christmas

It's Christmas time in the mountains.  I know this because every radio station is playing Christmas carols.  I know this because it gets dark so early and many houses on my drive home are decked out in festive lights.  I know it's Christmas time because of the insane traffic around the mall and the long line of cars heading into the Biltmore House.

The Biltmore House is a wonderful place to get into the Christmas spirit.  When I am independently wealthy I am going to go to the Biltmore House every December for a day or two.  I will wander from room to room soaking up each decorated tree and downtown abby detail.  Years ago, I was given a year long pass to the Estate.  I decided to take my two little boys (still at a free age!) for a morning at Biltmore and began filling their minds with tales of the Christmas trees, gingerbread houses and the hot chocolate we would drink afterwards. 

Unfortunately the boys were at a "seen one tree, you've seen them all" phase in their little boyness.  By the third room they began a campaign to head to the super cool Starbucks we had passed right outside the Lodge Gate.  We saw the house at break neck speed and soon were burning our tongues on rich, hot chocolate.  Which is when the boys declared this to be a great morning out.

Part of my Biltmore nostalgia stems from the fact that those two little boys are growing up so fast!  But also because I am halfway through a book about the history and people of this grand estate.  I'm fascinated with the world traveling woman who fell in love with Asheville and the mountains and moved into Biltmore to make it a home.

"Edith Stuyvesant Dresser was a woman of strength and supreme self-confidence.  She was tall - nearly six feet -with prominent features, brown hair , and dark hazel eyes.  Edith was twenty-five, clearly independent and living in Paris with an older sister when she married George Vanderbilt, who was then thirty-five.  Though Edith was raise in New York and Newport with no knowledge of the southern Appalachian, she came to share her husband's appreciation of the North Carolina mountains and the people who lived there." Lady on the Hill, page 40

And just when I feel like my Christmas is getting too hectic and I can't drag myself into another store, Edith inspires again.

"Edith was friendly and approachable.  Every worker on the estate and members of their families saw her at least once a year at the traditional Christmas party when her husband distributed presents from under the Biltmore tree.  Preparations began in October, with Edith circulating among the farm families to update the names and ages of children so that each would have a gift.  Some years she personally selected more than fifteen hundred presents for employees, former employees, and their families; saw that they were wrapped; and stashed them safely in one of the tower rooms until Christmas Day." - Lady on the Hill, page 41

I love picturing the joy on those children's faces!  I don't have Edith's budget but I can hang on to her thoughtfulness, personalization and giving spirit as I head into this holiday season.

And in that spirit, here is a beautiful December prayer -

Christ of the Christmas Morning
Hope is one of your best gifts to us
So teach us to give it to others
---An Adapted Celtic Prayer

chaos, crickets and cheesy macaroni

Steve bought Josh an African Bull Frog for his birthday.  This was not my idea of a good time.  I felt that the last thing we needed was another mess-making creature in the house.  But Josh loves all things nature.  So Steve arranged a terrarium with bark and moss and water and turned the light on. And twice that evening Josh led me by the hand into his room saying "look how beautiful it is mom."  So my hard heart was melted.

For a while.  Frogs have to eat and recently it's been too cold for Josh to find crickets outside.  So last week I begrudgingly stopped at a pet store and bought 20 wiggling crickets.  And yes I was muttering the whole time.  Only to get home and find out that Steve had also brought home 20 crickets.  We put the 40 crickets in the cricket cage next to the frog home.

The next morning right before school I heard a crash.  We ran upstairs to find that our puppy had chased our cat upstairs.  And our cat had gotten enthralled with the jumping crickets and knocked their cage down to get a closer look.  And now, 20 minutes before school started, there were almost 40 crickets, a cat and a dog on the loose.

This is my life.  More often than I'd like to admit.  Chaos.  Everyone catching crickets. Leaves tramped in all over the floors.  Laundry piles.  A kitchen that looks like a hurricane hit.   I am a person who craves order and structure and peace.  I long for a cricket free life. Too bad for me....

I read in Real Simple this summer that you should make your bed first thing because it increases your energy level and establishes control from the core of your house.  I have made my bed every morning since.  Though my room looks nice, I'm still waiting to achieve core control.

I recently found this quote -"You've got to embrace the chaos.  That way, life just astonishes you." (is this wisdom really from Hot Tub Time Machine?)  So as I chase crickets, I am practicing flexibility and embracing chaos.

On Sunday night Jake's mattress was still downstairs from our family Friday night sleep over.  He was too tired to haul it upstairs so he grabbed his blankets and headed to the guest room.  Josh woke up 30 minutes later complaining that the crickets were chirping from their cage.  So he came downstairs and fell asleep on Jake's mattress in my room.  I took my computer to the living room while Steve fell asleep in the man cave watching football.   11 pm on Sunday night, the crickets were causing problems again and no one was in their right beds.  A little chaos and I am just ready to be astonished.

But the best lesson in flexibility came Monday morning.  My nephew Gabe turned 7.  As he typically does, he requested macaroni and cheese when asked what he wanted to eat.  And as usual his mother reminded him that macaroni and cheese is not a breakfast food.  My mom was there and whispered that Jenny should shock him and fix it for his birthday breakfast.  So Monday morning, the birthday boy walked into his kitchen to discover the most out of order, unstructured, delicious mac and cheese breakfast of all times.  He was astonished.  And thrilled.

Hearing about it melted my cricket chasing heart again.

by name

I'm spending all my Monday nights this fall at Gardner Webb University.  That's me on the second floor of  the School of Divinity in a class called The Life and Work of a Minister.  

Our teacher is the wonderful, practical, creative Lisa Allen.  But on the first night of class, Dr. Allen told us we had to learn each other's names. She talked about how taking the time to learn a name is an act of caring.  At least I think that's what she was saying.  I was too busy looking around at the 26 strangers sitting in the room and panicking to listen to her.  Then I realized that she couldn't be talking to me.  I am bad at remembering names.  And while these students have many classes together, eat in the cafeteria together, play in the gym together, I just drive 3 hours one time a week and rush in and out.  So whew.  I was off the hook. I sat back and enjoyed the introductions as they went in one ear and out the other.

Until week three of class.  When Dr. Allen asked us to take out a piece of paper and list every one's name.  She was serious about this?  Oh dear.  I knew two names.  And one I wasn't sure about.

Tianna, Faith

I guess I wasn't the only one fumbling.  Because we went around the room again.  Reintroducing ourselves, sharing our church affiliation, current employment and nick names.  As we went, I frantically made a seating chart with names and identifying reminders in case people moved.  And I started practicing during class when people spoke up.

Toni, Kevin, Horace, Tony, 

Week four I walked into class and two people greeted me by name.  It struck me how comforting the sound of my name was in an unfamiliar place.  We broke into small groups and talked about family scripts and myers briggs testing.  "Erin, are you an introvert or extrovert?" a group member asked.  Another person asked how long my drive from Asheville took.  I stopped feeling invisible and starting feeling like I belonged here.

Jefferson, Tyler, Sherin, Jo, Rachel, Sherri, 

Last week I mentally went around the classroom practicing names.  I realized that Hugh was missing.  Then remembered that he was having surgery today.  I wondered how he was doing and said a prayer for him.  I admired how much detail Travis put into his presentation.  I noticed how Rachel takes the time to respond to each of our comments on blackboard.  And I thought about this quote I love from Scott Peck.  "The principal form that the work of love takes is attention.  When we love another person we give him or her our attention; we attend to that person's growth."

Kimberlee, Keith, Elizabeth, Chelsea, Onika, Hugh, George,

Tonight we celebrated All Saints day.  We shared stories about a person who impacted us and has passed on.  Then Dr. Allen asked us to raise up our hands as she prayed for us and the ones who have inspired us.  Twenty six fellow students, learning to minister better, healthier.  Twenty seven of us standing together, hands raised, heads bowed in prayer.  Coming from twenty seven different places to this room.  And for these three hours growing more connected, more intertwined.

Gerald, Anthony, Jeremy, Keno, Travis, and Terry.  Just to name a few of my friends....

“Do not fear, for I have redeemed you; I have called you by name; you are mine." Isaiah 43:1

sanctuaries

I'm sitting in the middle of a big king sized bed, in front of a huge sliding glass door.  

From that door I watched my 3 guys kayak out on a fishing trip early this morning.  I watched the sun rise over the water and marshes a little while later.  Around me on the bed are books, magazines, my lap top.  But for now I'm just staring out the window, holding as still as I can, breathing, being, feeling myself fill back up.

This week is our family vacation at one of my favorite places on earth.  Manteo, Outer Banks.  I love it for so many reasons.  The beautiful beaches and sand dunes are surprisingly remote and uncrowded.  My boys have an endless stream of activities - swimming in the pool, riding bikes, fishing, kayaking, body surfing the waves, etc.  The area is packed with history, from the Wright Brothers, to the Colonists and Indians, to Pirates.  Manteo is the cutest, little town.  Steve and I wander the streets some evenings exploring piers and trying new restaurants.  I made the boys drive into town with me one morning to try an old fashioned coffee shop.  We sat on the porch drinking mocha lattes and Josh said "If I had known this is what pastries tasted like we would have come a lot sooner." Nights often include a giant Monopoly game that only Papa and Grandma Sandy have the patience to play with the boys.  A perfect week of happy togetherness.

And then there is the quiet. The peaceful quiet of the house when every one is out playing.  The deafening quiet of the beach where all I can hear is the crashing waves.  The quiet kitchen where I have plenty of time to create sustenance for the never still boys. The quiet boardwalks through the marshes where I exercise.  And the quiet window in our bedroom where I sit and think.

I'm my best self here.  I'm relaxed and creative.  I'm adventurous and flexible.  I wish I was always like this.  Some of my quiet time here has been pondering the leaks in my life that drain me of this feeling of peace.

There are some leaks that are unavoidable - I love my job, but it's tough.  A regular influx of more money would plug some big cracks.  As would never having to worry about the health and well being of the people I love.  There are always going to be leaks.

But as I look back over the summer, I realize that some leaks are my fault.  I still say yes to too many things.  I let fear in.  I let my margins get too small.  My priorities get screwy.  And I wait for vacations to find sanctuary.

I'm planning more sanctuary time - in big ways and little ones. On my list -
Declutter my bedroom and pull my chair back in front of the window 
          -so it's more like my beach room.
Plan healthy meals ahead of time when it's fun instead of in last minute stress
Say "Let me think about it" and "no" instead of "yes"
More girl movies 
Realize all my mini sanctuaries - a walk along the French Broad, drives on the parkway, hot baths...
Turn off the radio, the TV, the computer
Practice gratitude every day.

I love this quote from Eugene Peterson in Leap Over A Wall.
Wonderful things happen in sanctuaries.  On the run we stop at a holy place and find that there's more to life than our circumstances and feelings indicate at that moment.  We perceive God in and around and beneath us.  New life surges up within us.  We discover a piece of our lives we had thought long gone restored to us, remember an early call of God, a place of prayer, a piece of evidence that God saves.  We leave restored, revived, redeemed. 

To the beach and beyond!

moonshine

I learned a lot about alcohol this week.  Maybe it's the weather.  Or the lack of big news.  Or the need to numb a hospice diagnosis.  But this week my people had booze on the brain, and I heard some fun stories.

Larry told me about growing up with a still in the woods behind his house.  Sure, it was illegal, but it seemed that every one of his father's friends had one too.  Larry knew of men who  brewed huge batches of the "white lightening" and modified their cars to smuggle it on the back country mountain roads between Asheville and Knoxville or Atlanta.  These shine runners would tell stories of alluding and outrunning police.  They would brag about who had the faster car.  Larry told me this is how stock car racing began, and how many nascar legends started out as shine runners.  

But their family still was a small one.  Just big enough for a few batches of moonshine for special occasions.  Larry got that far away look on his face just thinking about it.  "Good, strong stuff my dad made.  Would bring tears to a grown man's eyes trying to swallow it."

William told me about his first assignment in the Navy. He rode the train from Arkansas to New Jersey.  Then got assigned to what would be affectionately called "the booze boat."  His war time task was to sail around Florida, through the Panama Canal, past California, and then to the Hawaiian Islands delivering cases of beer to the soldiers stationed in various ports.  "I really lucked out." William reminisced.  "Other boys were shooting guns and getting parts blown off.  I was passing out boxes of booze and being treated like a hero. The only problem was the last delivery was minus a few cases".  He says with a smirk.

Hambone (no joke, that's what he likes to be called) worked as a logger in Washington state for years.  Then he ended up in North Carolina building houses.  Before he knew it, he was in his sixties, and wasn't bouncing back from hard manual labor like he once had.  For almost a decade he dreamed about retirement, about time off and freedom.  Two months after Hambone turned 71, he quit his job.  Cold turkey.  Just walked up to the foreman on a Friday afternoon and announced that he was done.  He stopped by a liquor store on the way home and bought a fifth of whiskey and a bottle of rum.  That evening he sat in front of his TV doing shots until he passed out.  Sunday afternoon Hambone woke up feeling awful.  He said to himself "I don't like being retired one bit."  Monday morning he headed to an Asheville nephew's business and offered his woodworking skills. Which he did six days a week for ten years, until he joined hospice.

I sat with Josephina and Albert in a small nursing home room.  Josephina spends hours every day here offering Albert sips of water, trying to keep him from getting out of his wheelchair or falling out of bed.  She talks about better days when Albert's mind was sharp and he could still say her name.  Their eight children visit often, but their dad rarely recognizes them anymore.  Bert Jr. comes every Thursday night at 6 pm.  He decided he would make it a habit whether his dad knew he was there or not.  Every Thursday at 6 he shows up with two beers and takes his dad to the porch to sit in adjoining rocking chairs while they drink together.  This morning, Wednesday morning, right before I visited, Albert turned to Josephina and said the first intelligible thing he'd said in three months.  "Is today Thursday?  I need to see Bert."

What a crazy job I have.  To walk into people's homes and rooms and memories.  To hear what is on their hearts. To learn and laugh and groan and encourage them to keep talking.  Keep telling their stories.  Because we couldn't make these stories up if we tried.  But I sure do enjoy hearing them.

lunch

I'm making sandwiches again.  With two hungry boys in the house it never ends.  At least four times a day I am trying to come up with something fast, easy and basic to meet their preferences, moods and hunger levels.  Or directing them to help themselves to cereal or left overs.  Or revising my shopping list. And I'm often frazzled by it.  Frustrated.  Then I heard this story....

Pete was a teenager in Asheville in the 1940's.  His dad worked long hours on the railroad.  His mother worked long hours washing clothes for her eight children and keeping them from starvation.  They lived a basic, pleasant, solid life with no frills.

The best way Pete could help was to get a job.  He only had to put out the word that he was available, and a couple days later a young man stopped by the house to speak to him.  Mr. Swain ran his family's farm four miles away and was struggling to keep up with the work now that his brother had left home.  He had two uncles that helped, but he needed a strong, young worker.  Pete was hired.

Pete would leave home early in the morning.  His mom would hand him a biscuit filled with a slice of meat to eat on his four mile walk to work.  Pete arrived at the Swain farm ready to work hard. He would do some basic chores and then hitch up the horses and start ploughing the surrounding fields. For the next five hours, Pete followed the team of horses readying the fields.  The sun beat down.  The ground was tough.  By lunch time Pete was sweaty and worn out.  And then the dinner bell would ring.  It became Pete's favorite sound in the world.

Mrs. Swain was a young farm wife.  She was a hard worker, and an enthusiastic cook.   She took the responsibility of feeding all the farm hands lunch and responded with passion and skill.  Her large, sturdy dining table comfortably sat six - She and Mr. Swain, the two uncles, a hired neighbor and Pete.  There was usually a vase of flowers on the table, pitchers of cool water and milk.  And platters of food.  Every day so much delicious food.  A couple of vegetables, fresh from the garden or canned, seasoned perfectly.  Potatoes in many different forms.  A crock of flavorful beans.  There was always a main dish of meat, warm and hearty.  There was a bread dish covered with a cloth that held homemade bread, or cornbread, or biscuits or rolls.  There was freshly churned butter.    And dessert.  Always a dessert.  Cookies maybe.  Or apple pie.  Or berry cobbler.  Or chocolate cake.  Pete spent the mornings behind the horses wondering what might be on that lunch table that day when he pulled his chair up.

There was always plenty of food.  Seconds.  Thirds even.  Always good conversation in that sunny, cheerful kitchen.  Plus a few minutes to rest before the men headed back out to the fields for the afternoon.  And then Pete would walk the four miles home.

Seventy years later, Pete's farm lunch memories still bring a smile to his face.  They make me want to plan better and try harder to give my little farm hands more happy times around a nurturing, creative table.

first impressions

"You never get a second chance to make a good first impression."  - Will Rogers

I've been thinking about first impressions lately.  Mostly because I don't always trust mine.  When Kelly Ripa announced that Michael Strahan was her new cohost I was so disappointed.  My first impression was that he was goofy, lite and so unRegisy.  A few months later, after seeing numerous snippets of the show while charting or in patient's rooms, my feelings have totally changed.  Michael is funny and warm and solid.  A great partner for Kelly, and I love to watch them together.  I had the same change of heart with Willie Giest on the Today Show, and Kerry Washington from Scandal.  From skeptical to a raving fan.  So I wonder about first impressions.

I also think about first impressions because it is regularly my job to make good ones.  At work I've got a phone call and a visit to convince a family that they would benefit having a chaplain.  Even if they already have an involved pastor or the only religious people they know scream about hell and want their money.  Just a few minutes of impression time to low key/big sell my way into the end of their lives.

I do it with my hobby career too.  A local wedding venue gives my name to couples getting married who don't have an officiant to do the wedding.  We "blind date" meet at a local coffee shop and I have just a few minutes to make them comfortable while convincing them that I know more about making their wedding fantastic than anyone else they could find.  I only have one shot to make a favorable impression.

And then there is this little brown puppy - 

Last October we were still grieving over the loss of our 9 year old white french bull dog.  I was in no hurry to replace her, when my mother-in-law Sandy called about a great deal on bull dog puppies in her area.  This was too good a deal to pass up.  I made a phone call and learned there was one girl puppy left, a brown one.  And she could go any minute.  Steve was out of town, so I just had to go for it.  It was too soon.  She wasn't the color I wanted.  But she was available and affordable.   I sent a down payment and made plans to drive the 2 hours to check her out that weekend.

I made the trip with Sandy and my son Josh.  The whole trip was full of speeches from me.  We weren't going to rush into this.  We were going to spend some time with this puppy and see if she was a fit for our family.  This was going to be Dad's dog and we didn't even have to get her today.  If we had any questions we would get part of our deposit back and wait for the right dog.  I needed both of them to be very critical and observant and to give me their honest feedback.  We needed to remember that all puppies are cute and not to be swayed by that.  We were probably not going to even get her today....

Finally we arrived at the kennel.  Somehow I was a few steps ahead of Sandy and Josh as we reached the front door.  The woman I had talked to opened the door.  As I was stepping in, a tiny ball of brown french bulldog tore across the room and jumped paws first up on my leg.  I looked down into her big brown eyes.

And that was it for me.  I turned around to Sandy and Josh, still walking up the path.  "We are taking her." I called.  "She is perfect."  (Sandy is still laughing at me about this.)

Aggie just turned one.   We haven't regretted our choice for a second.  She is the sweetest, most cuddly and precious dog imaginable.   She'd have to be to so throughly win over my non-animal loving heart. 

Talk about a great first impression!