My Knight in Shining Armor

Yesterday was Father's Day.  My husband enjoyed a day of doing nothing except watching golf.  He received his cards, both the store bought and the handmade.  We played a piggy game where piggies are thrown instead of dice.  Charlie won both times and was ecstatic!  Daddy gave the boys baths.  And by the end of the day, Daddy was a little frisky.

There are times when he is a bigger child than the kids.  And he likes to rough house.  Nothing wrong with that.  He is a big BOY after all.  And boys will be boys.

He decided to bite Charlie's butt.  This particular form of rough housing freaked Charlie out a little bit.  It must be remembered that Charlie is only 4.  When his Daddy let him up, Charlie ran to me crying (completely unhurt of course, just freaked out).  But Daddy being the big child he is, didn't get that the game had gone too far, and continued to threaten to bite Charlie's butt.  David was having a grand time.  Charlie, not so much.

But my heart swelled to proportions unforeseen when David threatened to bite my butt, and Charlie, as fearful as he was, bristled, puffed out his chest, and turned to face his father and told him in no uncertain terms, "NO!  Do not bite Mommy's butt!"   I saw my 4 year old taking on a dragon to protect me!

My hero!

Kisses

BEST MOMENT EVER!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Jimmie has been very loving toward me all evening, showering me in kisses and hugs. So at a certain point, David says, "Hey Jimmie," and leaned his head down and pointed to the top of his head. Jimmie looked at him for a second, then puckered up and kissed his father's head. It was the first time I had seen Jimmie ever respond to any kind of a request. So I decided to test it further. I said, "Jimmie, give Charlie a kiss." Jimmie ignored me. I got a hold of him and Charlie, standing in front of me. I said, "Jimmie, give Charlie a kiss." He tried to pull away. I held his shirt, and said, "No. Stay. Give Charlie a kiss." David said, 'No it's okay." But Jimmie looked at Charlie, who smiled at him, and puckered up, leaned in, and kissed Charlie on the nose!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Black eye peas for a prosperous New Year

It's true.  It actually is a tradition.  Black eye peas for a prosperous New Year.  And it has been passed along down from our line out of Tennessee.  It is a Southern thing after all.  I've read that it started during the civil war.  I only know that my mother (whose mother was a Ford - and yes one of those Fords - those two brothers who murdered Jessie James were her great uncles) had to have them every New Year's day.  It was as much a part of our celebration as watching the ball fall the night before.  And I am a stern taskmaster of keeping tradition.  My husband refuses to eat them.  Fine.  I'll take all the prosperity for myself.  Besides I actually like them.

This year, I am going whole hog (so to speak).  I actually bought the dried bag of black eye peas.  Yesterday, I cooked a delicious honey glazed ham.  Tonight, the beans and the ham bone will go in the crock pot with some onion and celery and chicken stock for a nice long simmer.  I defy anyone to not want to eat these black eye peas.  Yum. 

Crochet

I miss my mother so very much.  She was a great mother.  She cooked.  She sewed.  She crocheted. 

Every fall, I catch the bug, but this winter I really caught the bug.  If I am sitting, I am crocheting.  I have made 20 or so hats.  I have made several scarfs.  I have made an afghan as a gift for a baby (leaving it at that since it is for Christmas).  I have made Jimmie an afghan.  I am working on one for Charlie.  I have another one in the works too.  And today, I started yet another.

This one gives me a special connection to my mother.

In 1998 my mother was diagnosed with interstitial lung disease, a complication of her scleroderma.  She was given a 50% chance of surviving beyond 5 years.  She lasted the 5, passing in 2003, just two weeks after my wedding.

It was not a pleasant death.  She was in a lot of pain.  She was tired a lot.   And she couldn't breathe.  In the end she was on oxygen 24 hours a day and had to use a chair because she couldn't exert herself to walk.

On a visit from my aunt in the last two years before she passed, they sat and crocheted.  Crochet did not tire her.  My mother worked on an afghan intended as a gift for my cousin Joey and his wife, who at the time were expecting their first child.  It was beautiful.  Reversible, peach on one side; cream on the other.

My lovely sister in law gave me a baby shower when I was pregnant with my son Jimmie, before my world fell a part.  My aunt and cousins were naturally unable to attend, living in Massachusetts, while we are in Illinois.  But they surprised me by sending gifts to my sister in law for the shower.  Included among the gifts, intended as a gift from my mother, my aunt had sent the afghan, retrieved from my cousin, unused.  It was the gift that caused the tears to flow, especially as I read the note my aunt had included.  And as I cried, so did the entire room.

The afghan is an important item in our household.  My husband loves it as much as I do.  And the more I crochet, the more my husband points to it and says, "Make one like that."

Well here is my first attempt:

The Voice

I was reminded this morning of two experiences.  The first was easy.  It was a simple experience of love.  Love for me.  Love is easy to receive.  The second was difficult, because while there was love, there was also disappointment and judgement and a revelation of self that was not so pleasant.  I believe I needed to be reminded of these things. 

The first time I heard the voice, I was in college, home on break.  I was in a crisis of faith.  I was aware that the feeling I had had as a young teenager, of the presence of the Lord in my life, had faded.  As I lay in my bed and prayed, I asked the Lord where he was, why I could no longer feel him.  It was then that I heard the voice.  It was familiar.  A real voice.  And at the same time, not a real voice.  I knew that while it was audible, it was only audible to me.  It came from inside me, but also around me.  It told me to listen.  But I was stubborn.  The voice became more insistent.  It called me by name.  "Lacy, Stop.  Listen."  I stopped.  I listened.  My radio was on.  Stryper was playing.  "Honestly."  

[ Lyrics from: http://www.lyricsmode.com/lyrics/s/stryper/honestly.html ]

Songwriters: MICHAEL SWEET

Honestly
I believe in you
Do you trust in me?
...

Patiently
I will stand by you
I will stand beside you faithfully

And through the years
I will be a friend for always and forever

Call on me and I'll be there for you
I'm a friend who always will be true
And I love you can't you see
That I can say I love you honestly

Call on me and I will be there for you
I'm a friend who will always be true
And I love you can't you see
That I love you honestly
I will never betray your trust in me
And I love you can't you see
That I can say I love you
Honestly

 

At the moment I was asking "Where are you?" the song answered "I will stand beside you faithfully."  I just had to listen.  The answer was there. 

 

It was a sweet moment.  A moment of renewal of faith.  It was good.  But as wonderful as this moment was, it was not the moment that changed my life, that changed me as a person.

 

That moment would not be so pleasant.

 

Several years later, after I had graduated, after I had tried living in Norfolk, after I had tried living in Canada, after I had returned home, I was working as a temp in Washington, DC, trying to make ends meet, living at home with my mother and stepfather, driving a wrecked car my father had given me, driving on change and a prayer.  It had been a long day.  Those who know DC know that there is a large homeless population.  A very aggressive population.  They beg.  And they rarely use the money for food or shelter, preferring to feed their addictions.  Of course this isn't always true (again years later, I would be approached by a homeless man in DC who asked me for money when I had none, and whose gratitude was abounding when I offered a coupon for a free burger from McDonald's instead). 

 

But on the day in question, all I saw in the beggars were junkies and drunks.  As I was sitting in traffic, trying to cross the 14th street bridge into VA, I saw him.  He was a young man.  Early thirties.  He was dirty.  Long brown hair.  Beard.  He stood at the center of the bridge, in front of the jersey barriers separating the opposing lanes of traffic.  Hands outstretched to each side.  He had a sign leaning against his bucket sitting at his feet.  I don't remember what the sign said.  Something about will work for food or being homeless and needing money.   I gave a judgemental snort.  "Oh look at this, it's Jesus Christ."  It was an ugly moment.  I am not proud of it.  But that is what I thought at that moment. 

 

And then I heard the voice.  Deep, masculine, loving, and disappointed.  Kind still.  Loving still.  But clearly disappointed.  Again, it was audible, but not audible.  I knew that had anyone else been in the car, they would not have heard it.  It came from inside me, not my head, but my gut.  And it came from around me, behind me, beside me.  I actually heard it.  But I also felt it.

 

He said, "Lacy, as you have done unto these the least of my brethren, so you have done unto me." 

 

I felt the tears welling up inside me.  I was a monster.  I was evil. 

 

I rolled down my window as I approached the man on the bridge.  He smiled and approached my window.  He reached out his hand.  I dumped my purse into my lap and gathered all the money I had left, change, and placed it in his open hand.  I allowed my hands to touch his.  I felt the tingle and electricity shoot through my fingers to my very core.

 

"God bless you," he said.  I can't tell you it was the same voice.  I can't say that with absolute confidence.  But in my memory, it was the same voice I heard speaking to me alone in my car.  Whether I heard it the same or whether it was the same or I only remember it as the same is not really the point. 

 

Judge not, and love one another.  My moment of hatred, answered with love and a blessing on me, that was the moment of change.  It was not easy to feel the judgement that I deserved.  Honestly it wasn't even a small portion of what I deserved, but any judgement was just.  The fact that it was tapered with love and grace only cements our Lord's saving nature. 

 

Mythology

My sister called me tonight.  Well, she actually called several times.  We speak on the phone most days.  But tonight she and her husband were watching the 1981 version of Clash of the Titans.  This had started a conversation between them and a bevy of questions for me.  These questions may not be in the exact order, but this was the crux of the discussion:

Was this from Homer's Odyssey? 

No.  It's just a myth. 

But then what book? 

Well, it's mostly from oral tradition and written in many books. 

What is the Odyssey? 

It's the story of Odyseus, who having fought in Troy with the Greeks, and having angered Poseidon is trying to make his way home to his wife and son and his 20 year absence (10 in war and 10 getting home).  Oh Brother Where Art Thou? is based on the Odyssey.  It's the followup to Homer's Iliad? 

What's the Iliad? 

The story of the Trojan War.

Okay, so back to Clash of the Titans, is this the guy who is chained to a wall? 

No that was Prometheus.  He was chained to a cliff and everyday an eagle came and ate his liver, which his being immortal, grew back for the eagle to return to eat the next day.  It was his punishment for giving man fire. 

Okay, but Percy Jackson is Perseus. 

Yeah, kind of. 

What about the sequel? 

There is no sequel to the original Clash of the Titans.  The new Clash has a sequel.  None of that occurred in the Greek Myth. 

So Perseus never goes to Hades? 

No.  Only one living person ever descended into Hades and returned.  Orpheus went into Hades to bring his wife out. 

So What Dreams May Come comes from a Greek myth? 

Yeah in essence it does.  Only he never gets her out.  He turns around and she is sucked back in.  He spends the rest of his life mourning her.

I don't know how she knows this stuff; she just does (to the voice in the background). 

To be fair I had to look up Orpheus' name.  But I knew the rest of it.  Why?  I read a lot as a kid, including the Iliad and the Odyssey.  In grade school.    And I have a memory like a steal trap.  Encourage your kids to read.  Someday, they might be able to answer a bunch of questions from a sibling.  :)

All in all the conversation left me feeling very good about myself and my brain.  With two little children I swear I am losing so much of my intelligence.  I don't feel half as smart as I used to think I was.  I appreciated that she called me to ask me these things instead of just looking them up on the Internet.  It gave me a chance to reach into the recesses of my memory and bring out some old data.  It's a very good exercise.

I haven't felt this brainy since I answered all the questions on the Trivia Pursuit card when I won last time I played my husband.  He had to ask me every question on the card after I answered the sports question correctly to see which one he should have picked, and then I answered each one correctly, and it blew his mind!

I really need to feel smart.  It is both a good thing and a bad thing.  I can offend some people with my need to be smart.  I can come off like a know-it-all.  In truth I know I don't know everything.  But I sure do like being right.  And that is a character flaw.

But at least tonight I got to feel like the brainy kid I used to be without offending anyone.  Thank you Tammy for allowing me the opportunity to answer your questions and for allowing me to be a know-it-all.  I sure had fun!

What the future may hold...

I suppose it is natural to speculate on who and what your children will grow to be.  As far as I am concerned, Charlie can be whatever he wants to be.

His father has plans though.  Plans that take Charlie along a path that would be his path if he had things to do over.  Military.  College.  Homeland Security.  Secret Service.

I don't see it.  I don't think that Charlie will be able to divorce himself from his responsibility to his brother.  At three he is already Jimmie's caretaker.  He helps me get diapers, and he picks up after Jimmie.  And he explains Jimmie to strangers.  I've heard him say many times when people speak to Jimmie, "He doesn't talk."  To my sister, when she opened the car door and greeted Jimmie, he said, "That's my brother.  He's a happy boy."   I can't see him protecting the president at the expense of  his own life, knowing his brother needs him. 

I also watch this very sensitive, loving young boy every day.  I see him tuck in his teddy bear and read it a story.  I see him pick up a notebook and pretend to be a doctor and clean his brother's feet.  I see him dress and undress the stuffed animals.  And yes I see him play with baseballs and hit them off the tee like a big league player, and throw footballs, and play with trucks in the dirt, and even play with toy guns.  But he's a boy.  That's how boys play.  And while that boy part is so very like his father, he is growing up knowing that his brother is not like other kids, and that he is somehow the "big" brother even though he is younger.  He gets it.

I don't think he will ever be in the secret service.

But if he should choose that path, then I will support it.