Phil, while he prepared a welcome-home meal for her of cat chow and milk, and loved on her a little more. Her purring never stopped, and she didn’t object at all to being held the way our Rocky does. After letting her down to eat, we let her investigate her new surroundings, and except for being wary of Diamond, who was chomping at the bit to smother-mother her, she settled in just fine.
Big Tom sauntered through the cat door shortly after Little Girl arrived, gave her his typical “ho-hum, another cat in the house” look, went to the food dish, and pretty much ignored her. Rocky, on the other hand, was traumatized. One glance at her, and he went into an over-drive frenzy of kitty panic, zipped through the cat door, and disappeared. We didn’t see him again until suppertime, when he slunk back in, hoping not to encounter this new monster in the house, grabbed a bite to eat, and headed back to the safety of outdoors.
Two days later, the little kitten, still without a name, sleeps next to me as I write. Tom still ignores her, and Rocky has decided that even though she is terrifying, he doesn’t want to leave the good life he has here, and steers clear of her. She and Diamond touched noses this morning, which delighted our sweet German Shepherd mommy dog. Hope springs eternal. For me, I’m in love. She slept on a pillow above my head last night, and I roused once to feel her nibbling on my hair and to listen to her beautiful purr. When I awoke this morning, she was curled up in one of Phil’s big hands, receiving a gentle petting from him. The little girl has already made us laugh until we just about doubled over. She declared war on her shadowed reflection in the wood floor, attacked the door mouse doorstop, spent twenty minutes wrestling a piece of yarn, chased the laser pointer light all over the living room, doing flips and turns as she pursued it, and practiced her left hook on Diamond’s nose when Diamond got a little too close for comfort. She also got stung on the face by some kind of insect that she captured. But most of all, after figuring out how the cat door works, she proudly practiced going in and out several times in a row.
There’s just nothing more enjoyable than a kitten! Now to figure out the perfect name for her, because we’ve decided she’s a keeper!
Friday, October 1, 2010
Cottage Industries - A Sign of the Times?
I was driving down I-20 a few mornings ago, daydreaming as I drove to my job over near Spaghetti Junction. I had been listening to country music, as I always do when I’m in the car, and for some reason it had begun grating on my nerves. I switched off the radio, and was enjoying the silence inside my car. Because I wasn’t bombarded with music, I became more aware of my surroundings, namely the other cars on the highway. A new phenomenon became obvious to me as vehicles passed me and I whizzed past others, giving me pause for thought. I began reading magnetic car signs.
The first one that caught my eye was an old pick-up truck towing an open trailer loaded with lawn mowers, rakes, blowers, and all the stuff needed to manicure a lawn. Pasted to the driver’s side door as I passed this slow poke was a magnetic sign advertising “ABC Lawn Service”. I glanced as I passed, noting that inside the truck was a young man and woman.
Next was a mini-van that buzzed by me. The first thing I noticed was the extension ladder fastened to the roof. The magnetic sign on the side of this vehicle identified the young woman driving – “Kim’s Chandelier Cleaning” - complete with phone number and website. Kim, who I assumed was the driver, was an attractive African-American woman, probably in her 30s or 40s.
A little further down the highway, I discovered more interesting reading. There was a sign stuck to the side of an old sedan. It read “East Atlanta Courier”. A man about my age was the driver, and he was obviously in a hurry to get somewhere. We were at a place on the interstate where the traffic was stop-and-go, and we inched forward side-by-side along the jammed-up highway. I knew he was in a hurry, because he was drumming the steering wheel with his hands and was furiously chewing on a piece of gum. He kept answering his cell phone, talking for a couple of seconds and then hanging up. I imagined that he was updating someone on his progress, while carrying an important document or package to its destination in Atlanta.
Once traffic began moving again, more cars and trucks of varying ages and conditions caught my eye. I saw one advertising a “fix-it man”, another hawked “cake decorating”, and yet another claimed to be “carpenter, dry-wall, painter, plumber, electrician.” Wow! A man of many talents in that old truck! I also saw three Mary Kay decals on back windows and an Amway bumper sticker. I hadn’t seen one of those in years. I also passed four more lawn care trucks and trailers. This must be a pretty lucrative business, or at the least a relatively easy one to start up.
All of this set my mind to thinking about the people supplying these services and products. I wondered if they, like me, had been the recipients of a lay-off visit from human resources somewhere in the past couple of years. Were they still looking for work, or had they used their ingenuity to reinvent themselves with independent businesses in order to make a living? I was curious, and also impressed.
I then began thinking about myself, imagining what my magnetic sign might say if I had one. Of course, “Jennie Lou’s Treehouse” came to mind, as this is the name of my Saturday market booth. What would I advertise - my home-baked breads, jams and jellies, the cotton and bamboo fiber wash cloths that I knit and crochet, photo note cards, rag rugs, dried herbs, fresh vegetables? Or would I hawk the services I provide – research, organization management, meeting planning, tutoring, writing? I would most certainly need a super-sized sign for all of the little things that have kept me busy since I left my last office!
I turned into the driveway of my part-time job, which by the way, is located in my friend, Beth’s, home, and is a very successful independent enterprise. I was ready for a day of utilizing my talents to help her business flourish. I grabbed my bag filled with bread, jelly, and vegetables from my garden, and entered her home ready for a day of research, proofreading, organizing, data entry- whatever tasks she had ready for me.
With one last thought of the people I had “met” on the interstate, I said a quick prayer for them to succeed in their endeavors, and began my workday.
The first one that caught my eye was an old pick-up truck towing an open trailer loaded with lawn mowers, rakes, blowers, and all the stuff needed to manicure a lawn. Pasted to the driver’s side door as I passed this slow poke was a magnetic sign advertising “ABC Lawn Service”. I glanced as I passed, noting that inside the truck was a young man and woman.
Next was a mini-van that buzzed by me. The first thing I noticed was the extension ladder fastened to the roof. The magnetic sign on the side of this vehicle identified the young woman driving – “Kim’s Chandelier Cleaning” - complete with phone number and website. Kim, who I assumed was the driver, was an attractive African-American woman, probably in her 30s or 40s.
A little further down the highway, I discovered more interesting reading. There was a sign stuck to the side of an old sedan. It read “East Atlanta Courier”. A man about my age was the driver, and he was obviously in a hurry to get somewhere. We were at a place on the interstate where the traffic was stop-and-go, and we inched forward side-by-side along the jammed-up highway. I knew he was in a hurry, because he was drumming the steering wheel with his hands and was furiously chewing on a piece of gum. He kept answering his cell phone, talking for a couple of seconds and then hanging up. I imagined that he was updating someone on his progress, while carrying an important document or package to its destination in Atlanta.
Once traffic began moving again, more cars and trucks of varying ages and conditions caught my eye. I saw one advertising a “fix-it man”, another hawked “cake decorating”, and yet another claimed to be “carpenter, dry-wall, painter, plumber, electrician.” Wow! A man of many talents in that old truck! I also saw three Mary Kay decals on back windows and an Amway bumper sticker. I hadn’t seen one of those in years. I also passed four more lawn care trucks and trailers. This must be a pretty lucrative business, or at the least a relatively easy one to start up.
All of this set my mind to thinking about the people supplying these services and products. I wondered if they, like me, had been the recipients of a lay-off visit from human resources somewhere in the past couple of years. Were they still looking for work, or had they used their ingenuity to reinvent themselves with independent businesses in order to make a living? I was curious, and also impressed.
I then began thinking about myself, imagining what my magnetic sign might say if I had one. Of course, “Jennie Lou’s Treehouse” came to mind, as this is the name of my Saturday market booth. What would I advertise - my home-baked breads, jams and jellies, the cotton and bamboo fiber wash cloths that I knit and crochet, photo note cards, rag rugs, dried herbs, fresh vegetables? Or would I hawk the services I provide – research, organization management, meeting planning, tutoring, writing? I would most certainly need a super-sized sign for all of the little things that have kept me busy since I left my last office!
I turned into the driveway of my part-time job, which by the way, is located in my friend, Beth’s, home, and is a very successful independent enterprise. I was ready for a day of utilizing my talents to help her business flourish. I grabbed my bag filled with bread, jelly, and vegetables from my garden, and entered her home ready for a day of research, proofreading, organizing, data entry- whatever tasks she had ready for me.
With one last thought of the people I had “met” on the interstate, I said a quick prayer for them to succeed in their endeavors, and began my workday.
Sunday, September 26, 2010
As My World Turns
The past few weeks have been amazing to me. I continue to marvel at how the world turns to bring around surprises into my life in which I can see the divine hand in it all, and view in awe the ways God is sending his grace gifts my way.
This all started with an email to me from my minister at Social Circle United Methodist Church a few weeks ago asking me if I’d be interested in a job opening in the church’s district office. Our district superintendent had sent out a notice to all of his pastors asking for recommendations for an administrative assistant at his office. Since Richard, our pastor, knew that I have been officially unemployed for the past year-and-a-half, he contacted me to see if I’d be interested. My response to him --- as long as it doesn’t involve a daily commute to Atlanta, I’d like to hear more about it.
Lo and behold, Richard sent me the name and email of our District Superintendent – Dr. Gary Whetstone! There could only be one Gary Whetstone in the world, and that would have to be the big brother of Pam and Mona, who were members of the youth group at New Hope United Methodist Church, David’s student appointment when he was in theology school back in the 70s. Being a fringe member of our church, and not actively involved beyond my weekly knitting group, our Relay for Life team, and early service on Sunday, I didn’t even know who our DS was! I typed up a quick email to Dr. Whetstone, with my resume as an attachment. I told him that I wasn’t sure if I was qualified for the position, but I sure would love to know about Pam and Mona, as well as news about his parents.
I think Gary invited me to Athens for an interview as a courtesy, since I had a history with his family. It was a lovely interview, and I enjoyed meeting with Gary and his search committee. I knew, however, on the way home from the interview that this particular job was not the one for me, and definitely didn’t have my name on it. I faced the fact that I really didn’t want to become close to the policies and politics of the church again, and while I felt that I would enjoy working with Gary, I knew that this wouldn’t be a career choice for me at this point in my life.
However, it opened the door for me to make contact with Pam through Facebook, which led to a lunch with her last week in Blue Ridge, when Phil and I were returning home from seeing Brian at his play’s premiere in Kentucky. Seeing Pam was like having a burst of fresh air on my face, and the years faded away as we visited over lunch with her mother, Lu, at a little Chinese restaurant in Blue Ridge. Pam encouraged me to contact other New Hope youth group members who were also on Facebook, and after returning home, I did just that.
I am now Facebook friends with several of our youth group from those three years we were at New Hope. I love Facebook! It has brought me, after so many years, back to people whose lives touched mine while I lived the life of a minister’s wife, and has renewed my faith in Christian love and the incredible ways God can reach across decades and the internet to bring me back into the loving arms of those people I knew in the churches we served. It has been a year of Facebook surprises. First, it was a reunion between me and friends from Fieldale United Methodist Church in Virginia, and now with these great “kids” from New Hope. If it weren’t for Facebook and my local minister, none of this would have happened.
All of this also led to another revelation. While driving to Lincolnton this week to have lunch with a friend, my mind was wandering over the past 18 years since I first met her as my academic advisor and professor at library school. I realized that I have been an ex-minister’s wife longer than I was a minister’s wife. Those years, however, had a dramatic impact on me, and were instrumental in designing who I am today. With writing my novel this past year about a minister’s wife, and then reuniting with former church friends, a lot of memories – some of them buried very deep – have bubbled to the surface, and I can examine them with fresh eyes and attitude. I can also shed my ex-preacher’s wife cloak and simply be an old friend to laugh and cry over special memories and share in what’s happening today in all of our lives.
As I collect the days of my life, these recent days have certainly been worthy of noting in my Collection of Days. And I want to take this medium to thank those people who are now connected to me through Facebook and through my blog to say “thank you” for loving me and standing beside me, for reaching out to me, and for being my friends. For so many years I lived in the shadow of my ex-husband, who was adored by his congregations, not realizing that I could be loved apart from him as an individual in my own right. It took a bit of time for me to lose the feeling of invisibility, and I am thankful that God is patient and kind, and has blessed me by bringing so many special people back into my life.
But before I give Facebook all of the credit, I cannot end this Day without a mention of two special friends who have kept up with me since pre-Facebook days. My two friends in Virginia, Jane and Norma, are my angels who have lifted me up on their wings ever since the day my marriage ended. They never judged, they never questioned, they always loved, and they have been a constant in my life since the day I moved out of the parsonage so many years ago. And I also want to thank Wade, Brian, and Roy for encouraging me to sign up on Facebook, because it is through them that many of these wonderful connections have been made.
Wonder what the next surprise will be….. Stay posted!
This all started with an email to me from my minister at Social Circle United Methodist Church a few weeks ago asking me if I’d be interested in a job opening in the church’s district office. Our district superintendent had sent out a notice to all of his pastors asking for recommendations for an administrative assistant at his office. Since Richard, our pastor, knew that I have been officially unemployed for the past year-and-a-half, he contacted me to see if I’d be interested. My response to him --- as long as it doesn’t involve a daily commute to Atlanta, I’d like to hear more about it.
Lo and behold, Richard sent me the name and email of our District Superintendent – Dr. Gary Whetstone! There could only be one Gary Whetstone in the world, and that would have to be the big brother of Pam and Mona, who were members of the youth group at New Hope United Methodist Church, David’s student appointment when he was in theology school back in the 70s. Being a fringe member of our church, and not actively involved beyond my weekly knitting group, our Relay for Life team, and early service on Sunday, I didn’t even know who our DS was! I typed up a quick email to Dr. Whetstone, with my resume as an attachment. I told him that I wasn’t sure if I was qualified for the position, but I sure would love to know about Pam and Mona, as well as news about his parents.
I think Gary invited me to Athens for an interview as a courtesy, since I had a history with his family. It was a lovely interview, and I enjoyed meeting with Gary and his search committee. I knew, however, on the way home from the interview that this particular job was not the one for me, and definitely didn’t have my name on it. I faced the fact that I really didn’t want to become close to the policies and politics of the church again, and while I felt that I would enjoy working with Gary, I knew that this wouldn’t be a career choice for me at this point in my life.
However, it opened the door for me to make contact with Pam through Facebook, which led to a lunch with her last week in Blue Ridge, when Phil and I were returning home from seeing Brian at his play’s premiere in Kentucky. Seeing Pam was like having a burst of fresh air on my face, and the years faded away as we visited over lunch with her mother, Lu, at a little Chinese restaurant in Blue Ridge. Pam encouraged me to contact other New Hope youth group members who were also on Facebook, and after returning home, I did just that.
I am now Facebook friends with several of our youth group from those three years we were at New Hope. I love Facebook! It has brought me, after so many years, back to people whose lives touched mine while I lived the life of a minister’s wife, and has renewed my faith in Christian love and the incredible ways God can reach across decades and the internet to bring me back into the loving arms of those people I knew in the churches we served. It has been a year of Facebook surprises. First, it was a reunion between me and friends from Fieldale United Methodist Church in Virginia, and now with these great “kids” from New Hope. If it weren’t for Facebook and my local minister, none of this would have happened.
All of this also led to another revelation. While driving to Lincolnton this week to have lunch with a friend, my mind was wandering over the past 18 years since I first met her as my academic advisor and professor at library school. I realized that I have been an ex-minister’s wife longer than I was a minister’s wife. Those years, however, had a dramatic impact on me, and were instrumental in designing who I am today. With writing my novel this past year about a minister’s wife, and then reuniting with former church friends, a lot of memories – some of them buried very deep – have bubbled to the surface, and I can examine them with fresh eyes and attitude. I can also shed my ex-preacher’s wife cloak and simply be an old friend to laugh and cry over special memories and share in what’s happening today in all of our lives.
As I collect the days of my life, these recent days have certainly been worthy of noting in my Collection of Days. And I want to take this medium to thank those people who are now connected to me through Facebook and through my blog to say “thank you” for loving me and standing beside me, for reaching out to me, and for being my friends. For so many years I lived in the shadow of my ex-husband, who was adored by his congregations, not realizing that I could be loved apart from him as an individual in my own right. It took a bit of time for me to lose the feeling of invisibility, and I am thankful that God is patient and kind, and has blessed me by bringing so many special people back into my life.
But before I give Facebook all of the credit, I cannot end this Day without a mention of two special friends who have kept up with me since pre-Facebook days. My two friends in Virginia, Jane and Norma, are my angels who have lifted me up on their wings ever since the day my marriage ended. They never judged, they never questioned, they always loved, and they have been a constant in my life since the day I moved out of the parsonage so many years ago. And I also want to thank Wade, Brian, and Roy for encouraging me to sign up on Facebook, because it is through them that many of these wonderful connections have been made.
Wonder what the next surprise will be….. Stay posted!
Sunday, September 19, 2010
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.
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.
Monday, September 6, 2010
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.
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.
Sunday, September 5, 2010
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!
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!
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