Journal of a Living Lady #351
Nancy White Kelly
I haven’t screamed so loudly since I was a ten-year-old running away from a charging bull in a Mississippi pasture. My voice is still squeaky. It all happened so suddenly.
I was sitting at my computer catching up on email when Chipper, our vocal Cockatiel, starting shrieking new bird talk from his front porch perch. Sam, the cat, was purring on my lap so I knew those two were not engaged in claw and beak warfare.
Our small harem of pet hens and the sole rooster roam freely in the yard during the day. From the frantic commotion, it was obvious that something bad was happening or about to. I pushed Sam from my lap and ran out the back door.
Rocky, our sixteen-month-old German shepherd, was having the best chase game of his young life. He had the upper paw. Henny Penny was hemmed up against the fence with no place to go.
I hurried to the creek edge, yelling and running at the same time. It was time for an instant battlefield decision. Charge through the muddy creek water to pull Rocky away from the defenseless hen or hope he would obey the new “come” command we had been practicing.
“Come.” Rocky glanced toward me, obviously annoyed.
“Rocky, come,” I screamed again.
He cocked his head again. What nerve I had to ask him to stop playing and return to his mistress. After the third vocal command in an octave I didn’t know I had, Rocky obeyed. He released the chicken and jumped across the creek. Feathers flowed from his smiling mouth as he sat before me.
I know I was supposed to congratulate him and get all mushy about his canine obedience, but I wasn’t in the mood. Do you give a lollipop to a two-year old who returns to you rather than run into the street in front of a coming car?
I was glad Rocky came, but mad at the same time. My heart was still pounding as I drug him by his collar to his night pen behind the Coin Shop. He was confused at my lack of affirmation and affection, but his psychological well-being wasn’t too concerning to me right now. Henny Penny needed my attention.
I rushed back but was unable to get to her without wading the creek. The little red hen was alive, but sat motionless in obvious shock. Other than a vacant patch of naked skin on her back, there didn’t seem to be any serious damage done.
I decided Henny Penny could wait there until Buddy returned from town. I headed for our cool bedroom to recuperate. What an unexpected, adventurous morning.
I remembered the last time I had such a rush of adrenaline. Buddy and I were ruthless tennis players at the height of the tennis craze in the 70’s. We enjoyed week-end amateur tournaments. The most memorable one was when we dueled with an 80-year-old tennis player and her friend. It was a random draw. Buddy and I smugly grinned, assured that the first round of doubles would be a rout.
The hunched-back little lady and her senior friend could have passed for escapees from the Old Folks Home. No problem. They beat us handily. We meekly left the court in disgrace with a life lesson well-learned. Never underestimate an opponent.
Rocky is fine. The trainer comes tomorrow to help us teach him that chicken-chasing is a “no-no.” As for Henny Penny, we haven’t found her yet.
Thursday, July 09, 2009
Saturday, June 27, 2009
Journal of a Living Lady #350
Nancy White Kelly
You probably know the old saw that everything happens in threes. I’m not superstitious, but I if I were, I would be concerned about entering my third week of threes.
A couple of weeks ago, in rapid succession, Buddy had a crick in his neck that was so bad he saw a chiropractor twice and a medical doctor once. The doctor gave him a shot in his neck that hurt but helped. $$$
Rocky, the German shepherd dog that our son Bobby gave us at Christmas is now sixteen months old. He is as smart and adventuresome as they come. He began limping badly and our conclusion was that he tried to dig under the pasture fence and got pricked by a piece of subterranean barb wire. I gave him penicillin shot in hopes it would cure any infection he might have with high hopes of avoiding a vet visit.$$$
Then it was my turn. I developed that nasty ole stomach virus that kept me hugging the toilet every fifteen minutes for nearly twelve hours. I would have had to die to get better. Week one.
A few days ago Buddy’s neck pain returned with a vengeance. It is the week-end, of course, so I will have to endure his torment until he can see his family doctor on Monday. He walks around like Frankenstein, turning his whole body at his shoulders. Poor baby.
Rocky healed from his sore foot, but a few days later had pain in his right leg that was so bad that he yelped with each step he took. We had to discontinue his basic obedience training. It was just too difficult for him to heel, sit and get down.
Buddy and I examined Rocky’s paw and could see no puncture, no infection, no anything that looked unusual. We aggressively felt his foot and ankle area and he didn’t holler. This was a puzzler. Monday we gave in and took him to the vet as he was limping as badly as ever. The vet believes he has a sprained shoulder. My guess is that he managed to get atop our metal-roofed barn from the mountain-side rear and slid off the metal siding which is a good ten foot drop. The vet postponed x-rays to see if medication would help first. Rocky is on anti-inflammatory drugs and glucosamine. $$$
Yesterday I woke up with a sore throat, the coughing crud, and a probable cold, something I rarely have, especially in the summer time. It is terrible timing as this up-coming week I have a Sunday school class to teach, a luncheon engagement with a struggling cancer survivor and a doctor’s appointment with a friend who is to hear the prognosis of her serious cancer. I also agreed to a speaking request on short notice, and, finally, there is a book signing on Saturday for both U.S. Senator Zell Miller and me at the Inspirations Book Store in Hiawassee at 10:00.
I can hardly wait until week three. Hopefully my Buddy won’t need a new cadaveric disc in his antique neck, Rocky won’t need x-rays and a trip to Athens, and I won’t develop pneumonia requiring a stay in the hospital. I’ll pass on that delicious hospital chow.
If I believed in silly fallacies of threes as my mother did, I would try to reverse my luck by turning counter-clockwise three times. Or, I would search for a cluster of three butterflies which supposedly brings good luck.
Being a pragmatist, I accept life as it comes. It could be worse, a lot worse. If I threw my problems in a pile and then saw yours, I would probably grab mine back.
nancyk@windstream.net
Nancy White Kelly
You probably know the old saw that everything happens in threes. I’m not superstitious, but I if I were, I would be concerned about entering my third week of threes.
A couple of weeks ago, in rapid succession, Buddy had a crick in his neck that was so bad he saw a chiropractor twice and a medical doctor once. The doctor gave him a shot in his neck that hurt but helped. $$$
Rocky, the German shepherd dog that our son Bobby gave us at Christmas is now sixteen months old. He is as smart and adventuresome as they come. He began limping badly and our conclusion was that he tried to dig under the pasture fence and got pricked by a piece of subterranean barb wire. I gave him penicillin shot in hopes it would cure any infection he might have with high hopes of avoiding a vet visit.$$$
Then it was my turn. I developed that nasty ole stomach virus that kept me hugging the toilet every fifteen minutes for nearly twelve hours. I would have had to die to get better. Week one.
A few days ago Buddy’s neck pain returned with a vengeance. It is the week-end, of course, so I will have to endure his torment until he can see his family doctor on Monday. He walks around like Frankenstein, turning his whole body at his shoulders. Poor baby.
Rocky healed from his sore foot, but a few days later had pain in his right leg that was so bad that he yelped with each step he took. We had to discontinue his basic obedience training. It was just too difficult for him to heel, sit and get down.
Buddy and I examined Rocky’s paw and could see no puncture, no infection, no anything that looked unusual. We aggressively felt his foot and ankle area and he didn’t holler. This was a puzzler. Monday we gave in and took him to the vet as he was limping as badly as ever. The vet believes he has a sprained shoulder. My guess is that he managed to get atop our metal-roofed barn from the mountain-side rear and slid off the metal siding which is a good ten foot drop. The vet postponed x-rays to see if medication would help first. Rocky is on anti-inflammatory drugs and glucosamine. $$$
Yesterday I woke up with a sore throat, the coughing crud, and a probable cold, something I rarely have, especially in the summer time. It is terrible timing as this up-coming week I have a Sunday school class to teach, a luncheon engagement with a struggling cancer survivor and a doctor’s appointment with a friend who is to hear the prognosis of her serious cancer. I also agreed to a speaking request on short notice, and, finally, there is a book signing on Saturday for both U.S. Senator Zell Miller and me at the Inspirations Book Store in Hiawassee at 10:00.
I can hardly wait until week three. Hopefully my Buddy won’t need a new cadaveric disc in his antique neck, Rocky won’t need x-rays and a trip to Athens, and I won’t develop pneumonia requiring a stay in the hospital. I’ll pass on that delicious hospital chow.
If I believed in silly fallacies of threes as my mother did, I would try to reverse my luck by turning counter-clockwise three times. Or, I would search for a cluster of three butterflies which supposedly brings good luck.
Being a pragmatist, I accept life as it comes. It could be worse, a lot worse. If I threw my problems in a pile and then saw yours, I would probably grab mine back.
nancyk@windstream.net
Friday, June 12, 2009
Journal of a Living Lady #349
Nancy White Kelly
Last week Buddy and I made the thirty mile trip to the closest big box store. As usual, we stopped for breakfast on the way, this time at the place with golden arches.
As we made our way to the counter, I noticed a scruffy-looking, older gentleman eating pancakes with beautiful strawberries piled on top. It amazed me that this franchised hamburger establishment would serve such luscious fruit.
Buddy ordered a sausage and biscuit. I asked the clerk for pancakes with strawberries on top. Her jaw dropped and she glared silently in disbelief. I caught on and reacted with calm aplomb.
“Cancel those strawberries,” I said. “Just plain pancakes will be fine.”
With our trays in hand, Buddy and I passed by the strange, but eloquent diner who apparently brought his own fruit. Buddy wasn’t as interested in the man as I was.
The next peculiar thing that I noticed was that his food was on a lovely straw placemat. Instead of the foam plates Buddy and I were given, this man had a real dish. Its gilded border matched the edge of his china cup which was decorated with pink cherubs.
Buddy and I took a near-by booth. I hoped the man wouldn’t notice my staring. He didn’t. He was in another world fully occupied with his morning meal.
A white, cloth napkin lay upon his lap in vivid contrast to his wrinkled and soiled shirt. As best I could tell from the distance, the napkin appeared to be ironed.
Had the man been in a tuxedo and cleanly shaven, he could have been a stand-in for the butler in those “pass the all-fruit” commercials.
I removed my plastic fork from the sealed package and then pried the tiny piece of yellow, imitation oil from the small container. My eyes kept returning to the odd man. Probably he had real butter.
His eating utensils were not the same as mine. The fork was a silvery-colored metal, probably sterling.
Twice the old man got up from his booth seat, picked up a white paper cup, and approached the counter. Without a word, the clerk refilled the man’s cup with coffee. He returned to his seat and methodically poured the piping-hot contents into his personal cup.
Buddy and I finished eating and discarded our trash. On the way out the door, I took one last look at the old man who was still leisurely enjoying his breakfast. He was lost in oblivion.
Was he a vagrant or an eccentric millionaire? I laughed as my mind supplied a silly answer:” Only the Shadow knows.”
Buddy and I headed for our car in the parking lot. I carefully perused the area looking for that candid camera. This experience was so surreal that there had to be someone lurking in the shrubbery.
Nobody came forth. I smiled anyway.
Nancy White Kelly
Last week Buddy and I made the thirty mile trip to the closest big box store. As usual, we stopped for breakfast on the way, this time at the place with golden arches.
As we made our way to the counter, I noticed a scruffy-looking, older gentleman eating pancakes with beautiful strawberries piled on top. It amazed me that this franchised hamburger establishment would serve such luscious fruit.
Buddy ordered a sausage and biscuit. I asked the clerk for pancakes with strawberries on top. Her jaw dropped and she glared silently in disbelief. I caught on and reacted with calm aplomb.
“Cancel those strawberries,” I said. “Just plain pancakes will be fine.”
With our trays in hand, Buddy and I passed by the strange, but eloquent diner who apparently brought his own fruit. Buddy wasn’t as interested in the man as I was.
The next peculiar thing that I noticed was that his food was on a lovely straw placemat. Instead of the foam plates Buddy and I were given, this man had a real dish. Its gilded border matched the edge of his china cup which was decorated with pink cherubs.
Buddy and I took a near-by booth. I hoped the man wouldn’t notice my staring. He didn’t. He was in another world fully occupied with his morning meal.
A white, cloth napkin lay upon his lap in vivid contrast to his wrinkled and soiled shirt. As best I could tell from the distance, the napkin appeared to be ironed.
Had the man been in a tuxedo and cleanly shaven, he could have been a stand-in for the butler in those “pass the all-fruit” commercials.
I removed my plastic fork from the sealed package and then pried the tiny piece of yellow, imitation oil from the small container. My eyes kept returning to the odd man. Probably he had real butter.
His eating utensils were not the same as mine. The fork was a silvery-colored metal, probably sterling.
Twice the old man got up from his booth seat, picked up a white paper cup, and approached the counter. Without a word, the clerk refilled the man’s cup with coffee. He returned to his seat and methodically poured the piping-hot contents into his personal cup.
Buddy and I finished eating and discarded our trash. On the way out the door, I took one last look at the old man who was still leisurely enjoying his breakfast. He was lost in oblivion.
Was he a vagrant or an eccentric millionaire? I laughed as my mind supplied a silly answer:” Only the Shadow knows.”
Buddy and I headed for our car in the parking lot. I carefully perused the area looking for that candid camera. This experience was so surreal that there had to be someone lurking in the shrubbery.
Nobody came forth. I smiled anyway.
Friday, May 29, 2009
Journal of a Living Lady #348
Nancy White Kelly
Now that summer has officially arrived, Buddy and I are spending much more time outside. We have six hens and a rooster that provides us with plenty of eggs. A benevolent neighbor gave us four rows of his garden to plant as our own. We have the usual variety of vegetables: corn, peas, okra, squash, potatoes, and several varieties of tomatoes. If we can keep neighboring cows and hungry deer from sneaking in, we should have a bountiful harvest again this year.
Buddy does the planting. My work begins when he proudly delivers the vegetables to the kitchen counter. Last year I shelled, canned and froze food like no tomorrow. Considering I was raised in the city, preserving food continues to be more of a novelty than an absolute necessity. Cost-wise, I think we would come out even buying vegetables at peak time, but that isn’t the point, is it?
My mother was a wonderful cook. Unfortunately, as a young girl who played too much Hide-n-Seek, I learned many of life’s lessons from the kitchen the hard way. Experience. Buddy has been wonderfully patient during these forty-four years of marriage.
As an older lady now with infinite acquired wisdom, I feel compelled to pass along these helpful insights to all you home-makers of the current generation. Even if you don’t eat better, at least your house will smell better.
Let’s begin with…
EGGS - When something starts pecking its way out of the shell, the egg is probably past its prime.
POTATOES - Fresh potatoes do not have roots.
SPICES: Most spices do not die. They just fade away. However, spices will do fine on your shelf forever. Just don’t forget to put them in your will.
MEAT - If opening the refrigerator door causes stray animals from a three-mile radius to congregate outside your house, toss the meat.
CANNED GOODS - Any canned goods that have become the size or shape of a cantaloupe should be disposed of ... very carefully.
UNMARKED ITEMS IN THE FRIDGE: You know left-overs are well beyond prime when you're tempted to discard the container along with the food.
AND FINALLY… Most food cannot be kept longer than the average life span of a hamster. I would suggest keeping a hamster in your refrigerator to gauge this. And speaking of creatures, a new study shows that LICKING THE SWEAT OFF A FROG can cure depression. The down side is, the minute you stop licking, the frog gets depressed again.
nancyk@windstream.net
Nancy White Kelly
Now that summer has officially arrived, Buddy and I are spending much more time outside. We have six hens and a rooster that provides us with plenty of eggs. A benevolent neighbor gave us four rows of his garden to plant as our own. We have the usual variety of vegetables: corn, peas, okra, squash, potatoes, and several varieties of tomatoes. If we can keep neighboring cows and hungry deer from sneaking in, we should have a bountiful harvest again this year.
Buddy does the planting. My work begins when he proudly delivers the vegetables to the kitchen counter. Last year I shelled, canned and froze food like no tomorrow. Considering I was raised in the city, preserving food continues to be more of a novelty than an absolute necessity. Cost-wise, I think we would come out even buying vegetables at peak time, but that isn’t the point, is it?
My mother was a wonderful cook. Unfortunately, as a young girl who played too much Hide-n-Seek, I learned many of life’s lessons from the kitchen the hard way. Experience. Buddy has been wonderfully patient during these forty-four years of marriage.
As an older lady now with infinite acquired wisdom, I feel compelled to pass along these helpful insights to all you home-makers of the current generation. Even if you don’t eat better, at least your house will smell better.
Let’s begin with…
EGGS - When something starts pecking its way out of the shell, the egg is probably past its prime.
POTATOES - Fresh potatoes do not have roots.
SPICES: Most spices do not die. They just fade away. However, spices will do fine on your shelf forever. Just don’t forget to put them in your will.
MEAT - If opening the refrigerator door causes stray animals from a three-mile radius to congregate outside your house, toss the meat.
CANNED GOODS - Any canned goods that have become the size or shape of a cantaloupe should be disposed of ... very carefully.
UNMARKED ITEMS IN THE FRIDGE: You know left-overs are well beyond prime when you're tempted to discard the container along with the food.
AND FINALLY… Most food cannot be kept longer than the average life span of a hamster. I would suggest keeping a hamster in your refrigerator to gauge this. And speaking of creatures, a new study shows that LICKING THE SWEAT OFF A FROG can cure depression. The down side is, the minute you stop licking, the frog gets depressed again.
nancyk@windstream.net
Thursday, May 14, 2009
Journal of a Living Lady #347
Nancy White Kelly
Poor Buddy. He doesn’t get a lot of sympathy from me most times because he has a new ailment every day. I tell him he is like the boy who cried wolf. One day he is really going to be sick and I’m not going to know it. Over the years I have grown rather indifferent to his complaints. Recently I kept count of how many consecutive days that he told me he was tired. The tally was 32.
Buddy gets at least one if not two annual physicals. All his blood work is fine. Buddy isn’t sick. He is just getting older.
Yesterday he woke up complaining about a sore shoulder. Again I humored him. Poor baby. He then said his neck was aching too and sort of stiff. Again, poor baby. When Buddy asked if we could go out for breakfast, I reluctantly agreed even though I had a pile of “to do’s” on my list. At least it would get his mind off his shoulder and neck.
Buddy pitched the car keys to me with today’s good arm. I stopped at a restaurant about halfway to town hoping to get back in time for the usual eleven a.m. time of the Ye Old Coin Shop.
The busy waitress finally took our order. Buddy, in obvious discomfort, grew crankier as the minutes ticked by. I perked up our conversation in an attempt to keep his mind off his pain and the poor service. The chit-chat evolved into a warm discussion. He was unhappy that I wasn’t taking his hurting seriously enough.
Buddy is a hard person to read when it came to illness. I do care greatly about this husband of mine, but sometimes giving excessive sympathy makes the situation worse. Our personalities are totally opposite. I prefer to suffer in silence. In contrast, he likes to at least vocalize, if not dramatize, his every pain. I kid you not. Ask him about the toe he hurt in the Navy.
This day I questioned Buddy about radiating pain, headache, shortness of breath, and any other possible symptoms that could be the precursor of something serious. My conclusion was that he slept in a poor position resulting in a neck crick. I suggested a hot shower and offered a massage. If that didn’t help, I would call the doctor for an appointment. That seemed to appease him.
Finally home, Buddy opted for a heating pad. I gave him a pain pill. He slept for a couple of hours and by mid-afternoon he was moving around the house slowly. By nightfall, he was eating popcorn and watching television. There was no further mention of his shoulder and neck.
Apparently Buddy didn’t have spinal meningitis or some insidious, paralyzing disease. This morning he is outside cutting grass and dealing with moles and ant hills. I expect my tired husband to come into the house any moment now wanting breakfast. Life is back to normal.
Nancy White Kelly
Poor Buddy. He doesn’t get a lot of sympathy from me most times because he has a new ailment every day. I tell him he is like the boy who cried wolf. One day he is really going to be sick and I’m not going to know it. Over the years I have grown rather indifferent to his complaints. Recently I kept count of how many consecutive days that he told me he was tired. The tally was 32.
Buddy gets at least one if not two annual physicals. All his blood work is fine. Buddy isn’t sick. He is just getting older.
Yesterday he woke up complaining about a sore shoulder. Again I humored him. Poor baby. He then said his neck was aching too and sort of stiff. Again, poor baby. When Buddy asked if we could go out for breakfast, I reluctantly agreed even though I had a pile of “to do’s” on my list. At least it would get his mind off his shoulder and neck.
Buddy pitched the car keys to me with today’s good arm. I stopped at a restaurant about halfway to town hoping to get back in time for the usual eleven a.m. time of the Ye Old Coin Shop.
The busy waitress finally took our order. Buddy, in obvious discomfort, grew crankier as the minutes ticked by. I perked up our conversation in an attempt to keep his mind off his pain and the poor service. The chit-chat evolved into a warm discussion. He was unhappy that I wasn’t taking his hurting seriously enough.
Buddy is a hard person to read when it came to illness. I do care greatly about this husband of mine, but sometimes giving excessive sympathy makes the situation worse. Our personalities are totally opposite. I prefer to suffer in silence. In contrast, he likes to at least vocalize, if not dramatize, his every pain. I kid you not. Ask him about the toe he hurt in the Navy.
This day I questioned Buddy about radiating pain, headache, shortness of breath, and any other possible symptoms that could be the precursor of something serious. My conclusion was that he slept in a poor position resulting in a neck crick. I suggested a hot shower and offered a massage. If that didn’t help, I would call the doctor for an appointment. That seemed to appease him.
Finally home, Buddy opted for a heating pad. I gave him a pain pill. He slept for a couple of hours and by mid-afternoon he was moving around the house slowly. By nightfall, he was eating popcorn and watching television. There was no further mention of his shoulder and neck.
Apparently Buddy didn’t have spinal meningitis or some insidious, paralyzing disease. This morning he is outside cutting grass and dealing with moles and ant hills. I expect my tired husband to come into the house any moment now wanting breakfast. Life is back to normal.
Sunday, April 26, 2009
Journal of a Living Lady #346
Nancy White Kelly
In the Baptist faith, we call our spiritual leaders pastors. In other denominations, an equivalent would be priest or rector. In the Jewish community, the chief leader is the rabbi, and in the Moslem world that would be the Imam.
I have great respect for those who choose or are chosen to give spiritual direction to a congregation of believers. Come June I will have had twelve pastors in my lifetime. An even dozen.
I worked on staff with some of my pastors. While none of them was perfect, all were sincere and each one has had a significant impact on my life. I have loved all my spiritual shepherds and believe that this devotion is mutual.
One pastor indulged my request to be baptized again. He did so with water from the Jordan River that was brought back in a small jar by a friend who had recently visited the Holy Land. Later, thanks to a reader who follows this column, Buddy and I had the opportunity to be fully immersed in the Jordan River near Jerusalem which is where John the Baptist baptized Jesus.
A third of my former pastors have passed on to their deserved reward. I still hear from a few. Occasionally one will ask me to consider working with them again. But, unless God writes it on the wall, I am not leaving the mountains until I make my own trip to Glory.
As a teen-age girl, I purposed to follow Christ and his teachings for the rest of my natural life and have never regretted that decision. My pastors played an important role. Each man was memorable. They embraced myriad personalities and styles, ranging from high-strung, hell, fire, and brimstone types to low-key, brotherly or fatherly surrogates who quietly delivered compelling messages of unconditional love.
I often wonder where I would be today without the impact of these pastors. I think I could be a criminal. Without the moral compass of the Bible, I would have no reason to constrain my thoughts or actions. And who could be more responsible for indelibly imprinting biblical principles than my former pastors?
Saying “good-byes” are hard, but a routine part of life. My current pastor is retiring soon after a long ministry and I will miss him. A new senior pastor, whom I knew in what seems like a life-time ago, will join the long line of those who came before. I knew this pastor-to-be mostly through his wife and daughters. Sharon taught music and I was Shannon and Melody’s school principal. We felt a great loss when the Pickerills moved away.
So often we pass through life without giving proper thanks to those who have touched us so. To Brother Rudy Patton and to all my other pastors, I thank you from the depths of my soul for helping me to be a better person than I might have been.
nancyk@windstream.net
Nancy White Kelly
In the Baptist faith, we call our spiritual leaders pastors. In other denominations, an equivalent would be priest or rector. In the Jewish community, the chief leader is the rabbi, and in the Moslem world that would be the Imam.
I have great respect for those who choose or are chosen to give spiritual direction to a congregation of believers. Come June I will have had twelve pastors in my lifetime. An even dozen.
I worked on staff with some of my pastors. While none of them was perfect, all were sincere and each one has had a significant impact on my life. I have loved all my spiritual shepherds and believe that this devotion is mutual.
One pastor indulged my request to be baptized again. He did so with water from the Jordan River that was brought back in a small jar by a friend who had recently visited the Holy Land. Later, thanks to a reader who follows this column, Buddy and I had the opportunity to be fully immersed in the Jordan River near Jerusalem which is where John the Baptist baptized Jesus.
A third of my former pastors have passed on to their deserved reward. I still hear from a few. Occasionally one will ask me to consider working with them again. But, unless God writes it on the wall, I am not leaving the mountains until I make my own trip to Glory.
As a teen-age girl, I purposed to follow Christ and his teachings for the rest of my natural life and have never regretted that decision. My pastors played an important role. Each man was memorable. They embraced myriad personalities and styles, ranging from high-strung, hell, fire, and brimstone types to low-key, brotherly or fatherly surrogates who quietly delivered compelling messages of unconditional love.
I often wonder where I would be today without the impact of these pastors. I think I could be a criminal. Without the moral compass of the Bible, I would have no reason to constrain my thoughts or actions. And who could be more responsible for indelibly imprinting biblical principles than my former pastors?
Saying “good-byes” are hard, but a routine part of life. My current pastor is retiring soon after a long ministry and I will miss him. A new senior pastor, whom I knew in what seems like a life-time ago, will join the long line of those who came before. I knew this pastor-to-be mostly through his wife and daughters. Sharon taught music and I was Shannon and Melody’s school principal. We felt a great loss when the Pickerills moved away.
So often we pass through life without giving proper thanks to those who have touched us so. To Brother Rudy Patton and to all my other pastors, I thank you from the depths of my soul for helping me to be a better person than I might have been.
nancyk@windstream.net
Saturday, April 11, 2009
Journal of a Living Lady #345
Nancy White Kelly
I wiped tears from a fallen warrior and stood in the gap, protecting the wounded one from further injury. To my surprise, recovery was immediate. The two who were engaged in brotherly combat were soon sharing their cookies with each other and their favorite stuffed animals, Lambie and Bear.
Yes, Buddy and I have been baby-sitting. Charlie and Tori took advantage of the Spring Break and headed to Minneapolis, leaving each set of grandparents to take turns filling their shoes. We performed admirably considering the oldest, Micah, age four, had strep throat. He was unusually quiet and preferred my lap to his toys. Two-year old Noah, a vocal live-wire, was a non-stop dynamo.
In spite of the fact Buddy and I have raised a dozen children, birth, adopted, and foster, we felt a little inept. We quickly learned that in those ensuing years since parenting youngsters ourselves, a slow leak has occurred in our energy supply.
That first day of our baby-sitting stint we had a couple of hours of welcomed sunshine. The boys and I took a trek into the near-by woods. They walked the fallen logs and I watched for snakes.
Then the weather turned horrendously windy and cold. From then on, we were housebound. The television went on the blink leaving the boys with no cartoons or news for Buddy and me.
Thankfully an ancient repertoire of kiddie songs, poems and stories returned to my sluggish memory. Micah, Noah and I played hide-and-seek, built domino towers, fished cards with a little suction cup on a pole and blew hundreds of soapy bubbles into the bathroom sink. Buddy was good for short spurts of entertainment, but primarily worked on the Charlie’s lawn-mower. He is far more comfortable with mechanics than little children.
It became quite clear why Charlie and Tori consider seven o’clock p.m. their favorite time on the clock. It is the beginning of the boys’ bedtime ritual. Baths. Stories. Songs and finally prayers, theirs’ and then mine: “Dear God, now I lay these children down to sleep. Please keep them in bed without a peep. Amen.”
I was overly optimistic when I packed for this baby-sitting gig. I brought along my laptop computer and some books to study in preparation for teaching Sunday school. What was I thinking? By the time the magic hour arrived in the early evening, I was more tired than the children. Who could concentrate when every adult-level brain cell had shut down from inactivity? I foolishly procrastinated with a silent promise. Tomorrow I’ll study, but a tomorrow, with time to spare, never came.
We survived our days with the grandchildren without any major incident. Unfortunately Buddy and I are now sick ourselves. Our grown kids got a needed break and we will recover. It's hard to not want to be part of this stage of our grandsons' lives. Before we blink they will be teenagers.
nancyk@windstream.net
Nancy White Kelly
I wiped tears from a fallen warrior and stood in the gap, protecting the wounded one from further injury. To my surprise, recovery was immediate. The two who were engaged in brotherly combat were soon sharing their cookies with each other and their favorite stuffed animals, Lambie and Bear.
Yes, Buddy and I have been baby-sitting. Charlie and Tori took advantage of the Spring Break and headed to Minneapolis, leaving each set of grandparents to take turns filling their shoes. We performed admirably considering the oldest, Micah, age four, had strep throat. He was unusually quiet and preferred my lap to his toys. Two-year old Noah, a vocal live-wire, was a non-stop dynamo.
In spite of the fact Buddy and I have raised a dozen children, birth, adopted, and foster, we felt a little inept. We quickly learned that in those ensuing years since parenting youngsters ourselves, a slow leak has occurred in our energy supply.
That first day of our baby-sitting stint we had a couple of hours of welcomed sunshine. The boys and I took a trek into the near-by woods. They walked the fallen logs and I watched for snakes.
Then the weather turned horrendously windy and cold. From then on, we were housebound. The television went on the blink leaving the boys with no cartoons or news for Buddy and me.
Thankfully an ancient repertoire of kiddie songs, poems and stories returned to my sluggish memory. Micah, Noah and I played hide-and-seek, built domino towers, fished cards with a little suction cup on a pole and blew hundreds of soapy bubbles into the bathroom sink. Buddy was good for short spurts of entertainment, but primarily worked on the Charlie’s lawn-mower. He is far more comfortable with mechanics than little children.
It became quite clear why Charlie and Tori consider seven o’clock p.m. their favorite time on the clock. It is the beginning of the boys’ bedtime ritual. Baths. Stories. Songs and finally prayers, theirs’ and then mine: “Dear God, now I lay these children down to sleep. Please keep them in bed without a peep. Amen.”
I was overly optimistic when I packed for this baby-sitting gig. I brought along my laptop computer and some books to study in preparation for teaching Sunday school. What was I thinking? By the time the magic hour arrived in the early evening, I was more tired than the children. Who could concentrate when every adult-level brain cell had shut down from inactivity? I foolishly procrastinated with a silent promise. Tomorrow I’ll study, but a tomorrow, with time to spare, never came.
We survived our days with the grandchildren without any major incident. Unfortunately Buddy and I are now sick ourselves. Our grown kids got a needed break and we will recover. It's hard to not want to be part of this stage of our grandsons' lives. Before we blink they will be teenagers.
nancyk@windstream.net
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