MERRY CHRISTMAS: MIRACLE EYES

 Sarah and Ezekiel caught my eye this Christmas season.  They were in two very different places.  But the gift these little children gave me this season has stayed with me.

I met Ezekiel at the grocery store.  On a day when grocery store lines were running about ten carts deep and every available bagger and checker were in position and working hard.  Everyone had milk and bread and eggs and frozen pizza and chips and Ravioli and tunafish and Vienna sausage and marshmallows and peanut butter.  Rations for an ice storm.  Or power outage or both.

Ezekiel did not bounce off the walls or swing on the basket or run back and forth begging for another item.  He stood politely and talked to his grandmother about the frozen pizza in their basket and how much fun they were going to have making it for supper.  I started chatting with her because I always chat. I do not live in a solemn world. 

Then I began talking to Ezekiel.  He was also a willing chatter.  He was five.  He told me about school and the pizza.  I asked him if he had been a good boy.  Have you ever met a child who wasn't?  Yes, he had been good.  I asked him what he wanted for Christmas.  He said he wanted Santa to bring him paints.  And some kind of toy I have no knowledge of - maybe a game.  He said he was an artist.  And he was pleased that I was pleased that he was one.  He had done six pictures of his family and he liked to just sit and draw.  Smiling, I asked him if he would go home with me.  He smiled without hesitation and asked if he could bring his games with him.  His grandmother laughed and said she could loan him out.  I leaned down and told him that would be fun.  Then looking out from under his hood somberly, his bright eyes looked up at me and he whispered in the reverence only reserved for the most special things in a child's life.  "I love candy."  A smile broke across his face.  "But not too much."  Chocolate.  We agreed that was the best.  I told him since he was an artist he could draw pictures of candy.  His eyes shot sideways in the new thought.  I told him that people have jobs drawing candy packages and cookie and pizza packages.  The wheels were spinning.  I left there with a little soft spot in my heart for a delightful young man named Ezekiel.

Sarah caught my eye at church.  She was standing at the Advent Table with her family as they lit the first candle of the season.  She and her brother were a little more than eye level with the velvet covered table holding five candles.  Her mother lit one candle.  Our pastor began to lead us in prayer.  Sarah bowed her head and then looked up.  She wasn't looking at the crowd or at her parents or her brother.  She was looking straight into the candle as the spark burned on the candle's wick.  Her face glowed, reflected in the light of the candle so close to her.  The childlike amazement was in her eyes.  She barely smiled.  I went away from church that morning with a fresh view of the amazement of Christmas.

I have probably never talked to Sarah.  I do know her parents.  She has certainly not spent time telling me what she wants for Christmas.  I don't know if she likes frozen pizza or the color pink or chocolate candy.  I do know Sarah walks.  But in the fall, with school just starting, she suffered a very rare stroke and her precious young life was almost lost.  But now, both sides of her body work like a little girl's body should and she can almost run again.

I think of Mary, barely a young woman.  Making a journey to a new land of great difficulty.  On a donkey.  Better than walking, maybe.  Young, with only a new, inexperienced husband for support.  No mother or sisters to ease her path.  I see her eyes with tears, in excitement, fear and pain.  But her husband is steady and confident and protective.

Ezekiel smiling, wondering. A whisper in his ears - you have the miracle.

Sarah smiling, running.  A whisper in her ears - you are a miracle.

Mary traveling, hoping. A whisper in her ears - you carry The Miracle.

May you hear the whisper.



**Originally published 12-24-13

SUMMER CHAIRS

 Boy. Was I scared to put up this new post. It may never see the light of day but I had to start somewhere. As one of my favorite authors says, "It was a good week in Lake Woebegone." Well, it has been a good week for Amy Taylor even though Monday was four months. 

As I type, I'm listening to the waves break along the coast of The Beach Club in Fort Morgan, Alabama. We went there in August with our grandsons and their parents. I have the live shot pulled up in the background. I can watch the blue water change color and see the waves shift direction. I see the Beach Boys carrying the umbrellas and chairs back to the four boxes for the night. They will be out again tomorrow, running with the umbrellas under their arms and going back to set up the chairs. What a job, day in and day out. They are in good shape and very tan. I wonder what they do between the morning and late afternoon.

H. loved the ocean. He was caught up in tickling surf ruffling around his calves, splashing saltwater across his body, a little in his nose. Dad was right there, holding tight. Granddad was farther back, ready to catch any stray six-year-old that might fall back into the water. But he was wearing a life vest. 

C. squealed and kicked his feet as his Mama dangled him in the surf. All of  his ten-month-old self experiencing such a new sensation, this fizzy warm water, a salty smell in his nose.

Our vacations have been back and forth to our homes, to see each other during our time off, being so far apart. But we do see each other regularly, but distance is still distance and time and energy. I do envy those parents who are close by their families. But eight hours is better than sixteen hours. At least you can drive. We had a nice vacation just relaxing in a different place. I hope to go back.

Nice memory for a fall afternoon. I do keep my eye on the beach. It has gotten to be a habit of mine, checking the beach for the day. Only 71 today. Kind of chilly for swimming even if the water is warm.

I just stuck my frozen chicken breasts in the oven. Olive oil, butter, garlic salt and Old Bay. It will make a nice supper with leftover rice and frozen broccoli. A Sister Schubert's roll. Maybe finish up the Chocolate Moose Tracks ice cream for dessert. Thursday is Goulash day. I may just break a record of cooking for the week. Plan to make Steak Veggie Soup on Friday. I know I'm breaking a record. I just haven't felt like cooking for a long time. K. has been a real trooper helping us manage. 

Today I got new doors. I have never had new doors before.  Just new storm doors but the door locks work and they close nicely. Now I can open the front door if the doorbell rings. As it has been, I have had to hold onto G. and talk through the side window. I keep a narrow chair under that window. G. would go through the window if he could and years of jumping up and down had ruined the paint. That was repainted last fall. This fall new doors, front and back. Those old doors had been there at least twenty-seven years. They are gone. I even have new keys. In an odd coincidence, my sister was getting all new windows. I thought that was funny. 

After a couple of months of looking online, I finally went into the store on Tuesday and bought a new purse. I do purchase some things on line but I try to be a store shopper. I love to touch what I'm purchasing. Oh, I do my homework online. I get out my ruler and measure the height, width and length and decide if it is large enough using my current purse as a pattern. But after all of this time studying the small Hallie bag with crossbody, it didn't foot the bill. 

I have no idea what my new purse is named but it is the same designer and larger and still has the crossbody.  I go into the guestroom where I spread out my new fall purchases (there were other items but only one purse). The room has that new leather smell. I do like a new purse but I keep them a long time and trade them out for different needs. My current purse I bought during Covid on a trip to the store to buy new sheets. Must have been a necessity.

Coming home with my pretty Cherry Coke purse (that's my name for it) I realized I didn't have an audience to run by and share my new purchase. Someone who would enjoy my new bag as much as me. Mama. She would love it and raise her eyebrows. Standard reaction. Where do you think I got my love for a good bag?  

Tomorrow night will be a big new season for the few network shows I watch. I don't watch much. We usually watch Shetland or Vera or Brokenwood Mysteries, all British. But I like my Razorbacks, NASCAR and the Kansas City Chiefs. I have watched one Cowboy game in honor of Mama but that may be enough. 

So just the simple things can make a good week. Like new clothes and finishing my book for my new book club (we shall see) weeks ahead of schedule. Supper in the oven and the furnace kicking on for the beginning of the cold snap. A good whiff of my fall scent. Getting the car washed. But putting your car in reverse on the metal feed is an interesting experience. Neutral is better. And then I had to drive by leaf blowers.

But did I mention the chairs? I did. It was something watching those young men snap the chairs up and run back to the storage boxes. The clap of the salt-seasoned chairs signaling the end of our summer. Instantly, for me, the memory clap of other chairs beginning our summer. 

Under the green tent. Sometimes you drive by a cemetery and the tent is empty. Or not. A family gathers. The white wooden chairs for those closest to the deceased. A goodbye. Later, we waited in the distance, watching as the small wooden box was lowered into the ground. We live hours from the cemetery so we couldn't come back later and make sure all was in place as it should be. 

The truck drove off, with the tent and the fake grass and the stack of wooden chairs. We walked back over to the headstone. Daddy waiting beside her. The ground is tamped down. The yellow rose wreath propped against the headstone, a name with no last date. The June hot summer morning is melting the clothes to our backs. There is great sadness. Mama is gone. But she has had a beginning. No more suffering. In her last weeks, she would say "Amen. Come, Lord Jesus." Rev. 22:20. HE came.

  

 

IN MEMORIAM: THE DEFINITION OF A GOOD MAMA

My Mama died yesterday. Ninety and half blessed years as she would say. She moved to Little Rock five years ago and lived in a Senior Adult Retirement Center. The independent side. Very independently. She wasn't needy. Very involved with the community, she was too busy with book club, bridge, chair yoga, bingo, swimming, skip bo and Happy Hour to name a few. I will miss her being twelve minutes away and trying to find a place in the adjacent parking lot and not the lot on the hill. On Tuesday, she worked her Wordle. On Wednesday, she was standing over the table looking for puzzle pieces in her beloved Puzzle Room. Diagnosed with cancer in January, she would tell anyone she was ready to see Jesus. After months of treatment, the disease took her quickly in the past week. I published this post in November 2013, It still describes my Mama.

She got the cat a few years ago. For her, it has been a wonderful addition to her life. There are others of us who are not crazy about the antics of this cat. She knocks pictures off the wall. She pushed a Waterford lamp off the table, into pieces. Shredded upholstery fabric with her sharp back claws. With regularity, she pushes the clock radio off the dresser in the middle of the night. Crazy cat lady. But her fierce love of this nutto cat is one more example of my mother's tremendous love and devotion if a breathing body belongs in her circle of family. And this cat is quite elevated in her position. She gets away with mayhem because she has the ability to purr.

The birthday girl with no party.  But don't feel sorry for her.  That is exactly the way she wants her day to be, turning eighty.  She its practically running to another state just in case someone she knows locally might take a room at the church and have a lovely reception.  Maybe just a little adoration will

be allowed from the family she is running to and her traveling companion.  She has made it very clear she knows the way with her eyes closed.  Lover of maps and adventure the road is always beckoning.  She will go anyway, anyhow, except why fly when you can get in the car and ride for eight or nine hours with birthday luck.  In her car, let me make that very clear.  Car love - seriously.

She loves the smell of new tires and squirrels away secret bars of chocolate.  She is the designated driver in her group of ladies because she can still see at night.  Her mahogany dining room table is always covered in a partial jigsaw puzzle and scattered pieces.  She has everything she needs but she doesn't want too much.  There is no excess of anything in her life except time spent at her computer playing games.  Shopping for shopping's sake doesn't interest her but she loves pretty new clothes.  I heard it from her first, a good bag and good shoes.  She is right but then again, she is right most of the time.

Impeccable taste and fashion advice.  Lipstick, powder and a good haircut.  Blue eyes and simple beauty a teenager who loved makeup could never understand.  Mama blue.  A house with nothing out of place.  A sofa, a chair, a table placement stays forever.

There is nothing in life that can't be cured by writing thank you notes, washing dishes, putting a hot supper on the table.  Writing monthly bills and watching the stock market keep her mind zippy along with crossword puzzles and staying busy.

There is a trophy on the shelf from the days of her life playing tennis.  And every Bible our family has ever purchased or received.  But she doesn't wear her faith on her sleeve.  She just shows up with whatever meets the need - deviled eggs, chocolate pie or a ham.  And she is quick to let the preacher know how she feels after sitting on the first row at church.  Nothing gets past her.

Especially raising two girls.  Waiting in the wingchair in the dark at 3.  Surprise.  Bacon and eggs for breakfast before church, after a college daughter ran around all night disco dancing.  Surprise.  Taking calls from a concerned professor, politely.  Surprise, your professor called.  Germany?  Really?  Can't see the forest for the trees.  There is this young friend of mine.

Goldwater.  Dallas tears and fears.  Presidential volunteering.  No knives of any kind but disbelief that the Secret Service would really take away his beloved pen knife at the Presidential Library Opening.

Games, always, everyday a full roster.  The Original Cowboy fan, through thick and thin and thick and thin, swaying her day.  World-stopping devotion.  A golf swing but never a player.  Tennis, tennis and more tennis.  Now aerobics to keep her moving.

To lunch but rarely dinner.  A circle of widow ladies with welcoming arms.  Whirlwind socializing.  Book review with a plate of cookies.  Symphony for the children.  Traveling just for a piece of the famous homemade pie.

Every second of every minute figured out weeks in advance, the gift of analyzing bridge twice a week for years.  Tournaments and points and good friends and manners.

The love of family but "when are you leaving" as you walk in the door.  Preparation for leaving.  Holiday dinners with just enough.  Too much leftover dressing would not do.  Leftovers are only tomorrow's meal in three weeks from the freezer.  A lifetime of little lidded cups containing mere tablespoons.  Waste not, want not.  But it was the chili, just that once.

Standing on the tarmac in her winter coat in Morocco.  Left waiting on her Naval Officer because he was right in third grade but wrong about her arrival time.  As fast as she could pack, catch a December train and a transport plane, first flight to a world only imagined in Hollywood.  Tales that would last a lifetime, the yearly tradition of a little ting of the bell on the Christmas corsage he grabbed on the way out the door of a borrowed apartment already full of presents for his bride.

Working day's end, she and two babies, bathed, freshly dressed, hot supper, everything waiting for his hand upon the door, his castle - their world.  A lively conversation that never ended until the middle of one dark morning.  Why do old people always want to know what time it is in the middle of the night?

Chopped onion and celery sautéing in a pan when he walks in the door and he will think you have really done something.  When Jesus comes, you are going to say "Just a minute, Jesus!"  Do it now.  Just do it, when the going gets tough.  One roll is enough.  Go fix the cornbread.  Are you working on your book?  What about the story?  You take too many pictures.  I don't need a cat.  Don't you dare get me a cat.  I'm not big on fruit.   I used to think I could eat a whole pot roast.   I don't eat all day, except a coke at lunch.    I'd go without but I always have six eyes looking back at me.  Happy Altoids!

No party for me.  Eighty is old.  I don't know how many years I have left (but her mother lived to ninety-three.)  True.  Pull out the map.  Check the itinerary.  Some items marked will be drive-by viewings only.  California.  New England.  Italy.  New Orleans.  She is always ready to go. Her bags are packed.  Here we come Rome, Georgia.  Let the whirlwind commence.


signed,

a girl who loves her Mama

WHAT COLOR PLEASE

 

Proceed with caution. This is personal fluff. Sometimes we just need a little lightness in the day. Your other choices are listed at the end of the article.

When I was a teenager, I was famous for my nails and polish collection. Back in the day, we didn’t have Lee Press On Nails that would stay on your fingers. Only celebrities like Cher and Barbra had gorgeous long, red nails which I greatly coveted, my goal in life. Fortunately, for me, good nails are inherited. Grandmama had good nails and so does Mama. I’m hoping good nails mean good bones.

In those days, hunting out new nail polish was my hobby. When we moved to Little Rock the grocery store, Skaggs Albertson’s, had an entire wall devoted to nails. This was a new feature and greatly appreciated. Many a baby-sitting dime went to purchase my new favorite color by Revlon or Loreal or Cutex. I can’t remember the color names. Every Saturday afternoon or night, depending on my social life, I would do my nails. I could paint my nails in thirty minutes and let them dry for an hour with only light tasks allowed like turning the pages of a magazine.  

Actually, with longer nails, tasks weren’t easily performed. Washing dishes only in gloves. Making a bed was foreboding. Hooking a necklace. Buttons. Then a nail would break and I would always cut them all back down.

I always got compliments on my nails. As a college student doing mission work in deep South Texas at a Hispanic Baptist Church, the little children would hug me and call me Sister, holding my hands to look at my long, fluorescent purple painted nails. They were fascinated. Purple was a completely daring color. No one even made Blue My Mind or the famous Chanel Vampire, a black red polish. Now there is no lack of greens, greys, yellows and other colors I deem inappropriate for nails, certainly for my nails. My teenage colors of choice were anything frosted pink or peach or hot pink and pure red. In fashion magazines, I always looked at the nails.

I remember seeing my first pink white blush color on the pages of People Magazine in the early 80’s in an article about Marie Osmond and her young family, her new baby and first husband. They divorced, had more spouses, and have remarried in the last few years. I searched for the color for years. It is now my favorite.

The names of polishes must be catchy. It’s Pink PM, You Callin’ Me A Lyre?, Act Your Beige, Let Me Bayou a Drink. My current collection of Pink White Blush colors.

The click clack of my nails made my piano teacher crazy. I kept them shorter and would wear them short for recitals and Piano Guild. But my nails have always grown quickly. The longest my nails have ever been were the days closest to my wedding. I worked very hard not to do any tasks more strenuous than unwrapping wedding presents and applying my Estee Lauder makeup. Only hair salons had manicurists with appointments.

The length of nails today is ridiculous. There are certainly many dishes left in the sink and beds unmade.  When I was a girl, my Camp Fire Girl Troop went to Fort Night at Neiman Marcus in Dallas. The focus for the year was on China. I have never forgotten the two Chinese men on display for their nails. Long, long nails and at a certain length the nails grew and curled around each other. It brought up too many questions in my 10 year old mind.

There were not nail salons on every corner offering hundreds of colors and almost as many applications. I have done the artificial nails but finally gave up when I decided the cost and damage to my own nails were not a fair trade. But that has not prevented me from enjoying getting my nails done for every special occasion. Diana and I have always had fun going to get a mani-pedi together.  

My freshman year of college was the heyday for my nail obsession. It was not uncommon for my polish to change daily, matching fingernails and toenails. I was definitely on target for all of those good grades needed to make parents happy to provide your college education. But in all fairness, I was not the only coed up to her knees in cotton balls and polish remover. However, my first semester of college I got an A+ in Nails and an F in Biology. Always blessed with time management skills.

 

I was trying to think of something to blog but my current choices were fun health and  family issues and toe nail fungus. These are not encouraging or written about in polite company. I think I will just go paint my fingernails. Afterall, laundry and brushing the dog are not tasks for fresh nails.

 

P.S. For strong nails, I recommend OPI Nail Envy. Nail Strengthener. Last purchased on Amazon.