Another Happy Birthday

     On the heels of the October Birthday Bonanza is my mom's 93rd birthday on November 2. Our daughter, Rachel, was due on her birthday. Mom was hoping for a birthday buddy and a namesake. She was disappointed on both counts but welcomed her second grandchild and first granddaughter with an open heart. 

    "I had a good day with lots of phone calls and a visit from my sister, Jeanine," she sighed when she called me the next day. "But I am worn out with all the activity."

    "It's good you have a day to catch up and remember all your birthday greetings, Mom."

Looking for another picture from my childhood, I found this one. I was struck by the contentment and joy on my mom's face and the spontaneity of our pose. She was always happiest around children.

Mom was twenty-five in the summer of 1954 and waiting on my brother's birth in December. The pudgy-armed little girl was me before I turned two. My beautiful mom, with red hair and a ready smile, loved having children. Grandchildren were her second chance to love and be loved. Great-grandchildren were a bonus.

God's birthday blessings to you, Mom. You are loved.

Birthday Bonanza Part II

 
Last week’s blog left off with more promised October birthday recognitions. My sister-in-law’s birthday is sandwiched between mine and Rachel, my daughter’s birthday. Becky and my brother, Rick, celebrated forty years of marriage and three great kids and their spouses. She is a lovely, loyal, family-oriented woman who loves deeply and unselfishly. 

My daughter entered this world forty-seven years ago. My ex-husband completed his jump school as a paratrooper stationed in North Carolina. We packed our large Olds 88 with Eric, twenty-two months, my very pregnant tummy, and all our earthly goods and said tearful goodbyes to my parents, who we lived with in Illinois. Driving across the country, I looked in the back seat at Eric. He was wedged in his car seat between boxes in the back seat that threatened to engulf him. He traveled like a trooper with books and snacks to keep him occupied. 

We settled into a tiny two-bedroom trailer in a dumpy trailer park outside the base town. We had no friends or family. The round of doctors appointments, commissary shopping and base hospital orientation before the baby’s birth was dizzying. 

 I sat down, tired from unpacking, and Eric would come up to my tummy and pat me, saying, “My baby?”

“Yes, Eric. Do you want a sister or brother?” 

His hazel-brown eyes looked up, “A sisser, mommy. Ergie (how he pronounced his name) want a sisser.”

“So do I, Eric. Her name is Rachel.” I intuitively knew I was having a little girl. Ultrasound to determine the baby’s sex wasn’t commonly used until the 1980s.

He clapped his hands, danced around and sang, “I have a sisser. Ergie have a sisser!”

My ex tried to talk me into his mom coming to help, not my mom. Even though his mom was a lovely woman, I dug my heels in, and we fought. As I slammed the front door and walked the length of the dark gravel drive past the other lit trailers, I cried and told God I wanted to go home–to the familiar and supportive home we had left. I knew it wasn’t possible. I returned to the trailer, and he apologized and dropped his insistence for his mom to help. My mom flew out a week after Rachel was born.

Labor began in the middle of a Saturday night a week before my due date. We waited until morning and left Eric with a neighbor lady, sweet Weltha, whom we met when we moved in. After settling into the delivery room, the labor pains were closer together and grew intense but centered exclusively in my back. Even during excruciating back labor, the military nursing staff would not allow me out of bed. They caught me kneeling on the bed with my belly down to alleviate most of the pain. That was not authorized! Birthing experiences are vastly different now, thank the Lord. 

Relieved to be told it was time to push, I hee-hee-hee’d my way to greet our new daughter. She was perfect, healthy, whole and crying lustily with life.

At home, Rachel spent her waking hours in her infant seat. Eric was a rambunctious toddler. He tried to crawl into the seat with her and patted her face roughly.

“Be gentle, Eric. She’s a tiny baby.” I said nervously. I didn’t anticipate bringing home a second child would increase my work and worries. 

“My baby sisser, momma. Rae-rae, my baby!” he shouted proudly. The nickname Rae-rae suited her and stuck. She was and is our little ray of sunshine.

I look back with a long view to Rachel’s grade school years, turbulent teens and early adulthood giving birth to her two children. How can she be a grandma to one-year-old Levi, her son’s son? Impossible to grab hold of the fleeting passage of time. I am reminded to count my blessings from God, count them one by one, as the song says. The fourth verse is meaningful, adding hope to the beautiful and challenging times throughout the years. May these words give you hope as you look back.

“So, amid the conflict, whether great or small,

Do not be discouraged, God is over all;

Count your many blessings, angels will attend,

Help and comfort give you to your journey’s end.

Count your blessings, name them one by one; 

Count your blessings, see what God hath done.”

Composer, Johnson Oatman (1897)

Birthday Bonanza

 October is my birthday month, and my husband, daughter-in-law, great-grandson, grandson, sister-in-law and daughter’s birthdays too. We are in excellent company during this autumn season of change. 

October starts with my husband’s birthday, which is always low-key. Not a person to call attention to himself or enter fully into a celebration, I saw his slight upturn of a smile when our church’s small group sang ‘Happy Birthday, and he blew out the candle on his Reese’s Pieces cupcake. He entered in wholeheartedly as he ate his cupcake.

Our precious daughter-in-law, Liz, wife to Andy and mom to Liam, was the next day. After she immigrated from the Philippines to become our son’s wife and we spent a little time with her, I knew she was a precious soul, a jewel of a woman. I remember a week before their wedding when we shopped for wedding accouterments. She was unfamiliar with our American wedding traditions, so she listened politely and intently to my suggestions. After a lovely mother-daughter time at Hobby Lobby, we chatted over coffee. 

“I have something to ask you,” Liz said hesitantly. I braced myself for a difficult question, imagining it was something negative about Andy or our family.

“In the Philippines, we call our parents-in-law mom and dad. May I call you mom and dad now?” Looking at me with her expressive brown eyes, I looked back at her with tears stinging my eyes. 

“Of…of course,” I stammered. “I would be honored if you called me mom. And I can’t imagine Andy’s dad having any problem with being called dad.” 

Unknown to Liz, my tears came because past relationships with our ex-daughters-in-laws ended abruptly or were difficult. Over four years later, my affection and respect for Liz have not diminished but have grown stronger.

We celebrated the first birthday of our first great-grandson, Levi, by sending a message with a cute gif on Facebook Messenger, mailing a birthday card and enjoying the pictures posted on Facebook from his party. So big, so fast…how does that happen?

Liam, Andy and Liz’s son, turned three-years-old days before my birthday. We video-chatted without him because he was napping longer than usual. The medication for his fever and ear infection made him sleepy, and when he joined our video, he cried on his mom’s shoulder.

But then he stopped when he heard our voices, raised his head and gave us his thousand-watt Liam smile. So many people love that little boy with a smile that eclipses any sadness in a human heart, especially his grandma’s.

I woke up with sadness on the morning of the last year in my sixties (now you know how old I am). No event had precipitated this mood, just a general malaise. 

Not two cups of coffee could shake me out of it, nor reading the beloved words of Jesus, “Do not let your heart be troubled; believe in God, believe also in Me.” (John 14:1)

The mood dissipated as the day went on. Thankfulness rose in me as I thought about all my blessings in October, all the family born to us, enriching our lives together–even when we are all miles apart. My only sister-in-law's and only daughter’s birthdays are yet to come. 

I think there is a Birthday Bonanza Part II scheduled for next week.

It's a Red Chicken Day

 Our 15,673 days of marriage have changed the love of my life into a spoon-clicking cereal eater jumping on my last nerve. Before you hop on a rabbit trail to figure out how long we’ve been married, it’s about forty-three years. Our hope hangs on finished home construction by the end of the year. We’ve served sixteen of eighteen post-retirement months in a rented warehouse with an attached three-room apartment. It’s nice, but not the home we desire. 

My Dear Hubby (DH) and I had a fascinating conversation about Einstein’s theory of relativity to answer the question, “Why is time slowing down the closer we get to move-in day?”  Einstein’s theory, as an illustration, breaks down. Let me try another one.

Logically, we know we will move into our new home soon. Month by month, we watch the building progress through every construction phase. But we feel time slowing down. DH thought of the illustration of a donkey with a carrot in front of its nose. No matter how fast or slow time goes, our unfinished home is the carrot, and I am the grumpy donkey. Time creeps along. I know we will move in very soon, but during the last few months of construction, time feels like it is dragging. 

Despite my grumpy inner donkey, I found joy in an unexpected place. On the narrow road into our future subdivision, we drive past a mini-farm with a llama, two goats, a peacock and a variety of chickens in a small enclosure; black, brown, white and red chickens. I enjoy checking out the animals as they move in and out of the shelter near the back of the enclosure. On a grumpy donkey day, a running ruby-red chicken caught my attention. It was the only animal running lickety-split after the other chickens and underneath the llama. The joy I felt seeing the running red chicken put me in a good mood. 

DH asked what I was laughing about as he turned the corner. 

“I’m having a red chicken day!” He must have thought I had lost my mind.

What does a running red chicken have with impatience to move into our new home? 

No, I don’t want to keep chickens on our acreage. But I do want to find the funny joys in life. Be like a chicken, not a grumpy donkey and be blessed with a running red chicken day.

                    A Rhode Island Red Chicken

Not Too Early For a Christmas Memory

 A Christmas Gift In Disguise

    

Light snow falls in central Illinois throughout the day, delighting children and adults alike with the promise of snow angels and downhill sled runs. Our family of five counts twenty-four days until Christmas by opening the small windows on our paper advent calendar. Each window contained a short Bible verse about Jesus, the coming Messiah. Excitement builds among our grade school children as they list all the toys they want to get from Santa. Our ten-year-old son, Eric, anticipates performing the lead character in a play at church. During the last several weeks, he has memorized his lines and attended play practice. 

“Mom, my stomach hurts, and I’m hot,” Eric tells me about one week before the play. 

“Back to bed with you. I’ll get the aspirin and fix your toast. Does that sound good?” 

“Maybe it’s a 24-hour flu bug,” John, my husband, says hopefully.

I think aloud, “I hope so because Eric has been working hard on his part, and he would be so disappointed to miss the play.”

The following day, Eric broke out in spots over most of his body and our other two younger children, Rachel and Andy, started with fevers and stomach aches. Chickenpox, again!

“It can’t be,” I puzzle over the fact that all three had chickenpox during the summer, light cases that didn’t make them as sick as they are now. Their pediatrician confirms they can have chickenpox twice and must be quarantined two days past Christmas.

Christmas is canceled. No children’s play, no visits with Grandma and Grandpa and no Christmas Eve church service, our extended family’s holiday highlight. No playing in the snow and school Christmas parties for the kids. Everyone is in a disappointing funk. 

 Little itchy, red dots spread all over their bodies, worse than their summer bout. I scrambled to buy enough soothing anti-itch lotion and baking soda for their baths to alleviate their itchiness. Poor Rachel has pox covering the inside of her mouth. She eats cold foods and ice cream for several days as the illness continues. 

Nevertheless, their sickness may have canceled all the Christmas fun festivities, but all the pre-Christmas rush, stress and seasonal crankiness disappear. Instead, we got out the puzzles, played a gazillion board and card games, and watched movies. The children’s healthy recovery becomes our primary focus.  

The Lord Jesus’s appearance in our world came under challenging circumstances. No fanfare fit for a king, no clean palace with servants but a dirty stable and animal trough for a bed. His parents welcomed his miraculous birth with wonder and gratitude to God. The disruption of chickenpox blessed our family with precious time together away from the holiday hustle and bustle. As the snow melted with a promise of a white Christmas in the forecast, my disappointment transformed into gratitude to God for our children’s recovery and precious family time, a Christmas gift in disguise.

Becoming Country

 Relocating from Wisconsin to east-central Tennessee awakened my inner country girl. It’s all Pat and John’s fault. They introduced me to line dancing and horse riding. Line dancing wasn’t intimidating because I am a dancer and pick up steps fast. The music and exercise help me stay active and joyful. But I have not been on a horse since I was a teen.

“You’re too old, fat, and weak to ride,” I told myself. “You won’t be able to pull yourself up in the saddle, and you’ll probably fall when you dismount.” 

But Pat and John encouraged me to try. Pat and John’s Mafia-named horses, Doc, Romeo, Ted, and Vito, are stabled at their thirty-acre homestead. Last week’s blog pictured me on Doc with a huge smile. Doc is John’s Tennessee Walking Horse. He caught my attention from the four horses, and when John told me I could ride Doc, I was thrilled! 

It took two tries and a stool to mount, but I rode around the fenced enclosure after Pat's knowledgeable instruction. Thirty minutes on Doc went fast, but I dismounted on wobbly legs without falling. Stiffness plagued me the next day, but I was ready to ride again.

Instead, Pat texted our church friends asking for help to run fence. Initially, I thought running fence was riding the horses along the fence, rather than moving fencing, as in manual labor. Once Pat told me what they needed, I volunteered willingly. Frankly, I suspected I would just be underfoot since I had never run fence before.

The fall weather was cool and brilliant with sunshine, a perfect day to enjoy the outdoors and relief from summer’s humid heat. Invigorated and determined to rise, once again, above the challenge of my senior-aged body, I dressed in work clothes, boots and gloves. 

The fence portions that needed moving to form an open area were fastened to steel rods with rusted metal wire. The first few wires I untwisted were awkward until I could leverage the pliers against the steel rods. Even with a pinched finger and a stab of a barbed wire, I loved every minute of working outdoors and helping our friends. 

As Pat and I worked down the 150-foot length of fencing, we swapped concerns for friends and loved ones and a bit of gossip. Pat saw me eyeing her old tractor.

“When we finish the fence, you can drive the tractor.” 

I jumped at getting behind the wheel and driving around the field, waving at Pat like a kid.

I could hear my inside kid saying, "Hey mom, look at me drive the tractor! Am I doing good?"

She laughed at me and took pictures and a video–like a mom proud of her child succeeding at an unfamiliar task. What a great friend!

We took a break over Little Debbie pumpkin cookies and coffee at the house, ending our time together with a prayer for the concerns we raised and the precious family we have in each other. Tennessee keeps giving us surprising gifts of friendship and opportunities to be country people. 

Today, my John is helping Pat’s John with the next steps in running fence. Pat sent me the video of John’s joy on the back of John’s big tractor, losing his hat in the wind. 

 Becoming real country people takes more than one morning of outdoor work or thirty minutes riding a horse. Pat and John’s giving, fun-loving nature, which includes all their family and friends, is foundational to becoming country.

Our church small group (silly picture version) - John and Pat on the floor in the middle!

Moral Ambiguity

 Startled awake from a nightmare, I see 2:54 A.M. shine across the bedroom from our digital clock. A phrase forms in my mind as I move my legs to the side of the bed, getting my bearings before standing up. Crossing the cold tile floor to the bathroom, I recall parts of the dream and come to full alertness. Rats! Another middle-of-the-night start to my day. 

After finishing using the bathroom, I force myself to crawl back into bed, determined to stay there until I fall back asleep, but I can’t stop the whirling thoughts over the dream's content. I give up on my restless flopping fish dance. Thinking of strong, hot coffee and the phrase, moral ambiguity, I make my way to the kitchen.  

 With the first sip of coffee, I wrote the scenes in my writer’s notebook and thought about the meaning. The dream morphed rapidly through four settings that contained the same theme. A flood of toxic goo quickly rose in basements, but life was still going on as if it wasn’t a threat.

Moral ambiguity is uncertainty about whether something is right or wrong. The hardest part of the dream was my inability to warn people about their lack of standards, particularly God’s standards. A lack of moral standards means we have no standards but our own. When we don’t live for something and Someone more significant than ourselves, we grow inward, downward to a me-focused life. 

“Moral ambiguity leads to terminal hopelessness,” pinged around my mind like a sonar detecting a Japanese submarine in McHale’s Navy TV sitcom. I read another suicide account of a young, talented, up-and-coming actor every week. Terminal hopelessness is sweeping our nation, robbing our young of a full life.

 In The Magician’s Nephew from the Chronicles of Narnia, C. S. Lewis wrote about a fictional wood between the worlds. His description is a cautionary story of a place I avoid, where nothing happens and I don’t notice. 

“The strangest thing was that, almost before he had looked about him, Digory had half forgotten how he had come there. If anyone had asked him ‘Where did you come from?’ he would probably have said, ‘I’ve always been here.’ As he said long afterward, ‘It’s not the sort of place where things happen. The trees go on growing, that’s all.’”

The children, Digory and Polly, were caught in the wood between the worlds, between adventure and ambiguity. I choose God’s adventurous life and the creative life He gives me. Until my last breath.

My friends, Pat and John, introduced me to lovely Doc. My smile tells the whole story of a beautiful ride and generous friends.

God's Provision

     Our family of five, including three teens, moved to a nearby city, so that John, my husband, could attend engineering college–he was a late bloomer at thirty-five. All aspects of our hectic family life challenged us to stay connected. 

    During the first week of my new job, which would be our meager income for the first semester, I looked up from my bank teller station to see my boss walking toward me with a package in her hands and a smile on her face. 

“This delivery is for you, Nancy. I think it’s flowers”, Mary said.

Puzzled, I unwrapped the flower, a single peach rose, in a clear glass vase, my favorite color. My heart was full of joy over John’s loving gesture upon starting a new job and uncertain chapter.

Fast forward five years, an out-of-state move for John’s new job and a fresh start after three rough years of conflict behind us. Or so I thought.

Sitting in our large church sanctuary with over one hundred women, the excitement in the air created anticipation of what Linda Gregorino, the keynote speaker, would say. I don’t remember what she said. Discouragement blanketed me, and I felt like I had no one in my corner to help me fight a battle to regain closeness with John, lost during his college years. 

After she spoke, Linda picked up her tapestry bag and slowly walked the aisles handing out an item and words of encouragement. I knew she wouldn’t be handing me anything in my unworthy state. 

She headed toward my pew, stopped and looked in my direction. 

Reaching into her bag, she pulled out an imitation peach rose and said, “It’s been a long time since you received a rose.”

Linda heard my gasp of astonishment and saw my tears fall. She had no way of knowing the significance of a single peach rose as she quickly moved to the next recipient of her gifts. 

God spoke to my spirit, “Your husband may have forgotten, but I will never forget you.” I was wrapped up in God’s love, secure in being known and unforgotten.

Many years have passed with many gifts of flowers from my John. We are closer than ever.

Just when we think no one knows our struggles and sadness, God provides His reassurance in unique ways. Thank you, Linda Gregorino, and thank you, Father God. 

“Now to Him who is able to do far more abundantly beyond all that we ask or think.” (Ephesians 3:20)

                                                            Photo by Jessica Johnston on Unsplash

Tech Envy

 After forty-three years of marital bliss, my dear hubby’s (DH) love affair makes no sense. She gives him accurate information in a silky-voiced response to his questions. I’ve developed an intense dislike of her intrusion into our lives. I know her. Her name is Siri.

He plugs in his phone, and she confirms with a sultry, “Charging.”

He tells her, “Good morning,” and she complies by turning on specific lights. Grudgingly, I find this feature helpful when my hands are full coming into a dark apartment.

I say, “Hey, Siri. Goodnight.” The lights turn off. 

She cleverly sucks me in by conveniently playing my favorite Celtic music. But we’ll never be friends.

DH asks her for the current dew point, and she responds coyly, “I found this information for you on the web.” I feel strangely mollified by Siri’s indirect answer while DH is frustrated with her indirect information.

 I remember the day I confronted him about his blooming dependence on Siri. My tears flowed upon the realization that Siri is in his life, never to vanish. She has the upper hand–uh, wire.

Tech gadgetry increases when DH is bored. It’s not only Siri. DH delights in investing in new tech to scare the peewadden out of me. 

I dropped him off at our home building site yesterday to wait for our front door delivery.  He takes a book because internet connections are limited in the boonies. A couple of hours without his precious Siri is good for him while I drive back into town for groceries. 

Pulling the car into our garage, I unload groceries. Before I open the door to the apartment, someone faintly calls my name. The voice is eerie and soft. I furrow my brow and ignore the voice, thinking it might be my cell phone in the car. But I didn’t hear it ring. 

After I unload groceries and walk back into the garage, again, I hear someone softly call my name. I can not find the source. It sounds like DH, but his voice sounds faint and eerie. Was he communicating from the great beyond? Did he fall at the property and need help?

“Camera. Look at the camera”, he says softly. 

Of course! When we moved in, he mounted a camera in the garage. Later in the day, I discovered he tested the remote ability to talk through the camera. We had a long ‘discussion’ about his glee over scaring me half to death. There is never a dull moment in our lives together. 

But paybacks are sweet when DH hears my Siri's voice, a husky Aussie who I named Wallaby. What’s good for the goose is good for the gander.

Writing Prompt

     Sometimes I’m without a clue about what to write. I live an active life that provides many stories, right? This past week, the words stuck inside my head.

I bought an intriguing book titled “300 Writing Prompts” months ago. Answering the first prompt challenges me. 

“Have you ever spoken up when you saw something going on that was wrong? Were you scared? What ended up happening?” 

     

 I intervened in my children’s fights when they grew up at home. No problem. Keeping one kid from killing another is a standard parental expectation. I don’t speak up in public situations with strangers because confrontations are risky in these times of polarized opinions. You never know if someone is gonna pull out a gun. But the conflict at my former workplace that came to mind is different.

Max, a new laborer, shows up at the park most mornings smelling of booze. I was his co-worker, not his boss, and avoided involvement with Max’s drunkenness. I hear a chainsaw start outside our office window and, with horror, watch as my drunk co-worker wields a chainsaw—several large trees near our office building are scheduled for removal. Will he drop a tree on someone, the office building, or injure himself? 

Steve, his crew boss, knows he drinks before work; nevertheless, he stands by Max to assist, as required in park protocol. I see no sign that Steve tries to stop Max’s use of the chainsaw. I can’t turn a blind eye to the potential hazards.

Nervously, I call the park manager. 

“Ben? This is Nancy at the office. I know you are working at the west seventy, but you should know about Max.”

“What about him?” Ben shouts into his radio as the transmission threatens to break up.

“He checked into work this morning smelling like alcohol. Is he scheduled to take down trees by the office?”

“Oh no! Isn’t Steve stopping him?”

“I don’t think so. Steve is standing by as he works the chainsaw.” Ben could hear the chainsaw in the background.

“I’ll be right there.” 

I sigh with relief as the chainsaw stops, then startle when Steve slams open the door to the office, making a beeline to radio Ben. I overheard Steve say to Ben, “I told Max to stop, and he would not listen again.” 

When Ben arrives at the office, they take Max to the maintenance shop for a private conversation. I learn later that Ben fires Max. He received several warnings about drinking on the job. Even though I didn’t have all the facts, I took appropriate action. Thank the Lord that no one was injured.

I confessed to Steve that I thought he allowed Max to do something risky, which is why I panicked and called Ben. 

“You know me better than that, Nancy. Safety first around machinery, right?” he grinned and thanked me for having his back. 

 Even Ben, who rarely gives compliments, thanks me for the radio call. 

And I didn’t assume that my older child instigates arguments with the younger sibling. Sometimes the “baby” provokes their older siblings and gets more than they expect. Having all the facts is necessary before intervening.

View From the Heights

The primary purpose of our trip to Chattanooga, Tennessee, was to pick out countertops for our kitchen and bathrooms. Adding a few days to explore Chattanooga offered a break from our daily routine. Several friends recommended attractions, including the Tennessee Aquarium and the Incline Railway to Lookout Mountain. Driving to our Airbnb on Chattanooga’s east side, we wound our way along Missionary Ridge up steep streets and arrived at the charming restored cottage on a quiet street, La Petite Chateau. 

With an early start the following day, we rode on the Incline Railway, which rose sharply to a 2000-foot rocky cliff on the city's west side, Lookout Mountain. In several places during the ten-minute ride, the car rode at a seventy-eight-degree incline. Spectacular views of Chattanooga wowed us as the railcar moved steadily upward. 

After arriving at the station and passing through the souvenir shop, we walked three short blocks to Point Park, part of Chattanooga National Military Park. Restored southern homes lined the ridge as we stopped several times to take in the view of the city from the heights. I breathed deeply and gratefully for this time of exploration with John, absorbing man’s inventiveness and God’s stunning creation.

As we approached the park entrance gate, John asked, “Hey, hon, do you still have your National Park Pass in your wallet?”

“Yes, I do. Let’s ask if the park accepts it.” They did. Senior passes have their perks. 

We strolled around the tranquil park, reading the interpretive plaques describing the battles and casualty counts between the Union and Confederacy, a grim reminder of the Civil War’s consequences. The sheer drop to the Tennessee river below and hazy skies evoked a haunted feeling.

Reese, a volunteer park guide, delivered a spell-binding narrative of the Chickamauga and Chattanooga battles of 1863 as we gathered near the Confederate cannons. The primary engagement for Chattanooga was not fought on the heights of Lookout Mountain but spread out below among the bends of the Tennessee River valley. The Confederate soldiers watched from the relative safety of the mountain as their side lost the battle to maintain a strategic railway supply junction. The troop’s demoralized loss gave way to solemn reflection.

“I am amazed that a disastrous decision by one unpopular Confederate general swung the war in the Union’s favor,” John stated thoughtfully. “How can one man’s ill-timed maneuvers turn the tide of a major offensive?”

I added, “The troops on top of the mountain watched their side lose the skirmish and had no recourse to aid their fellow troops. They eventually gave up hope and retreated off the mountain. How sad, but they lived another day to fight and die.”

This verse came to mind.

“The name of the Lord is a fortified tower; the righteous run to it and are safe.” (Proverbs 18:10 NIV)

I considered the death and destruction in the valley, for the Civil war men and myself. I’ve dwelled in turmoil down below which all of us experience. 

In the wisdom of His perfect timing, my Father lifts me out of suffering, and I gain a clearer understanding of the valley of the shadow of death. Witnessing the battle from His high standpoint brings peace. And when my soul is at peace with God, love flows freely to battle-weary friends and family. This life becomes more about the needs of others than my hopelessness to help. Surrender to the authentic character of God and run into his safe tower on the heights.

Still Horse Crazy

             As a life-long animal lover, horses were no exception in my affections. I had one problem as a young girl. Horses in central Illinois were kept on farms. My Aunt and Uncle’s pig and grain farm near Coal City, Illinois, was this city girl’s only exposure to farm life. 

We knew what fun awaited us after Uncle Roger finished a day’s work in the field or pig barn. After we helped Aunt Nonie clean up the dishes from a meal of fried chicken, mashed potatoes, corn on the cob and berry cobbler with a dollop of vanilla ice cream, a tractor ride was great entertainment for city kids. 

Uncle Roger climbed nimbly on the green John Deere after he lifted us into place. Who would he pick to ride on his lap and steer the noisy, diesel-smelling tractor in the fields down bumpy corn rows? Usually, it was a younger child that he needed to secure inside the tractor so that they wouldn’t fall off. I remember him putting me on the tractor step and saying, “Just hold on tight, Nancy!” Bumping down the cornrow, the rough corn stalk leaves slapped me on the leg while smaller leaves tickled.

My week on the farm with Aunt, Uncle, cousins, pigs and cats was ideal, except for the absence of a horse to ride.

I can count on one hand the number of times I rode a pony wheel ride at a fair, but riding in a circle for a few minutes with a tired horse tethered to a steel wheel was boring and unfair to the pony. Still, the horse was living, unlike the plastic motorized rocking horses outside the grocery store that moved after Mom or Dad put a dime in the slot. But I could dream.

In the summer, we drove to southern Illinois to my dad’s Uncle, who kept animals. Still horse-crazed at age twelve, the tawny horse in front of me was a dream come true. Overcome with excitement, I barely heard Uncle ask me if I wanted to ride the horse.

Trixie was free to roam their yard. As I walked to her head and tentatively reached out, Uncle encouraged me to talk to Trixie.

“Tell her what a sweet, fine horse she is. Let her hear your voice and smell you.” 

I was intimidated standing by a giant horse but too excited not to follow Uncle’s instructions. The feeling of climbing into the saddle and grabbing the horn was exhilarating. Trixie’s sweat-stained saddle creaked and smelled of saddle soap--and sweat. Uncle kept the reigns and led me around while giving me important riding instructions. 

“Don’t pull hard on the reigns, and don’t kick Trixie’s side. She is not Lone Ranger’s horse, Silver. She’s older, gentle, and will take you for a nice ride around the yard.”

Still, visions of riding hard and fast to get help for Jimmy stuck in a well with a snake bite flitted through my mind. Maybe the tan and white Rough Collie, Lassie, would bound across the yard and join us on an adventure. 

Uncle let me ride for many happy hours, but it may have been only thirty minutes in reality. With his help, I dismounted. My legs were wobbly. I would never trade the time I spent on gentle Trixie over the soreness I felt the following day. Wow, I was sore!

In Tennessee, horses are all over and not limited to country farms. You may keep a horse if you have a minimum of five acres. Our friends have four beautiful horses on thirty acres that they generously let their friends ride. My riding time is ahead after hot summer days turn into cool fall, and the flies are not troublesome for horses and riders. 

I will get up the morning after riding stiff and sore, but my soul will ride into the sunset with the Lone Ranger and Silver. Hi ho, Silver–away!

What I think I look like on a horse!

What I hope doesn't happen!