She's Here!

Our long-awaited, much-anticipated baby has arrived...and she's perfect. Ten beautifully formed little fingers, ten tiny little toes, a delicate little mouth and a sweet disposition. Was there ever a more gripping occasion than the birth of a child, whose arrival is the climax of months of planning, nurturing and dreaming - not to mention nausea, rashes and headaches? The price of gestation is always worth it the moment that sweet, innocent head nestles into the shelter of your protective love. It has been a whirlwind event, with family members in and out, caring for the "big brother," hospital visits and a Labor Day holiday thrown in there as well. Now the commotion has died down and the little family is home in the adjustment period of feedings and sleepless nights, along with a two-year-old to attend. It won't always be fun, it won't always be perfect....but it will always be life, as we on this planet know it. And, as this God-ordained circle of creation moves forward, little Charlene carries forth the beautiful name of her precious great-great grandmother, my adored MeMa. May I be privileged for my prayers to cover this amazing little life, and the life of her brother, the same way my MeMa's prayers of protection and love bore the weight of all my youthful indiscretions and prideful choices. Oh that the fervent petitions of a praying grandmother would be a powerful and effective tool against the tribulations of life.

I'm the Big Brother

This is my little man....my best buddy.....my goldfish cracker eating, block-building, book-reading, remote sneaking, sweetest ally. We spend a lot of time together and, truth be told, he makes my world go round. 

None of that will change on a Wednesday in late August, but it will shift dramatically. Because this engaging little guy is about to become a BIG BROTHER to a baby sister. And no amount of preparation can possibly suffice to ready him for how the orbit of his personal planet is about to shift.

This is my little girl. Thirty years ago, my parents, affectionately known as Tom and Mae, strolled into Northside Hospital, holding her by the hands between them. I still have the picture in my mind: I am standing by the nursery window where my newborn is sleeping peacefully in her bassinet. I look down the long hallway and see them heading my way - Tom and Mae with a little girl walking toward me like a big girl. Tears punctured through as I realized how grown up our baby was and that our sweet time together would be forever altered. The pure emotion of that moment remains all these many years later.

This time it will be my little man walking between my husband and me, history repeated. I have every reason to believe my daughter will experience the same life-shifting moment that I did at the sight of her baby visiting his new little sister for the first time. I am both joyful and misty that our baby boy's world is about to be profoundly rocked. There is great anticipation around the birth of this little baby girl, along with the apprehension that any change brings. 

So - turning two, becoming a big brother and starting pre-school are just a few of the adjustments that will have to be made in one small boy's life. I think he's ready for the challenge. He is surrounded by all the love that one little fellow could possibly have - a love that will transcend all the difficult and challenging moments of this most natural and momentous event in the life of one beautiful little family. 

Fog

There’s a Carl Sandburg poem entitled “Fog.” It goes like this: 

 The fog comes on little cat feet. 
 It sits looking over harbor and city on silent haunches
 and then moves on. 

It reminds me of the way the gnarliness of life can sneak up on you. It creeps in and the next thing you know, you’re covered in a thick cloud of indecision and loneliness and despair because of circumstances, be they contrived or uncontrollable. But, like the fog over the harbor, or the fog that hovers over the mountains where I live, these things eventually drift away and move on, one way or another. 

 And, in the meantime, while the fog still lingers, you have a choice. Certainly, you can sit, paralyzed by doubt and uncertainty and fear, waiting it out as you hunker down like a quivering mass of jelly, waiting for the worst and fantacizing catastrophe. Or you can try to outrun it like the storm chaser who finds himself in the path of a monster tornado. How you respond to the unfortunate events of life is up to you. 

I know all this - as I have executed many of my own worst-case versions of wailing and gnashing of teeth in the midst of life’s unhappy moments. But, in my better moments, I am able to take the position of choosing my response. I may not be able to control the situation, or I may have created a situation in my mind that, in actuality, is much less fearsome than I imagine. Yet, the fact remains, how I deal with it, is ultimately up to me. On my finer days, the choice is clear. I choose joy. I choose peace. I choose self-control. I choose to capture my thoughts and to dwell on what is good and admirable and noble. Instead of succumbing to the fog and being blinded to those things that are worthy, I choose to submit, hands open and trusting, to the authority of the One who knows me better than I know myself. And I choose to remember that there is a Creator who has a love for me like no other, a plan for me that has been in place since the foundation of the world and a hope and a future that is beyond my wildest dreams. 

I have a friend, an acquaintance really. Ever since I’ve known her, she has been dying. Today she lies in a hospital bed, her earthly journey probably drawing to a close. This will sound strange, but, in the short time I’ve known her, Margaret has taught me how to die, all the while living fully. She has faced her illness with grace and humor and, most of all, a compelling trust in her Lord. Through all her pain and suffering, and it has been egregious and extended, her countenance has portrayed an inner strength that can be sustained by no other Source. It has been a beautiful thing to watch, as Margaret has rested in her very personal fog. 

So, I guess the question I pose today is this: When the fog drifts in, as it most certainly will, how will you react? Will you stumble around, sightless in the shroud of doubt and fear? Will you cower in the dimness, waiting for the cloud to pass, or strike out blindly, trying to find your own way out of the mire? Or will you choose surrender to the greater plan and look for answers in the still quiet voice, as Margaret has done? 

That’s when you can rest - that’s when the reason prevails and the peace pervades your soul. That’s what Margaret has chosen. And, I know unequivocally, that when the fog lifts for her, there will be joy beyond imagining. That’s how I want to live out my days, making those choices that depend, not on circumstances or my own willfulness, but on the constant Presence of the Love that went to the Cross for me so I could live fully. I want people to look at me, as I have looked at Margaret, and say, “I want what she has!”

A recent Tuesday marked a milestone, one of those signposts along the way that life is nothing, if not fleeting. Our little girl turned 30 and it seems almost beyond belief. It is enough of a shock when your baby births her own, but when you have your very own thirtysomething offspring, it is reason to pause and reflect. I remember well my own arrival at the big 30. I was divorced and childless, something I would have never foreseen. My life had taken twists and turns that took me down roads I would not have chosen or presumed for myself. The perfect picture of life as I had planned was flung far into left field and I was left standing in unfamiliar territory. I was a child in my father's house, a child bride in my husband's and then a young woman alone, wondering how to be a grown-up. My own child turning 30 is a fitting occasion to ponder the varied events that have carved my own life's path; and while it is an undeniable fact that the world has steadily become more complicated and challenging since I was at her stage of life, we all must tread our individual mine fields. No one's road is always smooth, and hers will include it's own share of bumps and craters. Not the least of these will be raising children in this "new normal" of the post 9.11 world, where bombings and shootings have become mind-numbingly common. Yet, the life of this beautiful young woman, wife and mother that my daughter has become, bears witness to the fact that God remains sovereign and good, His love is enduring and He has a perfect plan for each of us. And the most comforting and irrefutable fact of all, as He has proven over and over, is that the prayers of the faithful are the most powerful and effective weapons we have.

Old Photos and Mirrors

Well, it's a reality. You really know you are old when Greg Allman (of the Allman Brothers Band fame) is on the cover of AARP Magazine. Okay, not really - it was Georgia Magazine. But when I first glanced at it, I thought it was  AARP magazine. Because Allman looks like a senior citizen with a pony tail. It's in my face everywhere I go. I mean, literally in my face, as my super-magnifying, wrinkle-illuminating make-up mirror so achingly reminds me each time I go there. I have a love-hate relationship with that thing. Without it, my eyebrows would be reminiscent of Joan Crawford in Mommy Dearest. But it is not a pretty sight by any stretch of the imagination - and yet I must gaze there daily if I am to "put on my face." A framed picture sits on my desk beside me as I type this. It is an adorable photo of my Kindergarten class at Barrow School Elementary in Athens. I can name almost everyone in the photo. A couple are no longer with us, many still live in Athens, but almost everyone still looks the same, only more used. They probably see the same thing I do in their make-up mirrors if they dare to go there. Yesterday, there were more reminders of years passing, as I spent the afternoon going through a box of old photos. I am one of those horrible people who has, over the years, simply thrown my pictures into a box, with the intention of one day getting them organized. Now, decades later, they are still in the box, only more disheveled than ever. There are photos of my grandparents intermingled with wedding shots and pictures of childbirth in all it's gory detail. There are even some of people I don't even know. Anyway, as I sifted through the mess that is evidence of my life these past 60+ years, I determined that now is the time to get it together and catalog all those memories into some sort of format for future generations to peruse, if they are even interested. I see photo after photo of this pretty young thing. And in all those pictures she looks better to me now than she thought she did then, if that makes any sense. Today our lives, including all our snapshots, are on our computers. So, if they are not backed up, and something happens to our laptops, our history is erased. I never thought things would get so complicated in order to get easier. So I look at the cute little Kindergarten girl, fourth from the right on the second row, and think it's just as well she was unaware of all the next 50 years would bring. She didn't know her life's records would be shoved in a box and forgotten in a closet somewhere. She thought life would always be simple, with Mamma and Daddy taking care of all her needs and happiness as close as the next banana popsicle or trip to the library. And she wouldn't have known a wrinkle if it crawled in her lap. Okay, enough rambling and musing. I have to get on with my photo project before I get too old to give a crap.

Christmas Past, Present and Future

Okay, so I knew this day would come. And I am trying so very hard to be mature and adult about it. But not having my baby girl home for the first time ever at Christmas is proving to be a much more emotionally charged life event than I had anticipated. It's not that I am upset that she has met a wonderful man who is taking her almost 3000 miles away to share his own family traditions. How could I find fault with that? I'm thrilled for her. But I am a hard-core traditionalist and messing with my traditions takes its toll. Believe me, all I have to do is take a good look in the mirror to see the unmistakable proof that time marches on. People leave us, whether temporarily or finally. It's just that my Christmases past were so magical and I have such wonderful memories of long-ago friends and family that are seared in my mind and heart. Those heart memories - my own feeble memory allowing - I will always have. But children grow up, parents die, babies are born and new friends enter in. Time, indeed, marches on. As much as I would like to freeze-frame a certain segment of past Decembers, I find solace and, yes, joy, in knowing that my girls are forming their own traditions in their own ways. They will take some of what we have instilled, and put their own spin on it. And our family circle widens, the ripples reaching far shores. Most important of all is the immutable fact that throughout all of this, the same Savior reigns. That doesn't change. And that is the good news that dries this mother's sad tears, transforming them to tears of pure gratitude.

Friends For Life

I have recently emerged from a four day cocoon, during which I re-visited my youth. The 3rd annual '68 Girls of Athens' Retreat at Amelia Island was a fun, festive, laughter-filled time of relaxation and renewal. It also allowed the opportunity to catch-up on children, grandchildren, old times, new adventures and all the things that once were. As we mature, I think we become well aware that those are the things - good and bad - that have made us each who we are today.

It astounds me that we slip right back into being part of something that could have so easily been lost. But we carry on without a hitch, much more comfortable today in our saggy skin then we would have been in those earlier insecure days. We look at old photos of ourselves in kindergarten, in elementary school, junior high and high school. Gazing back at us from all of those little bits of pictorial history are eyes full of hope and promise and eagerness to get on with life. Since those times, most of us have suffered misery and misfortune, jubilation and joy - all those things that just come with time and this thing called life. But we press on with whatever wisdom we have extrapolated from all those life experiences, and still we look forward. It is a most remarkable thing and these are most remarkable women.

Through grace I was born in Athens, GA and had the fortune of garnering friends who have been part of my life for all these many years. And until we are so infirm that we are unable to gather, or until God calls us home or comes back, those of us who are able will continue to reunite and share tales of past pain and glories, present strivings and successes and future dreams and yearnings.

On Being a Grandmother

I am totally smitten! Yesterday I held my 2 day old grandson for 3 hours while he slept peacefully. My arm was dead asleep, but I wasn't about to disturb his blissful state. I looked into that perfect little face and the orbit of my life shifted. Now I understand what my friends - those who are grandmothers - have been telling me. There is no explaining it - it just is the most profound of events. Your baby has a baby. It is supremely extraordinary and amazing. Of course he is beautiful and astonishing and perfect; but, beyond that, he affirms that God does indeed know what he is doing. Outside the world is chaos - earthquakes and hurricanes and all sorts of evil, manmade and natural. But here, in the haven of our little family, for this moment in time, life is about as good as it gets.

Affirmation

I've been feeling a little frayed around the edges lately, like an old pair of boots that has tread one too many miles and is showing a good bit of wear in the heels. There's a lot going on in my life these days, what with trying to sell a house, pack up to move to a new one, manage a full-time career, maintain my spirit and keep the body running. I guess the multi-tasking just takes its toll after a while. So, amid the chaos that is my current life, I have been desparately seeking to still myself and harken to the echo of the divine - the still, small voice, if you will. This morning as I took those few precious moments to quietly sit before the Lord, He blessed me by leading me to these verses from Psalm 90 in the Message:

        Surprise us with love at daybreak;

then we'll skip and dance all the day long.

Make up for the bad times with some good times;

we've seen enough evil to last a lifetime.

Let your servants see what you're best at -

the ways you rule and bless your children.

And let the loveliness of our Lord, our God, rest on us,

confirming the work that we do.

Oh yes, Affirm the work that we do!

 

My daughter Cory has a job interview today after many months of trying to piece together a living following a lay-off. As her mother, it is only natural that I have been concerned for her; and yes, I'll admit it, I have fretted and stewed about her, sometimes before I have prayed. But I have spent my due time on my knees as well. Cory reminded me in an email this morning that I prayed this very verse over her four years ago. She had just moved to Birmingham, AL, to begin an internship with Southern Progress, the parent company of Southern Living, with whom she will interview today.  The words of her email were a sweet reminder that our sovereign God really does rule and bless us. He delights in our skipping and dancing all the day long to the beautiful rhythms of His Grace. Perhaps He is bringing Cory full circle and, after a great deal of exploration and soul-searching on her part, is indeed affirming her work. We'll know soon enough. Suffice it to say, she's had some character-building times these past couple of years. Maybe today He will open the floodgates to some good times ahead. Regardless of what direction He takes her, or any of us for that matter, He is always the Perfector of our Faith who never ceases surprising us with love at daybreak.

When You Take a Vow

I have a particular pet peeve that centers on what I believe is a very selfish and flippant attitude that people hold regarding commitments they have made. I have always fastidiously held the position that Solomon hit the nail on the head when he stated, "It is better not to vow than to make a vow and not fulfill it." (Ecclesiastes 5:5). Jesus hammered it in even more with, "Simply let your 'Yes' be 'Yes' and your 'No,' 'No'; anything beyond this comes from the evil one." (Matthew 5:37)
I suppose this becomes even more of an issue with me because in my job I depend on those who have committed to being part of a specific event. Whether it is serving kids at a local apartment community of delivering meals to a senior citizen, if someone says they will do something, and then doesn't do it, somebody else surely suffers for it. Generally the ones who endure the fallout are the very ones who have been responsible to show up and then have to shoulder not only their commitment, but also the extra work of the one who isn't there to do their part. Oh, I'm not talking about the rare cases when something unavoidable and out of control comes up - stuff happens. I'm talking about the inclination to blow it off when the time comes to do something you've promised to do and you just don't feel like it, or something else seems more compelling at the time. After planning and coordinating hundreds of outreach events, I have witnessed over and over the fallout of unfulfilled vows. 
At the same time, and even more significant, the weakness of human character has allowed me to witness the strength of the character of God. God has yet to call me to a task that, with or without the compliance of others, He has not provided the means to accomplish. Where I am weak, He is strong. When I strive in my own strength, or even depending on the strength of others, He backs off. But when I, in total humility, admit my utter frailty and dependency, He shows up in glory and gets it done. He has proven that He is able....time and time again. It is my saving grace.
Nevertheless, we are interdependent and we need each other.  So, if you've said you would do something, please think twice before you change your mind. Chances are, someone is really depending on you to follow through. And, when you don't, you are placing your share of the load on already overburdened shoulders. 

Cloudy Days and Sunshine

It was dark and dreary when my alarm violated a vivid dream state at 6 am on this Saturday morning. But once I was up and on my way, it was well worth the aggravation and discomfort. I drove through a temporary rainfall to get to my destination at Centennial Village, where a dozen churches are collaborating to build three Habitat homes for three deserving families. The family for whom my church toils is a Katrina-displaced mom, grandmother and son. The mom cried as she tried to thank everyone for making it possible for someone from the tiny island of Grenada, by way of New Orleans, to be receiving a new home after all the suffering. And I'm reminded that God doesn't call us to a life free of pain. How in the world would we ever learn to lean on Him if it were easy? And He does love it when we give it up, realizing our own weakness that bows to His strength. I am finally getting to the place where I can join Paul in appreciating the hard times. Heartache and affliction help strip away all the superficial ways I try to justify and compromise what matters to God. They draw me to the heart of a Savior who took all the filth the world could throw at him, horror far worse than I could ever begin to fathom, and bore excruciating pain for every sin I would ever commit. A million tongues could never sing enough praises to honor that sacrifice. At the Habitat site today, as a pastor prayed that every hammered nail would be a prayer, the sun broke through. That perfect gesture on God's part was certainly not lost on me.

Covered

Life is a great journey, but I sometimes fear I should be farther along the road than I am. I read my daughter's words and have to admit I swell with pride at seeing her progression as an artist. But more than that I am grateful for her astonishing maturity and beautiful spirit. I think of myself at that age and the contrast is shameful. We share the same introspection and pick-it-apart view of the world, but at 24 years old, I had so much less depth. She is grounded in her faith, in her belief system and in what she wants. I was a Christian who didn't get it, one who never opened her Bible and was thus existing in prolonged infancy. Paul addressed me as one tossed back and forth by the waves, and blown here and there by whatever came along. I look at this child of mine and see so much more. I thank God that I had partially figured things out before she came along; at least enough so that I may have had at least a small part - through my constant prayers if nothing else - in her becoming a seeker of Truth. I read her words - her poems - her prose - and I admit my envy. I used to write poetry, I used to dream of my words carrying that kind of weight, of being that profound. Now I write a blog that no one reads and compose great Christmas letters. The dreams are still there, but lack the ambition and the energy to propel them into reality. I have let life suck that zeal out of me like a slowly leaking tire and I find myself too flat to carry the load. I used to be the driven person that I see in my daughter now. And that is partly why I am her biggest cheerleader. I see her eyeing her dreams with purpose and I want to scream, "Go for it my beautiful, talented daughter!" When I read her words about castles in the sky and building stairways to them I am brought to tears by the poignancy. My staircase got sidetracked by my love of a boy who ended up betraying me, by self-preservation and by focus on the wrong things. She is too smart to seek her essence in the wrong places and so I am thankful that perhaps her DNA holds some of the good parts of me and escaped those parts that tend to seek short-lived gratification in destructive ways. I see the hand of God on this child of mine and my heart soars. Odd as it seems, she is living the life I was supposed to have, and that lovingly affirms my belief that the One who created us both is indeed the Master of second chances. The amazing grace that covers us is as comforting now as the childhood blanket - her "bah" - that my daughter wouldn't leave home without. She has exchanged that emblem of childhood security for the true Comforter. And knowing she is covered still is my greatest joy.

I will bow down toward your holy temple and will praise your name for your love and your faithfulness, for you have exalted about all things your name and your work. -Psalm 138:2

I have been pondering a recent conversation I had over lunch with a friend from church. Inevitably the topic wove its way to a critique of the worship service - the music, the order of worship, yada yada yada. I tried to be patient and understanding and not too critical of the criticizer. And I listened and responded in what I hope was a gentle way. But the exchange left me unsettled and not a little bit disturbed about the attitude so many Christians have about worship in general. Since when did it become about us? What is it that makes us think we go to church to get fed and fired up enough to survive another week until we can come back and refuel and start the weary cycle all over again? Has it never registered with some people that worship is simply and purely about God? And God doesn't care what songs we sing or the order in which we sing them or whether the choir wears robes or jeans. He's not the least bit concerned about whether we use hymnals or power point, or anything else we get ourselves so worked up over. God is more concerned about our hearts and where they are, not just during this one hour on Sunday, but also during the other 167 hours of the week. Worship is just the chance to come together corporately and lift the name of God....to love Him and let Him love on us in a group setting. But true worship has everything to do with God's enjoyment, and little to do with us. I'm no theologian, but, to me, authentic worship is letting the Spirit of God within us connect with the one who created us purely for His good pleasure. We were created to worship Him in everything we do, and it is so much more about surrender than it is about self. That's not to say that we don't derive joy from the process. Oh, we do! But that joy is more from experiencing His presence in a powerful way. It is more internalized than it is for show. We should be far more concerned about whether God is pleased with our praise than we are with ourselves.

Lapse

I'm obviously not very good at this blogging stuff, as evidenced by the huge lapse of time between posts. I'll admit I'm much more comfortable with a pen in my hand and a journal in my lap. My favorite and most creativity-inspiring spot is sitting upon my bed at the cabin, cup of coffee on the bed side table, kitty on my feet, music playing, and sunlight dappling through the lacy curtains. That seems to be my place to meet with the muse. On most days......I'll admit - I got nothing. And I'll further admit, it puts a little pressure on me to think I've started yet another venture that lacks follow-through. The story of my life. And it's not like - as is true of most of us - I don't have things to say. I do. It's just that taking the time to translate thoughts to fingers to keyboard is an exercise I get lazy about. Physical exercise comes easy ... I love my trips to the gym and thrive on the sweaty euphoria that follows a good workout. If only I could train myself to be as agile mentally. The good feeling that follows equates to the endorphins summoned by physical exertion. It comes from the realization that you have been able to translate innermost thoughts into words that express something that might resonate with a fellow sojourner. And so I am making the following vow to self: I will exercise the craft of transposing thoughts into written words, if for no other reason that to sort them out for my own well-being. If someone else might happen by and benefit, I would consider that a divine appointment affirming my efforts.

Servants of Light

It  is one of those rare, lazy days when I have nothing that presses with the tyranny of the urgent. It is a cherished gift that allows breathing space - a chance to ponder and sift recent events and allow myself the luxury of staying in my pj's, being a slug. The past week included the funeral of a gentleman five years my junior, a seminar on the ponderous subject of child sex-trafficking in Atlanta and a meeting on the resolution of a ministry to the homeless which is faltering. Heavy, weighty, real-life issues that press down on the psyche like an anvil. It's good to be able to take a step back, gather in a lung-full of air and offer it all to the One whose burden is light. When I think it is all too much to bear, I am reminded of what He bore for all who inhabit this befuddled, ragtag planet. I know it is just as important to embrace the pain and suffering as the joy. Henri Nouwen said, "Faith is the deep trust that God's love is stronger than all the anonymous powers of the world and can transform us from victims of darkness into servants of light." If I can just strive to keep the beat to that unforced rhythm of grace that is uniquely mine, that is authentic, then I am on my way to becoming that servant of light. If I can be quiet and still long enough to hear that still, small voice that speaks straight from the heart of God to my being, then I am making a modicum of progress. The question, as always, is am I listening? Am I trusting? And, above all, am I being obedient? 

Unforced Rhythms

I have always loved the water. As a child I spent hour upon hour plumbing the depths of the backyard pool or the lake...twirling, spinning, an astronaut untethered - a free-form dance with sparkling overtones. I didn't realize at the time, but in retrospect, God has granted me the grace to recognize the pure, unfettered joy of that freedom.... of having my being at one with what Peterson terms the "unforced rhythms of grace." I didn't know I was being wooed by the Creator of light and water and air and every cell that motivated muscle to move. I only knew sunlight that penetrated the water and captured a thousand diamonds on the water's surface, inviting me to a sense of security and loveliness. All was right with the world - the way it should be. As if floating on the wind or drifting on a cloud, or dancing with God. I felt a palpable Love in that underwater blue haven, as secure as the womb. And, from the safety of that place, the whole world lay before me, sparkling and bright and inviting.

Prophecy

Sometimes a story writes itself. It percolates for decades, spinning out its intricate details while you go about your life oblivious to what is playing out in the details of the quotidian daily grind. But I have learned that God is in those details, down to the smallest dotted i and crossed t. He is the Master Creator, the Divine Artist who conducts behind the scenes; and, even though you seldom recognize His Presence, He is there.....oh is He ever there. It was on one of those rare occasions when I did hear Him speaking to me that I recognized the Truth of my story, and how part of that story was in the writing of it. Events in my life began to pound my consciousness and everything started to fit together like some giant cosmic puzzle. Not that I had all the answers, or the whole thing figured out, but that I started to see the pattern and the sense in it all.

It started back when I was in High School.....

“The little writer,” the weak words wafting from the hospital bed were just above audible. I saw a frail arm lift and a hand extend toward me from the rumpled sheets. The muffled voice and barely recognizable form was that of my great aunt, Auntee we called her affectionately. Although I never felt particularly affectionate toward her. She was always a little scary to me - an imposing authoritarian and I felt a propulsion to be particularly lady-like on the visits to her large Victorian home where we paid formal visits to the Parlor. I got the sense my father, her nephew felt the same way. The visits were obligatory and stiff, paying homage to the wealthy family matriarch. I was her namesake for whatever that was worth. I always had a sneaking suspicion my being named for Auntee was a familial suck-up and not out of any true adoration. She was a spinster (an old maid like the card game) and had dedicated her life to education, having served as teacher and then principal of a landmark elementary school. As an educator, she recognized the value and weightiness of words.

Now my parents had taken me to Greensboro, NC, to pay a last visit to this dying woman who in no way resembled the Auntee of my childhood. And, even in her debilitated state she forecast my fate....”the little writer.” I have never forgotten those words.

“Go ahead,” my father urged me with a gentle push in the direction of the bed. “Talk to Auntee about your writing.”

So, here, in a place smelling like death and decay, I heard from the lips of a dying woman, a prophetic announcement over me that was to stay with me throughout my life. It was among many signs throughout my years that would pronounce me a writer. I don’t know why I ignored the auguries as long as I did. Perhaps it was laziness or a fear of failure, the dread of having nothing to say, or worse, that no one would care about what I had to say. These were the things that kept me from pursuing what I have always known I was born to do. And yet I didn’t. Oh, I have always been a prolific journalizer, a great writer of letters, a dabbler. But I have never put it all out there for the world to see. I guess I thought, “Who would care?” Well, of late, it has come to my attention, through repeated affirmations, that God cares.