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!

On the False Pursuit of Appreciation

Here I am, sitting in a beautiful log home that would be the envy of most, on a gorgeous sunny day in the mountains of North Carolina.  I SHOULD be thankful and grateful for the gifts God has blessed me with, and especially for my redemption through Christ.  I SHOUILD be praising Him.  I SHOULD be rejoicing that my past is forgiven and my future is in heaven. I SHOULD be seeking to glorify Him and be who He has planned for me. Yeah, I shouild be doing and thinking a lot of things. But am I? Nope. 

Today I am allowing my emotions to rule me. I selfishly want to be appreciated and loved and respected for what I do, for who I am, for what I have accomplished, for the roles I fill, when I SHOULD be listening to that still small voice of the Holy Spirit inside me, trying to guide me and lead me to do God's will. Why am I so down? Why do I seek appreciation from someone else for the tasks God has relegated to me?  Why is my face not lifted up, my heart not bursting with joy?

Because I am trusting my emotions, my feelings, instead of the spirit inside of me. I don't do what I do to achieve medals or honor or accolades. I do what I do because it brings God glory, and that gives me joy, joy unspeakable--usually, anyway. But today, I have let the imp of self-doubt into my head, and have bent my ear to the whisperings of the Father of Lies. He tells me "You are far more important than others. You deserve praise," when truthfully, I deserve nothing, I earn nothing. Only by the precious blood of Jesus and the bountiful grace of God am I here today with the assurance I have a seat reserved for me in heaven.

Oh the false allure of fame and glory and appreciation, the foolishness of the pretense of humility.

Pride. Pitiful, ridiculous, ignorant, deceptive, and egotistical pride. 

Perspective

Why do parents and their kids react to phone calls (or any communication) with each other so differently? Whether they’re little or grown, when mom or dad calls out to their progeny, the children always seem absorbed in something infinitely more important. But when the kids holler for Mommy or Daddy, boom! The requested parent would answer or appear.  Strangely enough, when the children are grown, the tableau repeats itself: mom or dad drop in (if they live nearby) or call, or nowadays, text or try to video chat and don’t you know, little Billy or Zoe, all grown up, is just far too busy to spend any quality time with the person who gave them life. But the kids, all “grown up,” call at any hour of the day, their call is answered, or at least promptly returned if missed. 

That “person,” the parent, also happened to have people who gave her life: parents. Parents would call out to her when she was on the porch playing Barbies, and she’d either not hear them or completely ignore them. And when this person grew up, his parents would want to call or be called, visit or be visited. Sometimes it was a chore, an interruption to things he had planned or was doing. Sometimes he’d call, maybe even drive down to see them. She’d make it a habit to call her parents every Sunday at eight. True, though, when their parents would call them or want to visit outside of scheduled times, he or she would let out an audible sigh as if the inconvenience was just too much. Funny enough, they came to enjoy the calls, the visits, the “interruptions “ to their everyday life. 

 

And herein is my dilemma. My head tells me children are supposed to push away from their parents, to become their own person, to fulfill the purpose God has for each of them. I know perfectly well the umbilical cord was cut minutes after each of them was born, and nothing I do can reconnect it. But my heart? Oh, my heart hurts, and yearns to reach out to grasp every possible moment with each of my daughters, and with each of my granddaughters. I don’t want to be relegated to a corner of their lives—I want to be front and center. 

Let’s get real, though. Are my expectations for my relationship with my children in line with my relationship with my parents when they were alive? Did I really include my parents in every facet of my life or am I merely romanticizing our interactions? Wasn’t I just as wrapped up in my everyday minutia? 

Depends on the perspective, I guess.

God give me the peace and wisdom to balance all my relationships with those you have blessed me with.

Unraveling

Have you ever had a sweater or a dress with a loose thread? You notice it, pull on it, thinking it will just be a quick fix, and before you know it there is a quarter-sized hole in the sweater or the dress' hem has all come undone. That is how I feel right now...undone, unraveled, lost. Yes, I am a child of God, yes Jesus is my savior. But I am lost; the fabric of my life I took for granted is unraveling.  

A  month ago I had it all figured out (my life for the next decade). I would have this second surgery to fix a pesky hiatal hernia and to be able to eat without vomiting, then I would be home in two days, three max, and go on to tutor and be a nana and just, well, live my life. I wasn't even worried, and I am embarrassed to say I did not even pray before they put me to sleep. The last two things I remember? Alex crying as he was praying for me, something out of Jeremiah, and the anesthesiologist holding the mask way too firmly on my face; I became claustrophobic, panicked, and then finally prayed a quick prayer a split second before I went out. 

Hours, no, days, went by uncounted. Pain, trouble breathing, fear, and confusion were all accompanied by a never-ending parade of nurses, doctors, medical tests, hushed voices, and a hurried transfer to the ICU. What was happening? I was supposed to go home today. Where is Alex? Why can't I breathe? A doctor inserted a chest tube into my lungs. More CT scans. Suddenly I am in pre-op again, this time for emergency surgery. Again, hours, then days, then nights drift by unnoticed. At some point, I am transferred to another floor. I drift off, and wake up to my daughter, Mandy, putting lotion on my face. How did she get here from Malaysia? More days pass, hours of sameness broken only by the incessant beeps of the IV pump and the ongoing (and welcome) ministrations of nurses and doctors. Weeks go by until I am finally allowed to go home. Home. What a wonderful word. Everything will be ok, it will all be better, I will be home soon. The unraveling would stop--I would get my life back.

Oh, I am such a silly, silly human. Home for nearly four weeks already, the unraveling continues. The world continues to rotate on its axis without me--laundry, scheduling, cleaning, tutoring, taking care of chickens, paying the bills, and walking the dogs. I am no longer the nurturer, the caregiver; instead, I am dependent on others to take care of me. And the more I resist, the more miserable I feel; despite all my efforts, I could not rewind that yarn back into the ball that was my previous life (note the arrogance?). What I perceived as a disaster, as a loss of how things used to be, is in actuality a blessing, as God humbles me and lays out His plan for me.  Proverbs 16:9 says: “The heart of man plans his way, but the Lord establishes his steps."

Yes, the fabric of my life unraveled this year, as it has many times before. But God continues to weave a more perfect tapestry for my life with His plans, taking my imperfections and errant stitches and perfecting me.

Oh, Lord, teach me and show me your ways.

"Come now, you who say, ‘Today or tomorrow we will go into such and such a town and spend a year there and trade and make a profit’ — yet you do not know what tomorrow will bring. What is your life? For you are a mist that appears for a little time and then vanishes. Instead you ought to say”  (James 4:13-15 ESV)