I've lost my joy? Where did I put it?

So really?  How does this keep happening?  Over a year ago I gave all the reasons why I didn't have time to write in my blog.  And now here I am, once again, doing the same thing.  My excuses this time include having shingles (the commercials on television are right....they ARE painful!), breaking my toe and a recent eye surgery to remove a macular pucker.  Who the heck gets a macular pucker?  Like I said last year, I feel old.  Every morning I make a conscious decision to approach the day with new energy, a good attitude and the promise of completing tasks at work that have been waiting.  And every day, all my good intentions go right down the drain. 
Someone at church hugged me the other day and said, "I've been praying for you!"  I thanked them and told them my eye surgery had gone well and they said, "No, you've lost your joy.  I'm praying that you get it back."  That hit me hard.  I know they meant very well and it was said to me following a warm hug but it still hit me.  I've lost my joy?  Maybe I have.  I'm angry a lot lately.  I'm frustrated more easily and my patience isn't what it used to be. I cried yesterday for absolutely no reason.  I wake up at two in the morning and my legs want to stretch and run in the pasture that surrounds our cabin.  I pace the floor and look out the windows, walk out onto the porch and look up at the stars.  No, I can't blame it on menopause, I've been there, done that and didn't like it.  I don't know what I'm looking for.  Maybe my joy?  I truly have no reason in the world to be un-joyful!  I have a wonderful husband, a great job, a beautiful family and precious granddaughter.  I just feel tired and restless and don't know why.  I feel like I'm pouring out more than I'm taking in.  So, maybe tomorrow will be different.  And maybe I'll wake up with a new direction and the day will actually go great and I'll find my joy.  I've laid down somewhere and can't remember where I put it.  If you borrowed it or played a part in taking it, please return it and I won't ask any questions.  And if it takes me another year to write again, I can use the excuse that I was out looking for my joy.

 

Time Slipped Away

How could almost two years completely get away from me without posting something on my blog?  I was reminded by a friend today that it had been a while since I'd written.  This little girl in the picture is the reason.  On July 2, 2014, she became our granddaughter and we've been wrapped around her little fingers ever since.  Between her and her mama, they have proved one of my favorite sayings, "When I can see no way, God makes a way."  After losing three babies, I could never see a way to have children, but we were blessed with Audrey.  I could never see a way to have grandchildren and we were blessed with Jessa. 
So much has happened in the past two years.  I lost my brother in July of 2013.  In January of 2014, my only sister was diagnosed with breast cancer.  A year later now, she is cancer free, but it was a rough year for her.  Scary times, two surgeries, treatments, doctor visits.  She pulled through like the strong woman she's always been. Between those two, I spent a lot of time on my knees.  I cried a lot.  God took one from me and let me keep the other.  Sometimes life just hurts.  But there were also joyful times.  A niece got married, a nephew got married, family came and visited from Ohio, family moved to Savannah.  As I sit here tonight, I realize how much life changes and how we just seem to be along for the ride.  I feel old for the first time in my life.  My back hurts and I can't dig in my yards the way I want to.  I think about my past more often and I want to go back and do it again and make some better decisions, I want to spend more time with the people I've lost, I want to tell them once more how much I love them, I want to dance into the night again and walk in the rain more often.  I want to eat at the Waffle House again with my brother and sit with my mama and daddy on a pew in the third row of their church.  I want to.....so many things.  Thank you friends for reminding me that I needed to write more.  I'll make a better effort to do it this year.

Giving Away a Daughter



We got the call in September.  The man she fell in love with had asked her to marry him.  We were in the car, headed home from shopping.  It was happy news.  It was sad news.  Her parents wouldn't be there to take part in the wedding.  It was their choice, surely they'd change their minds.  God turned that situation around and blessed us with their choice.  We were blessed with their decision to be absent from her life.

We got to take their place.  It meant we had front row seats the day she got married.  It meant I became the mother of the bride and my husband got to experience the undescribable joy of walking her down the sandy isle on Mexico Beach.  He got to be the father of the bride.  He got to give her away to a man that loved her dearly.  He got to wear his shirt hanging out and bare feet.  How happy could one man be?

We took our new roles seriously.  We were nervous.  We wanted to be prepared to give good advice if we were asked.  And we were. I had never had any children and here I was, helping pick out a beautiful bridal gown, attending showers, taking pictures, meeting the women that would soon become a part of her new family.  Loving every minute of it.  Laughing, sometimes crying, sometimes down on my knees beside my bed praying.  Asking God why he allowed me to experience such joy and thanking Him for it.  Asking for His guidance because she needed me.  She needed us.



It was a beautiful day.  Cloudy, rainy, it didn't matter.  There's nothing prettier than a white sandy beach on a cloudy day.  We got wet at the reception and that didn't matter either.  At the end of the day, she was a wife and we gained a son.  I looked at her walking with her arm through my husband's and I cried.  Why would any mother not want to witness something so precious and so beautiful?  She's smart, she's independent, she works hard.  Every woman in my circle of friends and family would welcome her as their own.  She is a young woman to be proud of.  She'd made it right by herself. 

So, I need to say thank you.  Thank you to her for choosing me to be the mother of the bride that beautiful day and thank you God for the decisions that others make that bless my life.

"Great is the power of might and mind, but only love can make us kind, and all that we are or hope to be is empty pride and vanity.  If love is not a part of all, the greatest man is very small."  HSR

Daddy's Favorite

We recently passed the twenty year anniversary of the death of my daddy.  He died on a freezing, rainy Christmas in 1992.  I remember it like it was yesterday afternoon.  There are constant reminders of him in my life; smells of sawdust, beautiful bends in the river, an old pair of overalls, a bottle of Old Spice, an old 1966 Chevrolet step-side pickup truck.  Seeing, hearing, smelling these things bring him back to me and I like it.  I take pleasure in those brief moments when he passes through my memories.  Sometimes I still cry, but not as often.   When he first passed away I went to the cemetery every day for the an entire year.  I'd stand in the rain, in the hot sun, it didn't matter.  I couldn't stand him being there alone.  Many times I'd kneel down beside his grave and weep.  My heart hurt.  I'd known the hurt of losing a husband because he didn't want me but I'd never known the deep, aching hurt of losing the man that truly loved me from the time I took my first breath until he took his last. 

Daddy was a tall man, big built and strong with jet black hair in his younger days and silver taking over as he got older.  Men in town called him J.B.  Everyone at our house called him Daddy.  Even Mama called him that.  There was a softer side to him as I grew up.  I was the baby and I liked it that way.  He had already raised two other children, my older brother and sister, so by the time I came along, he was tired.  He was easier and softer and I know I got away with a lot.  I got to enjoy the more mellow time in his life but I also didn't get to enjoy him as long. 

The flower in this picture is of his favorite camellia.  It grew, along with many other varieties, in the circle drive way at their house, the place I called home.  I remember very distinctly a day when he and I walked slowly through the yard.  It was the winter before his stroke and his steps were getting slower.  He was not well and we all knew it. He loved the camellias and we'd stop at each one and he'd tell me about it and comment about how beautiful it was.  But when we reached this one, he pulled down the stem and held it close to his face and really looked at it hard.  He said, "Sugar, how can anyone look at something so beautiful and not believe there is a God?  Why, if you look close enough this flower has veins in it."  Then, he ran his hand down the stem and broke it off and handed it to me.  We carried this beautiful flower back inside and put it in water for mama to see when she came home from buying groceries.

When Daddy died on Christmas day in 1992 and we buried him two days later, I carried some of these beautiful flowers to his grave and laid them at his head.  Then, every day I would break one off and take it to the cemetery until the flowering bush gave me nothing else to carry him.  Then, I just went alone with nothing in my hands to take to him but my tears.

Every year, I return to this beautiful camellia bush and I break two stems of beautiful blooms; one for Daddy and one for me.  I take one by the cemetery and then I take one home and put it in a vase next to my kitchen sink where I'm reminded of him for many days afterwards.   Some men would scoff at walking around the yard looking at flowers but not this man.  He had learned to enjoy the beautiful gifts that God had given us.  It took me years to reinvent myself so that I could also appreciate the beauty of simple things.  And not that I would ever forget, not even for a single day, but God reminds me of him every winter by bringing beautiful blooms to Daddy's favorite camellia bush. 

Just as Different as Our Dogs

Good friends are hard to come by.  Sister says they come into our lives for a season, for a purpose and then sometimes they go away.  Sometimes they stay.  I have many good friends but only a very few that I consider true friends.  Most of my friends have my same interest.  We like the same foods, we share the same careers.  We like the same television shows, the same books, the same kinds of men.  But I have one friend that is just plain weird.  We're just as different as our dogs.  I'll have to tell you how I met her.

It was about 17 years ago.  God! How time flies.  It was her first day on the job at the bank I was working at.  You know how women are.  We don't like change.  We don't like women that come in the first day and try to own the place.  I'd heard she was coming.  I was an executive officer of the bank with nice double french windows overlooking a massive lobby.  There she was.  I could tell it was her by the way she was acting.  All flirty, with men standing all around her.  She had a big smile, shaking hands with customers, talking like she knew everyone in the entire town.  She was short, petite, tiny, with dark, stylish, short hair.  I was tall, big, blond hair.  I didn't like her already. 

I tried my best to act very unconcerned about her arrival.  I turned my attention back to a stack of reports on my desk.  The laughter was getting louder, getting closer to my door.  My curiosity was getting the best of me so I looked again.  She had her back to me.  Her stylish gray skirt was tucked neatly inside the back of her pantyhose.  I turned my head away, knowing if I started laughing, I'd pee in my pants.  There she was.  First day on the job and her backside was shining to the world.  No wonder the men surrounded her!  Should I step out and tell her?  Surely I should.  She didn't know me.  I didn't know her.  I made a quick decision.  I wasn't opening my mouth.  She'd figure it out if she wanted to be a woman in a man's world! 

But then I really met her.  Had to work on a daily basis with her and she became real.  She was going through a bad divorce.  We had that in common.  She had teenagers.  My heart started to hurt for her.  She was human, a woman just like me.  The confidence and cockiness she displayed on the job was a facade and I realized it was an armor for her insecurities and her hurt.  We began to form a friendship.  We ate lunch together on occasion.  I'd go to her house and listen to her play her piano.  We'd attend bank functions at night together.  She realized my hearing loss and she became my ears at work.  She began to travel with me, attend meetings with me, repeat things that she knew I didn't hear.  I began to rely on her.  And then she met "The Man." 

An Air Force Pilot came one day and took her away.  He married her and they began to travel all over the world and our differences became even more distinctive.  It wasn't just the tall-short thing or the blond-brown hair thing.  It became the social and the reclusive.  The traveler and the homebody.  She bought luxurious rugs and furniture.  I decorated with primitive quilts and rustic furniture.  She lived in a three story home in a foreign country, I lived in a little two bedroom house in the woods.  Her husband donned expensive suits and shoes.  Mine wore blue jeans and work boots.  I loved the porch, she loved the theater.  We were just as different as our dogs.  Mine, Red Heeler Cattle Dogs.  Hers, Volpinos.  My dogs ride on the golf cart, hers on airplanes from one country to the next.  See the difference?  We're just as different as our dogs but I love her.  I miss her because she's worlds away in a country where nothing blows but the sand and it's not uncommon to get behind a truck with camels on the freeway. 

Soon she'll come home for a visit and we'll eat at our favorite restaurant, appropriately named "Two Friends".  I'll listen to her talk about her world and she'll listen while I talk about mine.  I'll miss her when she leaves again and long for her to return so we can laugh and talk like two friends do.  I pray daily that God keeps her safe and protected from harm as she lives in a foreign land.  And just like our dogs, we'll just be different. And we're both okay with that.

Junking Into the Unknown

Junking is my passion, my hobby, my high.  If it were cocaine, I'd be an addict.  Some of my most facinating finds have been down dirt roads, in run-down barns and in frazzled boxes.  I like to dig and plunder. I'll pass a little hand written sign that says, "Estate Sale" or "Yard Sale" and my car automatically does a U-turn in the highway.  I don't care who's behind me, I'm slamming on brakes and turning around.  My husband has learned to just pull up front and stop because I'll jump out before he can put the car in gear.  Years ago I did it for an antique shop we had.  Now, I just do it for fun and to help a friend that is just about to open her own shop.  If you tell me it belonged to your great-aunt or your grandmother crocheted it, I'm buying it.  For the life of me, I couldn't sell something that my mother made or collected.  I'm hoping I don't turn into a horder.  But I am organized so if I do, I'll be an Orderly Horder!  I took this picture on Saturday morning.  I was waiting for my friend to arrive at her new shop so while I waited, I rode.  Hoping to see a sign.  And there it was, "Estate Sale".  A tree-lined canopy road awaited my arrival.  I was in heaven.  Even if the sale was no good, the ride was beautiful and I opened the sun roof on my car.  As I arrived and walked onto the screened in porch, my heart felt some sadness.  It was a mother's things they were selling.  She was no longer with them and they had strewn her things throughout the house with price tags.  It was something we promised our own mama we would never do with her things.  And, when she died, my sister and I kept our promise.  Among the plastic bowls and worn out frying pans, I found a beautiful picture of two angels with their arms around each other, then a pretty pottery bowl and pitcher.  I stood and looked out over the pond and saw the view that their mother must have looked at every day.  I could picture it quiet there early in the mornings with a peaceful view but there was arguing among the children. "Where's mama's CD player?"  asked one daughter.  Another one shouted, "I took it to my house and you can't have it back!"  I gave them my money and left.  I needed to be back on the dirt road, the one out front that was canopy-lined with trees.  They were standing right there in a little slice of heaven and didn't even know it.  Throwing angry words at one another that can't be taken back.  Back out on the dirt road, I let their arguing slip away from me.  I took a deep breath and it felt good to smell the fresh air.  Junking into the unknown is therapy after a long week at work.  And until next Saturday, I'll glance at this picture and hope for another surprise around the bend in the road.

Never Judge A Man By His Overalls

"Never Judge A Man By His Overalls" is a quote from my daddy that has stuck with me through life.  You'll notice that it is in the heading of my blog, along with a picture of my daddy's overalls.  He always wore the Liberty brand and he always smelled of sawdust.  He was a carpenter, a home builder, he could fix anything.  He was bigger than life to me and I loved him.  He's been gone from my life way too long.  Several friends that read my blog have asked me what this saying meant.  So it's time to tell the story.

My first recollection of hearing that phrase was when I was probably 10 or 11 years old.  It was mama's birthday.  It was August and it was hot.  Daddy and I went downtown on a secret mission.  He in his old overalls and me in a pair of shorts and flip flops.  We had a jewelry store in the little town that I grew up in but this was a special day.  It was mama's birthday and we went to the real jewelry store downtown in a big city nearby.  As we sped along the highway in daddy's old turquoise colored step-side Chevrolet truck, I remember talking with him about what mama's favorite color was.  Maybe we could find something for her in green.  I remember his arm hanging out the window and my hair blowing in the wind.  It was a simple time between us, but embedded in my memory forever.

We pulled up in front of the jewelry store and walked inside.  I'd never seen a place so elegant.  It was quiet and somber like a funeral home.  Beautiful jewelry was displayed in long, lighted, glass cases.  Glittering diamonds, beautiful white pearls.  I reached up and took daddy's hand, expecting any minute to see a casket sitting over to the side.  I remember a man coming from the back of the store, smiling, glad to see us.  Wanting my daddy's money.  Daddy told him we were there for a special gift for mama.  I pulled away from his hand and started looking.  Pearls, no.  Diamonds, no.  I couldn't find anything in green.  Daddy put his hands inside the front bib of his overalls and bent over the cases.  "Ya see anything ya like sugar?"  "Not yet..." I replied.  And then!  There it was!  A beautiful, silver stick-pin with an oval, emerald green stone.  The color was perfect and it was her favorite.  Something was engraved in the middle of the stone.  I pulled at daddy's hand and pointed.  The smiling salesman gently tried to guide us away.  "Perhaps something over in this case would better suit you..."  Daddy and I looked together as he lured us away to less expensive jewelry.  A plastic looking bracelet, a pair of earrings that looked like cut glass.  I wasn't old enough then to realize what the salesman was doing but I know now.  He had judged the man by his overalls.  I had witnessed one of the great tragedies in the world of sales.  I was just too young to realize it.
 

"No...I think she's got something in mind over here." daddy said.  And we walked back to the lighted case with the green stick pin.  "But maybe something here would be a little less expensive."  The man was still making a mistake and I felt daddy's hand squeeze around mine.  I was looking at an idiot in elegant!  "We'll take the green pin and please wrap it for a birthday."  I couldn't believe it.  Daddy didn't even ask him how much it was and to this day, I don't know.  I just remember seeing him pull out a folded $100 bill from his wallet.  I couldn't tell you if he got any change back or not.  I was too excited about the surprise for mama.  When we got back in daddy's truck and headed home, he told me a story I didn't understand.  He told me to be careful about judging a man just because he had on a pair of overalls.  All that mattered to me was that we hurry home with this beautifully wrapped present and give it to mama.  Of course, she loved it and on the following Sunday morning I sat on the end of their bed and watched daddy help her pin it to her dress.  She looked beautiful.

Years later, in my senior year of high school, it was the night before I started my first job at a bank.  Daddy sat me down at their little kitchen table and talked to me about how important a good job was.  "You make sure you never judge a man by his overalls, watch out for the ones in suits and ties, and you'll make a fine banker."  I was taken back to that day about 7 years ago, a little girl holding her daddy's hand in a fancy jewelry store.  I knew what daddy meant.  And to this day, I've met more wealthy customers in my line of work that were just plain, hard-working people with overalls, painters pants, dirty shoes caked with mud, leathery hands and faces.  Some of my very largest customers didn't look the part at all, but thanks to daddy, I knew better than to judge them by their overalls!  It was a very valuable lesson that I still carry with me, even today, some thirty six years later in banking.

Mama died in 1995 and I now have the pin in my jewelry box.  One day, long after she was gone, I took a really close look at the stick pin and realized it was a scorpion engraved in the green stone.  For some reason that struck me funny and I laughed out loud.  Knowing mama, it didn't matter what was engraved in the stone.  Just the fact that daddy had given it to her was all she needed to know.  She and I both loved the man in the overalls. 

Now, when I see that salesman around town, I smile.  He'll never realize the impact his actions that day had on a little girl's life.  And, although I never darkened the door of his jewelry store again, I'm left wondering if he ever learned the valuable lesson of judging someone by their overalls.