Falling behind

Getting old is not easy. I thought it’d be a good idea to go to Washington DC with Alex because he’d never seen the sights. So I booked flights and a hotel and ambitiously attacked the touring of Smithsonian museums and national parks, memorials, and yes, the metro. In July. While smoke from Canada’s forest fires hung over the capital like thick smog, temperatures in the 90s, cement and blacktop radiating even more heat as we walked. And walked. And walked. 

It was wonderful. We saw a lot, some of it new to me even. Walked around scaffolding and fencing erected for the upcoming Grand Prix races towards the end of August; races will take place around the National Mall. I’m proud of my country and I’m proud to have served her while I was in my prime. My prime, I’m afraid, is long gone. I can no longer walk blocks and blocks in the heat without stopping for breaks, and at times, without crying tears of frustration. Everything hurts. My ankles, shins, back, everything is screaming at me. I’m so angry at my body for failing me. I want to quit it all. 

Alex doesn’t understand. He’s 10 years younger and a man. He plays sports and has muscles I don’t have. Worse yet? For 37’ years I’ve not only kept up with him, I’ve kept him going, urged him on.  I’ve outpaced him. I do the organizing, pet sitters, itineraries, and answers all those questions about where everything is. He doesn’t understand why suddenly I’ve hit a wall. He thinks I should keep going like him. And he doesn’t get it that I cannot. He sees me but does not see me.  I’ve put up a facade for so long, pretending I’m okay, that when I do complain or collapse, he acts as if I do it purposely to hurt him. 

I’m not sure about the future of traveling with him, or traveling at all. There are so many places I want to see. So many people I need to help. Why, God, why does my body have to betray me now? Why won’t my digestive tract work? I can’t ingest the right vitamins and nutrients so my body fights me. And I’m oh so tired. I could sleep for days. But then I realize how much time I’m wasting by sleeping. Time is a fickle friend...it goes so slowly when you are young, but speeds up exponentially with each passing decade. Slow down...

A cloud of witnesses

Alex and I recently went to visit a dear friend, Marianna Clarke. I absolutely adore her. She and her husband Billy were our neighbors for 13 years. Native Floridians, the Clarkes bought two of the six lots on the paved road directly below the Williamson Creek community center and had that lot already cleared when we bought our two lots in 2004; they later had a modular home built and placed on one of those lots. Then, in 2008 we purchased a log home “kit” from Southland log homes and began a to clear the lot, build, and finalize closing before time ran out, an extremely stressful process since we had an interest only construction loan on a very compressed 12-month schedule. 

Making it even harder? Alex and I were working at Shaw AFB, SC, three hours from the building site. When the Clarkes discovered Alex had been sleeping in the bed of his GMC (without any topper), he became their adopted son. Marianna made sure Alex was fed and entertained during his frequent weekend trips to the mountains from Sumter, SC. After one particular trip to check on the progress, I asked Alex if he had completed tiling the bathrooms; when he replied he had not had time, I asked him why not. That was when I heard all about the Clarke movie nights. As the house took shape, Marianna would entice Alex to come to dinner and watch one Billy’s 5,000 “favorite”movies. Later there’d be dessert and coffee, conversations about life and Jesus, and debates over what to name our private road. Penny Lane, Strawberry Fields, and Blueberry Hill were the top contenders, but Billy’s love of covered bridges made the choice obvious…to him, at least. Alex deferred to Billy, resulting in the two homes christened as 55 and 101 Covered Bridge Lane. 

When we took jobs at USCENTCOM at MacDill AFB in Tampa, the house had passed final inspection (barely) and we took our trips to North Carolina whenever we could spare a weekend; putting all the not so final touches on our future home. These jaunts always involved visits with the Clarkes—dinners, barbecues, walking downtown, Bible study over coffee, gardening, Alex helping and advising Billy on all sorts of projects, me raptly listening to Marianna talking about their very large and close family. We’d marvel about birds, sunsets, autumn colors, and music, share joys and sorrows, and talk about everything and anything. One of my favorite recollections of them is how one of them with find a leaf, a twig, an acorn, a wildflower, and marvel over its simple, intricate beauty.  

Marianna and Billy were woven into our lives. We shared precious family joys—the wedding of her granddaughter, Patience, at their mountain home, the birth of each of their grandchildren, then great grandchildren (more than I can count); the birth of our granddaughters, the celebration of our retirement to North Carolina 2014, my dads 90th birthday party.  I frequently sought her out to lament my circumstances during difficult times, and received the advice I so needed. She taught me more about prayer and marriage and God’s grace than I could glean from a lifetime of living simply by watching her. 

Alex was the sounding board for Billy’s project ideas—an operational model railroad installed in Billy’s study; the perfect position for audiovisual equipment (at least five times); specifications for the ideal desk that, when finally constructed Billy blithely by informed Alex to treat it apart because it was just a prototype; a smaller scale covered bridge, followed by a water wheel and a slough; a widows walk around the top of their home; and the pièce de résistance: the Williamson Creek Road lighthouse. Alex was also the taste tester for Marianna’s dinner casseroles and desserts, and she for his. 

When we arrived at her home, there she was, holding her little dog, Annie, waiting in the driveway--then the hugs, oh the hugs--I didn't want her to let go! Oh the memories we shared! Movies we had watched, weddings, the beauty of the mountains in NC. Alex with tears running down his face as he recollected a particularly special evening with them. Marianna lamented how much she missed her husband of 68 years, how she thinks about the beauty he is experiencing in heaven with the Jesus he loved so much here on earth; she brought out a maroon party suit worn by Billy while in Vietnam with his B-66 squadron, and gave it to us to donate to the Brevard Veterans Museum. We brought her up to date on our children and grandchildren, and she talked about their three daughters, what they are doing, and how her daughter, Jenny, mails her a loaf of her homemade sourdough bread every month, raving over how wonderful it is. Amazingly that box from Minnesota arrived while we were visiting, so of course Marianna, the penultimate hostess, prepared a small smorgasbord of various items to go with that special treat. 

Hours spent reminiscing flew by far too quickly. We hugged, prayed, and promised to return with Sophie in the fall to take her to see the storied mermaids of Weeki Wachee. Watching her in my rearview mirror as we pulled away I could almost envision Billy standing next to her with his arm encircling her waist as they waved goodbye. 

Halfway home I realized we had not taken one picture, or even brought out our smartphones, to memorialize the visit! I sent her a selfie of me; she replied, 

"Well that is a GOOD picture of You!  Billy would not have forgotten pictures!😂 Next time…🥰 Trusting you had a good return trip. I am so humbled you would make such a trip to see Me! It was So Sweet to remember Good Times (meals, movies, desserts, conversations, etc)! I look forward to your bringing Sophie to enjoy WeekiWachee and surrounds.  (I wonder if I will still be here! God Knows!) Blessings to You in the meantime🙏❤️

Moral of the story: Make the time. Always.

"Therefore, since we are surrounded by such a great cloud of witnesses, let us throw off everything that hinders and the sin that so easily entangles. And let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us, fixing our eyes on Jesus, the pioneer and perfecter of faith. For the joy set before him he endured the cross, scorning its shame, and sat down at the right hand of the throne of God. Consider him who endured such opposition from sinners, so that you will not grow weary and lose heart." (Hebrews 12:1-3, ESV)

Who knows where the time goes...

A young mom in India, one whom I have become extremely close to, has three little girls, ages 5, 3, and 1, and she is expecting her fourth child in October; we communicate frequently via WhatsApp, sharing joys and sorrows. We chat about faith, motherhood, friendships, our lives, and of course, raising children. She asked me, “What did you do with kids when they were small, for activities?”, referring to Mandy and Becky. I had to pause for a few moments to think about how to answer that—I am sure she was at her wits’ end with three little girls and being four months pregnant in one of the hottest places on earth. I did not want to give her some frivolous or abstract answer. Going back nearly years is quite a journey, and memories from those days are not easily retrieved from the memory bank—too many cobwebs.

Hitting the rapid rewind button…I was on active duty in the military from the time Mandy, the oldest, was conceived, up until they both had graduated from high school…pause tape at 1984-1986, when the girls would have been under the age of 5. Both Mandy and Becky were born in England while I was stationed there with the USAF until they were 2 ½ and 6 months, respectively. While there we had a cute little house with a fenced yard, and Mandy loved to kick this little blue ball around. She loved feeding her goldfish (sometimes pouring her cereal milk into the fish bowl—not good for Goldy), playing with blocks and stuffed animals, and riding her battery-powered bike around the living room. Remember the part about how Mandy loved kicking balls. Not our best moment as parents, we bought one of those “hamster balls” that you put the hamster in so he can run around the house and have exercise without pooping all over or getting away. Well, Mandy was not even 3 years old (we were not very smart parents, ok?) and we thought she would like a hamster and watching it in the ball instead of trying to squeeze the guts out of it by holding it too tightly.  Right.  She sees the hamster in the ball, giggles, and then screams BALL! and kicks it across the living room.  Poor little hamster never had a chance. His brain was all scrambled I think. Rocking horse, books, bath toys, and rocks were also favorites, as well as anything within reach in the kitchen cupboards. When Becky came along Mandy loved “reading” to her baby sister, sharing her toys, hugging her, and dragging her across the floor by her head—also not a great thing for the baby. (Luckily Mandy outgrew this play behavior before she had her three girls).

Our next duty station was Minot, North Dakota; we arrived in June, 1984 and were blessed to be assigned to a cute duplex on base. Like I said earlier, I was active duty, so their dad watched them during the day; however, I would go home at lunchtime and rush home as soon as I could when I got off work to maximize my time with them. Becky loved getting all the potatoes out of the cupboard and scattering baking pans and cookpots all over the kitchen floor, while Mandy played with her books and sang songs on her karaoke microphone. I read to them every night, and we would invent magical stories using stuffed animals as characters in the fantasies. They loved “helping” wash dishes, putting clean laundry into the toilet, and swimming in a baby pool we had in the backyard. In winter (in North Dakota, from September until late May, with temperatures dropping to 30 degrees below zero), outside time was limited to prevent loss of fingertips and noses; I would spend 30 minutes bundling them up in snowsuits, sweaters, multiple pairs of socks, boots, gloves, etc., for about 5 minutes of outdoor snow fun, during which time they would inevitably lose a mitten, step in a snowdrift and lose their boots, and pee in their snowsuit. Understandably, winter time was indoor time, and they would create elaborate pretend circuses, zoos, magic shows, and plays, even charging us to attend their zoo of caged stuffies under chairs and wash baskets. Puzzles, many times made of cut up old magazines and Christmas cards, were great fun, as were the science experiments we conducted using food coloring and milk, baking soda and vinegar, and balloons.

There were so many moments, precious moments, that were some of the best times in my life...

Reaching Out

Note: I sent this letter in February 2026 to a select group of friends who I could trust, as an update to what had been going on in our lives--it was easier than reaching out to each individual. 

So much has happened over the past year I felt it was best to send an update letter—I know a typed letter seems impersonal, but we have so much going on that it is the best I can do!  Some of you know our situation, but if you do not, I will briefly recap the past two years. 

There we were, living the dream of a retired couple, planning getaways  in a new-to-us fifth wheel RV, hanging out with our two dogs, gardening, going to church, and enjoying visits from and to our kids and grandkids—well my two daughters, anyway. Alex’s daughter, Nicole, is shunning us again, and has ceased all communication with us since July 2023. Nothing really new there, as she has done this before, one time for 10 years, so we really have no good relationship with her or with Alex’s grandchildren, as we did not even meet them until they were 9 and 8. Regardless, we focus our grandparent attention on Mandy’s three lovely girls (Lydia, 16, Molly, 13, and Isabella almost 12), and Becky’s miracle daughter, Sophie, now 10. My brother David, age 74, is intellectually and developmentally disabled; with me as his guardian since 2018, finally has a almost permanent home in North Carolina.

Like I said, there we were, with Mandy and her family serving as missionaries in SE Asia, Becky and Sophie in Gulfport, MS, while Ben was on a remote assignment in eastern Oregon (no base—in the eastern forest of Oregon), and us, well, loving life. House paid for, nice little cars, enjoying our savings from years of work and military service. Thought we had it all together, all planned out, until we didn’t. Mandy and family had to move for the third time in 3 years, and Ben, well, he was only 16 months away retirement eligibility when he did something I can only characterize as stupid, and he got caught, court-martialed and sentenced to a year in the brig, loss of rank, and a huge fine. There went their income, their pension, health care, everything, and their marriage, not in great shape before he went to Oregon, is teetering on the precipice. Becky was in shock, dismayed, angry, and every other emotion, but she still had to raise Sophie and pretend everything was hunky dory. 

So, we did what a lot of other grandparents do—we bought a small house five minutes from Becky, and pitched in financially, emotionally, spiritually, with Alex doing all those things dads do: car repair, tires, fixing bikes, home maintenance, walking dogs, etc. Me? At first I tried to control the situation, but of course we never have control…only God controls it all, so I gave it all to Him…again and again and again. We went to the court-martial last May, then found the house in Gulfport, and have been bouncing back and forth like ping pong balls since then—heck I never know what time zone I am in! But through it all we are learning even more to depend on God’s free grace, and to cherish the time we have with Becky and Sophie, and soon the time we will have with Ben. We enrolled Sophie in a private school, help out with their bills and expenses and errands, and provide both of them a sense of constancy and stability that only family led by God can provide. 

No, I am not bragging about how great we have handled it all, because it has been a mess…a blessed mess, but a mess still the same. I have meltdowns occasionally now, whereas initially my meltdowns and “why me???” episodes were almost daily. We spent Christmas in North Carolina with both daughters and their families (minus Ben, of course)—Brian and Mandy surprised us all by returning stateside for a short sabbatical in late November; they return to Asia on April 1 (there has to be some sort of humor there…) Ben just got released three months early from the brig, and is currently stationed in Jacksonville, Florida, at the Naval Air Station there, pending appellate review and service characterization board. 

Alex has become quite addicted to pickleball, making me a pickleball widow. I am waiting for my right knee replacement to heal completely before I attempt to join him. (Knee replacement was in August 2025). We have made this cute little house a home, with Becky’s and a new friend’s help, and have found a temporary church home while here. Most critical, for me anyway, was being able to find a place to conduct dyslexia tutoring like I had been doing up in North Carolina. Oh how I missed it! For months I contacted everyone I could think of here on the gulf coast of Mississippi, but could not make any headway. Finally, heartbroken and fed up I posted my feelings and frustration on social media; the result was over 200 comments and replies, including over 20 who wanted my help! Without the foundation Wendi Adair and Rosman Elementary provided me three years ago, I would not have been able to do what I am doing now: tutoring four emerging readers, all ages 7-8, twice a week at our local library. 

My heart is full. Right now my husband and granddaughter are in the living room watching Pink Panther cartoons. My dogs are asleep next to me, and we have more than we could ever have hoped for. Becky is a lot less angry, Mandy and her family are going to be here in MS to visit tomorrow, and we are amazed by God’s goodness and how HIS timing is always perfect. Many have asked what our plans are, if we will move to MS permanently, or sell our home in NC, or move back to the log home…there is no answer to that, at least none I have heard. We really miss Destiny Church and watch Pastor Dema online quite often, but it is not the same as being there. 

Please pray for:

• the Stock family’s safe return to Asia and for their girls to be accepted at the International School there
• Ben and Becky to heal their spirits and their marriage, and to be yoked together in Christ 
• Sophie to have less anxiety and to not worry about losing her dad
• Alex and me to be quiet and open to God’s guidance
• My brother David to continue to be happy and at home where we placed him last April
• For the wisdom and knowledge to help the kids I tutor
• For all of us to glorify God in all we do
• For my sanity and for patience—not something I have a lot of

I would love to hear from you, either a note, a letter, a text, a quick phone call. It would make my day and give me a lift. I will, Lord willing, be in North Carolina for our 10th annual Strikeout Childhood Cancer bowling tournament, which is scheduled for May 28 in Hendersonville, NC. 

New wine in an old wine skin

I never fully grasped the concept of becoming a new creation in Christ until just now. Seriously. Here I am in bed, lying next to Alex with one dog on my feet and the other on my hips; I stripped off my clothes after an early morning gardening frenzy so I’m butt naked. Probably too much information, but then, that's me.

Looking around the room, hearing the snores of my bed companions I spot the photo of me with my two girls, a photo I had taken at J.C. Penney’s back in 1987 after I’d made up my mind to divorce Wayne; funny how I clearly remember getting into my Honda civic and driving to the mall with that one objective. To memorialize the singular point in time I realized I had to start a new life. Just a few weeks earlier I’d finally won the battle to have both girls baptized in the Christian faith, something that was a bone of contention between me and Wayne; he only relented when I agreed to his demands that I have my tubes tied—he wanted no more children. That was the final straw. 

All of those thoughts, emotions,  the  resentment, and clarity of purpose are visible to me in that photo;, I belonged to God and could now teach my daughters about love and life and Christ. Emboldened by taking a photo minus my husband, I drove back home and announced my decision to him. He wasn’t shocked or angry; he was surprised however that I had the nerve to tell him what I wanted. But then my baby sister Karen died two months later. It would be 18 months before I could get up the nerve to go through with the divorce.

Looking at that photo I see the same person I am now; well, not exactly the same. I’ve grown closer to God, flourished in his ever loving grace, and put behind me the old me. I am a new creation. From that moment when I chose Jesus.  And I’m older, a bit wiser, a lot fluffier and wrinkly, but that wine, oh the wine of sanctification becomes sweeter with every passing year. Thirty nine years ago I became a new creation, full of new wine in a new wine skin; only now, the wine has aged along with the wine skin, and both are the better for it.

And no one puts new wine into old wineskins. If he does the wine is old and, the wine will burst the skins—and the wine is destroyed, and so are the skins. But new wine is for fresh wineskins.” (Mark 2:22, ESV)

Taming the Tongue

James, brother of Jesus, may have only written one short book in the Bible, but oh what words of wisdom and truth he shares under the guidance of the Holy Spirt.  Words about words, our words, and how humans are incapable of controlling their words. Yes, humans, the most intelligent beings in the world, can do so many things. Man can control the flow of water by building dams, control animals with leashes and reins, control the temperature in our homes through technology, yet cannot control his own tongue.  James warns his fellow followers of his brother, Jesus Christ, about the danger that resides in our own bodies, and advises us, "Not many of you should become teachers, my brothers, for you know that we who teach will be judged with greater strictness." (James 3:1)

Gulp. I think he means me...not only do I spend a lot of time tutoring elementary school children, every moment in my life is a teaching moment, and lately, I am embarrassed to say, those moments have not always been controlled or even kind. Though I grew up surrounded by sarcasm and passive aggressiveness, I have waged a lifelong battle trying to rid myself of any shred of evidence of it, or at least subdue it into submission; sadly, it still rears its ugly head when I am tired, overwhelmed, or under stress. That damn sin of pride, of thinking I am oh so clever, shows itself and shows off. And I hate it. And for a brief moment, I excuse it, because, as James wrote, "For we all stumble in many ways. And if anyone does not stumble in what he says, he is a perfect man, able also to bridle his whole body." (James 3:2)

I can put a leash on my dogs, a choke collar,  or an e-collar, and make them obey me, yet I cannot control my tongue. I've mastered the skill of driving a 2,000 pound vehicle on four wheels by using my hands to steer through heavy traffic and my feet to control speed and stopping, yet I am incapable of controlling my tongue. Such a tiny part of my body can say words of love or spew hurt; and words, once said, cannot be sucked back in as if I never uttered them. 

And why this sudden interest in my tongue? Why do I beat myself up for my lack of self-control? Have I been counseled by a friend to be more careful above what I say? Chided by my spouse for being sarcastic? Misunderstood by someone for a careless remark? No. I am being schooled by a 10 year old little girl who also happens to be my granddaughter. She, too, is wise and witty and sensitive like her grandmother. We have been spending quite a lot of time together over the past 18 months, so she sees (and hears) me at all hours of the day. When I am tired, in pain, hungry, irritated, preoccupied, startled, asleep, engrossed in phone notifications, playing a game, doing laundry, talking on the phone, interacting with my husband, washing my face, brushing my teeth, going to church...yes, everyday life. Like any parent with a 10 year old and a life. 

But I have grown lazy and prideful and comfortable with my dry humor, smart-ass remarks and witticisms. Our children are grown with their own kids now. I assume that because I am a parent and a grandparent, I can get away with it all, you know, with "just being me."  They will "get" it, right? The sighs and off hand remarks will go unnoticed, right?

Wrong. That little 10 year old is smart as a whip, reads well above her grade level, does not miss a beat, adores me, and knows how much I adore her. Dangerous combination.  And a perfect opportunity for me to be taken to task for being obtuse, and schooled on how to be present when caring for and guiding a fragile, malleable child, especially one who has complete trust in me and believes everything I say. 

"For every kind of beast and bird, of reptile and sea creature, can be tamed and has been tamed by mankind, but no human being can tame the tongue. (James 3:8)

Well, no human being with the exception, perhaps, of one little girl lovingly reminding her grandma she should try.

Funny how the Lord employs those we think we are teaching to teach us!

Not how I thought it'd be

When I was in my 20s, 30s, and 40s, I figured that when I got old, I would have it all figured out, that I would always know what to do, and that people would ask me for advice. I thought my children would put me on a pedestal and honor me for what a great job I did. I thought I would have girlfriends my age and we would go on annual girls' trips, write each other letters, and meet every so often to drink wine. I figured I would know how to dress classy, and look all put together. I would know exactly what to say no matter what the situation, I would always be in control of my emotions, my children and grandchildren would adore me, and my husband would still think I was sexy. I would spend my days visiting friends, taking cookies to nursing homes, sewing clothes, making quilts, and gardening, and at night I would relax and read, knit, and watch old movies. I swore I would never be one of those old people who had to plan things around doctor's appointments, that I would have more interesting things to talk about than my aches and pains and the weather. I definitely would not gain weight, well, not more than five pounds, and I would fit into my wedding dress 40 years later. I would achieve my dream of riding on the Orient Express, and attending at least three operas at the Met in NYC. I would drink wine, eat cheeses and gourmet chocolates, and would never, ever have acid reflux or pass gas in public. I would be tastefully dressed at all times, and would even look gorgeous in a kaftan or house dress. 

Well, life at 70 is a lot different than what I pictured it would be. 

I do not always know what to do. Hell, half the time I do not even know where I am (thank goodness for GPS, right?). Sage advice giver I am not; I could be, but no one seems to want to take me up on all this hard earned wisdom I've gleaned over the past seven decades, especially not my children. They are convinced (like I was when I was a young mom) they have it all figured out and will not repeat the same mistakes I made. My girlfriends are few and far between due to 30 plus years working in and for the military--hard to make lasting friends when you are part of the 11% of female military members, and in the top two enlisted ranks. Hard to make friends with someone you evaluate who is also 20 years your junior. So, wine and cheese trips to Turks and Caicos are out, as is that dream of knowing how to dress classy--wearing a khaki uniform and jungle boots for 20 plus years tends to dull your fashion sense. The rest?  I cry at the drop of a hat, hate nursing homes, have very little patience for sewing lately, my wedding dress is long gone, the Orient Express train service closed in 2009, NYC has been postponed the last five years, and dairy, chocolate, and red wine give me acid reflux. 

Where did the time go? All of the sudden, it seems, I am 70...I don't feel like I am 70, or at least I do not feel like I thought I would feel at 70. Lately I feel like I have so much more to do, so much to share, so much to see, but the sands keep trickling (sometimes gushing) through that damn lifetime hourglass. Not complaining. Not at all. I love my life. I love all the bruises and scars and rewards and accomplishments and failures. But damn it, time, slow down already! Seems like just a few years ago when I was donning my uniform to go to work, dropping off my girls at the bus stop in Ruthville, ND, celebrating my 5th and 10th and 20th annivesaries with the love of my life. I have so many things I want to know, books to read, kids to help, scripture to understand, friends to share time with, but the minutes, no, the days and weeks, are rushing by me too fast, so fast I feel like I cannot catch my breath, like my heart is beating so fast, and I tell it to slow down, slowwwwww way down, don't waste any of those heartbeats, because God only gives us so many to start with. I cannot sleep sometimes because I have so much to say and see and write. There are people who I have hurt that I have to hug. People who have hurt me that I need to forgive. I want to share so much with my kids, my granddaughters. Most of all, I want to focus on reflecting Christ in all I do, to do what God put me on this earth to accomplish.

On the bright side, my husband and my granddaughters adore me.

Christmas Spirit?

Trying to find my Christmas spirit right now...it is a bit slow in loading...I hate what our country has become, how we have allowed multimillion dollar media corporations, including so called social media, to manipulate our emotions and thoughts, creating a tribal mentality pitting human beings against each other. Never in my life have I witnessed such anger, vitriol, and hatred, absolute hatred, against other human beings, as I have witnessed over the past 12 years. Elections have become so controversial and polarized as to create huge rifts between not only Congress, but coworkers, friends, and even family take sides in some weird tribal mentality. People judge each other based on their vote—there is no longer a middle ground.

I am sick and tired of having to watch what I say, or what I agree with, for if I do not jump in the fray that is being vilified on CNN or FOX, then I must be blind or stupid or void of all common sense and compassion. When did who I vote for become the sole defining quality of a person? Why is there a ‘left’ or a ‘right?’ When did our social graces, common courtesies, etiquette, and the golden rule disappear from the landscape? When did four letter words become so commonplace in a supposedly civilized, cultured society, so much so that anyone can tell someone they have never met, except behind a keyboard, to go F*** off? How did the United States of America become so banal and vulgar? 

I am seventy years old, on the downhill slope of my time on earth, and I love this planet, God’s creation, but especially I love people, all kinds, everywhere. I do not think God only blesses America, or that we are somehow above hurting each other, but dammit haven’t we learned anything in the past 250 years? Do we really hate each other so much that we are willing to kill someone for their beliefs? We should be better than this, I tell myself, but in reality, we are not. Labels like Nazi, idiot, socialist, homophobe, misogynist, a racist, bigoted, entitled, snowflake, fraudulent, Fascist, narcissist, and others equally demoralizing flow freely from people’s keyboards and lips these days. There is no intelligent banter anymore, or lively debate where folks on opposite sides can still laugh, hug, and be friends afterwards. Americans are now pigeon-holed into some pre-determined mold as soon as they open their mouths. 

I have been fighting for three years to maintain a 25-year long friendship with someone who I thought was open minded, someone who could look beyond my age, my race, my faith, or my political leaning and still see me as someone worth loving. That ended tonight. And I am broken hearted over the loss, not just the loss of this friend, but my inability to reason with her.  

The devil is laughing his ass off right now…because he thinks he has won by pitting people against each other so they lose focus on what is important—love each other and love God. And just because I know the devil has already lost does not make all of this any easier. 

Please be kind to each other, to anyone actually, not just during this Christmas season, but every season. Merry Christmas to each and every one of you.

The silent boom

Baby boomers, born between 1946 and 1964, have lived through a lot. I know. I'm a boomer.  But lately I feel as if I am slowly, inexorably becoming invisible, my past experience, mistakes, awards, successes, and achievements ignored or even mocked. Labeled insignificant, judgmental, old fashioned, out of touch. Does not matter that I experienced social upheavals, watched as Neil Armstrong walked on the moon, the self-conflagration of monks in Hanoi, the assassination of JFK and his brother and their funeral cavalcades, the explosions of Mt St Helens, and lived through the Korean, Vietnam, and Cold Wars, and watched the Berlin Wall fall. I was in my 30s when the computer lumbered into businesses, so huge that one mainframe filled an entire city block. I've used a telephone connected to the wall, then cordless phones (actually calling people on them); my generation dreamed up, then built and produced Microsoft Windows, the iPhone, laptops, and the internet.  

I remember the Dewey decimal system and card catalogs, and laboriously researched papers and theses at the library, meticulously typing out double-spaced term papers on a manual or possibly IBM selectric typewriter, using whiteout and chalk to cover errors. I remember chalkboards before chalkboard paint was a trend.  Carbon paper. Encyclopedias. Home cooking. Full-service gas stations. Cloth diapers. Church bingo. Mister Softee. Cooling off by running through sprinklers. Fourth of July parades.  Butcher shops.  Hallmark cards.  Writing letters. Coin collections. Catcher in the Rye. Doris Day and Rock Hudson. The Fonz. Sunday dinners. Photo albums. Kodak cameras. Records—33, 45, and 78 rpm. The protests of the 60s, flower power, and Woodstock.  The opening of Walt Disney World and the riots in Harlem and Watts. Easter bonnets and dressing up for church, speaking in hushed tones, genuflecting. And getting the “look” from mom when I were too wiggly in the pews. 

My generation heralded the eradication of smallpox, survived chicken pox, measles, mumps, whooping cough, rubella, and tonsillitis without a vaccine. Dated, married, held my own newborn children and the hands of my parents on their deathbeds. Bought homes, paid them off, and owned several cars. Watched as the interstate highways connected travelers and families. We went to college, held several jobs, and had the first all-volunteer military. We were the first to sign up for direct deposit and IRAs. Corrected scores of kids’ homework and attended their basketball, football, and band competitions. Nursed them through flu, strep throat, surgeries, and worse. Many have lost a child, a spouse, a sibling. 

We’ve finally made it. We have accepted, adapted and adopted this brave new world. All we want now is to share our hard-earned wisdom and knowledge and experience. To be deemed useful. Needed. Respected. Honored.  We desperately ache to make a difference. To leave some small trace of ourselves as we fulfill the plans God has for us.  We don’t want to go silently into that good night. 

Yet those who are younger think they are smarter, faster,  more important. They see our wrinkles and grey hair not as badges of life, but as handicaps.  We begin to fade, the edges get blurry and colors melt into each other.  Finally we disappear. Until nothing is left but an epitaph and two dates separated by a hyphen. 

And the world is the poorer for it. 

Uprooted

My husband and are finally at that point in life where we can enjoy the fruits of our labor; we have fewer surprises, and things are slower, easier, more relaxed,  and less frenzied. We have the luxury of not having to work; we can finally sleep in and not stress about schedules, housekeeping, or finances. We can stay home, go on a last-minute trip, or plan extravagant holidays--our affairs are in order and our children are grown with kids of their own. We'd buried and settled the estates of all four of our parents, found a wonderful church home, and are financially secure.  Nestled in the beautiful mountains and forests of Western North Carolina is our lovely log home where we plan to spend our remaining years. My husband loves to plan RV trips and is an avid pickleball player; my passions are tutoring elementary school children, writing, and sewing. Our golden years were truly going to be just that--golden. 

Or so we thought.

To be closer to one of our daughters, we bought a little house on the Mississippi Gulf Coast. Now we have two houses, one which we love and one we are beginning to love--slowly. Two church homes with two different pastoral styles (Assembly of God vs reformed Presbyterian). Two cities with radically different demographics, weather, and population size.  Two addresses and all the headaches that come with making sure mail and packages get to the right one.  Two electric, gas, internet, property tax, and homeowner insurance bills. Two of everything--confusing on the good days, overwhelming on the bad ones.  Two timezones, for goodness sake! The struggle is real, folks!

Let's face it...I am well over the age of 65, and my body and brain remind me of that every single day.  I do not like change or driving in unfamiliar, new places--thank goodness for GPS and Bluetooth hearing aids. Not only are the heat and humidity hard to get accustomed to, the accents...oh my stars and red garters, those accents! As a person get older it becomes harder and harder to understand accents different than her own, and hearing aids do nothing to help that, so why of all places on God's green earth did we choose houses in Appalachia and southern Mississippi? Why aren't we spending all our time and money on cruises and trips to Europe instead of going back and forth between two homes, especially when we have to get out of the car every two and a half hours to stretch and go to the bathroom? 

Family, that's why. The chance to leave an imprint of ourselves with those we love and cherish, the opportunity to exhibit Christ's love in all we do, and to plant those seeds that others will water. To read books to granddaughters, attend school fall festivals, take kids shopping, hug our adult kids (when they will let us), play paper dolls, build Lego creations, give advice and support, and, most of all, to be God's hands and feet wherever He may lead us.

Tonight a little girl ran into my room and hugged me when she heard me crying about missing my Augustine tutoring up in Rosman, NC, saying, "Grandma you need a hug." That little girl revels in sitting next to me in my oversized chair listening to me read one of Katherine Applegate's books, and she adores joking around with her grandpa, swapping riddles, and helping him make cupcakes. And as I sit in my homey and comfortable Mississippi living room decorated with love by our daughter, I am at peace. 

“One generation shall commend your works to another, and shall declare your mighty acts.” – Psalms 145:4

DNA does not mean you are connected

 

Whether brothers or sisters, in our lifetime no one person will ever have more of the same DNA makeup as we do than a sibling. Whether we share both parents or only one, that genetic bond is unbreakable. Sadly, though, the same cannot be said of the relational bond; from birth and throughout childhood, sibling relationships have to be nurtured by parents. When a family has more than one child, each child must have equal love and equal time and feel equally as important as their siblings without being treated the same--each one must be loved and accepted for the individual each one is But when the kids leave home and strike out on their own, it is up to each of them to keep that relationship alive and growing, through open communication, visits, and acceptance of each others' differences, discounting those separated at birth or otherwise growing up in a different geographic location, 

That doesn't always happen. In my world, it rarely happened. 

The dying art of friendship

If I asked you, "How many friends do you have?" what would you say? How would you quantify that question? Your Christmas card list (assuming you still send Christmas cards)? High school friends? Drinking buddies? Folks you work with? Or would you totally miss the boat, open your FaceBook app, look at your profile photo, and recite that number under your name? It all boils down to how you define that word, 'friend.' And how do you know, without a doubt, someone is your friend? Throughout my life I’ve made several friends, grown out of some, and even married one. Acquaintances and work relationships often blossomed into friendships--high school, military career, volunteer life, church, etc. I am not at a loss for friends. My problem is I often confuse 'friendly acquaintance' with friend, and then I attach qualities and requisites of a friend to people who, through no fault of their own, never meant to be my friend...they were simply being someone and kind, keeping me company. 

So what is a friend? Acquaintance? Social media follower? Confidant? Companion? Bestie? What are the qualities of that person that makes them your friend? Is it how often you see each other? The things you have in common? The American Heritage Dictionary says a friend is "a person whom one knows and trusts, is allied with in a struggle or cause, and one seeks out the society of someone out of esteem and respect;" and the esteemed Merriam Webster dictionary echoes that by saying a friend is "someone attached to another by affection and esteem"(while at the same time saying it's a person included in the list of social media connections.) 

But seriously, do you really need to use a dictionary or Google to define what you consider to be a friend? Ask the smallest child to name one of their friends, and you will get an answer in seconds, so it seems children know a friend when they see one. My first friend…I was five years old, we’d just moved into my nana’s house and I was sad. I was lonely. As I sat on the concrete steps of the front porch I watched as a little girl about the same age as me walked up the sidewalk to the porch, stopped, looked at me and said, “Hi, my name is Tina.  Wanna be friends?”  She was my friend no matter how my day was going. Four years later we clung to each other, sobbing, each one trying to console the other…I was moving…again.  Over six decades later I still remember her name, her smile, her family, and reminisce about all the fun things we did, games we played, Barbies we dressed, and the giggles we shared. I was her friend, she was my friend; there was no doubt about it whatsoever. 

Kids make friends pretty easily, probably because there's no baggage attached, no preconceived notions, no gossip. It's when we get older that making and keeping friends gets more difficult, complicated; for some reason human beings become jaded, suspicious, guarded, and self-centered instead of open, curious, and compassionate. Watch a group of kids in a school lunchroom, a playground, or at an event their parents dragged them to...the children naturally seek out other children, take interest in what the other is doing, and want to join in. Recently I took my 9-year old granddaughter to a community river fest in a small town near our home; the fest included river fun, information tents sponsored by various nature groups, food trucks, and tons of families. Within 10 minutes, Sophie asked if she could go play with the kids by the river; I agreed as long as she stayed where I could keep eyes on her. Four hours later, when everything was shutting down and it was time for folks to leave, kids all over were hugging and hollering their goodbyes, looking as if they were losing their best friends, friends made that afternoon. 

Whether we as a society have forgotten how to make friends, how to treat them, or how to keep them, I do know FaceBook is not the answer.

The narrow focus of self-pity

I struggle sometimes...okay, I struggle a lot...with feeling sorry for myself, when one of my kids doesn't call me for a while, or a friend doesn't reach out, or I feel like no one is listening. And I absolutely hate that about myself. At this point in my life I feel I should not have the self pity monkey hanging out on my back, whispering "oh you poor little thing" in my ear, weighing me down, pushing my head down and keeping me looking at the ground instead of where I am going, instead of looking up to the hills...you know, the hills from whence my help comes from. 

Sometimes, though, a little self-pity does go a long way in helping me see how ridiculous I can be and how narrow my focus is when the lens is zoomed in on my little sad self.

For the record, though, the pain and loneliness are real...I hate being confined to a chair, a bed, or behind a walker. And using a toilet riser is just weird. And I miss my nightly baths.  

For the folks who have taken time out of their busy schedules to see me, call me, check on me, make food...thank you. You renewed my hope in humanity. 

You're killing me, Smalls....

Yes...the small mindedness. The ridculuousness. The tribal mindset and groupthink. The divisiveness. Destroyed friendships. Family separation. Name calling. WHY????

Because someone does not like the way someone else voted. Today I saw the most vicious, vitriolic, hateful, vulgar, disgusting, name calling, post shared by a person I hold extremely dear, a freind I have known for 30 years, someone I would do anything for. 

Do I take that post, and others like it, personally? You bet I do. Because it is meant as personal. Others have called "all those Trump voters" racists, misogynists, stupid, and ignorant. Those "Tru

I do not care how you vote. It is none of my business.

I do not care who you have sex with, or if you have it all. It is none of my business.

I do not care how much money you make. It is none of my business.

What do I care about?

I care about my faith. I care about Jesus. 

I care about my family.

I care about civility and kindness, and not provoking anyone with language or actions. I care about the old adage of treating each other as you would be treated, and if you cannot say anything nice, say nothing at all. 

I would love to say we are better than this, that "Americans" can be kind and gentle. That people are not driving around with political hit lists, or destroying police cars and blocking highways. 

Disclaimer: I do not expect a lot of likes on this post. There are not any cute cat videos or granddaughter photos. No flag waving or marching bands.

Independence Day. A day Americans celebrate their freedom from British rule with parades, reading the Declaration of Independence, grilling a lot of meat, and of course, fireworks. A time for fun and family, good memories.

But today I went to a friend's page to see how she is doing ,and saw the most vitriolic, vulgar, hateful post, aimed at dehumanizing others, through the use of four letter words and angry rhetoric, so hateful it actually brought tears to my eyes. I cried. I am saddened by the hate and divisiveness that has become the norm in American society. People are no longer kind. The old adages of "do unto others as you would have them do unto you," and "if you can't say anything nice, do not say anything at all" have all but disappeared.

People are not kind anymore. How you vote or voted defines you as a person, and everyone says whatever the heck they want on antisocial media, and oftentimes in person. Friendships are lost, family members are alienated from each other, and groupthink and autonomy have replaced civility, kindness, and community. Adults--grown adults, mind you, not children--routinely call each other horrible names, all because of who they voted for. It is shameful, juvenile, and uncalled for.

I am so sick of accidentally seeing such horrible things being said by people I thought I knew and respected, even veterans I served with, and especially those who proclaim to be Christians. They put such filth and hate out for anyone and everyone to see, but mostly to spread divisiveness in this tribal mentality world we now inhabit. So sick and tired of it. It makes me sad, angry even, to read or hear such hatred.

Freedom is not a license to shout fire in a crowded theater. It is not celebrated by inciting anger or calling people names just because they do not agree with something you say or do. And no, I am not singling out any one political bent, because as a nation, as "free" people blessed with the ability to elect their own government every four years, to have their own representation, we set a horrible example not only for our children but for the rest of the world.

In 2017, Mark Zuckerberg once said that FaceBook would become the "new church" by giving us all "a sense of community." Hah.
True freedom is not won through reading the Declaration of Independence, wars, riots, protests, government, and definitely not through posts on FaceBook or any other media.

True freedom, freedom from the consequences of sin as a result of our selfishness, is not won, it is a gift. From the Creator through His son, Jesus Christ. True freedom is not "whatever feels good, do it," or "anything goes." True freedom is surrendering ourselves completely to Christ, and then living out Christ's message by sharing the gospel in word and in deed.

In my 70 years on this planet have I consistently done that? Heck no. I am a sinner, but I am a redeemed sinner. God has done so many wonderful things in our lives and taught me so much about patience and waiting. My life (in fact no one's life) has not been easy; it has been fraught with crises and stress, deaths and sickness, lawsuits, and the shunning by family and friends. Through it all (the operative word being "through") God leads the way, and I follow (albeit not always my first inclination--I like to be in control).

In Luke 4:18 (ESV), Jesus said: “He has sent me to proclaim liberty to the captives and recovering of sight to the blind, to set at liberty those who are oppressed.” He is still doing that today, through His followers.

As I look back over these past seven decades, I am astounded and amazed at the beauty of His plan, His will for my life. I would love to share the good news with you, with my friends, with anyone who is tired of the hate, the tribal mentality so prevalent right now. If that is you, I will gladly buy you a coffee, listen to your story, and pray with you.

It would be my honor.

I had no idea...

Being a caregiver is hard. Being a caregiver of an intellectually disabled adult is even harder still. But being a caregiver of someone who cannot be civil or have any concept of showing appreciation is exasperating. Even though I accepted this appointment as guardian knowing he had limitations, challenges, and behavior problems, I really had no idea how taxing this would be emotionally and spiritually. Over 20 years ago, when our father asked me if I would take care of David when he was no longer able to, I agreed wholeheartedly to be his guardian and caregiver, and asked Dad what I needed to know to take care of my brother.  His answer? "Barb, you have no idea." That was it. I thought, "Well that is a strange answer! That's it? 'You have no idea'? Really?"

Fast forward to the present, I still have no idea what to tell people who ask that same question, so I too say, "You have no idea." Period. Nothing else. Just that.  I have tried to define the person that is my brother, to describe his personality and quirks and issues and care needs. But all people really see is whatever persona David presents upon that first meeting. I had no idea how exhausting and overwhelming this journey would be. To provide total care to a 73-year-old child trapped in a man's body. Who upon meeting anyone new, says, "Hi, I'm David." What does that mean? Who is David?

David is the oldest of five siblings, my sweet brother, and I love him dearly, with all his issues and idiosyncrasies. He was born with his disability, and our mother, who was mentally imbalanced and cruel, abused us all, but most of all, David. When she and our dad divorced, she was awarded custody of us, but after a year she put 13-year-old David, a pillow, and a suitcase out on the porch, locked the front door, and called my dad to come get hi "$%*! son!" as I watched from the living room.  My dad and stepmom took care of him for the next 53 years, putting David's needs above their own, even moving three times to ensure he had the best special needs programs. When Dad's 94-year-old body began to fail on New Year's Day, 2018, David moved in with us; since that time I have been his caregiver, guardian, trustee, and surrogate parent.

By the end of 2018, I knew exactly what my dad meant. Or thought I did.

I had no idea... how sweet David could be. He always remembers birthdays, anniversaries and holidays, and hugs everyone (and anyone) he meets. He loves music, old TV shows, food, bowling, and looking at photo albums. He saves everything anyone gives him, whether a picture, card, memento, or ratty t-shirt; I know because I have had to purge his closet and dresser numerous times. He has photos in his wallet folded so many times the images are barely recognizable. 

I had no idea...about the depth and breadth of his love for music. He owns over 200 record albums (yes, vinyl record albums), both 33s and 45s, and well over 200 music CDs; his most prized possession? His record player. The music genres span not only decades but centuries: classical, jazz, big band sounds, Motown, disco, movie soundtracks, patriotic tunes, crooners, ballads, R&B, soft rock, and some country. Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass, Elton John,  George Gershwin,  Louis Armstrong, the Carpenters, Beach Boys, John Denver, KC and the Sunshine Band, Frank Sinatra, Smoky Robinson, Dean Martin, Michael Jackson, and ABBA are in his repertoire, and he loves to sing along with each, as loudly as possible. Mention karaoke or a concert and he is all in!

I had no idea...how many memories he is capable of recalling in perfect detail: the name of his elementary school, his bowling scores,  Special Olympics achievements, who gave him what for Christmas, and special moments with Dad. One day he recounted a trip to hear the Cincinnati Pops Orchestra in the late 1970s, recalling details about the conductor (Erich Kunzel), the music played (Rhapsody in Blue and some Duke Ellington jazz), and the surprise appearance of Arthur Fiedler of the Boston Pops at that concert. Intrigued, I looked up all the names, and was shocked at the accuracy of his memory recall. 

I had no idea...about the challenges he faces on a daily basis, both physical and mental, and how frustrated he gets because he cannot understand why he has these difficulties. As he has aged, he is experiencing what all of us will experience one day--problems with hearing, vision, and coordination, all of which create a lot of angst. Hell, I don't even understand it because, like David, I too feel my body has betrayed me somehow. Routine and structure are his best friends; any change, no matter how slight, throws him for a loop. He once spent over an hour trying to get his alarm clock to reflect the exact same time as his wristwatch (it was two minutes fast), cutting his hand in the process, ignoring the blood dripping on the dresser and floor, until I took the damn thing away from him, so you can imagine how crazy he can get because his body won't cooperate with normal functions.

I had no idea...how much I would learn from this "intellectually developmentally delayed" brother of mine, the joy and laughter he would bring to our lives, yes, amidst tears and frustration. The three of us--Alex, David, and I--enjoyed life together, a life of moments ordinary but made special because we shared them. I learned more about myself and my faults through my relationship with my brother than I learned from any other person; some of the things I saw in myself were not so pretty...but to David, I was always his "amazing, beautiful, best sister ever." Seeing him with new eyes--actually the eyes of my much younger self, when he was simply my big brother--I realized how special David is, that he too was created in God's image.

I had no idea...how much I will miss him when he is gone. 

Death Knell of a Friendship

When I was seven years old we lived in my nana's house on a little street in a nice neighborhood where there were lots of families with children and we'd play outside with each other; my best friend lived next door--Tina Tenunfeld. We played dolls, walked to school together, and swore we would be friends forever. That was 1962. We moved the following year and I haven't seen her since.

Starting in fourth grade, I attended St Clare elementary school for the next five years, then McAuley High School for freshman and sophomore years and was friends with four other girls for those years; we hung out at each other's homes, were in Girl Scouts together, passed notes at school when the nuns were not looking, and went downtown to go shopping on weekends. We were convinced we would get married and have kids, live on the same street, and grow old together. That was 1970. Never saw those girls again.

In 1971, I changed schools in the middle of my junior year in high school because I moved in with my dad and stepmom--that was rough because the school was huge, with over 1,000 kids in the graduating class. I got on the school bus on my first day, and sat in an empty seat by a window. At the next stop, a girl with long, dark red hair got on, laughing and talking to everyone else on the bus; she sat down next to me and introduced herself. "Hi, I'm Jenny!" That was the introduction to a beautiful friendship--we were inseparable! I was maid of honor in her wedding (to which I was over an hour late!), and we were such good friends she refused to start her wedding until I got there, breathless and crying. We still send each other Christmas cards, connect occasionally on FaceBook, but other than that, nothing. The last time I saw Jenny was probably 25-30 years ago. We were "best friends."

Through the years, I have met thousands of people, become acquaintances with many, friends with some. Friends have come, friends have gone, but few have remained through the years. Some have simply moved away or grown apart, with only 3 or 4 leaving as a result of a disagreement or misunderstanding. But most? Well they simply outlived the friendship due to not having anything in common. Right now I probably have less than 10 really good friends--people with whom our friendship is an easy, fluid thing. We understand each other, celebrate each other's joys and cry together over loss. We laugh, joke, pray, and honestly would do anything for the other. I cherish these friends and the relationships we have. At my age, great friends are worth their weight in gold.

Sometimes, however, someone who seems to be a friend, maybe even a "best" friend, is not what they seem, or our lives bifurcate so abruptly that the friendship becomes strained. Communication that was once easy and effortless becomes less frequent and mundane. Phone calls and video chats are replaced with text messages and tags on FaceBook posts, and this person you thought was your BFF turns out to be someone with whom you have nothing whatsoever in common, nothing but having known each other for two decades or more. But you hang on, resuscitating it, even shocking it with the defibrillator paddles every so often, in a futile attempt to keep it alive. Finally, however, you realize there is nothing more to be done. There is no cure, no magic elixir, no miracle that can revive this "friendship." And you look back. And realize you wanted a best friend so badly that you yoked yourself to a person with whom you had nothing in common. Sure you had fun, you loved each other's company, but in the end, you were both so diametrically different, so toxic to each other, it was a wonder it lasted as long as it did. 

The older I get, the more I realize what a true friend should be. A true friend shares commonalities; in my case, we must share a love for Christ.

"Know this: In the last days perilous times will come. Men will be lovers of themselves, lovers of money, boastful, proud, blasphemers, disobedient to parents, unthankful, unholy, without natural affection, trucebreakers, slanderers, unrestrained, fierce, despisers of those who are good, traitors, reckless, conceited, lovers of pleasures more than lovers of God, having a form of godliness, but denying its power. Turn away from such people." (2 Timothy 3:1-5)

"Cast out the scorner, and contention will go out; yes, strife and reproach will cease." (Proverbs 22:10)

"Make no friendship with an angry man, and with a furious man you will not go, lest you learn his ways and get a snare to your soul." (Proverbs 22:24-25)