"The Mighty Yazoo" by Greg Easter

In our family, major purchases came from one of two places--Sears Roebuck or Western Auto. My daddy, Fred, had credit at both! And, as a United States Postal Worker, who delivered mail in Tarrant City, Alabama, his post office was a mere block from each. 

On a special Friday payday, in July 1967, on his way home, daddy stopped by Western Auto to pay his monthly bill. He called from the store phone and alerted my mama (Joann), my brother Jeff and me that he was on his way home with “something special” in the trunk of the Plymouth.

After hanging up the phone, mama guessed excitedly, “Maybe it’s a new TV.  Oooh, won’t it be wonderful to watch that handsome Dean Martin and The Fugitive in living color.” 

But I had a much better guess. It could only be that gold-colored, 20-inch racer bike with butterfly handlebars and a rippled plastic banana seat that daddy knew I wanted. I was already planning how I would mesmerize my friends with wheelies, ramp jumps over small Volkswagens and my sheer speed.

My four-years-younger brother, Jeff, murmured something about a swing set with ropes and a slide…something only meaningful to juvenile eight-year olds.

When daddy’s Plymouth turned onto Manning Street, I was perched and waiting. From a distance, I saw that something special hanging out the trunk, held secure under a beehive of twine, plastic and pieces of torn cloth.

But, my heart sunk fast. Daddy was smiling way too big for that beehive to contain a bicycle. 

Maybe it was its bright, new shininess. Or, maybe a long-held dream just overcame him as he stood there paying off his Western Auto bill. Or, maybe he just liked Jerry Clower. But, whatever the reason, on that July-payday-Friday, daddy brought home a Yazoo.

Mama’s now-deflated voice spoke first, “Fred, it’s a lawn mower!” Daddy began his pitch: “Joann, this ain’t no ordinary lawn mower! This is a Yazoo! This machine is a prime example of American Craftsmanship manufactured in Yazoo City, Mississippi. Honey, this lawn mower is the Cadillac of lawn equipment!” But, Mama just disappeared inside, unimpressed. She'd have to keep making do with her black-and-white Dean Martin.

"The Mighty Yazoo"

Daddy continued his speech on me: “Greg, this is one powerful machine, much better than our old Sears’ mower.” After a moment of grief over the death of my imagined stunts and escapades, daddy’s excitement began to rub off.

That new Yazoo had two large bicycle-sized tires on the rear, two smaller tires on front and, come to think of it, the handle even looked like butterfly handlebars.

 

According to daddy, the extra leverage provided by the large rear tires allowed a person to “expand their boundaries into heavy brush and even mow down small sapling trees.”

Although, as the oldest son, grass-cutting duties belonged to me, it was only right that daddy got to take her out for a test mow. After carefully cutting the front yard with straight lines and 90-degree turns, he ceremoniously turned her over to me. Manhood had arrived!

I mowed the front yard. I mowed the side yard. I mowed the back yard. I mowed all the way down the hill to Stouts Road. I was goose-stepping through that high grass like a German soldier marching into battle. By the time I finished, it was getting dark, so I parked her under the house for the night.

That night, I lay in bed thinking about my new Yazoo. In my mind, I traced Stouts Road from Kimberly Church of God all the way to Morris Cemetery. I made mental notes of all my future lawn-care customers. The cash windfall my Yazoo was gonna earn me was unimaginable. Twenty dollars a week was well within my reach. By next summer I could own a fleet of Yazoos. The sky was the limit.

Next mornin’, I was up early--an uncommon Saturday occurrence for me. Normally, I slept in, then woke up and ate a few bowls of Krispy Kritters while checking on the latest adventures of Bugs Bunny and Wiley Coyote. Our black-and-white TV carried two channels, and I could usually squeeze in four cartoons before the Dialing-for-Dollars scary movies started at noon.

But, that Saturday, I was on a mission. Since I had cut our grass the day before, I started on my BamMaw’s grass next door. Her yard was bigger and had more hills, but me and my Yazoo conquered a half-day job in less than two hours.

When BamMaw returned from getting her hair done down the hill at Margie Kelley’s beauty shop, she beamed with pride at her newly-cut lawn. For a few minutes, I was her favorite grandchild. She bent down--the smell of Aqua Net still fresh on her stacked-up curls, which were reinforced by hairpins and a net--and kissed my sweaty cheek. 

I was a grass-cuttin’ superhero. Onto bigger challenges.

What happened next was…well…back then, I called it a vision. These days, I realize it was probably a mixture of over-inflated ego, dehydration and inhaled Aqua Net.

But, I suddenly “saw myself” mowing a path from our backyard to Walter Kelley’s General Store. (Those Kelleys were entrepreneurs.)

So, I plotted my mission. If I wanted a direct shot from my house to Walter's store, I’d have to mow a 100-yard-long path through six-foot high weeds, and then mow across a corner of Sister Creel’s hayfield. But, the sheer amount of time this shortcut would save me to get from my back yard to Walter’s candy counter would be worth the challenge.

Most certainly, this path would cause me and my Yazoo to face and mow unthinkable heights. But, I believed it could be done. After all, daddy said that Yazoo would allow me to “expand my boundaries into heavy brush and even mow down small sapling trees.”

So…I rared up the front tires and began to mow over high weeds. Ten, twenty, thirty yards…deep into the heavy-brush jungle. In my dehydrated, Aqua-netted imagination, weeds towered three or four feet above my head, and all sorts of wild things cowered before the power of my mighty Yazoo.

Eventually, Walter Kelley’s general store towered in front of me like a welcoming beacon. We had done it.

I shut off the mower and looked back over my shoulder. Like God's parting of the Red Sea, I had parted Sister Creel’s hayfield. The Promised Land lay just across Stouts Road.

I pushed my beautiful Yazoo back home through the newly-parted hayfield, head held high. Mama greeted me. She was beaming as she complimented and rewarded her industrious son. “Take this and buy you and your brother something,” she said as she dropped a dime and a quarter in my sunburned, sweaty palm. Thirty-five cents! That could buy a boy and his brother an array items from Walter’s candy case.

As I proudly marched through my newly-conquered shortcut, tightly gripping that dime and quarter, I contemplated how I would spend it. But, come to think of it, why did Jeff deserve a reward? I was the hot, sweaty son. All Jeff did was sit on the couch and watch Lassie. Why should he get any of my thirty-five cents?

Still contemplating, I walked in the store and said “mornin” to Walter, who was leaning over the counter talking to Bo Waddell. Bo sat at his usual spot, perched on top of an RC Cola crate turned on its side. They were immersed in smoking Winstons and discussing how George Wallace and his wife, Lurleen, were going to save us all.

Quickly, I surveyed the pegboard wall behind the cash register that held a little bit of everything--including batteries for your flashlight and, way up high on the top pegboard, a real transistor radio sealed in plastic covered with a thin layer of dust.

On the shelves, many of the canned goods held two or three price stickers on top of each other, cataloging the rising inflation and the length of time they had sat on the shelves. There were loaves of Merita Bread, cans of Vienna sausages and small silver tins of Bruton snuff. The glass-domed cooler at the back of the store held bacon, eggs, butter, those delicious Stewart sandwiches, whole milk, buttermilk and chocolate milk.

The metal racks at the front of the store held banana flips, honey buns, fried pies and all sorts of candy. Man, did I love those flips and candy! Spoken by a boy who wore “husky jeans” from Sears Roebuck. And, as if the icy-cold drinks in the dark confines of the CoCola ice boxes weren’t enough, on hot summer days, those boxes were also home to GooGoo Clusters.

So…as you see, I had to be careful and maximize my purchasing power. But, unbeknownst to Walter, I had become skilled at beating the system. I had learned that, with thirty-five cents, I could save three cents worth of tax if I made purchases of ten-cents or less, since no tax was charged on items costing less than 15 cents.

First, I purchased a Dr. Pepper for 10 cents. I drained the entire bottle in a single swallow. Now, with only twenty-five cents left, I had to purchase my main course and still buy something for that undeserving Jeff.

As I stood there surveying my limitless choices, it dawned on me. I’d buy the pack of pink marshmallow/coconut/chocolate Snowballs. That way, I got two cakes for the price of one—one for me and one for Jeff. And, dadgum it, I ended up spending my last dime on a Dr. Pepper for the Lassie-watchin’ freeloader.

After I completed my purchases, I retired outside to enjoy my Snowball, leaving Walter and Bo inside, engulfed in their Winston cloud, dreaming about the glory days ahead with George and Lurleen at the wheel.

Life was good! I sat down next to Walter’s gas pumps, leaning against the 55-gallon drum he had cut in half and filled with water. Walter would dip tires in this mosquito-larvae-wiggly-tail infested water to check for flats.

Sitting there, looking up that 100-yard-long path directly to my back door, holding my delicious Snowball, I savored the moment, reflecting on what a wondrous person I must be to have accomplished God’s will by “subduing the earth” with my wondrous Yazoo.

I savored each fluffy, pink bite until my Snowball was gone. After a bit more daydreaming about my greatness, I looked down and realized I had drunk Jeff’s Dr. Pepper. Mama was gonna kill me!

Maybe I could say there were ants in it…or that Bo Waddell had wrestled me to the ground for it…I could come up with something. After all, I was the boy who had both subdued the earth AND beaten the State of Alabama’s tax system.

While sitting there trying to invent a good story, I took a big bite out of Jeff’s Snowball. Apparently, the devil was now in me!

And, at that very moment,  I looked up, and there, walking down my newly-mowed, shortcut, comes Cottontop himself—Jeff—my undeserving, heathen brother.

"CottonTop" (aka Jeff)

So, I shoved the remaining evidence into my mouth. I tried to swallow, but dry cake and sticky marshmallow only lodged in my throat. It would not come up. It would not go down. That Snowball was stuck. I had no Dr. Pepper. I had no money. I was getting light headed. I was going to die!

I looked around, desperate, panicked. Then, I remembered the tire barrel I was leaning against. So I jumped up and was just about to gulp down a two-cupped-handful of mosquito-larvae-wiggly-tail infested-flat-tire water, when God (or maybe it was my jumping) caused that fist-sized pink conglomeration to burst forth from my windpipe.

Evidently, it was not Jesus’ time for me to go. I would live to mow another lawn with my mighty Yazoo. To eat another pink Snowball and drink another cold Dr. Pepper!

....That is, if Ol’ Cottontop didn’t kill me first for enjoying his.

But, what was I thinking--my mighty Yazoo could handle him.

By: Greg Easter 

A Lenten love story

The first Ash Wednesday service I ever attended was a bit of a comedy of errors. I'm sure everyone realized, "She's never done this before." (Frankly, I've decided Catholics and Episcopalians have strong synapses and amazingly good motor skills, because much multitasking is involved in their services--at least the ones I've been to.) The ability to juggle the bulletin, Book of Common Prayer, hymnal and pew altar at designated points in the service requires focus and dexterity! 

At this busy (but beautiful) Ash Wednesday service, through song, sermon and prayer, the minister called us to repentance. However, I must confess that his only words I remember are the ones he spoke as he painted the cross-shaped ashes on my forehead: 
"Remember you are dust, and to dust you shall return."

Looking back, I realize the reason these words affected me so deeply was the frail, elderly couple sitting two rows in front of me. They “preached” me a crystal-clear sermon about just how quickly all of us "return to dust," and how we are called to live and to love in the meantime.

You see, when it was time for me to go receive communion and the "imposition of ashes" (as they call it), I waited at the end of this couple's row to let them step in front of me. All the way out the pew and up the aisle, the husband took halting, shuffled steps, which seemed possible only with the help of his wife's tiny, mottled arm, which wrapped protectively around him.

I wondered how he would ever manage to kneel and get back up but, with her help, he did. While I did not see him take the bread and cup, I couldn't help but hear him because...every movement, every breath...was labored...costly...seemingly uncertain.

The two of them lingered there...kneeling at that altar...for several moments, with her frail little arm never unwrapping from him.

As I watched them laboriously rise from that altar and walk back down the aisle and into their pew, I wondered what sort of devotion was required to get one’s self and one’s frail husband dressed and into the car…one’s self and one’s frail husband out of the car and into the church…one’s self and one’s frail husband up the aisle to painstakingly kneel at an altar to take the bread and the cup and to get back up again.

Watching the two of them, with the newly-painted ashen crosses marking their foreheads...well...it made me sob...and I bowed my head to try to pull myself back together.

When I opened my eyes, I noticed tiny gray spots on the pages of the Book of Common Prayer, which lay open in my lap. I touched one of these spots, and it smudged. When I saw another one drifting down and landing on the page, I realized what was happening--the ashes from the newly-painted cross on my forehead were flaking off.

As I tried to brush them away without smudging the pages, I realized, “That’s where such determined devotion begins…in the flaking off…the flaking off of selfishness…the flaking off of "the old me.”

And, Jesus' cross...the forgiveness and power found there...is the only way that “flaking off” can ever begin and can ever endure.

I've often wondered about that couple. I feel quite certain that was the last time those ashes were painted on his forehead...perhaps the last time he ever took the bread and drank the cup. But what a beautiful picture of a sacred, foot-washing kind of love he and his bride painted for us that night. 

In his book, "The Voyage of the Dawn Treader," C. S. Lewis also paints a beautiful picture of this "flaking off." One of the book's characters, Eustace, through pride, self-pity and greed, has taken actions that have caused him to be turned into a dragon. But, once the newness of being a fierce dragon wears off, he is miserable and very sorry for how he has treated everyone. Listen to what happens:
"I looked up and saw the very last thing I expected: a huge lion coming toward me...It told me to follow...And I knew I had to do what it told me, so I got up and followed it. And it led me to...a garden. In the middle of it was a well, which was more like a very big round bath...and I thought, 'If I could get in there and bathe, it would ease the pain in my leg' (from the jeweled bracelet that had become more like a shackle).
But the lion told me I must undress first....so I started scratching, and my scales began coming off all over the place. And then, I scratched a little deeper,...and my whole skin started peeling off beautifully...as if I was a banana...In a minute or two, I just stepped out of it. I could see it laying there beside me, looking rather nasty. It was a most lovely feeling. So I started to go down into the well for my bath.
But, just as I was going to put my feet into the water, I looked down and saw that they were all hard and rough and wrinkly and scaly just as they had been before....So I scratched and tore again and (it) peeled off beautifully again and out I stepped...and went down to the well for my bath. And exactly the same thing happened again, and I thought, 'Oh, dear, how ever many skins have I got to take off?'...
Then the lion said, 'You will have to let me undress you.' I was afraid of his claws, but I was pretty nearly desperate now. So I just lay down and let him do it.
The very first tear he made was so deep that I thought it had gone right into my heart. And when he began pulling the skin off, it hurt worse than anything I've ever felt. The only thing that made me able to bear it was just the pleasure of feeling the old stuff peel off....
Well, he peeled the beastly stuff right off...And there I was as smooth and as soft as a peeled switch and smaller than I had been. Then he caught hold of me--I didn't like that very much for I was very tender now that I had no skin on--and he threw me into the water. It smarted like anything but only for a moment. After that, it became perfectly delicious and as soon as I started swimming and splashing, I found that all the pain had gone....
After a bit, the lion took me out and dressed me...in new clothes....And then, suddenly, I was back here...
Then Eustace asked, 'What do you think it was?'
And Edmund answered, 'I think you've seen Aslan.'....
Now, it would be nice and fairly nearly true, to say that from that time forth Eustace was a different boy. But, to be strictly accurate, he (only) began to be a different boy. He had relapses. There were still many days when he could be very tiresome. But...the cure had begun."

"Before the Passover celebration,

Jesus knew his hour had come to leave this world

and return to his Father.

He had loved his disciples during his ministry on earth,

and now he loved them to the very end....

Jesus knew the Father had given him authority over everything

and that he had come from God and would return to God.

So he got up from the table, took off his robe,

wrapped a towel around his waist, and poured water into a basin.

Then he began to wash the disciples’ feet,

drying them with the towel he had around him.

When Jesus came to Simon Peter,

Peter said to him, “Lord, are you going to wash my feet?”

Jesus replied, “You don’t understand now what I am doing,

but someday you will.”

“No,” Peter protested, “you will never ever wash my feet!”

Jesus replied, “Unless I wash you, you won’t belong to me.”

(John 13:1-8, NLT)

Rerun of "You Have to Breathe...."

I don't remember the first time I met her. But, I'm certain singing was involved.

Her husband had come to our little country church as youth pastor, and she was part of the bargain. She became director of the Kimberly Church of God Youth Choir. (I never asked her how she felt about that--as a self-involved teenager, I rarely wondered how adults felt.)

One of my first memories of her is clear as a bell--she was teaching us how to breathe. "Breathe as though you're trying to breathe air through a straw deep down into your belly," she instructed us as she stood there with her hands on her hips, demonstrating this technique. "If you're raising your shoulders, you aren't doing it right."

She was smart enough to realize that you had to breathe before you could sing.

And, boy oh boy, did she teach us to sing! (That's her in the picture above...at a moment when it looks like we're causing her to at least want to pull her hair out.)

That group of awkward, pimple-faced teenagers ended up winning our church's State Teen Talent Competition, and coming in second at the national competition. (Losing to Mableton still sticks in our craw.)

One summer, we loaded up on a bus and traveled all the way from Kimberly to New York City, where we sang on street corners and in churches and sang "The Cross Is My Statue of Liberty" at the DADGUM STATUE OF LIBERTY! (Now, how many people can make such a claim?)

One year--I believe it was for our Easter service--she decided we needed to learn a musical titled "Celebrate Life."

...We did...We learned it so well that we performed it more than 100 times at churches across the Southeast.

It was a season of celebrating life that we will never forget.

To this day, I can recall most of the songs' words. One of my favorites was "I Quietly Turned to You," which is the song sung by the woman whom Jesus healed from 12 years of hemorrhaging. My friend, Joy, usually sang this solo. (If I close my eyes, I can still "hear" her clear, young voice.) After Joy died several years ago, I'd find myself sometimes singing those words--
"There was nowhere else to turn, and nowhere else to go.
My body knew all the pain a body could know.
Then I quietly turned to you; I quietly turned to you.
Help of the helpless...hope of the hopeless...I turned to you."

Then, there was the beautiful song about the last meal Jesus shared with those He loved most:

In remembrance of Me, eat this bread.

In remembrance of Me, drink this wine.

In remembrance of Me, pray for the time

When God's own will is done.

In remembrance of Me, heal the sick.

In remembrance of Me, feed the poor.

In remembrance of Me, open the door

And let your brother in....

In remembrance of Me, don't look above,

But in your heart, in your heart, 

Look in your heart for God.

Do this in remembrance of Me.

Whenever we would sing that particular song, my eyes were drawn to the bathrobe-clad actors who played Jesus' disciples--Greg, Jeff, Bob, Michael, Kevin, Joey...others I can't recall now. I always wondered if they felt a little of what those 2,000-year-old disciples must have felt.

I don't remember the exact date we stopped taking our traveling "Celebrate Life" tour on the road.

By then, all of our lives had become a little more complicated.

In the growing-up years since then, a few of those teenagers have gone on to sing in places around the globe. Some have stopped singing. Some have died, and are now with that Jesus they once sang about with such exuberance.

Each of us has learned in our own way that life is hard, but God is good.

Over the years, whenever kind, gracious people have asked me, "Where did you study music?," my response has been, "Marla Wilson taught me." They usually follow up that reply with, "Where does she teach?" And I answer, "She was my youth choir director at the Kimberly Church of God."

But, she was much more than that. Yes, she taught us to sing. But, more importantly, she taught us that music...singing...is a precious gift. She taught us that, because singing is a form of worship, we should approach it with an attitude of excellence. She was one of the first people to teach me about the role and importance of excellence in worship...and in life!

She also taught us the difference between performance and worship, and that worship should always be at the heart of singing.

Because of her vision for that little rag-tag group of singing teenagers...AND her and Jerald's faithful, hard work that vision required...we experienced people and places and things that opened our eyes and hearts to just how large this Kingdom of God really is.

Last fall, she offered to reunite those now-middle-aged teenagers to come and perform "Celebrate Life" for my mom, one of the Kimberly Church of God Youth Choir's biggest fans and most consistent chaperones.

But, the chaos of the season caused me to decline her sweet, generous offer. While I still believe it was the right thing to do, I'll admit there have been days when I've regretted having to make that decision. One of those days was when I learned that Marla has been diagnosed with some pretty major health challenges.

When I read the sweet, encouraging notes sent to her on Facebook and CaringBridge by so many of her "kids," (forgive us, April,...we all know she and Jerald were just waiting for you!)...I realize that what Marla was building with each rehearsal, with each "performance" (I never liked that word), with each trip on that converted school bus...was something that will outlast time.

She was building Levites (if I might be so bold)....She was building disciples.

So, thank you, sweet Marla, for teaching us to breathe so that you could teach us to sing...sometimes even in the dark.

I believe the Bible passage I read today is meant for you and your beloveds--Jerald, April and Glenda--from your Abba who loves you:

But now...listen to the LORD who created you...

The one who formed you says,

“Do not be afraid, for I have ransomed you.

I have called you by name; you are mine.

When you go through deep waters, I will be with you.

When you go through rivers of difficulty,

you will not drown.

When you walk through the fire of oppression,

you will not be burned up;

the flames will not consume you.

For I am the LORD, your God,

the Holy One of Israel, your Savior....

“But...it is nothing compared to what I am going to do.

For I am about to do something new.

See, I have already begun! Do you not see it?

I will make a pathway through the wilderness.

I will create rivers in the dry wasteland.

....Yes, I will make rivers in the dry wasteland

so my chosen people can be refreshed.

(from Isaiah 43, NLT)

And, for your birthday, here is a reminder, which I believe you'll recognize:

He is alive! Jesus is alive!

I waited patiently for the LORD to help me,

and he turned to me and heard my cry.

He lifted me out of the pit of despair,

out of the mud and the mire.

He set my feet on solid ground

and steadied me as I walked along.

He has given me a new song to sing,

a hymn of praise to our God.

Many will see what he has done and be amazed.

They will put their trust in the LORD.

Oh, the joys of those who trust the LORD....

(Psalm 40:1-4, NLT)



Lessons Learned...A Baker's Dozen

So…a year ago today…mom fell and broke both legs--right femur, left ankle. It happened here, at our home.

We were getting ready to move her into a lovely assisted-living apartment. We had the furniture all in place, pictures and curtains hung, clothes put away.

She had spent the night at our house because I was taking her to the doctor that morning to see if a change in medications would help her not sleep so much. I had woken her up (from the downstairs study we had converted into her “bedroom”) and helped her get to the powder room to get dressed.

When I left her to go back to go get her clothes, she was standing at the sink. Next thing I know, I heard this THUD…and my heart sank.

I sprinted back to the powder room, only to discover that the way she had fallen had caused her to block the door. So, I just had to keep pushing until my weight against the door caused her body to move enough for me to squeeze through.

As soon as I saw her, I knew her ankle was broken…badly…And, she was extremely addled; so, I just assumed she had suffered another stroke. (But they didn’t find a sign of one.)

After unsuccessfully trying a few times to get her up off the floor, I told her we HAD to call an ambulance. Let’s just say she did NOT want that.

But…within a few minutes, they arrived. Thank God for compassionate, capable EMTS and ambulance drivers--they were WONDERFUL! Before that day, I had never stopped to think about the fact that they typically see people at their absolute worst--injured, hurting, frightened, incoherent, soiled--and they (at least the ones who helped us) respond with compassion, respect, professionalism and humor.

Well, the next few days were a roller-coaster ride for everyone. During many of those hours, we thought mom’s suffering might be ending. In her semi-conscious state (from the drugs, trauma, etc.), she held entire conversations with daddy, Mimi and other of “loves” who have made it Home. The sweetest one was between her and daddy--overheard by my brother--when she said, “Honey, let’s go over there and sit under that shade tree and rest awhile.”

But…she recovered from the fall and the fractures. Unfortunately, there is no “recovery” from Alzheimer’s.

However…for the most part…she is happy…content. (One blessing of mom’s Alzheimer’s is she has forgotten all the people and things that have caused her so much pain, frustration and sadness over these past few decades.) There's a lesson in that for me--about the happiness and contentment that forgiving and forgetting can bring. 

This is a picture of mom and my brother, Kevin, 

taken at the recent Christmas Eve service. 

Earlier this week, I shared this upcoming “anniversary” with a dear friend. She asked me, “What have you learned?”

And…that got me thinking, “What HAVE I learned?” I’m sure when I think about it a bit longer, I’ll come up with a longer list. But, for now…shooting from the hip…here are the lessons I’ve learned:

1. You need to get prepared. And…you really should have done it YESTERDAY.

If you’re the care-giving “child” of a parent or other family member, you NEED to at least talk about a plan for WHEN is the time to get Power of Attorney. (And, from the day you have Power of Attorney, carry that form with you EVERYWHERE you go, and make extra copies of it for faxing to insurance companies, etc., because they WILL lose that form the first two or three times you fax it.)

Also, you NEED to make sure you’re listed on EVERY SINGLE HIPPA form at each and every one of their doctors, and each and every time they are admitted to the hospital.

And, you NEED to figure out a way to get your head around their financial situation--bank accounts, health insurance, life insurance, etc. Accomplishing the above isn’t comfortable or easy, and there's typically never a good time. But, the health crises of aging generally don’t just slowly creep up on you. They’re more like, “BAM!!! Here we are! What the heck are you gonna do now?”

So…if they are resistant…try to enlist the help of a good friend or family member whom they trust to go with you to have this conversation.

2. NOTHING about Alzheimer’s is logical; let go of ANY expectations.

Expecting a logical response to a logical question is pointless and fruitless (except it WILL drive you BANANAS). No matter how many times or how loudly you say the word, “Remember,” they are NOT going to remember. Spit that word out of your vocabulary, and throw it in the trash.

You have to realize that you WILL repeat yourself several dozen times during a 30-minute period of time. If you know this going in…it will help you keep that frustration "button" turned off.

3. Get to know the facility’s Social Worker and Business Office employees. All these new, confusing forms you’re trying to fill and obstacles you’re trying to navigate …well, these people have been doing it 5 days a week, 8 hours a day for years. They are EXPERTS! Go to them FIRST; they will save your sanity! Then, bake them cookies!

3. You MUST show yourself (and others) lots of forgiveness.

The drive to see mom is almost a 30-minute drive from my house; so, sometimes--with a family and a job to juggle--even on the days when I had planned to go visit--it just doesn’t happen. And, I’ve learned it doesn’t do anyone any good for me to beat myself up about a missed visit.

4. There's this "#5"...that has something to do with "honoring."

This is NOT an easy disease to watch. There are days when it is so tempting to just not go. After all, less than 5 minutes after I leave, she’s going to have NO memory of me being there. But, how can I claim to be a Jesus follower if, at the same time, I’m “copping out” on her? Especially when honoring her made #5 of the Top 10 Commandments...I call this the spiritual discipline of “Doing The Next Right Thing.” (Personally, I think it needs to be up there with prayer, Bible reading, fasting, etc.) John Mayer is right, “Love is a verb.”

5. (Another #5.) LAUGH!

I cannot stress the importance of giving yourself permission to laugh. As my life-long friend (who shall remain anonymous) advised me, “You should look for something to laugh at it in every nook and granny.” Trust me…we aren’t mean-spirited with our laughter…and, quite often, she laughs with us. But, be intentional about doing so-- every day there is something about this disease that could make me cry if I let it. Laughter is one of my ways of not letting this monster win! It is taking enough--I will not allow it to take our humor!

6. When life takes you to your knees, stay there.

This year has helped sweep away any idea of quick, clean, neatly-tied-up answers to prayer. One day as I was praying, it finally hit me, “He knows exactly the sadness and anxiety I’m feeling--I might as well tell him about it myself.” And, I’ve learned He can handle it. Often these days, I engage my imagination during my prayers (Hey…if it’s good enough for C.S. Lewis it’s good enough for me) I imagine that I’m leaning my head against my Abba’s knee; it’s truly amazing how much more “real” that helps me be.

Throughout this year, I often remember words from my very wise father-in-law,

“Prayer doesn’t always change things, but prayer always changes us.”

7. Remind yourself often WHO God is.

In His Sovereignty, He has allowed this thing to happen--not caused it or willed it, but allowed it. After all, we live in a fallen world. But, He IS Sovereign. He is Love. He is Faithful. He does care. He IS With us. And, one day, He WILL make everything whole, right, just. In the meantime, He gives us grace and strength for the next step and has promised to transform everything that happens to us into “good” IF we keep trusting Him.

8. Take care of yourself.

When we’re stressed, sad, depressed, it’s so easy to make unhealthy choices…right when our bodies and minds need us to be at our healthiest. So, drink more water; walk; take a multivitamin; get more protein; limit carbs and bad fats; and BREATHE…deeply and often.

9. Give yourself permission to say NO.

No one can do that for you. If your NO makes someone mad or hurts their feelings… well…to repeat some words that came out of my mouth several years ago (and which I and others have now used COUNTLESS times, “They need help that you cannot give.”)

10. It’s OK to CRY.

I find myself crying at the oddest things. I almost always cry a little on my way home from visits with mom, especially if she’s been sad or anxious. And WHEN will I learn to take tissues to church?

Recently, some words found me that painted such a beautiful, spot-on painful picture of this disease that I wept for a long time after I closed the magazine. Well, here, I’ll let you read them too:

“….So today my father is with us, but only in a half-life stage….I can hold his hand and tie his shoes, button his shirt and take him for a walk, but the essence of him, my real father, no longer resides (there). Each time I see him, it takes me a moment to re-register his condition. This present reality requires a painful recalibration of my heart, and I approach him with shifting sensations of (love), devotion, horror and profound sadness.” (Lee Woodruff)

11. LAUGH

(See #5.)

12. Live Fully…Right Now.

It’s probably no coincidence that, during this past year, I’ve been more intentional about learning to “celebrate” the simple. My mama is both a reminder and a mirror. So, I’ve begun actually doing some things I’ve always said “one day” about--like playing piano again…and, heck, I even auditioned to be a back-up singer in a band!

Again, Lee Woodruff’s words say it so beautifully, “(I’m already) teaching myself to slow down….I stop at the top of a hike to savor the view. I pay closer attention when my children have something to tell me. The gift of fully understanding that you will die is to come to terms with how you want to live.”

13. Do NOT look too far down the road. 

Shortly after mom was admitted to Shannondale, I looked WAY TOO FAR DOWN THE ROAD, and it took me to a pretty dark place. Jesus promises us grace and mercy and strength for this day--not for the imaginary "what-ifs" six months from now. 

So...these are some lessons I've learned this past year. Trust me, I'm sure there will be days when I'll forget them. That's one reason I decided to write them down. You see, I've come to believe it's not that we QUIT believing so much as it is that we forget what it is we believe. So...this list is my reminder...for the days when I forget. So I can tell myself, "Remember...."

"Remember, therefore, 

what you have received and heard;

hold it fast...."

(Revelation 3:3)

Quicksand!!!

Even though my cousin, Lisa, is only four months younger than me, it was my little brother, Kevin, who she ALWAYS got in trouble with. (That's them in this picture...plotting their next adventure...I'm sure of it.)

First off, I should tell you that Lisa is the youngest of four daughters born to my daddy's brother, John Walter Kelley, Jr., and his wife, Barbara. Like all great southern men, my Uncle Walter had many names--Junior, Chief, Shug, FudgeMan--am I forgetting any? But, most of his nieces and nephews called him NooNoon.

After serving in WWII, NooNoon came home and married his love, Barbara. He loved her 'til the day he died. (I'm sure he still does.)

Like almost everyone in Kimberly, NooNoon and Barbara struggled to make ends meet. He worked at the local brickyard, and together they ran "NooNoon's store."

Behind their house was a HUGE field. During most summers, this field was tilled and planted into a vegetable garden. It bordered NooNoon's backyard, my Uncle Sherill's backyard, my Uncle Paul's backyard, and the Kimberly First Baptist Church parking lot.

One particular year brought a monsoon-like Alabama spring. It rained. And rained. And rained some more. And turned that field into a football-field-sized lake.

Except for the Hoyt Kelleys and the Brady Kelleys, the rest of the Kelleys lived next door or back door to each other. (Oh, except for our Mimi..who lived in the coolest apartment EVER in downtown Birmingham--but that's another story for another time.)

Some adult was always nearby. But, because it was safe-and-sound-1960s-Kimberly, the grownups usually never had a clue where us kids were unless it was time for supper. Such was the case on the finally-sunny Saturday when Lisa (6) and Kevin (4) went "wading" in NooNoon's flooded field.

All of a sudden, from my Mama Kelley's front yard, I heard children screaming bloody murder! Mama Kelley heard them too, and came out holding her ever-present hickory. So, she and I and the hickory set off in the direction of the screams, taking a shortcut through Uncle Sherill's backyard. (FYI, for years, my Uncle Sherill kept a rooster leashed to a clothesline because he didn't like waking up to an alarm clock--but that's another story for another time.)

Well, we get to the edge of that flooded field and...standing way out in the middle...as far as they could go without being on their way to the other side...are Lisa and Kevin. And they are STUCK. And they are FREAKING OUT. They keep screaming, "Quicksand! It's quicksand! We're sinking!"

By this time, several cousins have appeared, and we're standing at the edge of the field trying to figure out if those two are worth saving. Finally, somebody (can't remember who) had the good sense to run to the store and get NooNoon (aka Lisa's daddy).

Then, from somewhere, mama shows up--in a skirt and nice shoes. Well...she heads straight out into that quagmire. And...about 20 steps in...you guessed it...she gets stuck too. When Lisa and Kevin realize that mama is stuck...well...they just LOSE IT. (Seeing my mama get stuck is also all it takes to convince the rest of us that two fewer cousins might not be such a bad thing, after all.)

But, just when it looks to my 7-year-old eyes like I'm going to be an only-child-orphan, NooNoon arrives. I can still see him trudging into that muddy thick mud...grinning...and hear him keep trying to reassure Lisa and Kevin that they aren't gonna die.

He hollers to mama, "Hey, DoeDoe, you OK?" (Those Kelleys can sure come up with the nicknames.) His first stop is to get mama unstuck...which he does...except for her shoes. Well, mama gets tickled, then NooNoon gets tickled. Unfortunately, Lisa and Kevin do not get tickled. They are still FREAKING out!

Finally...hand-in-hand...laughing the whole way...NooNoon and mama make it out to the two little screamers. And, with a muddy, sucking sound, NooNoon pulls Kevin out and hands him to mama. Then, he grabs up Lisa and, together, the four of them head for dry ground.

In my mind, I can still see Lisa...the back of her little head...arms wrapped around her daddy's neck...holding on for dear life. And my little brother, desperately (but gratefully) hanging on to mama's hip. And NooNoon and mama...hand-in-hand...still laughing.

....Mama never did find those shoes.

There are times in this upside-down kingdom when I feel like yelling, "Quicksand! It's quicksand! I'm sinking!" All my futile efforts to get myself (and others) unstuck only make things worse, and only make me freak out more. In those times, what I desperately need  to remember is to just keep calling out to "Daddy" (my Abba)...and to be still...and wait for Him to show up...And, when He does, to just lift my tired, little arms and receive His rescuing hug.

So, "Happy Birthday, Lisa!" Your earthly father's love for you and your sisters was such a mirror of your Heavenly Father's love. I hope this story brings you the same heart-felt laughter that NooNoon and DoeDoe found that day in the "quicksand."

"It seemed like a dream, too good to be true....

We laughed, we sang,

we couldn't believe our good fortune....

God was wonderful to us;

we (were) one happy people.

And now, God, do it again—

bring rains to our drought-stricken lives,

so that those who planted their crops in despair

will shout hurrahs at the harvest,

so that those who went off with heavy hearts

will come home laughing, with armloads of blessing."

(From Psalm 126 of "The Message")

Little Lord Fauntleroy LIVES...

So in the last post, I introduced you to business-teacher-extraordinaire, Wynema Vogel, who tried to prepare us for this thing called life...at 120 words per minute. And, as is often the case, something I wrote triggered another memory, one that mainly involves my cousin and friend, Donna. 

You see, Donna and I were members of a club headed up by Mortimer Jordan High School's business teachers--the Future Business Leaders of America (FBLA). (Isn't that just a hope-filled title for a high school club?)

As I mentioned in the last post, Mrs. Vogel was always pushing us toward excellence. That particular year, the competitions she took us to were held at the FBLA's State Convention at a hotel in Birmingham, which, for us small-town girls, was a BIG DEAL. One of my roommates for the weekend was my cousin-friend, Donna. Laughter was contagious when we were together; we had that "ease" which comes from playing hide-and-seek and laying in the living-room floor watching "Dark Shadows," while slurping dripping DreamSicles. 

But...back to the FBLA convention. That year, in addition to all the typing, filing, timed-writing, transcribing, spelling and talent contests (which, one year, Joy and I rocked by singing a duet of "Killing Me Softly.") Anyway...that year...in addition to all the above, Mrs. Vogel's son (and Dawn's brother), Greg, was running for FBLA State President. And, the Mortimer Jordan FBLA Blue Devils were determined to secure his victory. Earlier in the week, we had gone to the Vogels' house and designed door-knob-hanging flyers that insisted "VOTE FOR GREG!" 

And, we had come up with a strategy to deliver our message to every FBLA voter in the hotel--the night before the BIG VOTE, we would disperse these victory-bringing flyers on every doorknob in that hotel. My partner in this campaign was Donna. 

So, with flyers in hand, we stepped off the elevator onto our designated floor. Donna went left; I went right. Because it was late, the plan was just to quietly hang "VOTE FOR GREG!" on each doorknob, then meet back at the elevator.

And...things were going as planned.

Until...

I was leaning down to hang a flyer...when...all of a sudden...the door swings open.

And...there....standing in the doorway...is a FULL-GROWN man....

...wearing a Little Lord Fauntleroy outfit. Here I'll just show you what I'm talking about:

....Did I mention this man was GROWN???

Because my eyes were already looking down at the doorknob, the first thing I noticed were his funny, pilgrim-like shoes. Then, my gaze moved upward. While trying to process what it is I'm looking at...my first thought...kid you not...is, "I thought Little Lord Fauntleroy was dead."

Then...after quickly making eye (and hat) contact...my brain suddenly remembers he's holding something...so my eyes dart back down to that something. But...my brain can't quite make sense of it....Well, here, I'll just show you:

That's right...it's a gun...a Blunderbuss gun.

And...before my brain can kick into gear...and get the heck out of "Dodge," he fires that gun!

At me....

And...it was LOUD...as in

...KABOOM...

As I'm standing there looking at him...thinking to myself--"so this is how I die"--Little Lord Fauntleroy just smiles at me and closes the door.

And...I start backing toward the wall on the other side of the hallway...holding my soon-to-be-mortal-wound...with so many thoughts swimming through my head that I can't sort them out. But, the one that keeps bobbing to the top is: "I have to find Donna. I don't want to die alone."

As I'm sliding down the wall, I look to the side of the hallway where I had last seen Donna... and, there she is...trying her best to climb the wall at the other end. When she heard that KABOOM, her flight instinct must have kicked in big-time.

And...as I'm watching her...my only thought is, "Why is she trying to climb that wall?" But what I yell instead is..."Donna, I've been shot."

Only then...when I say those words...do I look down at by stomach...where that Blunderbuss was pointing...only then do I realize I'm not bleeding...that I wasn't shot after all.  That LOUD gun wasn't even real. Only then do I start connecting the dots and realize the man who had just "shot" me wasn't Fauntleroy. He was just some weirdo who wanted to scare the pee out of a girl whose only concern was "VOTE FOR GREG!"

Of course...in those few seconds, Donna, had given up on climbing that wall and had come to help me. 

Honestly, I don't remember much that happened after that; after all, I had just been "shot." (Hopefully, Donna can fill in some of the gaps when she reads this.)

I do remember me and her sitting in that hallway...realizing we were both going to live...(and were going to need a change of underwear). And, as usual, the laughter started. 

Eventually, we stood up and ran to that elevator...off that hallway...no longer even caring if the people on that floor VOTED FOR GREG! 

After we dropped by our room for that change of underwear, we decided we better find Mrs. Vogel and tell her what had happened. I don't remember much about her response. But, I do remember that those big, blue eyes of hers got a little bigger, and that peaches-and-cream complexion lost a little peach. 

In the years since, I've sometimes wondered about Little Lord Fauntleroy...WHO WAS HE?...WHERE DID HE GET A FAKE BLUNDERBUSS?...AND WHY DID HE FEEL THE NEED TO SCARE THE PEE OUT OF ME (...and DONNA)? 

By now, he has to be pretty old. I sometimes imagine him sitting in his chair, thinking back to that night...when he "shot" a chubby girl with long brown hair who was just about to hang a "VOTE FOR GREG" flyer on his doorknob. And, I imagine him chuckling at the memory.

But that's OK...I do too. So does Donna.

I've come to believe it's our scary moments...our hard times...those days when we find ourselves wishing we could climb a wall...which create the very moments when--usually later...in the "looking back"--God breaks through and whispers, "Psssttt...See! I was right there. And just look at the story it gave you....Look at the laughter it STILL brings. Just look at the richness and color it added to the book of your life." 

I've come to believe this is at least one meaning of His promise to "turn our mourning into dancing."

"I give you all the credit, God—

you got me out of that mess....

God, my God, I yelled for help 

and you put me together....

All you saints! Sing your hearts out to God!

Thank him to his face!

He gets angry once in a while, 

but across a lifetime there is only love.

The nights of crying your eyes out

give way to days of laughter.

I called out to you,God;

I laid my case before you:

...When I’m ‘dust to dust’ 

my songs and stories of you won’t sell.

So listen! and be kind.

Help me out of this!”

You did it: 

you changed (mourning) into whirling dance;

....I’m about to burst with song;

I can’t keep quiet about you.

God, my God, I can’t thank you enough."

(From Psalm 30, The Message)

Life at 120 words per minute....

First of all, I LOVE Facebook...maybe a bit too much some days. I adore being able to "visit" with old friends I haven't seen in years--getting a little glimpse into their lives through pictures and words. Sure...I'm not crazy about everything in the Facebook universe, but I don't see any point in throwin' the baby out with the bathwater.

As a storyteller, one of my FAVORITE things about Facebook is when a friend's post or comment sparks a memory. And this happened the other day when my friend, Dawn, commented on my post about our friend, Joy. Her comment triggered a memory of Dawn's mama--Mrs. Wynema Vogel--who was mine and Joy's and Dawn's and Becca's...and countless other Mortimer-Jordan-High-School-wannabe-Future-Business-Leaders-of-America's ICON. 

We believed what she taught us in that class was our ticket IN...to a movie'-on-up, high-rise office life of fame and fortune as we rapidly took dictation in Gregg Shorthand, and then transformed those mysterious marks into clear, crisp correspondence (complete with carbon copy) at a lightning-fast-speed of 120 words-per-minute. 

SHE is the reason I can STILL type 80+ words per minute AND can still do this: 

  (*)

She sat on this high perch-like chair at the front of the class...with a tall stand next to it for her papers and books. In fact, several years ago when I visited my friend, Becca, who had assumed Mrs. Vogel's iconic "throne" upon her retirement, I cannot express to you my disappointment when I walked into that room and found Becca seated behind a common, ordinary desk in a boring, ordinary chair!... The first words out of my mouth were, "Where's your perch?!?!?" 

She was (and still is) just lovely--auburn hair, peaches-and-cream complexion, blue eyes. She wore suits or dresses and high heels EVERYDAY...and her lipstick ALWAYS perfectly matched whatever she wore. Her hair and make-up were always "fixed." She was the epitome of that look I've come to think of as "put together." Well...here...I'll just show you.

(....Don't you just LOVE old yearbooks?...)

Anyway, Joy and I sat in the back right corner of Mrs. Vogel's classroom. We were ALWAYS in trouble. ALWAYS. We would be typing or transcribing along...then one of us would get tickled at something...and that would be all she wrote...literally. Even when I tried not to get in trouble, I somehow found myself there. (I usually blamed it on Joy's giggle.)

For instance...one crisp, clear fall day, I had decided to kick it up a notch in the wardrobe department. Now ...keep in mind...for a chubby Pentecostal girl in the 1970s...kicking it up a notch usually meant experimenting with a new color of knee-length-double-knit culottes. 

But...not that day....THAT day I decided to break out the outfit I had bought with my hard-earned money from my stay-in-school-job at Secret Service. (Yes...you heard me right...THE Secret Service...which is DEFINITELY other stories for other times.)...Anyway, my outfit consisted of a full, calf-length floral skirt with a matching cape and a coordinating 'tam. And...I had bought brown Naugahyde boots to wear with it. In my opinion, I looked GOOOOOOOD. Especially with that cute 'tam bobby-pinned at a jaunty little angle on the top of my head. 

So, imagine my complete surprise when, as we're getting ready for the day's first "timed writing," Mrs. Vogel asks everyone to stop what they're doing and listen to an important announcement: 
"Class...I need to point out that headgear is never appropriate in an office setting."

Headgear???

And just guess who was the only person in the classroom wearing headgear?

Well...Joy turned and looked right at me and laughed OUT LOUD. Then I started laughing and...there we were...in trouble...again.

We tried our best to get through that timed writing, but....quite literally...that was all she wrote.

But...don't let this little memory give you the wrong idea of Ms. Vogel. She LOVED her students. She wanted us to succeed--not just at typing and shorthand and filing and bookkeeping and sitting-up-tall-and-straight. She wanted us to succeed at this thing called LIFE. She was constantly encouraging us, taking us to competitions, inviting us to her home. And, Mrs. Vogel is the only reason I got that first job with the U.S. Secret Service.

Several years ago, when I heard from Becca that schools were no longer teaching Gregg Shorthand, I got a little sad. After all, it's what gave me old-school-rock-star-note-taking status with all those young guns in my "late-to-the-dance" college lectures. (FYI--while Mrs. Vogel was an encourager and did everything in her power to help you believe in yourself, our high school guidance counselor was NOT. Her guidance to me for what to do after high school? "Just get a job." For years, I thought college was just a dream for other people. The mean ol' Karen still wants to send her the picture of me receiving my college diploma.)

Well....with that little detour rant out of the way...what I was trying to say is that I still use shorthand all the time--for jotting down messages...and sermon notes...song lyrics...and recipes...reminders of all kinds. So...thank you, Mr. Gregg for creating a short-hand version of all these words I've grown to love. It's helped me in ways you never would have expected.

But...most of all, THANK YOU, Wynema! (...did I really just call her that?...) for teaching...for believing...for encouraging...for reminding us that "there is a time and place for everything"--even headgear...for being one of the first models of "excellence" in my life...for pushing us toward good posture... and excellence in everything...including LIFE...at 120 words per minute. 

Some words I once read--"To teach is to touch a life forever"--are never truer than when they are spoken about you.   

But...you should probably know...I still love wearing headgear.

*Oh...and for you unfortunate souls who DON'T know shorthand, I'll transcribe the picture above: 
"Still take notes in shorthand". 

"So don't just do what you have to do to get by. 

Work heartily, as Christ's servants, 

doing what God wants you to do. 

And work with a smile on your face, 

always keeping in mind that 

no matter who happens to be giving the orders, 

you're really serving God...." 

(Ephesians 6:6-7)