A storm's a comin"

Our phones have been going off all day with weather alerts. A winter storm is coming and we're expecting some snow and possible ice. When this happens in the South, we take it seriously. People hit the stores early for essentials like toilet paper, milk, and cereal. I've never understood that, though. Why buy milk when there's a good possibility the power will go out? When ice storms hit our area, the power lines freeze up or limbs fall from pine trees taking them out and we have no power. Some have learned over the years to buy back up generators, but those are expensive. Most of us rely on wood burning fireplaces, candles, oil lamps, flashlights, and heavy clothing. In any event, it will be interesting to see what happens. Usually, when the weathermen make a big deal of it, nothing happens conversely, when they don't make a big deal of an approaching storm, we get slammed. 

I remember an extreme ice storm we had back in 1973. I was in high school. Our entire neighborhood was frozen solid. No one had power for days, but we were lucky. My parents were old school and we had gas burning furnaces in our house. When the power went out, Daddy just lit the pilot lights on the heaters and we were warm and toasty. Our freezer, which was full of food at the time, was a chest type deep freezer so it thawed food slowly as long as it stayed shut. When neighbors came calling, Mama invited them to stay. My siblings and I squished together and shared beds. Every nook and cranny of our little cinder block home was packed with people. They slept on every available surface including the sofa, the recliner, and even the floor. It was an interesting time. It seemed like we were having a big party although we weren't. Everyone pitched in and got along well, probably because we were all in the same boat and had no choice, but it was fun. 

A particular family friend, Pat Shaw, made it extra joyful. Pat had a way of making everything fun. She was the most jovial person I ever had the pleasure of knowing. No matter what the situation, Pat could find humor in it. Her laughter was infectious, and I loved how she made everything better. 

In the middle of the day, my siblings, friends, and I would wander the neighborhood. Before we were allowed to go out, we were cautioned about the possibility of downed power lines. We donned several layers of clothing including plastic bread wrappers over our socks inside our shoes to keep our feet dry and warm. Even with our heavy winter coats, hats, and gloves, we'd come home frostbitten. I can still remember the uncomfortable feeling of my fingers and toes as they began to thaw while sitting by the heater or having my digits plunged into a large bowl of lukewarm water.  

I remember the trees coated in a beautiful layer of sheer ice. Like a second skin, they glistened in sunlight. Icicles hung from every surface. The neighborhood was eerily quiet - almost a holy reverence. As we carefully trod across the packed snow, my brother, sister, and I could hear the crunching beneath our feet. The snow and ice melded together quickly and became slick. More than once, one of us would fall and while the others tried to help the fallen one up, our feet would slide out from under us and we'd all fall into a heap, laughing so hard we were afraid we'd wet our pants! 

Those were the days! So many wonderful memories came from that challenging time. It was almost a shame when the power company got the power back on. All the board games got packed up, and one by one our neighbors said their goodbyes as they went home. 

The empty freezer would slowly be refilled, but whenever we'd go out to the garage and see it, we'd be reminded of the odd concoctions my mother and Pat came up with and how they'd cooked outside on the grill.  

This year, if we get snowed or iced in, Phil and I will sit by the fire and enjoy a good book if the power goes out. We aren't expecting anything severe, but you never can tell. We've already had several good snows since we moved here almost 8 years ago and we've had 2 ice events. Thankfully, our power was only out a couple of days. I am keeping my fingers and toes crossed that we don't lose power this time. I love my electric blanket and although I have tons of quilts I could pile on the bed, it's so much nicer to turn up the dial and slide beneath toasty sheets. 

Job 38:22

“Have you entered the storehouses of the snow, or have you seen the storehouses of the hail?

What a difference a day makes!

Yesterday was rough. My knee was killing me! All I could hear, as I hobbled about the house, was "You're going to have to have a knee replacement surgery." Those were the words the orthopedic doctor had said to me early last year when I went to see him about my painfully swollen left knee. I didn't want to believe him and made up my mind, come hell or high water, I wasn't going to have one. I'd known too many people who'd had knee replacements done and every single one of them had either gotten bad infections or rejected the implant requiring another surgery. There was no way I was going to go through that. 

Staying off of my leg yesterday was hard. I'm not one to sit and do nothing all day, but I knew my poor knee needed rest, so I made myself sit and binge on Netflix. I found a good series by one of my favorite authors and it didn't take long to find myself immersed in the story. 

Today, I'm feeling much better. The swelling has gone down, and I've been a little more mobile thanks to an off-loading knee brace. Hopefully, tomorrow will be even better but there's a cold front coming in and the cold weather usually makes the bones ache. 

I guess it's all just part of getting old. I hate to admit that, but it's true. And I guess being old is better than being dead, huh? It's all in the way you look at things! 

Happy Weekend!

The Old Gray Mare, She Ain't What She Used to Be...

Well, well, well - that's a deep subject for a shallow mind, isn't it? Lol. I just had to say that. My grandmother used to say that and I always thought it odd until I grew older and figured it out. Starting this post with a little humor seemed appropriate since I'm going to talk about pain in just a minute. 

When I got out of bed this morning, the pain was unbearable. As I stood and tried to make it into the bathroom, it felt as if there was no cushion between my bones and they were grating upon each other. Hobbling along, I finally made it but realized my gallant efforts at painting had come back to haunt me. Getting up and down from the step ladder wreaked havoc on my left knee. I'd already been having issues with that knee for months. It had been swelling and had caused difficulty walking. I did see an orthopedic doc and he'd given me a couple of shots of cortisone, and an off-loading knee brace (a brace that would shift the weight onto my good leg).  I thought that would solve everything but apparently not. The doctor said if the cortisone didn't do the trick, the next step would be a knee replacement surgery. I wasn't happy to hear that. I didn't want to have any more surgeries. 

Today, I pulled out the walker and knee brace. I'm popping Tylenol every 4 hours and hoping to stay off my feet as much as possible. Getting old sucks! When body parts start wearing out, you realize you aren't what you used to be. 

I remember laughing in grammar school when we'd sing the song, "The Old Gray Mare." I always thought it funny when we'd reach the line, "She ain't what she used to be." As I remember that song now, it's not quite as funny because I'm finding that song applies to me. 

Why do our body parts begin to fail as we grow older? Is it because they just wear out from use or is it because some of us don't have wonderful genes? I've seen videos of people in their 90s who're as fit as fiddles and here I am, at the ripe old age of 64, and I'm falling apart. 

There are so many things I want to do and I'm finding I'm having to pace myself as I age. I don't like it, not one little bit. 

Hubby told me this morning to try and stay off my leg, to just rest. That would seem like a dream to many but not me. I like to stay busy. It's hard for me to rest, but today, I'm going to try. I know my knee will thank me for it. Maybe I can finish reading one of my books while I sit. 

Thankfully, we don't get put out to pasture as we age, especially when we're well loved. This old gray mare ain't what she used to be but she's learning to temper her projects with her energy. 

Silly Me

I've been wanting to put a fresh coat of paint on our front door for months, so I texted hubby the other day and asked him to stop by Lowe's and pick up a gallon of exterior paint for me. I'd done my research and had picked out a durable, weatherproof paint. I picked out the color and took a screenshot. I wanted to make sure he got the exact paint I wanted, and he did. He knows, after being married to me for almost 30 years, if there's something I decide to do, I'm going to do it no matter what. And so, this morning, I set out to paint. 

There was prep work to be done first. I taped down plastic to keep paint off the floor then gathered all my painting supplies, paint tray, rollers, brushes, stir stick, and of course paint. Then, I dragged the step ladder onto the front porch because I'm short and knew there was no way I'd reach the top of the door without it. I wasn't prepared for the cold weather. It was only 54 degrees outside and actually, this was the warmest day we'd had so far, but it was cold to me. I don't do cold. So, I came back inside, slipped on a polar fleece jacket and headed back out front. 

After opening the can of paint and stirring it well, I was ready to put on a thin first coat. Climbing up onto the step ladder, I prayed for God to protect me so I wouldn't fall. I knew there was no one around to help if I did and even though I had my trusty cell phone nearby, if I fell and knocked myself out, who would tell Siri to call 911? Thankfully, I didn't have to worry. I was very careful and managed to get the first coat on although my hands were freezing, and I was more than ready to come in after completing that task. 

While the paint was drying, and yes, it was going to take longer than normal because of the chilly weather, I had lunch and watched a movie on Netflix. I felt a little guilty for taking a "me" break, but figured I deserved it after all my hard work. 

Now it's time to lay down the second coat. The temperature has dropped a couple of degrees, but we've got snow coming in this weekend and I need to get another coat on today and one more tomorrow, so I'll have to brave the cold now or wait til Spring thaw to get it done. I'm impatient so that won't happen. 

Silly me! If I'd thought about it, I would have waited to paint in the Spring when the weather was nice and warm, and the paint would dry quickly but I didn't. I guess I'm still in full blown post cancer mode where I think I have to do everything with urgency just in case. One of these days, I'll manage to get past that, but for now, it is what it is. 

I'm thankful I'm still alive and I can do the things I want to do when I want to do them. Those little things mean a lot to me and even though others may think I'm just plain ridiculous, that's okay. I'm me and I'm happy about that. 

When the door is dry and I've hung my pretty wreath out front, our home will look warm and inviting. We may decide to stay here a while longer or maybe not. That remains to be seen! Until we decide, I'll be busy with little projects but hopefully, I'll give the next one a little more thought before beginning. 

Angel encounter

We stood in front of the Little Free Library perusing the books. As we flipped through the selections, we were also busy munching on frozen Dilly Bars. We'd just picked them up prior to stopping at the book box. Although it was a chilly day, the treat sounded too good to pass up, especially since it was dairy free. 

A few minutes later, I heard a male voice saying, "Ma'am? Ma'am." Turning to see who was speaking to us, I noticed a black man standing on the sidewalk. His appearance indicated he was either homeless or very down on his luck. A tattered jacket, unkempt hair, and dirty clothing spoke volumes. As he leaned on his walking stick, I offered a greeting. In a soft voice, he said, "I sure am hungry. I could use a chicken dinner or something." At that very moment my heart broke. I hadn't brought my purse with me and didn't have a dime to my name. My daughter had purchased our ice cream and she didn't have any other money on her person either. Instantly, I apologized and then, doing the first thing that came to mind, I held out the rest of my ice cream bar (which was about half eaten) and said, "Sir, if you'd like to have it and if you wouldn't mind eating after me, I'll be more than happy to give you my ice cream." He refused and smiled. As he turned his body to move up the sidewalk, I glanced down at his shoes. He was wearing old brown work boots and his shoes were untied, the laces dragging on the ground. I don't know why, but I had the strongest urge to go over to him, kneel in front of him, and tie his laces for him but before I could make my way over to him, He was gone! My daughter and I stood dumbfounded between the book box and the sidewalk. Neither of us had seen him leave. 

Did we have an angel encounter? We're not sure. But what I do know is this - I felt horrible that I wasn't able to help the man in any way. Yes, I was kind to him, but I didn't do anything to meet his physical need. He was hungry and wanted money for food, but I had none to give him. I felt silly afterward having offered him a half-eaten ice cream bar, but it was all I had. 

As my daughter and I left the area, I told her I was going to make a point of being prepared in case I ever faced a situation like that again. 

Was the man an angel with skin on? I don't know. Or was he just a guy in search of quick money to buy a bottle of liquor or drugs? I have no idea. I prefer to think he was an angel because of his quick disappearance. If we'd thought quickly, we could have offered to go and buy the man food with my daughter's bank card, but before we had the chance to process the encounter, he was gone. 

Maybe God allowed that quick meeting to test our hearts - to see if our motives were pure, or maybe He used the meeting to prompt us to realize how blessed we are. I'm sure we'll never truly understand but it did make us think. 

All the way home I felt horrible. I'm a fixer at heart - a fixer with the gift of mercy. Being unable to help the man bothered me terribly. 

I still wonder why I was fixated on his untied boots and why I felt the need to kneel in front of him and tie his laces. It was the strangest feeling. 

One day, when I get to heaven, I'm going to ask God about that day. I'm sure He'll have a perfect explanation for me, and I'll look forward to hearing the details. 

I've had several encounters with angels unawares in the past so I don't doubt the man could have been an angel. In each past event, God has allowed me to cross paths with someone in need. In many of the cases, I was able to help but in some of them, I was the one who received the blessing. I guess this meeting was a teaching moment reminding me to always be ready in season and out of season. I'd have loved to have talked to the man about Jesus, but I didn't get the chance because he disappeared so quickly. And if my daughter hadn't been with me to see him too, I wouldn't have believed it. 

Many people don't believe in angels being here on Earth. I believe God allows them to take on human form when necessary. Sometimes He uses them to comfort us, to bring a word of encouragement, or for other reasons only He understands and ordains. If you've never experienced an angel encounter, perhaps one day you will. Believe me when I tell you, you won't see wings peeking out from underneath their clothing. They look like regular folks, just like you and I. The best advice I can give is to treat them with love and kindness. Listen closely and ask God for discernment. The encounters are rare, but always for a reason. 

Old Memories resurface

Mirror view

It's already the 6th day of the New Year and I haven't found a free second to blog until now. One of my resolutions for the year is to spend more time blogging. It's not only cathartic for me, I believe it is beneficial to others (or at least that's what I've been told by some of my online readers...) so we shall see if I manage to keep that resolution. 

This morning I had an appointment with the endocrinologist. My thyroid level has been extremely low and the primary care physician has tried his best to manage it but has been unable to keep me in normal range. I don't fault him, really. It must be hard to medicate a person without a thyroid gland and keep the hormone level just so, that's why I decided it would be best for me to remain under the endocrinologist's care. 

I'd made the appointment through the online app and was able to get the first appointment of the day. I like those early appointments because the doctor is usually energetic and cheerful. 

Arriving at the hospital just before 8:00 a.m., I lucked up and found a parking spot close to the front door. The wind was whipping as I exited the car and I realized a cold front was moving in. I was thankful I'd worn my down coat and a pashmina shawl. Tucking a book under my arm, I donned the mandatory mask and headed for the door. As I walked, I looked around. The hospital reminded me of a large ant hill and the people looked like little ants busily going to and fro, in and out, always on the move.

The office staff was efficient and moved me into a room quickly. The doctor came in and went over my records then received an emergency phone call and begged forgiveness as she stepped out of the room. I waited a few minutes and then she knocked and re-entered. We continued our conversation and once again, she received an emergency call and needed to leave the room. When she returned, she apologized profusely explaining she had a patient in the ER, and she was coordinating care with the physician on call. I told her it was okay, and I understood completely. I felt sorry for her. She was obviously stressed but managed to give me her undivided attention once her phone stopped vibrating. She ordered labs and said she'd see me in 2 weeks. We said our goodbyes and I walked down the hall for the labwork. 

The phlebotomist was nice and took her time locating a vein. I explained why I had to have blood drawn from my hand and that was the segue that led to our conversation about breast cancer. She shared that her mother had suffered from breast cancer and also developed lymphedema. Then she told me she was concerned about one of her breasts. As she shared her symptoms, I encouraged her to get a mammogram as soon as possible. I explained a lot of women think the only symptom of impending breast cancer is finding a lump and that's not necessarily the case. Many women experience puckering or dimpling of the breast, itching or scaling, and various other symptoms like tenderness, hotness, or redness. 

Leaving the office, I called the number the doctor had given me to set up a bone density test. I wasn't expecting to receive a same day appointment but as luck would have it, that's exactly what happened. I got an 11:30 a.m. appointment so I shot across the street to grab some Chick-Fil-A and returned to the parking lot at the hospital to eat it. (I'd skipped breakfast because I knew the doc would probably want to do a fasting blood panel and I was right.) While I wolfed down my chicken minis, I got a call from my youngest daughter. We talked for the next 30 minutes and then it was time for me to go inside. 

Walking up and down the hall, I finally found the office. On the wall outside the suite, it said Diagnostics - Breast Cancer Center. I wondered why I was having a bone density test at a breast cancer center. I assumed I'd have it at the imaging department of the hospital. 

I checked in and sat to wait. About twenty minutes later, a nurse called my name. I followed her back to the dressing room and watched as she pulled a pink robe from underneath a cabinet and a green plastic drawstring bag from the drawer beside it. She handed them to me and told me to choose a dressing room, remove everything from the top half of my body, and come out when ready. 

Inside the dressing room, I held the pink robe. All of a sudden, feelings I hadn't felt in years came flooding back in. I remembered the first time I'd had to don one of "those open in the front robes." It had been at the breast surgeon's office while there for my initial consultation. I was so scared that day and so embarrassed. I didn't want to bare my chest in front of anyone but knew I must. 

When I'd removed my clothing and put on the robe, I walked out into the central waiting area. There were half a dozen other women clad in the same type robe. All of them were talking about their breast cancer as if it were a social club meeting. I chose a chair in the corner and listened. Beneath their masks, I could head their voices but was unable to see their facial expressions. One woman shared she was in the midst of chemo, another recently had a mastectomy, and the others were there for diagnostic mammograms. I never said a word. I wanted to tell them I was a survivor of almost 8-years but didn't. I didn't want to lump myself into their category for some reason. I guess it was too scary to think about being back in the routine of breast cancer care again. I'd left those thoughts behind years ago when I'd received the news of my 5-year cancerversary. Passing that mark, I assumed I was home free and now, at almost 8 years post cancer, I still felt the same way. I didn't want to do anything to jinx it. 

The DEXA scan went quickly, and the radiology tech was kind. She said I'd receive the results in about 2 days. Thanking her I went back to the dressing room, changed, and almost ran out of the office as the tears began to flow. I hadn't realized how emotional I'd be. 

I guess the fear of recurrence will always be with me. Though I hadn't thought of breast cancer much since my last annual exam, that little pink robe screamed loud and clear - "You could get bad results and go through this all over again, you know." But as soon as the thought cross my mind, I whispered back, "Maybe, but not unless God allows it." 

I trust that He's got my back, my front, my sides, and the rest of me and I will continue to claim myself to be cancer free. And if He ever deems it necessary for me to go through the trial of breast cancer again, I'll face that day in His power and grace but in the meantime, I'm going to remind myself that's a great big "IF." I pray it will never be a reality in this lifetime. I've done my time. I've paid my dues and that should count for something but I'm also not naive. Many women have recurrences of cancer, but I don't want to be counted among them and I'm going to do whatever I can to stay healthy and strong, today and in the future. 

 

Memories past and present

My dress was similiar to this 

Most people know that I flit from one craft to another. I'm kind of ADHD when it comes to crafting and get bored easily if I focus on one thing too long, so I welcomed the chance to sew again. I'd last used my machine when Covid first started, and everyone was needing face masks. After making about 200 of them, I grew tired of it and put my machine away. Inside the case, I knew it wouldn't collect dust, no matter how long it was there. 

So when it came time to make a special gift for a dear friend, I pulled out the machine, set it up, got everything ready and began working diligently. I would be presenting the gift on Saturday, so time was of the essence. 

Flipping on the sewing machine light, I slipped the pinned fabric beneath the presser foot and lowered it. As I depressed the foot pedal, the machine began to run, and it wasn't long before I was enjoying listening to the constant humming of the machine. As I worked, my mind began to wander, and I was transported to my childhood where that familiar rhythm was a constant in our home. 

Sewing was one of my mother's favorite things to do. She had a tiny sewing room in the upstairs of our house. It couldn't have been more than 6 feet wide by 9 feet long, but she didn't mind. It was her space, a place where she would retreat when my brother, sister, and I were being a little rowdy. 

I don't remember when she first started sewing, but her old Singer sewing machine seemed like it was constantly going. Before we began attending school, Mama was making our clothing. I remember visiting a nearby fabric mill not too far from our home with her on many occasions, the dye from the fabric burning my eyes as we entered the shop. Mama could spend hours in there, searching the pattern books, picking out buttons or thread, and having fabric measured and cut. Being there was interesting to me and is probably where I began my love of crafting many, many years ago. I loved feeling the different textures of the fabrics- corduroys, velvets, and linens. I loved seeing the beautiful prints of cotton, playing with the metal zippers, and digging my hands into large bins of multicolored buttons. We visited so often, the cashier and Mama became friends, calling each other by name. Usually, when Mama was having her fabric cut, I'd sit at a table perusing the pattern books. I quickly learned how to find a pattern number on the page and find the corresponding pattern envelope from the filing cabinets based on the maker's brand. Butterick, McCall's, Vogue, and Simplicity were the most popular back then. After Mama had paid for her purchase, we'd leave the store and head to the car. I still remember the sound of the brown paper bag crinkling as Mama tucked it under her arm and reached in her purse for her car keys. Many times, we had no idea what Mama was going to make, but we quickly learned that if she was making something for one of us, we'd better leave her alone and let her do her work when we got home. 

As we grew older and money became tighter, Mama took in sewing for others. There was one woman in particular who was fond of Mama's sewing skills and employed her regularly to make her wardrobe. Mama would work on her dresses when we were at school, but sometimes, she'd work on a specific request late into the evening in order to complete it by the customer's deadline. 

Throughout our growing up years, Mama made my sister and I dresses, shorts, pajamas, and other things. She was determined to dress us fashionably on a budget. 

One of my favorite memories was of a skating outfit I'd asked Mama to make for me. I was a preteen and all of my friends had cute little skating outfits with skirts that would flair and flutter as they spun around on the roller-skating rink. I knew we couldn't afford to buy one of those but asked Mama if she might make one for me. She told me if she could find a pattern, she'd be glad to do it so the next time we went to the fabric shop, guess who was the first to reach the pattern books?! Me! I was bound and determined to find a skating outfit and I did. When I showed Mama the pattern, she said she could make it and agreed to do it before my next skating party. 

Her sewing machine hummed all day and most of the night that Friday before my party. In fact, I fell asleep listening to the rhythmic humming of her machine. I had no idea what a sacrifice it was for her to do that for me and didn't understand it until I had a family of my own and began making their clothes. The eye strain she must have endured during the twilight hours and the nagging back pain as she stayed hunkered down in that hard, wooden chair at her sewing table were evidence of her love for me. 

On the morning of the party, she presented me with a beautiful lavender skating outfit complete with matching bloomers. I tried it on, and it fit perfectly. I knew I was going to look so pretty out there on the rink floor with all my girlfriends and I did. 

As I rounded the corner on the last section of my project, I watched the sewing machine needle move up and down quickly piercing the fabric. It was mesmerizing to see how delicately and swiftly the thread was locked into place. When I completed the project, I held it in my hands and felt the stitching. I wondered how many times my mother must have done the same thing as she finished one of our pieces of clothing. 

Love comes in many forms. Some ways are practical and found through acts of service like the ones my mother gave me. I'm so thankful she was resourceful while we were growing up. We were taught never to waste a thing. Her mother, my grandmother, taught Mama well and used to say, "Use it up, wear it out, make it do, or do without." I'm sure that was a depression era sentiment, but I've remembered that since the day I first heard it. If there's ever a scrap of fabric in our home that can be reused, repurposed, or recycled, you can bet your bottom dollar it will be saved for a rainy day. 

Crucifying the flesh

 

Nailing it to the cross

I once had a Sunday school teacher who taught me a valuable lesson. As we sat in the classroom, a group of about 15 young women listened carefully as our teacher talked about how Jesus took all of our sins to the cross with Him. 

As a visual learner, I did my best to picture Him doing that, but it wasn't easy until Mrs. Woods pulled out a simple wooden cross and laid it on the floor in the middle of our circle. 

Slowly and carefully, she walked around the circle handing each one of us a slip of paper and a big metal nail. She instructed us to think about the sin we wanted to nail to the cross. After we'd thought about it, each of us began scribbling on our slip of paper. With tear filled eyes, we folded our slips in half and waited. Mrs. Woods began to read scripture from Galatians 5. As she reached verse 22, we listened to the various fruits of the Spirit- love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self control. The teacher explained those were virtues that we should all possess and those were ones that would help others see Christ in us. She continued reading and when she reached verse 24, we listened attentively, "Those who belong to Christ Jesus have crucified the flesh with its passions and desires."

I don't remember everything she talked about that day, but I know she worked hard to help us understand that Jesus was and is our sin bearer and although He had already paid our sin debt and had taken all of our sins to the cross, we were probably still hanging on to some of them. She explained that wasn't healthy and it was time to let them go. 

Calling us up one by one, Mrs. Woods instructed each of us to take our burdensome sin and nail it to the cross. She handed the first girl a hammer and all of us watched as that girl pounded her nail into the cross. The sound of each hammer blow inflicted pain and sorrow on all of our hearts. One after another, each girl went forward and repeated the action of nailing a folded slip of paper to the cross. 

When each of us had taken our turn, Mrs. Woods instructed us to look at the cross. There on the floor it lay covered in nails and slips of paper. There was not a dry eye in the room as the reality of what Jesus had done for us was apparent. We'd only nailed one sin to the cross that day but I'm sure the other girls felt the same way I did. Though we were just teens, we'd already committed many sins in our young lives. Though they were "small" sins, jealousy, lying, stealing, etc. Those sins had pounded the horrid nails into our Savior's body. 

That object lesson helped us understand what it meant to crucify the flesh every single day. I'm so grateful to Mrs. Woods for taking time to teach us a valuable truth. 

I'm not sure but I believe Mr. Woods built the wooden cross for Mrs. Woods to bring to class. He was a very godly man and a skilled carpenter. I can just picture his smile as she asked him to help with the lesson. 

Some of the girls in class that day probably forgot the lesson a day or two after we'd participated in it but not me. I've remembered if for almost 50 years and I'm sure I'll remember it until the day I die. Daily I think about the need to crucify my "flesh woman." She rears her ugly head so often, I feel like I need to keep a pail of nails, a hammer, and a stack of notepaper handy. 

"Those who belong to Christ Jesus have crucified the flesh with its passions and desires." Galatians 5:24. 

Our fleshly bodies are sinful and prone to fall into temptation. And that's why I keep a wooden cross nailed to my office wall with another verse of Scripture adhered to it - "I have been crucified with Christ. It is no longer I who live, but Christ who lives in me. And the life I now life in the flesh I live by faith in the Son of God who loved me and gave Himself for me." 

My prayer is that I will never forget to live cruciform daily. I pray you'll receive a blessing from this post and you'll find a need to nail your sins to the cross too, whether figuratively or literally, because Jesus has already taken them there for you but you need to remember your flesh needs to be crucified daily.

Grief is like the ocean

 A few days ago, a dear friend of mine asked me to meet her at the cemetery. She was going to view her dearly departed husband's headstone for the first time since his death in August. I didn't really want to go because my own grief was so heavy. I'd lost my brother in July and hadn't been able to completely process the loss yet. Visiting the military cemetery where my sweet friend's husband was buried was going to be hard for several reasons. My parents were both buried there and my brother could have been buried there too since he'd served in the Army, but his wife had chosen to have him cremated. Without going into detail about that, I'll just say there is a lot of unresolved hurt in our family over the way his death was handled. Anyway, back to my friend's request. 

My husband and I drove 2 hours to get to the cemetery. It was important for us to be there to offer moral support to my friend, Janice. We didn't know it at the time, but she had asked some of her aunts, her brother, and sister in law to join her. I was thankful she wasn't going to be there alone, but when we got to her, the tears began to flow. 

I watched as she clung to Jack's headstone. As I went over to her, she told me she didn't want to leave, that she wanted to stay there forever. I did my best to console her and tell her that she'd see Jack again one day when she got to heaven, but I could tell the words weren't much comfort. 

As we all stood in front of Jack's gravesite, I did my best to remember his sweet smile and his hearty laugh. He was always so jovial and optimistic. I missed him terribly and wished he'd never been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. Though he'd done everything the doctors had suggested to prolong his life, he didn't even make it a year past diagnosis. 

When Janice was ready, we left the cemetery and headed for a nearby barbecue joint for lunch. We all reminisced about Jack while there and as we were about to leave, Janice reached into her purse and pulled out a sandwich bag. I knew what it was without her telling me. She'd mentioned a special request to me at his funeral - she wanted me to make some sort of keepsake for her that would include clippings she'd taken from his beard his last week on Earth. Discreetly, she passed the bag to me and I nodded my head. She knew I'd do my best to make something meaningful and that I'd treat his beard with respect. I didn't want to take it but I did. I'd promised and I would keep my word. 

On the way home, I cried. Phil asked what was wrong and I told him. That bag of beard trimmings in my purse was a tangible reminder of my sweet friend. I didn't want to open the bag and touch his beard. I knew it would be too much. 

When we got home, I took the baggie out of my purse and put it in my craft room. I couldn't bear to look at it and I needed time to think of something to make for Janice. 

I wracked my brain trying to think of something I could make with his beard and the only thing I could think of was a keepsake pillow. I'd put the beard trimmings inside the pillow but somehow I'd have to make them accessible to Janice, too. 

Making the pillow was easy. I took some muslin and printed a photo of Jack onto it. It was one of Janice's favorite photos - one of Jack as Santa Claus. He used to work as Santa every year at Christmas for a department store in Florida. They requested him because of his "real" white beard and his happy spirit. After printing the photo of Jack on it, I used my Cricut machine to cut some iron on vinyl into a saying, "I'll hold you in my heart until I can hold you again in Heaven." I ironed that in place and then embroidered a heart in the center of the photo and the wording. I took the muslin and a pretty floral piece of fabric, some ball fringe trim, and made a pillow then stuffed it with poly-fiberfill. Next came the part I dreaded - incorporating the beard hair. I had to think of a way to do it that would keep the beard trimmings together and yet allow Janice to touch them whenever she wanted. I prayed about it and asked God what I could do. He gave me the idea of making a small heart and stuffing it with the beard hairs to place inside the pillow permanently. 

I made the heart out of 2 pieces of muslin and embroidered the edges with a blanket stitch of maroon embroidery thread. When it came time to stuff it with Jack's hair, I wept. I did not want to open the bag. I didn't not want to smell the sickness of cancer on his beard and I did not want to touch the hair. I know it will sound callous and unkind, but I'm being truthful. I'm embarrassed to admit it but I put on an N-95 mask and some nitrile gloves before removing the beard hair from the bag. 

Through the gloves I could feel the coarseness of Jack's beard and I couldn't contain my sadness. The tears came quickly and overwhelmed me, but somehow, I managed to push all of the hair into the small heart and sew it shut. 

Gently, I place the heart inside the pillow so Janice could see the outline of it through the muslin. I centered it directly under the embroidered heart I'd sewn between Jack's photo and the wording. When I was done, I showed the completed work to my husband and asked what he thought about it. He said he was sure she'd like it. 

In the next week or so, I'll meet up with Janice to give her the pillow. I pray it touches her heart. 

Grief is so hard to process. It comes in waves like the ocean. Sometimes the feelings are mild and gentle ebbing and flowing. Other times, they're rough and relentless pounding hard against the inside of your heart. 

Jack as Santa

I don't ever want to make a keepsake like that again. I know the custom of keeping a deceased loved one's hair has been around for a very long time, but to be the one to touch and hold it after the person has passed is so very difficult. 

Christmas will be coming soon and I've got a picture of Jack in his Santa suit on a table in my living room. I prefer to remember him doing something he loved and I can just bet he was a great encouragement to all of those dear little ones as they visited him at the mall. 

This year has been tragic in so many ways, but I can't dwell on all the negatives associated with it. I know God wants me to focus on the good things. Jack was a good friend and a jolly soul. Janice still needs my love and support and I'll do my best to give it to her. Friendship is a wonderful gift and one I'll always treasure, but sometimes, a broken heart reminds us of the brevity of life. We should never take a day for granted.

The keepsake pillow I made

I don't want to miss Jesus this Christmas

 

Last night, after hubby had gone to bed, I sat in the livingroom enjoying the quiet. Glancing up at the mantle, my eyes fell on the baby Jesus from my nativity scene. It was a modest nativity, handcarved, one I'd purchased from Hobby Lobby a few years back, but I loved its simplicity. 

The baby Jesus seemed to be calling to me so I got up and went over to the mantle. Staring into the face of that tiny, carved babe, I could hear a faint whisper, "Be careful not to miss Me this year." 

Miss Jesus? How could I possibly do that? Christmas was all about Jesus and I loved celebrating His birth, but the more I thought about it, the more I realized it was possible to miss Jesus. With all the craziness we've been experiencing this year, our world most certainly could miss Jesus and in a big way. I didn't want that to happen in my family. 

This year had already been very different from years past because of Covid. I'd lost several dear friends to the disease and my youngest daughter had been hit hard by the virus not once but twice. On top of that, I'd lost my brother to cancer and I'd had several medical scares throughout the year. It had been a challenging year but I was determined we were going to get through it. 

Before Thanksgiving, I put up my Christmas tree. That's a really big deal. I've never done that before. I've always waited until after the Thanksgiving evening meal or even pushed it to the following day, but this year, I felt an urgency in my soul. I wanted to soak up every single minute of Christmas and I wanted it to last as long as possible. In fact, I even considered leaving my tree up through the end of January, just so I could see and experience it a little longer. 

The older I get, the more I realize how fleeting time is and how I must hold tightly to the seconds and minutes I have left. This year, I'm praying I don't miss Jesus. I can't. He's my everything.

It's beginning to look a little Grinchy around here!

One of my all time favorite childhood movies was Dr. Seuss' "How the Grinch Stole Christmas." What a classic! It came out in 1966 and has remained a treasure for many, many years. 

The first year that animated movie appeared on TV, my brother, sister, and I sprawled out on our living room floor. In front of our large console TV, we'd lie as close to the screen as Mama would allow and watch intently as Cindy Lou Who sauntered around Whoville. 

My heart was filled with emotion as the gentle Who people gathered together in celebration and of course, I felt sorry for sweet little Max, the Grinch's pet dog, as he tried so hard to pull that big overloaded sleigh up and over the hill at the Grinch's command. Of course, we all loathed Mr. Grinch for the first half of the movie but grew to love him as he realized there was so much more to Christmas than all the trappings. As his itty bitty heart began to grow, so did our hope in the goodness of love. When the movie ended, we enjoyed a special "feel good"moment knowing that all was right in the world. That's the way it was in the 60s. Not so much now. 

This year has been a Grinchy year. In fact, if I had to choose a line from the movie, I'd say it's been a "Stink, Stank, Stunk" year. Not only have I lost several dear friends to Covid 19, I also lost my brother to cancer. My youngest daughter has endured multiple cases of the virus and still struggles today with post Covid fatigue and other symptoms. I've had more medical visits that I ever expected and was rushed to the emergency room three times! Medical bills are piling up, but we still have confidence that there's a silver lining somewhere. We pray next year will be better. 

Yes, it's been a Grinchy year and in honor of that, I began making Grinch ornaments about a month ago. They're scattered all over my kitchen counters in various stages of completion. Phil doesn't complain. He knows the entire house is just one huge craft room to me. Crafting helps keep me sane and provides a little extra income now and then, so he's okay with it. 

It would sure be nice if we could wake up on Christmas morning holding hands, circled around a huge tree singing in the language of the imaginary Whovillians- 

Fah who for-aze!
Dah who dor-aze!
Welcome Christmas,
Come this way!
Fah who for-aze!
Dah who dor-aze!
Welcome Christmas,
Christmas Day.

Welcome, Welcome
Fah who rah-moose
Welcome, Welcome
Dah who dah-moose
Christmas day is in
our grasp
So long as we have
hands to clasp

Fah who for-aze!
Dah who dor-aze!
Welcome, welcome
Christmas
Welcome, welcome
Christmas Day

Fah who for-aze!
Dah who dor-aze!
Welcome Christmas,
Come this way!

Then maybe, all of our hearts would grow two sizes that day and that nasty ol' Covid would go far away.