The Sister Sleepover

We had the greatest of intentions. After my mama died, my sister and I started Sister Saturday. Once a month, we spent a day together, alternating from her house to mine. It worked great and was loads of fun.

But life.

You know how it is. We both have busy lives. Eventually, Sister Saturday became Sister Once-in-a-while. 

Yesterday, though, my sister came to Tupelo for work. All day long, I rejoiced in her coming. "My sister is coming today!" I said to myself, over and over again. I could hardly wait.

She spent the night with me last night. We laughed and talked until far too late. Slept too little. Up too early.

We had a great time. 

Of course, the dogs joined in the fun. Maggie was her usual imperious self. She greeted Cookie but She Who Must Sleep found a comfortable spot, curled up, and napped while we chatted.

Mamie, however, was beside herself with joy about the Sister Sleepover. She followed Cookie around, gave her hundreds of kisses, insisted on getting on the bed with her. Snuggled. Kissed. Snuggled. 

She wiggled all over with delight every time she saw my sister. 

We both laughed at her antics, but there's no doubt Mamie made Cookie feel welcome and loved. I couldn't do it nearly as well.

It left me pondering how we interact with those we love and how often we take them for granted. How seldom we take pure delight in their presence. How easily busyness can interfere with time spent together. How precious family is and how important our time together.

Life is short. Family matters. Take time for those you love. Make time to be together. Greet each other with the joy of Mamie. Wiggle with delight. Love with abandon. Hug lots. Enjoy the time together while you can.

"Two are better than one, because they have a good reward for their toil. For if they fall, one will life up his fellow. But woe to him who is alone when he falls and has not another to lift him up!" Ecclesiastes 4:9-10 esv

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#sisters #family #love

Grateful heart: Family

The view from our balcony

I'm celebrating Thanksgiving at the beach with my family this week. As a total homebody, being away is a mixed blessing for me. This week, though, I've taken a part of home with me because of the people who are here. Once again, I've been reminded that home is more about the people within the walls than the walls themselves.

We've walked on the beach for hours, gathered bucket loads of shells, laughed, and played together. It's been good. Tomorrow, most of us will begin our treks toward home.  

As good as the time has been, as sweet as the companionship, a part of me is already packing my bags and loading the car... at least in my mind. A part of me is already heading home.

That may sound shocking, because our time here has been nothing but good and there are no other people in this world with whom I'd rather share these days.

The truth, though we often forget it, is that this world is not our home and we are all, whether we realize it or not, already headed home. 

It was the Apostle Paul, writing to the church at Corinth, who said, "For we know that if the earthly tent which is our house is torn down, we have a building from God, a house not made with hands, eternal in the heavens..." Paul lived his life as a journey, headed to his final, eternal, destination. "I prefer rather to be absent from the body and to be at home with the Lord...." 2 Cor. 5:1,8 nasb

Until we reach eternity, let us live with one eye on our final destination, for we like Paul, are on a journey. We, too, are already headed home. 

Early morning quiet

My morning walking track 

Family

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In case you missed any of the past week's posts, here are the links:   Nigerian Nightmare,  Grateful Heart: Maggie Protects her Master, Grateful Heart: Hard Times, Red Hot Christmas Pickles and the Broken Jar, Grateful Heart: The Beginning of Stories, Grateful Heart: Blessing of Position, and Grateful Heart: Wonder Pickle.

The most read post of the last week: Praying for Peace.
#family #heaven #thisworldisnotmyhome #eternity #journey #Jesus Christ

The Family Flowers

I have watched with envy as fellow gardeners have posted photos of their blooms on Facebook. I haven't had blooms to post, and I've been absurdly sad about it. It is spring, after all, so where are my blooms??? I had begun to think those Arctic temperatures had stolen all my flowers. 

Several days ago, my azaleas finally burst forth in an amazing profusion of flowers and colors. Today, my first Iris bloomed at last, with bulging buds that will open soon.  The rose on the trellis has leafed out, and roses won't be far behind. 

The flowers are beautiful and I've worked hard to build a colorful garden over the last quarter century, but what I love most about my flowers in this spread-over-too-many-acres-to-contain garden is not the beauty. It's not the springtime color.  It is the connection to my family. My grandmother had beautiful irises in her backyard, and my Aunt Olene had a yard full of the most breathtaking azaleas imaginable. The rose on the trellis is a cutting from my grandaddy's prized rose, rooted for me by my dear cousin Skip. The peony was a Mother's Day gift from Ryan years ago. 

The flowers look like family to me. They remind me of my roots (literally and figuratively), and the people I hold so dear. There is no telling how many stories Ryan has heard about my grandmother that began with, "My grandma had irises like these..."  The flowers have helped to bring his ancestors to life in the stories they've brought forth. I've told him all the flower stories, of course, but the stories about how my grandaddy worked at the Borden milk plant and my grandmother took in boarders to survive the depression have been in there, too. 

As I wandered through the flowers this afternoon and thought about the lesson of the blooms, I've wondered what stories Ryan will tell about my flowers. What stories about my character, my perseverance through trials will these flower trigger? Whatever he tells, I hope the stories will include tales of my faith and the wonderful ways I've seen God work. 

Maybe, just maybe I'm passing it on. At spring break, Ryan asked, "Hey Mom, can I have some of your rosemary you rooted? I found an abandoned patch of ground near my apartment, and I thought I could plant a little garden there." I can hear it now. Every time he passes that abandoned lot, he'll be saying, "That's my mama's rosemary growing there". If not out loud, at least I hope he's saying it in his heart, which I where I most want to be. 

The White Christmas That Wasn't

My five year old son wanted his daddy (my ex-husband) to come home again. With the faith of a child, he began to pray and to fast (sweets) for his daddy to "come to Jesus and come home to live with us".  After what appeared to be a miraculous transformation and the answer to a child's prayers, I remarried him. It may have seemed a naive decision, but I fully recognized the risk of the old problems resurfacing. I never expected what happened, however.

I certainly wasn't blameless, don't get me wrong about that. I could see something was awry, but could not seem to fix it, and pretty soon I began to wonder. Were the old problems back again?  

That particular Christmas Day was the best ever. All the children were home and we had a wonderful time. No one was ready to leave, so my husband went to visit his parents alone, and didn't come home that night.  In fact, he never came home. it was months before we saw him again. 

Christmas Day was the beginning of the worst few years of my life. I soon learned that he was having an affair with a much younger woman. Things went from bad to worse, and before a year had passed, she would bear him a son. 

As the summer months were waning, I began to think about the coming holidays. My dread was so great that I could hardly talk about it. Somehow, his leaving and Christmas Day seemed hopelessly intertwined. How could I celebrate the birth of my Savior on the anniversary of the death of my marriage? 

When I mentioned it to my sister, she had an immediate solution. She had been thinking that renting a cabin in the mountains where we could all be together for a white Christmas would be the very thing to do. Somehow, Cookie the Super Sister managed to convince our Mama, her husband, all her children, her son-in-law and the grandchildren that this white Christmas was what everyone wanted to do (or at least what they should do for me and my son). Ever the organizer and maker of lists, she soon had the holiday organized into easily divided tasks. Cookie the Super Sister assigned each of us a meal to cook, a time to clean, chores to do. It wasn't all work, though. She had planned games and activities that we could all enjoy. We laughed and played together.  We loved each other right out loud.  We enjoyed being together. Not once did the avid hunters in the group complain about missing prime hunting season. Not once did anyone complain about missing holiday traditions or long time routines. No one grumbled. No one argued. There was hardly any whining about the lack of snow!

What could have been a black cloud overshadowing the birth of Christ for years to come was transformed into the sweetest of memories by the agape love of God demonstrated by my family. Even now, the depth of my sister's love and my family's sacrifice astounds me and moves me to tears.  I didn't deserve it, but I will never forget it. In fact, I was transformed by it. Yesterday's pain has become today's cherished memory. 

I've begun to decorate my home for the holidays, dragging out all those cherished ornaments and nativity sets, again this year. The traditional family Christmas I have planned with my son this year will be all the sweeter because of the white-Christmas-that-wasn't and the love that was lavished upon us that year so long ago. 

There's a Christmas song that says "Love came down at Christmas". It certainly did!  Because of the love of a tiny God-man more than 2000 years ago, love came down again at Christmas in the form of a loving sister and sacrificing family. So much love...

Blessings of joy this Christmas season, dear ones. Merry Christmas!

,

Peace and Quiet

 

What a wonderful holiday we've had! Ryan the SuperSon was home from Ga. Tech, so I've had hugs and laughs and fun galore for the last few days. We've had family in and out, visits with friends, and way too much food! Today was Back-to-Georgia day so my cousin, Terry, came for a visit and let to Ryan hitch a ride back. 

Maggie the Wonder Dog is very particular about who she allows into our house, but she greeted Terry as if he were her long-lost best friend. Only one tiny little bark!  Of course she had to entertain a little, so she demonstrated her full repertoire of tricks. Her "sneak like a spy" trick is my current favorite, and that's what she's doing in the picture above. (Of course, you will have to trust me on this, but she really was scooting across the floor on her tummy.)

After we were full up from a big lunch and laughed up from all Maggie the Wonder Dog's antics, the guys headed out for the long ride back to Atlanta. Maggie and I watched them head down that long driveway and slowly pull away. Back in the house, it was amazingly quiet, but the memories filled the air like summertime wisteria, lingering and sweet. 

This afternoon, I've snuggled up with Maggie the Wonder Dog in front of the fire and revisited the events of the last few days, savoring every one. As I've thought about our holiday, I've been so grateful that there were no harsh words to regret, no arguments to try to wish away. Frankly, I'd have been surprised if there were, but not everyone has this kind of home. I'm grateful I do. There are dishes in the dishwasher that need to be unloaded, dirty clothes to wash, suitcases from last weekend that still need to be unpacked, but it will all keep. For this evening, I'm just savoring the peace that reigns in my home. It's the kind of peace that only the Prince of Peace can give.  What a wonderful gift!

Unexpectedly grateful heart part 5

Some years ago, my cousin gave me a stem in a black plastic pot for Christmas. I thought, "What in the world is this?" Much to my surprise, it turned out to be something wonderful. It was a rooted cutting from my grandaddy's rose. It was a special rose that he really wanted, but times were hard and finances were tight, so he wouldn't spend the money to purchase it. My aunt ended up buying it for him and he cherished that climbing red rose. Somewhere along the way, my aunt had taken a cutting, rooted it, and had grown a lovely rose of her own. I'd always admired her rose, but never realized exactly what a treasure it was. My cousin had done the same thing for me.

I was intrigued, but a little skeptical. My grandaddy had been dead for fifty years. I was very young when he died, so I didn't really remember him. It was hard to believe I could grow his rose, but I planted it at the entrance to my herb garden, next to a little arbor. I was surprised when the climbing stem began to grow. I was stunned when the roses began to blossom!  The branches were loaded with deep red blooms that exuded the most remarkable fragrance.  

It's an odd rose, though. Sometimes it blooms at the most unusual times, rather than when I expect it. Earlier this week, I headed to the barn and a flash of red caught my eye. The rose was blooming, and once again I was overwhelmed by the connection from one generation to the next. This rose connects three generations of my family in the most unusual way. My grandaddy and my aunt are gone, but their rose reminds me of them in the sweetest way. 

That rose also teaches me some important lessons about my family. We sacrifice for one another. Times were as hard for my aunt as for my grandaddy, but she made a way. In my family, we love the outdoors, working with our hands, and gardening. We accept responsibility for each other. It's a big job to protect and care for that rose, but if we don't do it, there won't be a rose for my grandchildren. We don't mind thorns because they always come with roses. It's a lesson that's served me well in life. In my family, we share. It took some effort to root that rose for me, but that's what we do. 

I've already started trying to root the rose. I'm pretty sure my grandaddy would want the next generation to have it too. One day, I hope to give green stems in black plastic pots of my own. Until then, I'm grateful to be the custodian of my family's rose. 

The 25th Anniversary

As members of a physician advisory council for an international ministry, we meet twice a year. We rarely ever all make it at the same time, but this year is the 25th anniversary of the council and many of us are here. Some of us have been a part since the beginning, others, like me, for less time. For more than a decade, I've joined in as we supported each other through the storms of life. We've laughed together, wept together, grieved together, rejoiced together. We've done a little work for the ministry, but I'm pretty sure the ministry has done far more for us. 

Because of a variety of responsibilities, I had missed the last two meetings, but when I walked into the crowded restaurant where we met Wednesday night, it felt like coming home. Time and distance melted away. I was in the presence of family. Dearly loved family. 

The time we have together is far too short for us to get caught up, but we've tried hard. Once again, we have borne each other's burdens and shared our joys. "I would love to have long enough to share all our God-stories," one friend said. She was right. Our busy practices, astute diagnoses, finances, stresses all fade in importance next to the  marvelous things we have seen God do in our lives and in our families. 

As I basked in the glow of love between close friends Wednesday night, I wondered if our arrival into heaven might look a little like that. A multitude of loved ones will be there, eager to hear the latest God-story and celebrate together the One we serve.  

It may take a while, but I hope to see you then!