But God...

Eleven days since Tropical Storm Helene made her unwelcome, dramatic entrance into Western North Carolina, causing catastrophic damage with rain, wind, and flooding not seen for over a thousand years, I remain overwhelmed with sadness by the sheer magnitude of it all. Whole towns gone, others barely touched; cadaver dogs amidst the mudslides, the seemingly random tragedies, bodies of pets, farm animals and people in the water, the mud and the wreckage; trees down, crushing homes and vehicles and people; power lines down everywhere, no WiFi, internet or cellular service; boil water advisories, schools closed, some indefinitely; a local Subaru dealership flooded with 5 feet of water; area substations under water, a million without power; horrors seen that can never be unseen;  communities sharing and visiting and giving instead of texting or facebooking; cash only, gas and food shortages, communities and people unreachable except by donkey; ironically, election signs still standing while houses float away

Thursday I dropped some supplies off at our church and met a young woman in the parking lot; she was carrying two large bags full of clothing to donate to disaster victims.  We chatted and I told her drop them off at the church taking clothing donations. We talked about loss, about being fortunate, about our love for WNC, and I thanked her for the clothes, mentioning they were for survivors of a town destroyed by a mudslide. That a friend of mine was working with cadaver dogs. She burst into tears and we held each other. But God…

Driving by a home with a tree crushing its roof I spied a young boy swinging in a wood swing, laughing, barefooted, blonde hair blowing, while two adults stood with their hands and arms limp at their sides, mouths open, staring at their ruined home.  But God…

While at our church aiding others pass out supplies and providing free hot meals to whoever showed up, I saw a man sitting alone at a table, eating his BBQ and fixins. I sat down across from him, asking if he minded if I joined him. He was kind and articulate but you could tell he’d had a hard life and was in a bad place.. But God…

People arriving for free hot meals, I greeted these strangers, these neighbors, hearing their stories. A grandma who drove an hour around roads blocked by power lines and trees, all to pick up supplies and a meal for her granddaughter, who lived downtown in a now flooded basement apartment. An 81-year old woman and her disabled husband just looking for some toilet paper and water.  A family with a little boy who had just been to urgent care for a burn and was screaming and inconsolable, overwhelmed with the strangeness of the past 10 days. Two older ladies holding hands and quietly eating their meals, thanking us profusely for a few basic supplies. All wanting to share their stories, all walking around with the same stunned, shell-shocked looks on their faces. But God…

 A young woman moved to Hickory to be near her fiancé; they bought their first home; planned their October wedding for months; wedding venue was underwater. Another couple, newlyweds who'd only a month earlier moved into the house of the bride's grandparents where she'd spent many happy years, the house she and her new husband fixed up and made their own, all of it gone in a flash. But God…

People lined up outside the grocery store waiting for their turn to go in and pick up a few essentials, cash only because the internet is down. Shelves nearly empty, ATMs not working, gas stations with yellow “out of order” plastic bags on the pump handles, an 8 o'clock curfew because roads are out and it’s dark. But God…

Neighbors using their own equipment and money to work 15-18 hour days with search and rescue operations, body recovery, debris removal, providing hot meals, clothing, basic supplies and compassion. Almost no help from our federal agencies. But God…

Schools closed, food ruined, water contaminated, and children’s worlds turned upside down. But God…

Pregnant women within 4 weeks of their due dates and families with newborns urged to leave WNC and go to South Carolina, hospitals crippled by lack of power, water, generators, and staffing. But God…

“But God…”. Those two words bring hope, and remind me that God is sovereign, that He controls the universe, and that He uses all circumstances to bring glory to His name. It is a powerful phrase assuring us God is sovereign, all powerful, just, and merciful. Look in the BIble and you will find this little two-word phrase any time the situation seems hopeless, from Noah (Gen 8:1), to Joseph (Gen 50:20), to King David (Ps 73:26), to Christ's crucifixion (Acts 13:30).

As we get through this tragedy, (through being the operative word, as opposed to being in, or being stuck) remember that God has done many things much harder. He is never surprised by what happens, or clueless about what to do, or ignorant of how we are hurting or feeling, or unaware of our needs. We will recover, rebuild, renew, and remember. We depend on God

“But God, being rich in mercy, because of the great love with which he loved us, even when we were dead in our trespasses, made us alive together with Christ—by grace you have been saved” (Ephesians 2:4-5)

Eulogy for the Telephone

Do you know what I miss? Phone calls. Real, honest-to-goodness, old-fashioned phone calls. The kind where you hear the phone ring, and there is that moment of surprise mixed with curiosity and even irritation over the interruption, before I pick up the phone and say “Hello?” and hear the caller say “Hi_______!” Depending on whether I can identify the voice and what fills in the blank (Mom, Honey, Barbara, Mrs Ritchey), my mood changes to joy, anticipation, or again, irritation. Daughter calling for advice or news; parents calling to chat and ask about me; spouse or boyfriend (a LONG time ago!) telling me about their day and expressing love and concern; friends calling to chat or set up a time to meet; work calling to tell me something that can’t wait till the next day; doctors or vets or dentists or repairmen calling about invoices, appointments, lab work; salesman calling to interrupt my dinner. Regardless of the who, when, or why, there is a voice of a real live person on the other end. We are connected. Talking. Listening. Sharing. 

Today we don’t talk. We text, message via FaceBook, WhatsApp, etc., comment on social media posts, or post our “status updates.” Communication is voiceless. Emotionless. Sterile. Not human. It’s just words on a screen. Replies are implied by the “…” in the respondent’s window. Emotions, responses, and feelings are replaced by memes, gifs, emojis, or 21st-century shorthand: "LOL," "IDK," "IYKYK," "RN," and "DM." When I call someone, I rarely hear the voice of the person or business I’m calling answer. Nope—voicemail, bots, options to press, or nothing at all. As if that isn’t demoralizing enough, callers know if the person they are contacting got the message/call; confirmation is shown by “read,” checkmarks, or a tiny photo of the receiver. On the receiving end, we know right away who is calling and can choose immediately to answer, not answer, or send to voicemail. We can even block other people from calling or texting us! 

And it isn’t that texting or FaceBook messages are any more efficient than phone calls. It would be great if they were. They’re ignored just as much. Some people get so many texts and messages they forget to read or answer earlier texts. And while shorthand communication (texts, messages, anything not involving person-to-person and voice-to-voice) is useful in some scenarios (providing addresses for directions, confirming appointment times, and communicating with people overseas to set up a phone call), it is not the same as people talking to people. Non-voice communication is two computers communicating. These modes of “talking” are often ignored, forgotten, or worse yet, misunderstood. Because we’ve gotten too lazy or stupid to communicate efficiently. Have you seen the movie "Idiocracy?"

Yes, I’m guilty of it too. To avoid confrontation, the possibility of rejection, or talking to people I don’t know well, I’ve fallen into the horrible lazy habit of messaging people in my family, my town, my neighborhood, and even in my house. The other day I sent a too-short text message asking another member about someone in our church, and it was perceived as lacking compassion. Because I was too lazy or in a hurry or too busy to send a proper message or just CALL DAMN IT!

Communication is so much harder these days. That little personal computer we all walk around with is a double-edged sword. We can look up anything, read emails and listen to messages without going home, find directions, listen to music, and take photos. We do not even need to think. Sadly, though, we are so connected we have forgotten the initial purpose of it was as a phone. It was supposed to be an upgrade to the home phone, presumably, so we could call people and answer their calls anytime, anywhere. Somehow, though, it has morphed into anything but a telephone; I fail to see why a smartphone is "smart." It certainly does not make the user any smarter.

Phone calls have been relegated to the same obsolete pile as letter-writing; sending birthday, thank you, sympathy, and special occasion cards; having a conversation without the ubiquitous "smartphone" in our hands; telling stories without showing photos or FaceBook posts; and reading books (especially reading to our kids). 

Nearly 8 billion people on the planet; we talk to fewer every day. Sad.

Not enough time

When I was a girl I didn’t understand the concept of time. I was immortal and invincible. I used my time to escape from the reality of my childhood. I had too much time on my hands. Time was a foreign concept.

When I was a young woman I thought I had all the time in the world. Time to be silly and get drunk. Time to try new things, time to waste on pointless relationships. Time to find the man meant for me…eventually, that is. But first I had unlimited time to play, discover, and experiment. Or so I thought. 

When I became a wife and a mom, I had no time to chase after dreams or goals. I selfishly hoarded any free time I had, as if moms have such a thing. I put aside time to pray, figuring I would get to it when I was older and not so busy. I spent all my time on children and marriages and work. I looked forward to all the time I would gain when the children were grown and I was retired. Time to learn things like playing piano and learning a new language. Time to make amends to the people I hurt. Time to teach my children about Jesus. Time to lose weight and get fit. Time to get in touch with friends. Time to understand who I was. 

Now I am retired. My kids are grown. They have kids of their own...but they don’t have an excess of time. They think I have a lot of free time. I spend my time mourning wasted time, lost time. I try to get my children to carve out time for me. I want meaningful time with my spouse. I squeeze too many things into small increments of time. I’m trying to learn Mandarin Chinese. I bought a keyboard and am making time to teach myself piano. I spend a lot of time making things for the ones I love. I spend time with God. I volunteer my time to help children learn to read. Time is so precious now. It is moving too quickly. 

I spend too much time on regrets. I wander through the days, months, and years, searching for a moment in time. Searching for a glimmer of recognition in another person’s eyes, hoping our eyes would meet and I would be immediately understood. I watch the march of time across my face, body, skin, and mind. Time is honest. Unkind, true, but time tells the truth. 

I have so little time now. I’m obsessed with opening a window, even simply parting the curtains to allow those in my life a brief yet meaningful glimpse into my life. To leave some remnants of myself, a short time here on earth, for others to see, learn from, and add to. I think about how, or if, time will be measured when I die. Or is time merely some ethereal wisp, abstract and impossible to grasp? 

Do you know what is so unfair? We spend our whole lives learning and living, and when we have gained wisdom and insight and can see things more clearly, we are running out of time. 

A very interesting (?) trip

Get another RV,” I said. “It’ll be fun to travel,” I said.  “We can take the dogs,” I said.  Right. 

Sometimes there’s nothing recreational about owning an RV. We had one 10 years ago, a large class A diesel pusher,  and ended up selling it during COVID because the upkeep and maintenance were too prohibitive. But then in late 2023, we decided to try again, this time with a fifth wheel—a used one at Alex’s insistence. “I’ll fix it up and we’ll check it out in the spring,” he said. He parked it across from the house and from day one we had problems; when he disconnected it from his truck, the RV wouldn’t level and he couldn’t figure it out. There it sat and sat, and sat. While we dealt with unexpected hospitalization (mine) and a stressful job (Alex’s). Months later, he gave up and hired a mobile RV repairman to fix it. 

We planned our maiden voyage for Alex's birthday in July and reserved a spot at a hip camp in Newport, Tennessee. First order of business: make the towing vehicle, Alex’s 13-year-old F250, safe and capable of towing a 17,000-pound trailer. Next, a last-minute Walmart trip to get leveling blocks and a water hose. After that, pack the RV with essentials and food for five days and get ready to leave. Oh wait…the RV refrigerator isn’t working. Ok, scratch the food. We will eat out. Next, he has to trim branches on our road to avoid damaging the RV. By this time it’s pouring down rain and it’s 7 pm, so we delayed our departure by a day. 

Friday, he hooked it up to his truck and we were on the road. Alex somehow injured his foot so badly he could barely walk, but he handled driving and setting up like a pro. We walked the dogs and went to dinner (remember? The fridge was broken). Figuring it was only for a short while, we left the dogs uncrated in the camper. By the time we got back, they managed to dismantle the storm door, shred the screen, destroy the door seals, and tear the welcome mat into tiny pieces. (Note to self: shop for dog crate on Amazon).

Saturday we went to a local birding park (with the dogs) and I enjoyed a 2-mile walk amid nature, spying indigo buntings, bobolinks, and warblers. While sightseeing in the beautiful Smoky Mountains, the RV site owner called (never a good thing): water was dripping out of the front of our camper. When we got back and opened the door to the RV we were met with a 1/2 inch of water on the floor from an overflowing toilet. So much water had leaked into the insulation Alex had to poke a hole to drain it. I still don’t understand what happened--something to do with flush tanks, storage tanks, and water regulators.

Sunday, thank goodness, was incident-free. Monday, though, was the icing on the lopsided cake. First, the cable for one of the slides had come loose and Alex had to fix that. Next,  I noticed one of the tires was flat; Alex fixed that too. But when we dropped the camper off at Camping World (for much-needed repairs),  Alex unhooked it from his truck prematurely; the RV slipped and landed on his hand, necessitating a trip to the emergency room. Alex could not fix that.

Believe it or not, despite the hiccups we had a good time. And, while the RV requires a few tweaks and fixes, we look forward to our next trip. Hopefully, less eventful!

Coincidence? Or Divine Providence?

You have searched me, Lord,  and you know me.

2 

You know when I sit and when I rise; you perceive my thoughts from afar.

3 

You discern my going out and my lying down; you are familiar with all my ways.

4 

Before a word is on my tongue you, Lord, know it completely.

5 

You hem me in behind and before,and you lay your hand upon me.

6 

Such knowledge is too wonderful for me, too lofty for me to attain. (Psalm 139:1-6 NIV)

 Have you ever struggled with a decision you KNOW you need to make, but just did not know why or how or which way to turn? Or, have you felt like something, just something, was about to happen, but had no earthly idea what or when or why? And then, you finally made that decision, the decision you thought was so hard and you had no idea if you were making the right choice, but you prayed and prayed and walked with God and finally did it? And then, within seconds, minutes, hours, days, or even weeks, that decision was validated by a stream of incidences and situations?*

 *Note: Even if you did not walk with God to make the decision, and instead thought you would strike out on your own and trust your judgment and wisdom, the outcome was probably not so great. But even that would lead you to the same conclusion: God's will is inscrutable. But perfect. And only He knows the domino effect of decisions, only He can see the future (because He is omnipresent, in the future, past, and present), and only He knows our path, and tries to guide us along it (despite our stubbornness and selfishness).

Okay, I can see you all nodding here, saying "Yes, yes, that happened to me last week," and "Oh my goodness YES!," or even "Sigh, I sure wish I would have listened to God's still small voice to begin with. I could have avoided a huge mess." Stories abound about how when we try to walk in God's wisdom and ways, unforeseen happenstances arrive later and we are reassured that yes, God is omnipotent, omniscient, and the creator of the universe so we should walk in His footsteps along the paths He has laid. Also as prevalent are the stories (I can think of several!) where people ignore the cues and the guidance before us, depending on our own flawed, incomplete, and fallible wisdom, and suffer because of it (and hopefully learn to heed God's infallible and perfect wisdom the next time.

All of this is to share some events of the past few months, and how God has brought it all together to amaze me with His goodness and foresight. For months I have struggled with health issues, fraught with uncertainty, confusion, and frustration, while simultaneously I wanted to get away and embarked on a sort of spiritual wilderness to seek Him, get closer to Him, and find out what I needed to know. I felt the urge and need to reach out to a friend I had not long spoken to, to heal a rift, and inevitably to schedule a visit. While there, I felt something prick my soul, an unease with the situation, and, unsure why, I rescheduled my return flight to get home nearly three days sooner.  I could not explain the urge--it was a feeling of unease, tension, uncertainty, a vague nagging that I had to get home. Within hours of changing my flight, the following happened:

• the nurse called from my doctor's office informing me the long-awatied procedures were scheduled for the following week. These procedures necessitate five days of preparation,  a three-hour trip 24 hours prior to stay near the hospital (in Winston Salem), and a chaperone.  A very dear friend signed up for that before I could even ask the whole question
• my husband informed me he would be gone during that procedure to help our daughter in Mississippi with her fundrasising event next weekend
• our friend who was helping Alex take care of the dogs learned her father had just suffered a stroke; she would no longer be able to take care of our dogs Monday (the day I'd have been flying home)
• because a bear was continuing to terrorize our chickens, decimating the flock to one poor little hen, we needed to find someone to adopt her. Another dear friend volunteered to take her.

As hard to follow as that may be for many readers (or maybe not hard...I dont know how lucid this all sounds), all of these things reassured me that yes, I made the right decision to come out here, to reconnect, to withdraw early, to change my flight at the last minute. And reinforced how beautiful is God's perfect plan.

For my thoughts are not your thoughts,

    neither are your ways my ways,”

declares the Lord.

9 

“As the heavens are higher than the earth,

    so are my ways higher than your ways

    and my thoughts than your thoughts. (Isaiah 55:8-9 NIV)

The Frailty of Life, part two

A little over three years ago I penned about my decision to raise chickens, the joy I shared with granddaughters as they each selected their chicks, the excitement we all felt, the responsibility for caring for God’s creatures, and how frail living things can be. We mourned the loss of two babies before they were even two weeks old.  The kids named all the babies: Petunia, Pearl, Buttercup, Charcoal, Creamsicle, Clutch, and even held funerals for the ones who didn’t survive (Petunia and the First Pearl). I stayed up all night once to nurse Creamsicle to health, feeding her electrolytes and eggs with a medicine dropper every two hours. 

Then later my husband built a wonderful and very safe habitat complete with a coop and nesting boxes, all butted up against the back of his garage Mahal; the chicks grew into pullets and out of their brooder and graduated to their new digs.  Wanting more than five hens we adopted a couple of teenagers (Honeycomb and Penny, more affectionately known as Lion Tamarind) from a local teen and introduced them to their new family.  We fussed over what made the best coop flooring and how to keep them all safe, bought a treadle feeder, made a watering station, and waited for that first egg. That summer  Sophie discovered that first egg and we were ecstatic; by fall all seven hens were experienced layers, blessing us with multicolored pastel eggs unique to their particular breed. 

All four granddaughters adored those chickens and spent hours digging up clover, grubs, pillbugs, and worms for the daily chicken buffet. I bought chicken harnesses and leashes (Amazon of course) and walking the chickens became a highlight of every visit.  We tracked egg laying by assigning Sharpie colors to each chicken, marking the calendar each day; some days we collected eggs from each one, and even the kids became experts at identifying which egg came from what chicken. I taught the girls the nuances of chicken behavior: broody hens were quickly subjected to a cold bath and isolation, and when the kids were alarmed at the hens burying themselves in the dirt, I taught them about “dust baths.”  When kids were visiting, they were my biggest helpers, and soon earned the title of “chicken whisperer in training” complete with t-shirts making them part of Nana’s Brood.  Even Mandy got into the fray, helping by cleaning the coop while I was recuperating from knee surgery. 

Phone calls, letters, and video chats always included news about chickens: who was laying the most eggs, was Buttercup broody again, and was I giving them treats?  Charcoal was renamed Katie after my pet sitter who had to rescue the poor thing from being trapped in the feeder.  Birthday cards were embellished with drawings of chickens and funny rhymes were made (“have an eggcellent day”). 

Chickens became part of my daily life and a source of joy.  

Until that night, the night Alex came in after walking the dogs, saying “I have some bad news,” walking me down to the coop at 11 pm.  The run was ripped open (hardware mesh) and feathers were everywhere, the coop door had been ripped off, and I could only count six chickens—five alive and poor Li Li dead on the ground.  Pearl was nowhere to be found. A black bear was the culprit.  Alex stayed up late to repair the habitat, but less than ten days later the coop was eerily silent Sunday morning…a quick inspection revealed the bear had returned, and this time he took four of the remaining five; only Clutch was left.  

As heartbroken as I was (and still am) over the loss I am infinitely more saddened for the granddaughters, to whom I had to break that dreadful news not once, but twice. They were sad and tears were shed, and we each tried to comfort the other. We celebrated the survival of Clutch and talked about whether I’d continue to have chickens. I’m torn. I love having these crazy birds, but I cherish that special bond with Lydia, Molly, Isabella, and Sophie.  Alex says he’ll build a better run and coop;  we’re even contemplating an electric fence to deter Mr Bear. Crazy, I know. And no, they’re not my idols nor do I assign human qualities to them. I do believe, though, that our Creator put all creatures here for our enjoyment and entrusts us to steward them; caring for them has taught me things about myself and yes, has made my life more complete.  

Yes, life is frail, but that only makes us cherish living even more. Oh the memories that we made!

Revisiting Mother's Day

Mother's Day...all the FaceBook posts of how great everyone's mom is or was, the poignant memories of mothers no longer with their children, or how Mom is their best friend...ugh. I cannot relate. To any of that. Yes I had a mom, the mom God chose for me, but not one I would have chosen. I have gone through life feeling as if I have missed out on something vitally important and that no experience I had or will ever have will make up for what I missed.  Don't get me wrong; I adore being a mother, have since I found out I was pregnant with my first daughter, and I cherish and take seriously the responsibilty of that precious gift of motherhood to another human being. Such a miracle. And I have always relished the sweet gifts, cards, and phone calls from my daughters over the years, and now from daughters and sons-in-law and grandchildren. This weekend though was an eye opener and a heart tugger.

On Friday, my youngest daughter videochatted via FaceBook, starting out by apologizing for not mailing my card in time (yes, I am a Hallmark fan), and to say their weekend would be very busy so she was calling early (she probably just wanted to beat her older sister to the punch). Anyway, she and her 8 year old daughter stepped away from the video chat for a minute, and came back into the camera wearing matching, wait for it, egg aprons, aprons made out of chicken fabric with lots of pockets to collect eggs and walk back up to the house hands free, one for me and one for Sophie for when she visits to be my chicken whisperer in training. So so precious, so special to me that Becky put so much thought into such a simple gift (she knows I am obsessed with my chickens), and for her to put that much thought into a gift (as she usually does) blows me away.

Then this morning, Mother's Day morning, I get an audio call via WhatsApp from Malaysia, and hear the beautiful voice of my oldest daughter asking me if she woke me up, then happily telling me Happy Mother's Day Mom! She then proceeded to talk about her day (it was 12 hours later, Sunday night on Mother's Day there), and I was so happy to share the joy she felt being taken out to breakfast by her three girls, and opening cards, and the special service at their church. But the most poignant, sweet sweet thing was her telling me how she was putting on just half a drop of patchouli oil that morning before church when her eldest, Lydia, came in saying "Mom, something is wrong! It smells like Nana in here and you aren't Nana!" to which Mandy replied, "Yes Lydia, but Nana is my mom and I want to remember her and smell like her on Mother's Day." (My grandkids love my Nana smell, which is actually a blend of patchouli, orange, geranium, and frankincense oils that I have worn for ages). I had tears in my eyes and still do, thinking of that sweet daughter, usually self-assured, confident, and not really seeming in need of a mom anymore, saying those things. Picturing her dabbing on oil to think of me is a sweet reminder that she still is my little girl. 

Then I received a phone call from one son-in-law, a message from the other, and several messages from friends wishing me a happy, blessed Mother's Day. 

So how can I still dwell on the sadness and bitterness of the other side of Mother's Day? I cannot. God just keeps on blessing me and teaching me and showing me the beauty and wisdom of His wonderful plan. 

Happy Mother's Day to me!