SUN, SAND, SURF...REST

Melbourne Beach, Florida

Wow! I haven't checked in here at the blog in two whole weeks! I stepped away from writing assignments, laundry, and kitchen duty to enjoy a much-needed break from routine chores and deadlines.

I haven't had a do-what-I-want, when-I-want, at-my-own-pace, kick-back-and-relax vacation in...well, in so long that I can't remember. I figured it was time for a holiday, before stepping into the harness of a new job.

Some people are late bloomers. I am fifty-four years old. This summer, for the first time ever, I planned a vacation: booked lodging, planned transportation, budgeted for meals and gas, the whole she-bang. The entire process was an adventure - and I enjoyed every bit of it!

My youngest son is living near the east coast of Florida this summer, and my youngest daughter (the last chicken at home) has long wanted to experience a beach holiday, so a beach vacation seemed the natural choice. It. Was. Awesome. I understand why folks with the time and the money make annual visits to the coast.

I love the beach. I love the sun, the sand, the sound of the water. I love the people. I love the nothing to do but PAUSE, breathe, rest. I also love swimming. I am very buoyant even in fresh water, but in salt water...well, let me put it this way: if I were an animal, I'd be a manatee.

Sunshine, surf, and good company.

Our second day in Melbourne, we met up with a friend from nearby Orlando for some brain-stimulating conversation and a short road-trip to Vero Beach for sushi.

Sushi date - yum!

Sunday, a day of soul refreshment, worshiping with brothers and sisters at Covenant Presbyterian Church in Melbourne. In the afternoon, a stroll along the boardwalk at Turkey Creek Sanctuary in Palm Bay.

According to Ben, it rains EVERY afternoon.
Should've brought a bigger umbrella!

Monday, the youngest and I packed the car before daybreak and headed to the beach one last time, to watch the sun rise.

Sunrise over Paradise Beach. It amazes me that the God who creates this kind of enormous, powerful, heart-swelling beauty every single morning - that same God knows me and loves me and He hears and answers my prayers.

Finally, with full hearts and refreshed bodies, we turned and headed west toward home.

Today, CATCH UP! Laundry, grocery shopping, writing assignments...but work is a pleasure after such sweet rest. We are both looking forward now to our different jobs and to school. And already, we are planning our next adventure.

FIREFLIES

New moon.

The world was dark when Helen and I crunched down the gravel drive home from our weekly Scrabble match at Grammy's last night. (The young'n walloped us, both games.)

Frogs scree!-d at the pond, their shrill songs carrying over the pasture. The evening air, cool and soft, was thick with honeysuckle and the heavy sweetness of mock orange.

Out on the highway, no traffic. I guess everyone was home, watching the evening news or putting away dishes or finishing homework, or they had already clocked in at Walmart for the night shift.

The hayfield is a magical place on a mild, moonless night.

A thousand-thousand stars, fallen from a limitless black sky, come alive and dance above the tops of the grasses.

"Here!"

"Here!"

"Here!"

They call to one another joyfully, ecstatically.

"Dance!"

"Dance!"

"Dance!"

And I am a child again, surrounded by fairies, walking in the darkness through a symphony of light.

STORM WATCH

As I sit here writing, I listen for the storm sirens: high chance of tornadoes in the forecast today. This morning's clear, sunny sky has transformed into something dark and ominous. Wind whips the trees, scatters papers across campus, steals caps.

I hope the youngest and I make it home before the storm breaks. I don't like driving in severe weather...

...but I love storms.

I grew up in a beautiful 100+-year-old farmhouse. We didn't have internet, because the internet hadn't been invented yet. We didn't have TV, either. Yes, TV had been invented; but when our old cabinet TV quit working, Dad hauled it out to his workshop and let us kids "fix" it, and that was the end of that. We didn't have cellphones. Cellphones were imaginary tools in the minds of scriptwriters for StarTrek and James Bond films.

So, when we woke up on a misty, moisty, gray kind of morning, we didn't worry about sinister weather reports forecasting hail and tornadoes. Instead, Dad fed and milked the cow. Mom fried bacon and eggs and started the laundry. We kids got dressed for school or, if it was the weekend or summer break, we tackled chores or sneaked back to bed with a library book.

And if the sky grew dark as Mordor and the wind picked up, if lightning sizzled and thunder crashed nearby and rain pelted the roof like bullets, then...

...we did not log onto weather.com, or turn on the TV, or check our cellphones.

Instead, when the weather grew particularly hurly-burly, Mom would say, "Let's go sit on the porch and watch the storm!"

Sitting on the porch swing with Mom, our skin prickling and the hair on our arms standing on end, the wind whipping the trees into a dervish, covering our ears and counting the seconds between FLASH! and CRASH!, damp from the rain that blasted around the edge of the roof...

...watching the storm, not the storm report...

I don't know if I have ever felt more alive than I did sitting on the porch swing as a child, wide-eyed and hair on end, watching the storm. It was terrifying, electrifying, invigorating, magical.

Yes, there were times when Mom and Dad, on some mysterious cue, rushed us all to the basement. But even when we gallomped hurriedly down the stairs into the cool mustiness of down below - Dad carried a kerosene lantern to light our steps, when the power went out - even then, I don't remember feeling afraid, only a thrill of excitement and anticipation.

William Cowper, in one of my very favorite hymns, writes these words: "God moves in a mysterious way his wonders to perform; he plants his footsteps in the sea, and rides upon the storm."

Is that what I was looking for, waiting for, as I sat wet and charged with excitement on the front porch swing or huddled with baited breath in the damp shadows of the basement? Perhaps the spine-tingling thrill that drew me outside into the blasting storm was not the storm after all, but the Someone behind the storm.

His way is in whirlwind and storm, and the clouds are the dust of his feet. - Nahum 1:3b

GONE FISHING

Several years ago, I wrote here at the blog about how much I loved to go fishing with my Pap when I was a little girl. (Read that post HERE.)

Pap on the lake

I loved being near the water, soaking up the sunshine, listening to summertime thrum of the cicadas, waiting for my red-&-white bobber to dance. I loved catching fish, and then eating them for dinner.

Fish for dinner!

But mostly, I loved being with Pap. Fishing, you see, wasn't nearly so much about fish as it was about being with the sweet man I loved.

Last week, I shared how my youngest and I are going to try to go on at least one adventure together each month. (Read about our 2018 adventures HERE.) Why plan an adventure every month? For fun. To learn something new. Because Mom is prone to work too much and play too little. To put an end to "if we ever get around to it."

One of the activities on our adventure list: "Spend an afternoon fishing."

I haven't had much interest in fishing since the summer my Pap died. Too hot. Too many mosquitoes and chiggers. Too slimy. Too stinky. Too sweaty. Too plain messy.

My youngest, however, loves to fish. Seems the fishing bug jumped clean off of me and onto her.

I haven't had any interest in fishing for years, but this year, I want to go fishing. Forget the mosquitoes and the sweat. I already know I am going to love being near the water, soaking up the sunshine, listening to the thrum of the cicadas.

Maybe we'll catch some fish and fry them up for dinner. Mostly, though, I am looking forward to making memories with someone I love.

(A big "Thank you!" to my sister Alix for the pictures!)

THIS IS MY NORMAL

I was raised by a talented, gregarious attorney and a passionate, intelligent preacher's daughter. These two people thought seriously about life, faith, family, current events, everything, and they talked about what was on their minds. Conversations around our dinner table each evening were animated, stimulating, intense. (Sometimes, they were downright hysterical.)

My siblings and I grew up thinking it was perfectly reasonable for family conversation to cover the gamut from whale songs to Caesar Augustus to evidence of God's sovereignty in our daily lives. We loved to talk about these things, to talk about everything. (We still do!) Growing up, this was my Normal.

But what about life outside the incubator? What about relationships with people outside the family nest?

My first truly-intimate, truly-significant non-relative friend was a girl named Jill. We met in sixth grade. Even in sixth grade, Jill's faith was an integral part of her regular conversation. She talked about what she believed, and she asked me what I believed, and why. She prayed out loud to Jesus when we walked together down the hall between classes - like she believed Jesus was right there and could actually hear her. Jill was my first best girlfriend...she was my Normal. (I love you, Jill. 💖)

Other dear friends danced in and out of my life over the years. Jane and David, Janet and Ned, Larry and Lisa, Cindy and Ken, Shaun and Shannon. Katherine, Donna, Teresa, Linda, MaryAnn, Jenny, Gayle, Melissa, Alice, Dustin, Joyce, Julie...too many beautiful saints to name! And then there is my new family - Steve, and the seven children God has given us, and the special people these children have added to the family circle. Such a kaleidoscope of personalities, life experiences, faith backgrounds!

Yet all these very-different people have one thing in common - they love to talk about the things about which they care passionately. Gardening, homeschool, books, yoga, family, horses, Boston, music, politics, beer, poetry, jiu jitsu, cheese. And they love to talk about the one thing that excites them more than anything else - Jesus. The Gospel. The implications of faith for daily life. These people, they have been and continue to be my Normal.

I guess every person on the planet has his own definition of "normal," and it makes sense that many of those normals vary greatly from my own. But I am truly thankful - to my parents, to my siblings, to my husband, to my children, to my friends, to my brothers and sisters in Christ, and especially to God himself - for the Normal that has been handed to me.

PAP

I mentioned in my last post how an unexpected encounter with my granddad encouraged me greatly Monday evening at a time when I was feeling weary and down. I have not seen Pap since his death almost 44 years ago, when I was only nine years old. I don't have any pictures of Pap, and I have often wondered if, after all these years, I would recognize him if I saw him.

Pap and I were big fishing buddies. I wrote about going fishing with Pap in a post that you can read HERE.

But Pap and I weren't just fishing buddies: we were best friends. I was Pap's favorite grandchild, and he loved me and delighted in me. Whenever I was with him, I KNEW that I was precious and cherished.

The funny thing is, if you ask my siblings or cousins, they would all probably say the same thing: "I was Pap's favorite grandchild." And they would be right. Pap was magic like that.

Knowing that I was Pap's favorite did not make me feel puffed up, like I had something over the other grandkids. It humbled me. I felt like I had been entrusted with a very valuable but completely undeserved gift. Knowing that Pap loved and delighted in me made me feel humble and safe and strong and beautiful and special, all at the same time.

Pap didn't think kids were a burden or an annoyance - or if he did, he never communicated that to me. Whether he was feeding hogs or fixing fences or driving to town for garden supplies, he welcomed me to go along with him to help - but, honestly, folks, how much real help can a 6-year-old be at a feed mill or on a hog farm?! Folding feed sacks, sorting nails, holding tools...Pap made little-child me feel like my "work" was important, like it had real value.

You know how a smell or a song or a sound can - in an instant - transport you completely to another place and time? There is a certain rose perfume that, whenever I smell it, for just a second - the blink of an eye - I am a young girl again, standing in the blue bedroom at Mer and Pap's. I see the dark blue satin bedspread, and the polished wooden cupboard in which Mer's fancy Sunday hats are stored, and the fan-shaped pink china perfume bottle reflected in the dresser mirror, and the twisted trunk of the red bud tree outside the window. For just a second, I am right there.

So, back to Monday night...

I had driven Helen to Farm Bureau in Union City for a 4-H meeting. Thinking I could maybe get some writing done while the kids had their meeting, I poked around for a place to hide out with my computer. The conference room looked like a perfect place to park.

Pictures of all the past Farm Bureau presidents were displayed on the wall at one end of the conference room. A bunch of old men, most of them long dead...not likely that I knew any of them, but I think old pictures are cool so I took a second to look over the pictures before unpacking my laptop.

And then...

"That's my Pap! That's my Pap!"

For one brief second, I was a little girl, looking into the face of the man I loved most in the world, the face of the grandfather who loved me most especially, and I felt humbled and loved and safe and strong and smart and beautiful and valuable, all in one enormous, electric, tumultuous surge of emotion.

Of course, two heartbeats later, I was 52-year-old Camille again, with sore joints and a nagging headache and a mile long ToDo waiting for my attention...just a tired, middle-aged woman standing alone in a chilly conference room, staring at an 8-by-10 black-and-white photograph.

Same old Camille...except for the residue of lightning that still tingled in my veins, the excitement of a most beloved child standing at the feet of her most beloved Pap.

I do not believe in chance meetings.

I have been in the Farm Bureau building countless times. I have even been in that same conference room on multiple occasions. But Monday night, my Father - who is most kind and tender and loving and who is always present - He knew that I needed a strong dose of encouragement. And He encourage me in a most powerful and unexpected way. He had me look into the eyes of my grandfather.

I have not seen Pap since his death almost 44 years ago, when I was only nine years old. I don't have any pictures of Pap, and I have often wondered if, after all these years, I would recognize him if I saw him.

Not only did I recognize him, but, for a split second, I stood at his feet.

THE SLED BOY

Because I am sitting next to him, and because it's Christmas, and because it's still true...

THE SLED BOY
- originally posted March 22, 2010

Several years ago, my oldest son participated in a production of Charles Dickens's A Christmas Carol at Theatre Memphis. While Reuben learned the roles of the Sled Boy, Ignorance, a chimney sweep, and a street urchin, Big Sister and I volunteered to work as stage hands. If I'd known ahead of time what we were getting into, I think we'd have skipped auditions! Rehearsals began in October - we met five nights a week, for 3+ hours of practice. Once the play opened, performances were held every evening except Monday, with additional matinee performances on weekends. This exhausting schedule lasted from Thanksgiving weekend until just a few days before Christmas. I truly believe that, long before closing night, the entire cast and every one of the backstage workers could have recited the complete script from memory!

Tiring - absolutely. But also tremendous fun. And amazingly, the work never got boring. The frantic silent bustle backstage, dressing and undressing actors, readying props in the pitchblack wings. The wild diversity of personalities - Kevin, who showed up for rehearsal on Halloween dressed as Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz, complete with ruby slippers (oh, yes); Anna, whose glow-in-the-dark tongue stud gave her a nearly blinding smile in the blackness that was "back stage"; the adult twins, Shawn and Kelley, who loved to pull surprises on stage to test other actors' ability to focus; Jim, the ghost of Christmas present, whose beautiful baritone and joy for life filled the theatre just months before he succumbed to throat cancer.

A dear friend and her family made a special trip to see A Christmas Carol that holiday season. Afterwards, Shannon commented the play had been great...but that when Reuben walked on stage, she had only been able to focus on him. The story, the music, the other characters faded to insignificance as he played his very minor parts. "All I could think was, That's MY Reuben! That's MY Reuben!" she laughed. "I was so proud of him, I wanted to stand up and tell everyone in the audience - LOOK! That's MY Reuben!"

Her experience got me to thinking. In the drama that is this life, that's how God looks at each of His children. I may stumble on stage, or say the wrong lines, or totally miss my cue. Shoot, I may even dive into the orchestra pit. But God looks at me through loving eyes and says, "That's MY Camille!"

Circumstances and our emotions sometimes conspire to deceive us, to make us believe that God groans at the mere thought of us, that we are to God nothing but a source of grief and constant frustration. But we do not have such a pathetic salvation as that, sisters and brothers. We are not saved to the extent that God is now able to barely tolerate us, to endure our existence without obliterating us with lightning bolts. We are saved completely, radically, eternally. We are HIS, and He loves and delights in us.

C.S. Lewis wrote in The Weight of Glory: The promise of glory is the promise, almost incredible and only possible by the work of Christ, that some of us, that any of us who really chooses, ...shall please God. To please God...to be a real ingredient in the divine happiness...to be loved by God, not merely pitied but delighted in as an artist delights in his work or a father in a son - it seems impossible, a weight or burden of glory which our thoughts can hardly sustain. But so it is.

God loves me because I am His - not because I have mastered the "stage" of life. He delights in me like a father in a son/daughter. Almost too good to believe, isn't it? But so it is.

The morning after the visits from the ghosts...
Ebenezer Scrooge (leaning out the window): You, there! Boy! What's today?
Sled Boy: Today, Sir? Why, it's Christmas Day!

WEATHER FORECAST

Today's weather forecast for NW Tennessee:  "Variable clouds and windy with strong thunderstorms. Damaging winds, large hail, and possibly a tornado with some storms." (www.weather.com)

Right now, as I look out the kitchen window, I see a misty, moisty, gray kind of early February day. Without the magic of the internet, I'd have no thought of thunderstorms and possible tornadoes.

As a child...

I grew up in a beautiful 100+-year-old farmhouse over on Yellowhammer Lane. We didn't have the internet because the internet hadn't been invented yet. We didn't have TV, either. Yes, TV had been invented; but when our old cabinet TV quit working, Dad hauled it out to his workshop and let us kids "fix" it, and that was the end of that. We didn't have cellphones. Cellphones were imaginary tools in the minds of scriptwriters for StarTrek and James Bond films.

So, when we woke up on a misty, moisty, gray kind of morning, we didn't worry about sinister weather reports that forecasted hail and tornadoes. Instead, Dad fed and milked the cow. Mom fried bacon and eggs and started the laundry. We kids got dressed for school or, if it was the weekend or summer break, we tackled chores or sneaked back to bed with a library book.

And if the sky grew dark as Mordor and the wind picked up, if lightning sizzled and crashed nearby and rain pelted the roof like bullets, then...

...we didn't log onto weather.com, or turn on the TV, or check our cellphones...

Instead, when the weather grew particularly hurly-burly, Mom would say, "Let's go sit on the porch and watch the storm!"

Sitting on the porch swing with Mom, our skin prickling and the hair on our arms standing up, the wind whipping the trees in the yard into a dervish, covering our ears and counting the seconds between FLASH! and CRASH!, damp from the rain that blasted around the edge of the roof...

...watching the storm, not the storm report...

I don't know if I have ever felt more alive than I did sitting on the porch swing as a child, wide-eyed and hair on end, watching the storm. It was terrifying, electrifying, invigorating, magical.

Yes, there were times when Mom and Dad, on some mysterious cue, rushed us all to the basement. But even when we gallomped hurriedly down the stairs into the cool mustiness of down below - Dad carried a kerosene lantern to light our steps, when the power went out - even then, I don't remember feeling afraid, only a thrill of great excitement and anticipation and keen waiting.

William Cowper, in one of my very favorite hymns, writes these words:  "God moves in a mysterious way his wonders to perform; he plants his footsteps in the sea, and rides upon the storm."

Is that what we were looking for, waiting for, as we sat wet and charged with excitement on the front porch swing or huddled with baited breath in the damp shadows of the basement? Was the spine-tingling thrill that drew us outside into the blasting storm, was it the something - the Someone - behind the storm?

GLAD I'M NOT A MIDDLE-AGED MAN!

My name is Camille.

French origin. In the past, typically a man's name. In modern day America, more often a woman's name.

I am guessing it is my name that serves as a cue for internet businesses that send out bulk spam-mails, because it's certainly not my internet usage.

Based on the subject bars of my email junk box, the greatest challenges confronting middle-aged men in America right now are: hair loss, erectile dysfunction, a shortage of young leggy Russian internet brides, and the high cost of divorce.

Seriously?!!!

I always delete these messages without reading them. "Empty Junk" is such a wonderful tool. But secretly, I wish I had some way of responding that actually punched back, that knocked the wind out of the spamming sails.

Maybe I feel this way because I have some of Great-grandmother's blood running in my veins.

Great-grandmother gave birth to and raised six children. Her husband died when their oldest child - my grandmother - was only sixteen, and Great-grandmother was left to manage and provide for that big family on her own. She was smart, tough, resourceful, and direct, and she didn't take nonsense off of anyone.

I remember visiting Great-grandmother when she was on up into her 90's. She still kept up her own house and yard, she maintained a flock of chickens for eggs and meat, and she cultivated a huge vegetable garden. She made the best fried peach pies and cornbread I ever ate.

Great-grandmother lived in the day before internet and home computers and cell phones. She did, however, have one of those old black rotary phones - you know, the kind with a thick black cord, that connected to a land-line. That rotary phone, the local newspaper, and the beauty shop were her windows to the world.

One day, Great-grandmother got an obscene phone call. That's the old-school equivalent of today's trashy spam. Obscene phone calls were less common and vulgar than the garbage dumped into our email junk boxes today, but they were still offensive and a nuisance.

The phone rang. Great-grandmother answered it, but heard only heavy breathing coming from the earpiece. She simply placed the handset back on its cradle, which disconnected the call.

Some time later, the phone rang again. Great-grandmother answered it. Once again, she heard only heavy breathing from the caller, so she simply hung up the phone without saying a word.

The third time this happened, Great-grandmother held the handset to her ear for a minute, and then she addressed the caller:  "I don't know who you are, or what kind of jollies you're getting from calling this number, but listen here young man," she snapped, "I am a 92-year-old great-great-grandmother. My tits are so long I can tuck them into the waistband of my skirt without even leaning over. I'd sure like to know what kind of a buzz you're getting from calling a 92-year-old woman, mister."

Well, this time, it was the prankster who terminated the phone call. And he never called back again. Ever.

If Great-grandmother were still alive today, I'm sure she'd find a way to put a stop to the trash in my email junk box. If Great-grandmother were alive today, she'd probably know how to take care of this so effectively that I wouldn't even need a junk box at all.

NOW I LAY ME DOWN TO SLEEP

As I am prone to do at this 50-something, menopausal stage of my life, I awoke in the wee hours of the morning one day this week and simply could not go back to sleep. This happens so frequently now that I have made wee-morning my regular time to pray for my children and for my church family. This particular morning, however, my mind turned to other things...

For some reason, as I lay awake in the darkness, memories of other times when I had lain awake in bed, praying, came to mind. Memories I hadn't visited in ages.

I recalled one of my most comforting childhood memories:  that of being tucked into bed at night by my dad or my mom.

Tired at the end of a long day of work or play, full from a good dinner and freshly bathed, I would climb into bed and burrow under the blankets. Dad would flip off the lights and come sit on the end of the bed, smelling deliciously of coffee and cigarette smoke and perhaps cowness or tractor exhaust or, if he had eaten lunch at Olympia that day, of garlic. We would talk a little bit, and then he would tell me it was time to say my bedtime prayers.

"Now I lay me down to sleep..."

I would pray, and then sometimes he would pray, too. That very simple children's prayer worked like a magic incantation, ushering me from wakefulness to the drowsy shadowland of almost-asleep.

"Amen."

A goodnight kiss, and then..."'Night, 'night. Sleep tight. Sweet dreams," as Daddy left the room.

I can't think of anything more comforting than slipping off to sleep with my last conscious thought being that my Father was right there with me.

* * *

And another memory came to mind...

I was a teenager, and my bed at the time was a fold-out couch in the dining room - the dining room, because it was a room the family didn't use every day and therefore had less traffic. (I am not sure, but I think maybe my regular room and bed had been given to a relative or guest who staying with us for an extended period.) At any rate, I often read my Bible in bed at the end of the day and would leave it on the arm of the couch when I turned out the lights.

Mom and Dad no longer came to tuck me in and say bedtime prayers - I was too big for that - but my heavenly Father still met with me to talk and pray before ushering me off to sleep. Sometimes, I would wake up in the middle of the night, worried about an upcoming test at school or frightened by a bad dream, and I would feel around in the dark until I found my Bible. Pulling it close to me in bed, I would be comforted knowing that Yes, God was still close, still keeping watch.

I didn't think that small black leather-bound book was a magic charm or some kind of lucky amulet; no, it was a physical reminder - something I could touch with my hands - of the invisible presence of God.

"I pray the Lord my soul to keep..."

* * *

As I lay awake that morning earlier this week, remembering these scenes from my youth, it struck me that night after night, year after year, for as long as I can remember, God has faithfully met me in the gray twilight before sleep, and in the scary darkness of my fears and anxieties, and now, in the wee-morning wakefulness of middle-age.

Every night when I burrow under the blankets, He is there and waiting to talk. When I wake up and the sky is black and the stars are as bright as ice, He is still there, awake and listening and waiting to talk.

For over fifty years - how many nights of sleep? how many nights of sleeplessness? - God has been awake and present and listening and ready to meet with me.

A passage from Psalm 121 also came to mind in the wee-dark hours that particular morning:   "...he who keeps you will not slumber. Behold, he who keeps Israel will neither slumber nor sleep. The LORD is your keeper..." As I recalled those memories from my childhood and considered these verses from Psalms, I was brought to tears, overwhelmed by the incredible faithfulness of God.

Fifty+ years of nights for me, and He has never slumbered, never slept.

Every single night, my Father is awake, still watching, still protecting, still listening, still comforting.

All through the night.

SWEET MEMORIES, RICH GIFTS

Funny what thoughts wander through your mind during the wee, dark hours of the morning...

When I was a young girl, I think I spent about every other weekend at my Stricklin grandparents' house. And whenever I was at Mer and Pap's, I thought I simply must go fishing.

I loved fishing with Pap at the pond below the house. We didn't always catch anything, but the occasional fat bream was enough to keep me coming back. Once in a blue moon, I'd catch a big, shiny, silver bass - boy, would that get my heart pumping!

If we were fishing on a hot summer afternoon, Mer would walk down with a couple of glasses of ice cold lemonade. She had these brightly colored aluminum tumblers that would get so frosty cold from the lemonade inside that it almost hurt to hold one in your hand.

On a typical Saturday afternoon at Mer and Pap's, Pap would settle into his recliner in the living room for a short nap after lunch. But I wasn't sleepy. "Pap, let's go fishing!" I would pester my sleepy granddad.

Pap would pull his ginormous Bible dictionary off the bookshelf beside his recliner. "Here, you flip through every page of this book. When you are finished, we will go fishing."

So Pap would take a nap, and I would sprawl on the living room floor and flip through the Bible dictionary. Sometimes, if Pap was lucky, a picture or article would catch my attention. I would forget about fishing for a short while, and Pap would get a few extra minutes added to his nap.

When I reached the back cover of the book, though, Smack!, I'd slap that cover shut, and jump up. "Done! Let's go fishing!"

I don't have a lot of memories from my short time with Mer and Pap - Mer's amazing coconut cake, the naugahyde sofa that you had to peel your sweaty legs off of in summer, Pap's Old Spice cologne, pancakes the size of a dinner plate for breakfast, Mer's teeth soaking in bubbly blue Efferdent - but every faint memory that I can recall is absolutely saturated with the overwhelming feeling that I was safe, I was loved, I was special.

When I am awake in the middle of the night and just can't go back to sleep, I pray. And sometimes I ramble into sweet memories like the one last night, of fishing with Pap.

I was praying last night, and then I thought of Mer and Pap, and of how they made me feel as a child. And it occurred to me that I had been given a very great and precious gift - a different gift, given to me by my parents.

As I lay awake, I remembered doing the very same thing as a child - lying awake in the middle of the night, snug under my blankets, praying. Maybe a noise from somewhere else in the house had awakened me. Maybe a bad dream. Maybe a dog barking. I would lie awake in the dark and pray - that I would not be afraid of the dark, that I would go back to sleep, that my rabbit would be safe outside in his pen, that I wouldn't worry about tomorrow's math test.

And last night, as Middle-aged Camille remembered Small Child Camille lying awake and praying, it occurred to me - I don't remember there ever being a time when I did not feel free to talk to God. I don't remember a time when I ever felt afraid to approach Him. I just remember that, as a child, talking to God in the middle of the night seemed like a perfectly natural thing to do. Praying made me feel safe, made me feel loved, made me feel special. Small Child Camille truly believed that she had the ear of the almighty Creator of the universe, that He was listening and eager to meet with her in prayer, any time, anywhere.

As I lay awake in the wee dark hours this morning, I was overwhelmed with a tremendous sense of gratitude - so very thankful to God that He gave me parents who taught me, even as a very small child, that God loves his children and delights to meet with them.

Thank you, thank you, thank you, Mom and Dad, for giving me riches beyond measure.

OH, NO! IT'S THE BLACK BAG!

"Oh, no! Guys, Mom has a BLACK BAG!!"

Seven little kids and two adults living in a three-bedroom brick rancher...you can just imagine how untidy things became at times, with so much life happening in such a small space.

Kids need the freedom to make messes, to play without always having to worry about keeping the Legos stored neatly in the Rubbermaid tub and the GI Joes tucked away in the green footlocker. I tried to respect that, as a mom, and I constantly fought back my tendency toward compulsive orderliness.

But when the floor got so cluttered that I was afraid of falling if I tried to walk across a room, that was my break point. "Kids, the mess is getting out of hand. You absolutely have to clean up your toys," I would insist. "Right now!"

After half an hour or so, I would check back to see how much progress they were making. Sometimes, I would discover they had gotten sidetracked, that they had actually spent the last 30 minutes playing with their toys instead of putting them away. I would remind them of the task at hand. "Now, get busy!"

If I came back again to discover the kids still were not making progress, I would warn them:  "Guys, you can clean up this mess, or you can let me do it for you. But if I'm the one who cleans up all these toys, I am only going to do it ONCE."

The all understood the message. The room had to be picked up. I wasn't going to nag. They could put the toys and games away themselves, or I could do it for them. However, if I put everything away, it was going away for good: into a black trash bag, to be stored in the attic or carried to Goodwill.

It always astounded me how much work the kids could get done in only a matter of minutes if one of them saw me rummaging in the pantry for the box of trash bags.

* * * * *

I took advantage of the beautiful weather yesterday to get outside and clean off the porch. It was getting so junky that you just about couldn't walk from one end to the other without having to step over something.

I suppose I'd been thinking that, surely, whoever had gotten out the fill-in-the-blank would put it away soon. But I guess the clutter didn't bother them like it did me.

Among other things, I found:  two extension cords, two coolers, a 5-gallon bucket of aluminum cans and other trash from a bonfire last fall, 6 camp chairs, an air compressor, a battery charger, three car tires, several pieces of lumber (for what?), paint buckets, wrenches, the corn hole set, weenie roasting sticks, flower bulbs (Oops! I left those out there!), bug spray, a frisbee...

We actually have a shed out back for storing most of those things. (Maybe the hike from the front of the house to the back of the house is just too far for some folks.) And we have a big green plastic garbage-can-on-wheels for the trash, right outside the back door.

So why was all this stuff cluttering up the front porch?!!!

I enjoyed spending the afternoon working outside yesterday. And, yes, I even appreciated the exercise. And I was super happy that, at the end of the day, the only things left on the porch were the porch chairs, a rocker, a table, and a unicycle. I was even able to sweep - amazing.

But I have to admit:  as I was toting stuff back to the shed, I thought about The Black Bag more than once.

NERVOUS, EXCITED, THANKFUL

My first book signing event for Bethel Road is TODAY, 5:00 to 7:00 p.m., at the Obion County Public Library in Union City, Tennessee! I am excited and nervous and more than a little bit scared.

If you knew me as a young child or as a high school student or a young adult, you know how painfully shy I used to be. I am much less bashful now, but it still gives me butterflies in my stomach to participate in public events. Thankfully, the wonderful people I meet at these events quickly put me at ease, and their friendliness makes me forget about my shyness for a moment.

Preparing for this evening's book signing while simultaneously trying to fight off a case of the jitters, I thought again of my first-grade teacher, Mrs. Maggie Vaughan. I remember the timid, brown-eyed girl who sat in Mrs. Vaughan's classroom, petrified speechless...the student who tonight, 40+ years after that first homeroom class, will give a public reading of her second novel.

Remembering Mrs. Vaughan calms my nerves and makes me smile.

I am truly looking forward to this evening. I hope you'll stop by and say "Hi!"

ALL THE DIFFERENCE IN THE WORLD
- originally posted April 12, 2010

Mrs. Maggie Vaughan has retired from teaching school. I see her picture in the local paper occasionally, smiling as she poses with trophies for winning senior adult tennis tournaments. She is beautiful, and she still has a smile like sunshine.

Mrs. Vaughan was an extraordinary teacher. She truly was one of those people who made all the difference in the world in the lives of her students.

Coming from a rural community and familiar with only a very small circle of people, I was an extremely shy first grade student. Extremely shy. I am shy by nature - still shy at 46 years - but my shyness became particularly acute when I first plunged into the sea of humanity called public school.

I loved school - I was smart, eager to please, and enjoyed the work. But I was petrified by the overwhelming number of people. I would sit mute in class, not talking to or looking at anyone, barely able to answer my teacher with the quietest whisper when called upon. No doubt I wore that "deer in the headlights" expression for the first several weeks of class!

A few weeks into fall classes, each parent had to schedule an appointment for a one-on-one conference with his child's teacher. My Mom drove the twelve miles from home to Central Elementary and met with Mrs. Vaughan. During that conference, Mrs. Vaughan explained that, as a professional educator, she had some concerns about my mental condition. She suggested I undergo testing to determine if I might be slightly mentally retarded. (I'm sure there's a euphemism for retardation these days, but remember, this was 40 years ago when folks were much more matter-of-fact.)

Mom was stunned. "I know Camille is not retarded," Mom protested. "She is a very bright little girl!"

Mrs. Vaughan listened attentively to Mom's defense of my mental abilities. Mom felt sure that the "symptoms" Mrs. Vaughan described were a consequence of my extreme shyness, and she explained that I probably felt a bit overwhelmed by the culture of first grade. Mrs. Vaughan spent the rest of the conference working with my mom to develop a plan of action for my educational future.

I think I became Mrs. Vaughan's #1 project over the next several weeks. She slowly, carefully, ever-so-gently drew me out of my shell and helped me engage more and more as a student. Mrs. Vaughan communicated somehow that I was precious to her and she made me feel safe in a strange environment. She transformed first grade from a trauma to an adventure.

I completed first grade with flying colors and eventually went on to graduate highschool at the top of my class. An academic scholarship paid for my education after highschool. And now, I teach children myself. Amazing!

Can you imagine how very different my life would be if not for this one teacher who respected my mom's input, then took the initiative and sacrificed her time to know me, to understand me, and to help me grow? I could have been pigeon-holed as unteachable, anti-social, incompetent, locked into a category and set on a lifelong track of frustration. It scares me to think what my life might look like now had it not been for Mrs. Maggie Vaughan.

Funny thing is, Mrs. Vaughan probably doesn't even remember Camille Stricklin or her peculiar situation. How many hundreds of students passed through her classroom over the years, each of them with unique needs and personalities? Still, forty years later, this former first-grader gets a lump in her throat when she thinks about Mrs. Maggie Vaughan.

Thank you, Mrs. Vaughan, for making all the difference in the world in my life.

WED-NES-DAY

Monday was an amazingly productive day for me.  Up early to pick beans before the heat; fed and watered the chickens, then watered flowers and trees in the yard; weeded flower beds; cleaned the chicken house; laundry, laundry, laundry....And all of that before lunchtime.  Wow!

The afternoon and evening were busy, too.  Washing all the sweat and grime down the shower drain that night, I thought, "Okay, Tuesday's over. Tomorrow is Wednesday.  What's on the To-Do list for tomorrow?  Appointment with the eye doctor, piano lessons, church..."  It was only later, as I crawled into bed that I caught my mistake.  "Today is not Tuesday - it's Monday!  Tomorrow is Tuesday!"

Whew!  Glad I caught that in time to reset my internal calendar!

After a good night's sleep, I got up the next morning confident that the new day was Thursday...and it wasn't until yesterday evening, after a brief flash of panic over not having gotten the trash bin to the curb, that one of the kids clued me in.

Okay, so yesterday was Tuesday.  Today is Wednesday, and I've already been to see Dr. Bugg, and tomorrow is trash pick-up day.  Maybe I've got it straight now.

Being Almost 50 is such an adventure!

When I was in fourth grade, I was in love with my fabulous home-room teacher, Mrs. L. C. Nichols.  She was the sun around which my little brain planet orbited.  Our class was taking a spelling class once which included the names of the days of the week.  Mrs. Nichols wrote in giant letters on the chalkboard:  W-e-d-n-e-s-d-a-y.  "Class, when I call out the word 'Wednesday' for your test, every one of you will want to spell it incorrectly.  Do not do that!  Look up here at the board and copy the word exactly as I have written it."  She continued, "You do not need to practice spelling this word incorrectly even one more time.  Write it correctly.  W-e-d-n-e-s-d-a-y.  And in the future, if you are not perfectly confident how to spell 'Wednesday,' ask me and I will tell you how to spell it correctly."  She looked at us over her black, cat-eye glasses.  "Do you understand?  Do not EVER let me catch you spelling the word 'Wednesday' incorrectly again.  You have no excuse!"

Now, in my little mind, looking at the chalkboard during a spelling test felt awfully lot like cheating.  After all, as a student, wasn't I responsible for studying the words and memorizing their correct spellings?  Was my beloved teacher asking me to compromise my integrity?  Maybe this was a different kind of test, something more than just a spelling test.  When Mrs. Nichols called out "Wednesday,"  I closed my eyes and swallowed hard.  I wanted so badly to look at the board, just to check, to make sure I had it right.  But even more, I wanted to pass the integrity test.

You can guess what happened.  Little Miss A+ Overachiever was the only student who misspelled "Wednesday" that day.  When Mrs. Nichols handed back our graded papers, she paused at my desk.  "Camille, I need to see you after class."

Mrs. Nichols listened calmly as I explained my inner dilemma and the reason for misspelling the word she had explicitly told us to copy from the board.  I felt like such a failure.  Placing her hands on my shoulders, Mrs. Nichols stared at me ever her glasses.  "Now, Camille, please spell the word 'Wednesday' for me.  Correctly, this time."

"Capital W, e, d, n, e, s, d, a, y."

"Will you ever spell 'Wednesday' incorrectly again?"  She raised her eyebrows.

"No, ma'am."  Nope.  No way.  Not ever, at least not intentionally.  No, because I loved Mrs. Nichols, and because I wanted more than anything in the world to please her, and because my gross disobedience and embarrassing mistake had worked to stamp "W-e-d-n-e-s-d-a-y" indelibly in my brain.

All this to say - funny how sometimes it's when we get something WRONG that we learn most assuredly what is RIGHT.  Our mistakes teach us in powerful ways, ways that our competencies can't even begin to instruct us.

The last day of school that year, Mom and I went to Mrs. Nichols room to pick up my report card.  "I have some sad news," Mrs. Nichols reported.  "I won't be teaching fourth grade next year."

"Oh," I whispered.  I couldn't imagine walking the halls of the elementary school next year without the sunshine of seeing her beautiful face.  This was sad news indeed.

"But I have some good news, too.  I have asked to be moved to the fifth grade," Mrs. Nichols smiled, "and I will be your home-room teacher next year!"

I bounced right up into her arms, laughing and smiling.  I couldn't wait for fifth grade - I just knew it was going to be an awesome year!

MRS. KENDALL

So we've been looking at old photos and feeling a bit nostalgic lately, remembering dear friends and forgotten stories. Which brings me to today's post.

Steve and I married just weeks after he graduated from Middle Tennessee State University. We lived a few months in a duplex in Murfreesboro, before shipping out to Virginia and our new life in the Marine Corps. Wedding, honeymoon, a short visit in West Tennessee with family, and then, finally, we drove a few hours east to our very first home together.

420 West Bell Street. We rented one half of a very old house that had been sort of divided into a duplex. Mr. Woods, the 90+ year-old man who owned the house - and who shared it with us - lived in one side, and we occupied the other. On our side of the house, we had a living room (which we were never able to use because it was so heavily infested with fleas from Mr. Woods decrepit cat, Tom), a bedroom, and an enclosed back porch that had been converted into a kitchen just big enough for two people. We all shared the one bathroom in the house.

Steve moved into the duplex about a month before graduation so that he could begin cleaning, painting, flea-bombing, and making other badly-needed repairs. Let's just say that old Mr. Woods was way past the day of household maintenance, and things were in pretty bad shape! Still, the house was quaint, the rent was cheap, the neighborhood was old and established, and we had awesome next door neighbors.

Sadly, Mr. Woods died right before Steve and I married. His daughter Linda, who inherited the property, graciously agreed to let us continue renting. Actually, she worked out a sweet deal for us...instead of writing her a check each month for X amount of dollars, we agreed to put that much into the house each month in paint and materials. We would help her get the house ready to put on the market before we left for Virginia later that summer.

Two weeks after our wedding, Steve and I drove "home" to 420 Bell Street on a Sunday afternoon. Monday morning, Steve left for work at the city engineer's office, and I busied myself with the task of settling into our new abode. Cleaning, unpacking boxes, figuring out where to put stuff...a grungy kind of day.

Mid-morning, I heard a loud knock at the front door. Climbing over boxes and slapping fleas, I finally reached the door to find a lady holding a large bouquet of flowers. "Yes? Can I help you?"

"I have a delivery here for Mrs. Kendall." The woman held the flowers out toward me.

"Oh, there must be some mistake," I replied. "There's no one at this house by that name."

The woman pulled out a slip of paper with delivery instructions written on it. "Well, it says right here - 420 West Bell Street. This is 420 West Bell Street, isn't it?"

"Yes, ma'am, you've got the right address, but there's been some mistake." My brained whirred, trying to unravel the mystery. "Oh, you know what, the lady who owns this house...her name is Linda...Linda...Oh, I can't remember her last name. It's not Mrs. Woods, but I don't think it's Mrs. Kendall either."

Finally, the befuddled delivery lady turned and walked with the beautiful flowers back down the sidewalk to her car. Me, I closed the front door and headed back to work, still trying to think of Linda's last name. Mrs. Woods? Mrs. Stone? Wait a minute! I raced to the front of the house and bolted across the porch. "Wait! Wait!" I waved frantically as the delivery lady began pulling away from the curb. I ran over to her lowered window. "Hey! Those flowers are for ME! I'm Mrs. Kendall!"

After I'd worked so hard to persuade the delivery lady that no Mrs. Kendall lived at that address, it took a little effort to convince her I really was the intended recipient of the bouquet. "They're from my husband," I explained. "We just got married..." Steve had sent the flowers to brighten my first, very grubby day in Murfreesboro, while he was away at work. But, silly me, I'd forgotten that I had a new name!

Kind of like, sometimes still, when I forget that I have another new name, the name of my Eternal Husband. In the grunge and toil of life, sometimes I think He's "out there, somewhere" - like Steve was at work that day - and maybe He's not really thinking about me, or maybe it doesn't occur to Him that I'm tired and nasty and swatting fleas.

But He does care, and He is thinking about me. And when it seems that I have almost forgotten that I am His, He sends a "bouquet" - maybe in the Scripture I read today, or in the prayer of a friend, or in the beauty of the farm during a quiet walk. A message of tender, passionate, devoted love.

Steve was thinking of me that Monday morning. "Lots of love! - Steve"

And Jesus is thinking of me today. "To my beloved bride!"

BUSTED!

"Mom! We found a picture of you in a bikini!"

Gack! This is how I was greeted when I drug in from my shift at Wal-Mart late last night. Seems Steve was looking for some old photos from his Marine Corps days, and he had recruited the kids to help him dig through boxes in the attic.

Sure, my kids had heard stories about the itty-bitty, black-and-white polka dot bikini, the bikini that couldn't quite handle the surf zone off the Pacific coast. But they'd never seen actual pictures of it.

The girls waved the offending photograph under my nose, giggling. "Look, Mom!"

So I pulled my reading glasses off the top of my head and checked out the thin, brown, long-ago me in the photo. "Girls, all I can say is, this kind of attire is not appropriate. Not even if your mom wore it a hundred years ago!"

A few other things hit me about that photo. For one thing, I was so thin. Funny, though, how that young 20-something me never felt thin. I don't remember feeling particularly fat, either, but I do remember a vague consciousness that fatness lurked like a hidden enemy, waiting to pounce on me if I let my guard down. I wasn't a dieter, but neither was I completely free to simply enjoy the body God had given me, the way He'd made it. Today, as a solid, "womanly" 50-year-old, I would not want to be as thin as that young woman in the photograph...but it's kind of sad, too, to think that Young Me didn't fully appreciate who she was at the time.

Another thought: how much we enjoyed that short assignment in California. Steve's school was at Camp Del Mar, right on the beach. At lunch time, I'd drive over to the base and meet him for a picnic on the beach, where we'd enjoy the sun and the wind and the crashing of the surf. Weekends, the beach was a cheap, relaxing date. And there were the after-dinner walks around the lakes adjacent to our apartment complex, at the park where Steve taught me to throw and catch a softball.

There were afternoon runs with my neighbor, Debbie Stevens. How I enjoyed the time to talk and decompress with this delightful friend after a day of work! Steve and I made forays into new and unfamiliar territory - touring San Diego with Pat and Teri Arter, California natives, in their totally cool VW bus. A weekend jaunt to Sequoia National Forest. The San Diego Wild Animal Park.

And once in a blue moon, we actually had a visitor from home, someone who spoke that sweet Tennessee twang.

Today, I am not thin, not brown, and you won't catch me dead in a bikini. I don't jog 5 miles every day, or try to see how far out from the shoreline I can swim. But I do not look at that picture of me from the past with longing, wishing I could somehow go back to the days of my youth. Nope. I look at that bikini-clad girl-woman and smile, and think how very grateful I am for the journey God has brought me on - thankful for where I've been, for the things He's taught me on this often bumpy and painful path, for the things He's showing me in this place today.

Anticipating the good things ahead, over the next hill, on the distant horizon.

ON DADDY'S KNEE

My friend RB Tolar wrote in a recent post about memories of his mother singing to him as a child and of learning to sing harmony with his sisters. He ended his post with the question, "Who sang to you?"

Which got me to thinking.

I grew up in a house with lots of music, and both of my parents had beautiful voices. I remember Mom and Dad singing Psalms and "special music" at the Troy ARP Church. They also both sang in the Union City Civic Chorus, a pretty impressive community choir. But reading RB's post, the thing that came first to mind was sitting on my Dad's knee listening to him sing Froggie Went A-Courtin'.

Dad worked long days and came home to a house full of kids. For me, any one-on-one time in the evenings was pure gold. I don't have very many clear memories from my early childhood, but I do remember the comfort and delight I felt when Dad snuggled me into his lap and sang to me.

Sometimes, we curled together beside the fire in his big black leather chair. Sometimes, he perched me on his knee as he sat in Mom's creaky rocker, the squeak-squeak, squeak-squeak marking tempo as he sang. He smelled of coffee and stale cigarette smoke...might as well have been the perfume of the gods to this little girl!

The Farmer in the Dell, There's a Hole in the Bottom of the Sea, My Bonnie Lies Over the Ocean. Obviously, his song choices were intended to lull small children to sleep! I commented to RB that I still remember all the lyrics to Froggie Went A-Courtin'....but when I Googled the song to find the lyrics, I discovered several verses I'd either forgotten or that hadn't been part of Dad's rendition. Or perhaps, I was just already in Dream Land by the time Daddy had sung that far into the song.

The way I remember it was....

Froggie went a-courtin' and he did ride, um-hmm, um-hmm,
Froggie went a-courtin' and he did ride,um-hmm,
Froggie went a-courtin' and he did ride,
Sword and pistol by his side,
Um-hmm, um-hmm, um-hmm.

Rode up to Miss Mousie's door, um-hmm, um-hmm,
Rode up to Miss Mousie's door, um-hmm,
Rode up to Miss Mousie's door,
Where he'd been many times before,
Um-hmm, um-hmm, um-hmm.

Took Miss Mousie upon his knee, um-hmm, um-hmm,
Took Miss Mousie upon his knee, um-hmm,
Took Miss Mousie upon his knee,
Said, "Miss Mousie, will you marry me?"
Um-hmm,um-hmm, um-hmm.

"Not without Uncle Rat's consent," um-hmm, um-hmm,
"Not without Uncle Rat's consent," um-hmm,
"Not without Uncle Rat's consent,
I wouldn't marry the President!"
Um-hmm, um-hmm, um-hmm.

Uncle Rat laughed and shook his fat sides,um-hmm, um-hmm,
To think his niece would be a bride...

Uncle Rat raced off to town, um-hmm, um-hmm,
To buy his niece a wedding gown...

Where will the wedding supper be? um-hmm, um-hmm,
Way down yonder in a hollow tree...

What will the wedding supper be? um-hmm, um-hmm,
Two fat flies and a black-eyed pea...

Zzzzzzzzzz....

(So, to repeat RB's question - Who sang to you?)

SIREN SONG

It was just after 1:00 in the afternoon on Thanksgiving Day. Outside, cold drizzle peppered the windows as a gusty wind whipped around the house. Inside, the island in Grammy's kitchen groaned under the weight of a Thanksgiving feast - turkey, ham, dressing, baked sweet potatoes, oven-roasted squash, cranberries, green beans, salad, hot rolls, and half-a-dozen desserts. Nearly 30 hungry, holiday-spirited people gathered in the warm kitchen, heads bowed as Granddaddy prayed. Then came the storm warning...

Before the first slice of turkey had been speared, the TV in the corner of the room announced the approach of a tornado. A spout had been identified only a few miles to the northwest. According to the flashing TV screen, the tornado would reach our location in just under 17 minutes. "Hang on a minute, everyone," Granddaddy instructed. "Grab your coats and shoes and get ready to go to the basement." Grammy spread a large tablecloth over the top of all the dishes of food, while my sister-in-law went to fetch her sleeping grandson from his crib in the front bedroom. A few of the guys rustled up flashlights. Several of the younger kids, giggling nervously, began the descent into the dank, dark, musty basement, while the adults watched the TV screen, glancing occasionally out the windows. Steve and I headed out back to the deck where we could watch the sky and the wind-whipped clouds.

We waited. And listened. And Thanksgiving dinner waited, too.

The tornado passed by high overhead and was gone before we realized it, with nothing more than a dark sky and lashing rain to signal its going. Relieved, we all gathered again in the kitchen. Granddad prayed a prayer of thanks that we had been spared from any worse weather. And then the feasting began!

I thought the different reactions to Thursday's storm were interesting. One group quickly and efficiently organized and headed straight to the basement. Another fixated on the TV, their eyes locked on the flashing sweep of the weather radar. And then Steve and me - we walked out into the storm.

I can't answer for Steve, but I know why I headed outside. It's the way I was raised.

When I was a little girl, my family lived in a hundred-year-old farmhouse with a deep front porch that ran the width of the house. On one end of the porch hung a lovely porch swing, a favorite place to loll on a summer afternoon with a good book or to enjoy a gentle spring rain while sipping a glass of sweet tea. That porch swing was also an awesome vantage point from which to enjoy the violent thunderstorms of early summer.

I can remember Mom heading out to sit in the swing when a blustery storm roared up. I'd join her, wrapped in a blanket to keep off the spitting rain. The lightening and thunder put on an incredible show while the wind whipped the wildly-dancing trees in our yard and the rain drummed on the roof overhead. I guess I learned at an early age to run out into the storm instead of running inside to get away from it!

Monday afternoon, I had a choice of taking my daily walk during a rain shower or skipping my walk altogether. I chose the rain. I discovered that rain on the pond sounds like sshhh, sshhh, but rain on the leaf-lined floor of the forest sounds like a million pop! pop!-s. Rain in the pasture sounds like a long, quiet sigh, but rain on the revived creek sounds like a gurgle of laughter. At one point, the weather kicked up considerably and I began to wonder if there was any danger of getting struck by lightning. Heavy drops hammered the tin roof of the hay barn as I passed by - I held out my hand and let the run-off pummel my upturned palm.

I was completely soaked through by the time I returned to the house, and a little bit cold. I wondered what it would be like to be a Scotsman out on a wild, stormy moor. I smiled as I shook off as much water as possible before heading inside. It felt wonderful to be alive.

TIME-O-METER

As a young girl, I loved horses. When I was about 16, after countless nights of praying into my pillow, my Dad got me my own horse - Hallelujah! (Actually, the horse belonged to both me and my younger sister, Suzanne. But because Suzanne didn't have much interest in livestock at the time, the mare was, for all pratical purposes, mine.)

Shortcake was payment from a cowboy for Dad's legal services. She was a small horse, the perfect size for a young girl just learning to ride. A freckled appaloosa, Shortcake looked like someone had sifted powdered sugar over the top of her brown coat. Although a bit ornery at first - either because of my own inexperience with horses or because she was unaccustomed to much attention - Shortcake soon settled into a sweet, forgiving disposition.

Each morning before school, I trudged sleepy-eyed to the barn to feed and brush my treasure and turn her out to pasture for the day. Then, first thing when I got home in the afternoon, I pulled on my boots and hiked back on the farm to round her up. Shortcake would undoubtedly be grazing in the field furthest from the house. I'd run up, hop on her bareback and bridle-less, and let out a whoop. We barreled like a tornado for the house, me lying low over Shortcake's neck, my legs clamped firmly around her sides. I felt like a wild Indian woman - just me, my horse, the rush of air past my face, thundering hooves beneath! Back at the barn, both our hearts pounding, we'd saddle up for a longer, more dignified ride along the country roads and through the fields near home.

Such good times! The best part of every day was the time I spent with Shortcake. I loved that horse, and I believed with all my girlish heart that she loved me, too. I stayed on top of my homework, kept my room picked up, checked off my chores, just so I'd be free each afternoon to ride. Time with Shortcake was precious, something I defended and labored to protect.

My Mom told me once, when I was still a young girl in love with a horse, that time was a meter that revealed my heart. Time showed me what I truly loved. "You work very hard to make sure you have time every day to ride your horse," Mom said. "The fact that you deliberately make her such a great priority shows how much you love her."

I knew Mom was right about Shortcake - that was undeniable. But Mom's words have challenged and often convicted me in the many years since. When I look at how I use my time today - what things I fight for, what things I let disappear into the black hole of over-commitment and packed schedules - what does time say about the things I truly love?

I say I like to spend time with my kids. Does my time-o-meter confirm this? Well, the needle may peg to the left on an occasional bad day, but, yes, I think the meter shows that my children truly are a priority and a delight. And for the three-plus-one no longer living under my roof, those whom I can't physically be with each day, they occupy much of my thinking and prayer time.

I love the family of God. Really? How does meeting together with the saints measure on my time-o-meter? Do I eagerly and regularly meet with others for worship, study, prayer, and fellowship? When we are not together, how much time do I spend praying for my sisters and brothers in Christ? Does my heart long to be somewhere else, besides in the company of this bunch of crazy, Christ-dependent sinners?

I love Christ. He is my very dearest Beloved. How much time do I spend each day in communion with Him? In Scripture? In prayer? In thinking on His beauty and goodness and mercy? Do I jealousy defend my time with Christ each day? Or, do I skip over Christ and get lost in the busy-ness of the day, thinking, well, after all, He'll understand. And anyway, He is sooooo forgiving. Besides, we'll have eternity together after this life - it doesn't really matter whether or not we spend time together now.

It's a rough day and I'm tired. Burned out. Used up. Lost in dark introspection. He says he loves me, but does he really?....if he did, he'd talk to me. -OR- People can be so presumptuous...how dare they impose on my time! -OR- Does anybody here even care what I think about....? -OR- Why did he have to answer so rudely, so meanly? Doesn't he know that hurt my feelings? What does the time-o-meter say about how much I love myself? Am I wallowing in idolatry of Self? Blech! (As a dear friend once put it, humorously, am I a Solar Sister? "I am the sun, and everything revolves around ME!")

Shortcake...I still smile thinking about that small, appaloosa mare. My first true love, confirmed by the time-o-meter.

Thirty years later, what do I love? What does my time-o-meter register today? How about you?

CAMP MEMORIES

I attended camp several summers as a child. Although I don't think summer church camp at Springdale Lakes was specifically a family event, it felt like family camp to me - one or both of my parents always worked at the camp when I was there, and my brother and sisters attended camp the same time that I did.

I never worked up my courage enough to jump out of "the crow's nest," perched high in a towering pine tree. Riding the zip line over the swimming lake was a feat for braver children than myself! And I half-way believed the stories about a dragon living in the third and smallest lake. The mist settling on the lake in the evening, rising slowly in the morning, created the perfect setting for a dragon encounter.

At the end of camp week, we celebrated with the running of the annual Banana Biggie relay. Every camper ran a leg of this race - maybe eating Saltines and then whistling a tune, maybe drinking a suspicious-looking glass of Dragon Juice or swimming the length of the small swimming lake. The baton was a banana, which usually looked pretty pitiful by the time it reached the last runner. This unfortunate camper had to run up the steep hill to the dining hall, eat the banana, and ring the camp bell. I never have been any good at sports, but I looked forward each year to running in the Banana Biggie!

Last year, at Grace's first summer camp, I especially enjoyed joining a group of kids for the Creek Stomp, a walking tour of one of the park's creeks, guided by a friendly Ranger. I loved that first cup of hot coffee early in the morning, sitting alone in some secluded spot of the woods while I prayed and gathered my thoughts for that day's lesson. Energizers on the lodge deck, crazy dancing as we all went Star Trekkin'! Listening to a bunch of silly little girls giggle and whisper in their bunks during the hour-long afternoon rest time. Staff meetings at the end of each day.

What about you, Dear Reader - any fond memories of summer camp?