A Story for One of “Those Days”

“A joyful heart is good medicine, but a broken spirit dries up the bones.” Proverbs 17:22

It was more for me than for them that day. I had managed to run late, damage the underneath parts of an already tired ol’ minivan, missed breakfast, needed gas in the husband’s substitute unfamiliar vehicle, forgot important paraphernalia, said a profanity or two, and I was hanging on by a shred of a thread.

So when I said to them as we attempted to make our way down the road, “Ok guys let’s pray.” I knew immediately it was more for me than them. As they each said their prayers, each as unique as they are I immediately began to feel better. The feelings of inadequacy, condemnation, and guilt were beginning to dissipate.

As I began to petition the King I prayed that he would freely give “Grace upon Grace upon Grace.” I was asking Him to pour out that Grace without hesitation or reservation. I immediately began to hear giggling. An attempt at muffling the laughter proved ineffective. It got louder, and before I could close out our prayers with an amen the muffled giggles were spilling out with such fervor that I stopped short of amen and said,

“What May I ask, is so funny?”

“Grace upon Grace upon Grace!”

“Bahaha!!!”

They were all three rolling with laughter, their cheeks big and smiles wide, they could hardly talk, I was dumbfounded. I had merely asked the King for triple helpings of His grace to help me make through my already crummy, had hardly begun day and my progeny could hardly maintain composure.

As I already formulated my defense and rebuttal, scolding in the form of reprimand, I asked for clarification. How was my prayer laughable?

“Can’t you just see it Mama?! Bahaha! Grace on top of Grace on top of Grace. Stacked up!? Bahaha.”

By now the laughter was side-splitting and I still had no clue what was so funny.
Normally in a situation where I need clarification from my children I at least make an attempt at composure. There was no hiding it now, I was less and less composed and curtly said “What is SO funny?”

“Mama GRACE!” Grace had now turned to a three syllable word to emphasize it. “Ga-ah-race!”

“Can’t you just imagine how she would be with her tiny little legs?!” They all three burst into another fit of laughter and I smiled, I was beginning to understand. Despite being late to the party, their laughter was contagious so I imagined what they were imagining, and I too began to laugh uncontrollably.

My Mama has an older Dachshund named “Grace.” She is much like other Senior dog counterparts. She likes to bask in the sunshine, she naps with a regularity you could set a watch by. Grace is slow to move and gets “stove-up” as Mama says nearly daily. She hides when she is annoyed, her bark is bigger than her missing teeth bite. She is always in the mood for food and will “beg” on her hind legs for anything, but snubs the fancy dog foods my mama buys. When she visits us she can be found chomping on the cheap dog food from the General Dollar Store. Mama always says I’m telling a story when I bring it up.

Grace is good Senior adult company. She is playful on her on terms and has been known to play opossum better than an opossum.

When I prayerfully asked for the abundance of Grace my children literally pictured Grace, the dog, stacked up. Grace on top of Grace on top of Grace. The mental image they had all along had now taken hold of my imagination and I was done for. I was laughing as hard as they were. I could just see her tiny legs on the back of her older Doxie frame, annoyed with the Grace atop and bellow I felt confident that Middle Grace would be visibly annoyed and would verbalize said annoyance.

By the time we reached our destination my attitude was entirely different, I felt better already and in an instant realized the King had not delayed in freely giving what I’d ask. In giving Grace on top of Grace on top of Grace, the laughter and joy brought forth were the very strength I needed to tackle the day head on and left me in awe once again of His marvelous gifts.

Then he said to them, “for this day is holy to our Lord. And do not be grieved, for the joy of the Lord is your strength.” Nehemiah 8:10b (ESV)

I do not love vomit. I would venture to say I am in the majority more than the minority on this one. After all, how many people do you know that say “I love vomit.” My Mama and my Husband both say they “refuse to vomit.” There are times though when one just can not help himself, or herself, times when the Tummy Bug hits and emesis is an inevitable nemesis.

Recently I was doing what I do, I was just meeting a little one, when she looked at me and without warning vomited all over me. I was covered in soured milk colored mucus filled vomit. Her vomit lying on my skin. Inside I was squirming. I wanted away from that nasty throw-up, yet the little one who was now in my arms – I had instinctively picked her up – needed my help. I reassured her all would be well. I spoke gently to that little Lovey and told her even though we had not yet been formally introduced, I was pleased to make her acquaintance and was there to help. She showed no gratitude. She didn’t smile. She did not wrap her sickly arms around my neck and express to me how grateful she was that I was wearing her vomit and aiding her. Rather she cried and fought and smeared the vomit further. After I did a quick wipe, bathed her, wrapped her in a warm blanket and set about seeing to my own hygiene, the King does what He will do oftentimes. He showed me something beautiful.

I was wearing the yuck of another, of one who did not even know me. I had taken upon myself the gross of someone who was not grateful and did not have the capacity to do so. I was wearing the sick of one who needed my help yet could not ask for it. As I washed in the sink beyond my elbows for sometime and cleanliness began to take over I saw my King hanging on a cross wearing my sin, a substance far worse than vomit. He willingly allowed Himself to be covered in it so that I could take on His Righteousness. I wondered in that moment, as He hung on that wretched cross, having endured a beating that left Him unrecognizable, if He was squirming on the inside as I had been. I wondered if He wanted to rid Himself of the nastiness of my sin and ugliness of heart. As I rinsed and readied myself for my next task I gave Him thanks for His willingness to exchange my proverbial vomit for His literal righteousness and healing.

For our sake he made him to be sin who knew no sin, so that in him we might become the righteousness of God. 2 Corinthians 5:21 (ESV)

“Mama what kinda crown you want?”

“Whatever kind you think will be good Mags! Thanks!”

She had asked me from the kitchen. Her Daddy had spent the better part of the last several days working at a makeshift office on the kitchen table. It’s fairly portable and we “clear the table” for meals. I had taken over the living room office, in preparation for some jam-packed weeks to come.

Scott Martin rarely complains, he just unpacks and packs up his work stuff, transitions with ease and with an almost alarming flexibility just “rolls with it.” Once he sat on our unmade bed, held a borrowed microphone and recorded radio segments for some not so local radio stations because the Martin homeschoolers with an armload of new science books had taken over every room but our bedroom.

He knew “partly sunny with a high of 89” might not bode well with “Look at this blobfish!!! It’s just like it says ‘a rainbow of ugly!’ Bahahaha” thereby eliminating another opportunity at recording said weather segments. He never once complained. I would have. I’d’ve raised the dead yelling about it. He just keeps on rollin’ with it.

The night she asked me about the crown, I entered the kitchen-slash-office-turned-crafting-center to prepare for dinner. As I entered the multipurpose room, the chaos and disarray of it all slowly absorbed into my already weary mind. I started to open my mouth to complain but instead choose to look not just see. There at the table, my youngest, the one that struggles desperately, chatting away. Nonstop asking her Daddy questions,

“Is there really a dark side of the Moon? Has anyone seen it?”
“Do blind people dream in color?”
“Why didn’t Noah put the dinosaurs in the ark?”
“If you lived in a treehouse where would you go to the bathroom?”
“Why do I only like blueberries in a muffin?”
“Can we take our dog to a dog psychologist to see why he keeps getting on the kitchen table?”
“What makes Pepper so spicy?”

He nodded and worked, she kept crafting and cutting, all the while talking, like a magpie that never quits chirping she went on and on. We have learned she questions when she is anxious. A week of unknowns had thrust her into an anxiety-ridden baseline that causes her counterparts their own anxiety. They’d long ago sought shelter elsewhere; The Scarlet Letter preferred to their youngest sister’s anxiety influenced behavior.

Her Daddy sat working. She stood. Evidently she’d been standing a while. He nodded and responded appropriately. He patiently answered her questions for the umpteenth time. He encouraged her crown making from paper, noting she “is good at arts and crafts.” He joked with her and made her giggle. He patiently reminded her for the second time it was time to clear the table for supper. She smiled and acknowledged that even though “Mama wouldn’t let her watch tv she was sorta glad.” He agreed, he was sorta glad too.

As I took it all in I took a picture. That paper crown perched perfectly atop his head. He wore it as if it were the most natural thing in the world. If it’d have been a new custom-made baseball cap with his favorite team he would have worn it just as proudly. It wasn’t until later I saw that she’d made it to match his shirt. As I watched them briefly just before my presence interrupted them, gratitude washed over me. Gratitude for this exchange. Grateful for patience that extends beyond my own. Gratefulness for a Daddy for who loves his children wholly. Grateful that he sees the fragility of the one before him and he loves her anyway.

Grateful for a glimpse again of the King and how He loves me, brokenness and all. I suppose when I get to Heaven I’ll know for sure, but for a brief moment in time that night, in our humble kitchen I saw from behind what Heaven is like and it is a beautiful thing indeed.

And He who sits on the throne said, “Behold, I am making all things new.” Revelation 21:5

I have this do-hickey thing as a staple in my various kitchens over the years. Much of its history is a mystery to me. What I do know is that it belonged to my Mama, and before that it was her Mama’s.

When I was younger it used to be a staple in my Grandmother’s kitchen. All I knew about it then was, it was near the kitchen sink, it sort of looked like a funnel but not really, so it couldn’t be useful for much, and it was ugly. As I have gotten older, my vision has progressed. While my contact prescription continues to be an ever present indicator of my increasing age, my perspective has changed dramatically.

This one time useless, unattractive, piece of kitchenware is not what I once thought it to be. In recent years I have begun a new kitchen adventure, one that is almost cathartic in nature. I have discovered that I like to can, pickle, and preserve foods. It is odd to me that after all these years, the little gadget would be resurrected to a new life. It lay dormant for many years, yet as I have begun to use it I am often comforted by it and left to wonder. I wonder as I pickle okra if I resemble my Mam-maw in any way and it occurred to me, that I must. I ventured into the kitchen at the end of a good but long day, that came rolling in with such swiftness I had hardly recovered from the day before. It had been marked with sadness for me, for reasons I do not even fully understand and as I went to bed that night I was heavy hearted. I awoke and began the day at breakneck speed, before 8am I was jolted into the reality of the world I live in, when Shelton had a complete meltdown over a siren alarming on a generator. Ears covered, leg bloodied, and crying, he stood frozen on an asphalt sea of nothingness. Thankful for an older sister who seems to comfort him better than I can somedays, I continued on with my tasks.

As the day continued to speed by with the same pace as it began, I found myself looking at 5:30 pm and dinner time disdainfully. As I ventured into the kitchen to prepare dinner, I chose the leftover dinner option and got to work on pickling those 7 quarts of okra. I suppose it was an attempt made in the hope of relinquishing some of that distress I was carrying.

Early that morning I was asked the question “What are you thankful for?” My honest answer at the time was “Air-conditioning.” As the day was drawing to a close I found myself thankful for this do-hickey, likely called a canning funnel or something like it. I am thankful for a busy day, dirty dishes, and tons of dirty laundry for they are the evidence of a full life. I am thankful for the sound of Ball jar lids sealing in the kitchen. I am thankful that as I prepare for bed at night, I can wake up again the next day knowing the absolute Truth that mercy comes new with every sunrise.

Just moments before I snapped the picture of the balloons headed Heavenward I was sitting in a somber service of remembrance. I was moved by the courage of the Mama and Daddy. They’d lost their precious one and they were making a public plea. Their Dear One had been a recent victim of distracted driving and they had made the most of the opportunity and occasion and implored those present not have cause to experience the pain and hurt they were in that moment.

There are times in life when we are given a captive audience and we can make the most of such an opportunity or not. I sat in awe of their courage, strength and dignity. The Mama and the Daddy, in that moment, they were proving themselves trustworthy. They’d asked those in attendance to avoid distractions while driving. They were speaking to the loved ones seated around them asking them to reconsider picking up their phone the next time it begged for their attention while they were driving.

I listened intently as I sat amongst a dozen or so people, all of whom I share a genetic makeup, as we honored the life of a precious one, who also had running through her body a common DNA as those people surrounding me, the same thread as her Mama. I marveled at these dozen or so people. To my right, my cousin, Dinger as she is best known, more of a sister-like figure to me than actual cousin. To my left, my Mama. A few moments ago I’d heard a statement from her sister Nancy that I already knew.

“You look just like Mama.”

As the service ebbed and flowed and the sting of tears sat just beneath the surface words of joy and remembrance filled my ears, memories filled my mind and I held my Mama’s hands. As my eyes looked back and forth, I noticed Mama’s hands looked just like the ones slightly to the left in front of me, propped up on the back of the chair, they looked like the ones to the right of Dinger, and the set directly in front on me. Those hands, were my Mam-Maw’s hands.

I distinctly remember them wrapped around a Hull Brown Drip Pattern coffee cup. She would use those hands to pull weeds, feed animals, quilt and sew. Those rugged hands would hang up clothes to dry and hug tiny frames, they’d wipe tiny hands and faces with scalding hot water and Clorox saturated dish rags. Those hands could make a sweet tea that I only wish I could replicate. I’m quite sure when Mam-Maw made it to Heaven Jesus would have declared that she was in charge of the Sweet Tea making. Despite not having had it in 30 years my mouth still longs for that Devine sweet nectar.

As I sat there and listened, I looked at the ones seated around me I thanked the King. I thanked Him for good childhood memories that dozens of cousins, aunts, and uncles filled. Long summers of adventures and fun. I thanked Him that I never eat a kraut and weenie that I don’t think of my Aunt Sis and the summer my sister and I had deduced that she must’ve been pregnant because all she ate was kraut and weenies and she’d recently purchased a high chair. Two coincidences developed from some lean economic times and a practical need being met. We cleaned her entire house that day. We figured she didn’t need to be on her feet in her condition and advanced age. We sat on the steps leading to her den, formulated a plan befitting a seven- and five-year-old.

I thanked Him that the one physical feature that all of us share are early onset crows feet and laugh lines. They are evidence of our good sense of humor and laughter. We are a funny lot, those that share the name and genetics of that side of my family.

I thanked the King for the life of the beautiful young lady who had left our world way too soon and tragically, but I did so knowing that she would not be forgotten. She had not died in vain for the message was given, and the warning heeded. I thanked Him for allowing me to be made up of good, strong stock. His word says that laughter and a cheerful heart are good like a medicine and I thanked that He has abundantly gifted me with those very things.

My oldest had asked to go to prom. The Homeschool Prom. I laughed at first, irony at its finest I thought.

“Mom please. My friends are going and I think it’ll be fun.”

After some research and such, I agreed.

She counted down the days. We borrowed a dress. She texted her Grandmother and Aunt Kel to let them know Prom was a go.

The Countdown reached its single digit numbers. Preparation plans firmed up within the context of a Girls’ Day Out.

The morning of the prom we met early at a fancy full service salon, the kind that offers bottled water only and boasts fanciful cosmetics and skin care products. All manner of Skin Serums guaranteed to rejuvenate and excite skin with moisture, yielding one soft and supple skin. Last I checked that was also known as lotion, but I reckon at $25 per ounce, just putting “Lotion” on the bottle rather than “Skin Serum” would be poor marketing.

My sister, who has a much better handle on what is fashionable and trendy took charge, ordering updos and treatments. I stood to the side, not really knowing what, much less how I should request the aforementioned full services. My sister ordered a blow out for me. I’ll be honest I glanced in the direction of the bathroom wondering if the salon blow out was the same as the blow out with which I was most familiar. Seeing the obvious concern on my face she said,

“They are going to fix your hair. Calm down. It’s my treat.”

As I sat in the chair I was asked multiple questions like, “What treatments for your hair do you participate in?”

“Um, I wash it.”

The stylist, clearly not amused, then asked what style I would like my hair.

“Whatever you think. I’m not picky.”

Obviously I am not stylishly astute. I have a particular pair of shoes I wear nearly all of the time. They are comfortable and they are my favorites. They do not particularly match anything I wear but as I said they’re my favorites. They are evidence of my function-over-fashion mentality.

The stylist fastened the cape around my neck and proceeded to carry on with her tasks.

At the end of it all, my girl had a beautiful updo and I had been blown-out to look like a fancier version of myself.

We declared we had just enough time for a sit down lunch, and headed to a favorite Bistro-type restaurant. I’ve come to realize Bistro just means, “you’ll probably have to wait a little while to be seated.”

As we finished our delicious meal and prepared to pay our check and move on to the next item in the day of special preparation, my oldest put her eating utensils down, indicating she was finished.

My sister looked at her and said, “You full?”

My girl nodded.

“You don’t want to be all bloated in that dress. You have good panties?”

I nearly spit my water with lemon all over the table. I nearly choked. My oldest looked as alarmed as I had over the aforementioned blowout confusion earlier that day. This time though, I knew what she meant.

I clarified. “She means, you’re going to want good support under your dress.”

A wave of relief visibly washed over my girl.

Sometimes we just need clarification. A translator of sorts. The Holy Spirit was a promised Helper, a translator of sorts. When the Holy Spirit lives in us then He has the ability and is willing to translate those words or phrases. In fact, he can and will translate the very heart of God for us.

And I will ask the Father, and he will give you another advocate to help you and be with you forever— the Spirit of truth…. the Advocate, the Holy Spirit, whom the Father will send in my name, will teach you all things and will remind you of everything I have said to you. John14:16 & 26