Weighing In

October 22, 2017

My Nanny, my mother's mother and my favorite person on planet earth until she left us now 22 years ago, told me my mama was teased and bullied for being heavy. Kids in Fort Scott threw rocks at her, she told me. Mom and I never had a chance to talk about that, but I know she struggled with her weight. I know--by virtue of a friend of hers--that when she died, she had a too-small pattern for a pantsuit laid out. She was a gifted seamstress. But she couldn't fit into the size she wanted. 

I have struggled all my life with my stupid weight. As a child, I ate everything I could get my hands on, anytime I could get my hands (or mouth) on it. I loved food. I lived to eat. Eating was comfort and I needed me some comfort. 

So I was a bigger girl with a bad haircut. People who knew me then might object, but I know what I know and how I felt in my big ol' corduroy walking shorts and brass barrette. I was tall enough I could kind of pull it off, but I wasn't the dainty blondes that surrounded me at my somewhat uppity elementary, junior, and high schools. For some reason, though, it didn't bother me much. Everything tasted too damned good.

But I went to college and suddenly I got the bug to be thin. For a long while I ate one meal a day. The pounds just dripped off. For the first time in my life I wasn't a big girl. I was hooked.

It's been 25 years since I caught the skinny bug. My weight has fluctuated a bit since then, but it nevertheless governs much of my life. I'm not as skinny as I want to be, but middle age also has its challenges. I don't eat like a normal person. I exercise habitually. Sometimes maniacally. Guilt over what I eat is a nasty weapon against which I have little ammo.

Why am I writing this? Eh, I don't know. Maybe I'm hungry. Maybe I recognize how ridiculous and trite are these concerns in the face of real trauma, heartache, poverty, disease, struggle.

Maybe I'm tired of fighting it. Maybe I'm angry Mama died feeling fat. Maybe I wish I had my dad's epic metabolism and I could eat and be teeny. (That would be amazing!)

I have two kiddos with completely different body types. Probably to a fault, I won't say a word about their weight. I desperately want them to be happy with what they see in the mirror. And healthy. That I want more than anything. 

But I know this: if I make it to heaven (and my fingers are crossed), it will be all you can eat. 24/7.

Praise the Lord.

Truth and Fiction

October 7, 2017

I am obsessed of late with a show on Amazon Prime called "One Mississippi." It is the creation of comedian Tig Notaro, who might be one of the smartest, funniest people on the planet. The show is a snapshot of her life after a double mastectomy, C-Diff, and the loss of her mother. Sounds like a riot, huh?

The thing is, it is.

What gets me even more than the dry wit that is characteristic of Tig is the deliberateness of her persona. The show is a blend of truth and fiction. But her persona is truth. Her life is unrushed. She speaks thoughtfully at every turn.

My point is this: I don't always speak deliberately. I don't always speak thoughtfully. My life is often rushed. Necessity at times breeds rushed, thoughtless dialogue. But it's my choice to make that my default setting. I think it's time for a reset.

Today I had a delightful lunch with my one of my college roommates. As we talked, I was struck by how thoughtful she was then and how so she has remained. She is deliberate and so kind. It was a gift to live with her for a couple years. Today's reunion was a gift as well. 

I always love it when my Amazon Prime life and real life come together ;). I'm deeply grateful for truth and fiction.

The Bliss

October 6, 2017

My bedroom hosts three windows that I keep open almost year round. See, I know money doesn't grow on trees and utilities cost money and I'm not raking in the dough, but fresh air is my jam. Even with the air conditioning or the heat on. And since I'm a single gal without a dictator/supervisor to govern her atmosphere/thermostat, I do as I wish. It's wonderful.

It's so wonderful.

My home is surrounded by tall, beautiful trees. Tonight, there is a wind that swells and retreats. I love hearing it come and go. Almost as much as I love hearing little Oscar sigh and moan in his charming doggie way at my feet. 

Domestic bliss comes in many forms. Tonight, it's a beautiful wind. And canines crowding me out of bed. And my babies in the next rooms. And tomorrow is Saturday. That helps, too :).

On the Ground

September 27, 2017


I spent part of the past couple of days at the funeral events of the father of one of my dearest friends. This man was a legend in his community and in every area of his life. He was truly a giant among men. 

His daughter is a wonder to me. She is the truest of friends and the kindest of people.  She is one of a kind. Just like her dad.

If you are a real friend, the pain of your suffering pal is yours. I would rather take on the hurt of someone I love than watch them suffer. Such is the case in these recent days.

I grew up in the mire of grief and funeral dinners. That's not martyrdom, that's just a fact. None of the difficulty of loss nor the ceremony of it are new to me. But I never cease to be amazed at how the raw evidence of this particular pain takes me aback. People matter. When they leave, there is a void that sometimes seems impossible to fill. 

The Bible tells the story of Job, who was the godliest of men, and from whom everything but his soul is taken. He had three friends who sought to help, but they were out of their depth. Job 2:12-13 says "When they saw him from a distance, they could hardly recognize him; they began to weep aloud, and they tore their robes and sprinkled dust on their heads. Then they sat on the ground with him for seven days and seven nights. No one said a word to him, because they saw how great was his suffering."

That has long been among my favorite Biblical nuggets. Sometimes you just show up. (Granted, friends also urged him to curse God and die, but that is not the good part of the story, folks.)

I think of all the people who have been there for me in my many moments of need. And I selfishly think about being the kind of person who warrants that kind of care. But I also think about being the kind of person who gives it. 

Loss ironically requires so much from those left behind. I am grateful for friends who I know would wait silently for me and have.  

I want to be the person on the ground. We all need support like that. From the ground up.

Home

September 10, 2017

I grew up in the Baptist church. And I mean that. Grew up there. If the doors were open, we were there.  It was my safe haven. I felt loved unconditionally. It was my home. Ironically, it’s called South Haven. I’ve loved it my whole life with my whole heart.

I credit the good people of South Haven with raising me in part, with saving my life (eternally and otherwise), with the best parts of me.  I was 6 when I declared publicly my belief in and love for Jesus. At that same altar I’ve witnessed the funerals of my mother, grandfather, grandmother, and too many fellow, beloved Baptists. I was married there, and so were my parents. My children came to know Christ there. I have laughed, wept, performed, lived there.

And I’ve been forgiven there.  That’s no small feat.  Nance has her flaws.  They are many.  And when I faced that sanctuary again in the wake of many mistakes and at the end of said marriage, I wasn’t sure if the love of South Haven would be as unconditional as I’d always believed.  But it was. It is.

Today I returned after a couple months away.  Between traveling baseball and other distractions, I had been absent from the church house for the longest time in my entire life.  All I felt back inside the walls of this home was love. My people are still my people.  They were happy to see me, and I them. Happy is an understatement. There is really nothing like how it felt to be home.

Christians get a bad rap these days, and sometimes rightfully so.  I struggle with some of the doctrine, some of the cognitive dissonance between love and, well, a seeming lack thereof.  I’m a Baptist Democrat, for heaven’s sake. We aren’t a dime a dozen! But what I felt today back in that pew and in the halls I’ve walked for four decades was the purest, kindest love. No degree of political disagreements, sinful interference (mine!), lack of understanding can take that away. It is real, and it is the foundation of the choice I made these many years ago to believe in a Jesus I’ve never seen. But I felt Him then and I feel Him now.

On this Sunday, when a hurricane rages and so many differences and difficulties challenge us one and all, I want to thank the dear lifelong friends who made me feel like the belle of the ball when I came home today. I’m reminded of my favorite verse in all the Bible. It is from the Book of Ruth, chapter 1, verse 16:  “And Ruth said, Intreat me not to leave thee, or to return from following after thee: for whither thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest, I will lodge: thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God.”

Thank you, my people.

Home for a Day

September 2, 2017

I found myself today with a day unscripted:  no agenda, no place to be, no to-do list.  It is a rare day. 

There is something to be said for the unpainted canvas, the uncharted territory, the day yet unspent. As my day meandered from a lazy morning in bed with two slightly clingy pups to a spirited walk with a dear friend to a run on the trail to a book in the sun to music in the kitchen and some laundry and cleaning in between, I found myself so happy that at one moment tears sprang to my eyes. Being happy like this is a gift I never thought possible.

A few weeks ago I ended up in the hospital with a kidney infection that had turned septic.  In the words of the urgent care doctor who was explaining why I would be admitted, “you are sicker than you feel.” Well, I felt awful, but I just wanted to go home.  As I begged to do just that, the doc explained that it would just get worse and possibly become lethal. That’s when I shut the hell up and got in the ambulance. Hours later with drugs and fluids, I was a new woman. And grateful. Deeply, deeply grateful. But I was still desperate for home.

I returned home the next day to a rainy, fallish early August day.  I opened every window and reveled in my health and my freedom.  I savored the feeling of home. 

There is not a day that passes here in Freedom House when I don’t pinch myself at my great fortune. As I’ve watched the horror unfold in Texas this week, my gratitude for dry land, for my home and my babies who aren’t babies, for the absence of strife, for life, has overwhelmed me.  And as I’ve met new students the past two weeks in my various teaching locales, I’ve been Lifetime-Original-movie-aha-moment-overwhelmed at how lucky I am I get to meet them.

I am well aware that the other shoe can drop at any moment.  Everything can go up in flames or under water or to hell with one phone call, one bad decision, one blink.  But not today. Not while I’m watching the sun set from the porch swing.  Not on this unscripted day at home. This rare, lovely, unseptic, sunburned day. Amen.

Halpert can read. She is very advanced.

The Cry

August 20, 2017

The movie "Jackie" chronicles said First Lady in the worst moments of her life. I saw this movie months ago when it first was released. Gracie and I watched it together. She thought it was slow. I agreed, but I was moved by it in ways I couldn't describe at the time.

I've been in a bit of a mood of late, and have rewatched the movie via the miracle of Amazon. It is this scene that took me off my feet upon first viewing. And it has done the same this time around.

No one knows how this wife and mother really reacted after her husband was assassinated next to her. But Natalie Portman certainly does a masterful job of conveying what I believe to have been that reality.

When I was I child, I cried too much in private. I'm certain it wasn't healthy or at all okay. But in my world, if I didn't share my trouble, somehow, it was all mine. I was in charge of it. And it was thus easier to bear. At least that's how I make sense of it decades later.

I don't pretend to be an artist or a arbiter thereof, but when I saw this scene, something guttural struck within me. I'm not Natalie Portman. I'm not the slain president's grieving widow. But hurt is universal. Strangely enough, there is comfort there. At least there is for me.