The Gift of Good Decision Making

My husband bought a house one day while I wasn't around. Just days before this, we made a downpayment and signed a contract for a 4-plex. I was surprized that he would now buy a house without my knowledge. But, hey, he's the head of the house. Right?

There was a time when I really didn't care to know about our personal finances. We were doing well. I trusted my husband implicity to make our financial decisions. We lived very comfortably. He seemed to know what he was doing.

I'll have to admit that at times, I thought he was trying to kill me (metaphorically speaking), because every time he bought rental houses or mobile homes, it meant more work. We spent years repairing, painting, hiring contractors, maintaining properties, advertising and showing vacancies, dealing with tenants, evicting deadbeat renters and suing for damages.

So, even though I wasn't involved in all of the decision making, I was intimately involved in the work produced by those decisions. Both of us were overwhelmed, sometimes, by the workload.

My husband had an insatiable appetite for more, it seemed. He was running himself ragged. I didn't know at the time that he was sick (bi-polar). He had always been a leader, a go-getter, someone who "made it happen." But now he was reckless. His behavior became erratic, unpredicatable.

In the height of his heyday, tragedy struck. His sister died. He went through the motions of the funeral, then took to the bed. I'd call home from work, but couldn't reach him on our home phone, or his cell. I'd call his mom or sister...and they'd go beat on the door until he got up and answered. My husband was in a very dark place, for a very long time.

Then the unthinkable happened—he had a stroke. I had many responsibilities and tough decisions to make, and the one person I leaned on for decision making was incapacitated. It was a nightmare.

As he recovered from the obvious side-affects of stroke, his behavior became increasingly troubling. He stayed up for forty-eight hours and spray painted all his mobile homes. He spent hundreds of dollars on plants for the family homestead, and hundreds more on light fixtures (because they were on sale at Lowe's and you never know when you'll need them). When I found a loaded gun in the bottom drawer of his dresser, I started reaching for help.

Anyone who has an ill family member knows the chaos I'm talking about. Sometimes there seems to be no remedy. Certainly there is no "quick-fix."

If I could give the Christian women of the world one thing, it would be the ability to make good decisions. What happens to the human body when it is decapitated? Likewise, what happens to the home when the head of the house is so direly affected by brain illness (bi-polar disorder), or brain injury (stroke), or both?

Christian husbands and wives are blessed when they follow a godly pattern for their lives. Truly it is a blessing when your familial head is a mature Christian, who has his family's best interest at heart. Yet, Christian women should not bury their heads in the sand. There are predators out there, disease and tragedy, that can threaten the very existense of the warm cocoon they're living in.

Christian wives, are you living blissfully in the assumption that your husband will always be there to take care of you?

If any Christian husbands are reading this, I implore you to think about what will happen to your family if something happens to you. Will your wife be able to live in the manner she has grown accustomed to? Will she be able to make adequate personal and financial decisions? Who will she turn to for help? You could give her a wonderful gift this Christmas: the wisdom, knowledge and strength to carry on should something happen to you. Help her to know how to make important decisions, because life is uncertain, and you never know when she might need those skills.

Woman's Work

A man's work is from sun to sun, but a woman's work is never done!

Or so my mom used to say. As I go to bed thinking about all the work I didn't finish today, and all my chores for tomorrow, it's a little overwhelming. A good night's rest and a good morning (should the LORD grant me another) will offer new opportunities for accomplishing many tasks. But my work is never truly done. No wonder Jesus said in Matthew 6, verse 34, "Take therefore no thought for the morrow: for the morrow shall take thought for the things of itself. Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof."

Gettin' Ready for Christmas

Kory & Nick goofing off

Kory & the tree

Nichole was home from Meredith College for Thanksgiving

Kory, Nick & Wayne helped making the cards...but I only have pics of Kory

Christmas Card Economics

I purchased some white and off-white linen card stock a few years ago—several boxes, in fact. When I found them in the "reduced price" or "clearance" bin at Office Max, I thought about how much money I could save if I made my own Christmas cards!

Now, two years after that fateful purchase, I'm finally getting the cards done...with the help of my loyal sidekick, Kory, and my son (who would normally not be caught dead doing something so craftsy), and even Wayne. After buying the blank cards (with envelopes), saving and recycling card covers from previous years, spending hours of cutting, gluing, taping, rubber stamping, mounting stickers and trying to work with foil confetti, and hole-punching paper with snowflake designs, we're almost done.

We're pleased with the almost-end-product, so far. It took a lot of time and money to create such homemade-looking (and I do mean that in a homely sense) handmade Christmas cards. No one, by the way, will help me with addressing the envelopes, signing the cards, and stuffing the envelopes.

So, my lesson is learned, and this is my advice: if you're interested in having a little fun with your kids—and don't mind the extra time and money it will require—making Christmas cards is fun. But, if you're looking to save money on Christmas cards, buy the pre-made retail cards. Better yet, get them the day after Christmas and save them for next year's card list.

(Stay tuned for pictures, which are coming soon.)

A Poem by Wilma McPhail

Wilma McPail was a lady I knew from church. I was probably thirteen at the time. She was a published poet, and I played my guitar and sang in church. One day when my family and I were visiting her at home, she handed me a folder filled with unpublished poetry. She asked me to put music to her work, said she'd love to hear some of her poems sung. So, I did that with the following poem (see below) and have sung it in church many times through the years. Sis. McPhail was pleasantly surprised by the poem I used, as there were others she thought more suitable.

Sadly, I disappointed her when I did not use any more of her poems. I did not see the rare opportunity placed before me that day, as teenagers often don't. I wish I could have another chance with Sis. McPhail's poetry. I'm sure she has gone on to be with the Lord. Her health was failing even then, when I knew her. If anyone knows of her work, or how I can contact any of her family members, please send me an email to: anweury at yahoo dot com.

Somewhere there is someone
In need of our prayer
Somewhere there is someone
Lost in despair
Somewhere God is listening
To see if we care
So let's pray one for another
That his blessings we will share

Take time to pray daily
Even though things go well
For sin may vex us tomorrow
Only God can tell
A brother uplifted
By our prayers today
Will ask our Father to have mercy
On his children who prayed

Somewhere there are valleys
We each must walk through
Troubles, heartaches
And disappointments, too
But if we pray as we travel
When our sun ceases to shine
God will answer our brother's prayers
As he answered yours and mine

—by Wilma McPhail

Search For A Poem by H.S.H. Princess Grace

I believe I was age 12 when I first read a certain poem by Princess Grace of Monaco. I memorized the poem, but alas, have since forgotten some of it. Here's what I can recall (even though these pieces may not be entirely accurate):

Little flower, you're the lucky one
You soak in all the lovely sun
You let it all (?) go passing by
And never once do bat an eye

But you must, too, have wars to fight
The cold, bleak darkness of every night
Of stronger vines that seek to grow
Rain, hail --(?)-- and snow

Yet, you never let it show
On your pretty face

That's the best my childhood memories can produce. So, please, if anyone knows this poem...I would love to hear it again!

Autumn Fun

Little children—gotta love 'em—they still think raking leaves is fun! (Teenagers have to be cajoled, coerced, threatened, and bribed.)

Age 9, Kory did such a good job that I gave him $2 for his trouble. He was thoroughly surprized...and thrilled to get it! Gotta love little kids.

Harvest Time

A Story by Nick

Here's an anecdote that Nick shared in one of his school writing assignments. His spelling leaves something to be desired, so I have edited for spelling, and for punctuation, but not grammar. Words in { } are my explanations for what he's saying. It's a cute story...and true:

My dad lets me have lighters, and matches, but my mom don't. Probably cause she's caught me in the act with fire. One time we went up South {meaning South Carolina} to get some fireworks. When we got home I asked if I can bring some upstairs to my room. They said, yes, only if I don't light them. So I brought them up to my room and put them in my closet. A couple days later, I was in my room watching T.V. when I heard them, the fireworks, calling my name. I went to my closet, looked up, and it just got me. I had to light one. So I got a little one out of the pack and walked to the hall to make sure nobody was around, pulled out a lighter, opened my window, lit it, and threw it. It was very, very bright. It twisted in the air on the way down. When it went out, the next thing I heard was my dad calling my name. They were in the den, right under me, and the curtains was open. They seen the whole thing.

My Long Absence

Hard to believe it's been over two weeks since I blogged here! I think maybe I can come up with an excuse or two. :-)

Wayne was hospitalized for five days during this time. He had some kind of infection--the ER docs said it was pneumonia, but Wayne's immunologists said they couldn't find the culprit organism. His fever was dangerously high for several hours, spiking at 103.5 degrees F, and resisted efforts to lower it.

Bros. Hall & Vaux came to visit Wayne in the hospital. We also received some emails & instant messages from various ministers who told us they were praying for Wayne. Thanks so much to all of them for their prayers and support.

After five days, when it seemed his temperature was under control, Wayne was released on a Sunday evening (about a week and a half ago).

The next day, I flew to Indianapolis for a job interview, and didn't get home till late Wednesday night. Then Thursday, Thanksgiving Day, we started cooking in the morning, ate dinner a little after one, took a little nap, then put up the Christmas tree. Although Wayne put the lights on it on Thursday, Kory & Nick decorated it on Friday. (I'll post a few pictures soon.)

Nick injured his right ankle on Saturday at basketball practice...so it was off to the ER for x-rays. He has a bad sprain, but he'll be fine. They put a brace on his foot that supports his ankle and calf. The brace hardened like a cast, but he can remove it to take a shower. He walked with crutches for a few days, but threw those aside on Tuesday so he could play in this week's two games. (Unfortunately, they lost both!)

Kory spent some time with us over the past weekend. Then, he got into some trouble at school this week (defending himself against kids who were mocking and hitting him) and was suspended for two weeks! He's only nine...so I'm sure that was overkill! He used a stick to fight back, so I think that's what the school was so upset about. Anyway, Kory's having a rough time and could really use our prayers.

I appreciate the supportive emails, IMs, visits, and phone calls from our brothers and sisters in Christ. If you're reading this, thank you! God bless you all.

Most Valuable Player!

Nick will probably have a fit when he finds out I posted his award here. For sure, I won't be winning any Cool Mom awards!

Another Lost Uncle

My uncle Dick died this past Sunday, the day after Veteran's Day. He was a Korean War veteran, a retired small-business owner and a family man. He was seventy-five. He was married to my mom's half-sister, Helen.

My aunt was only sixteen when they married; Uncle Dick was forty-one. Odds for a successful marriage may not have been good, but they made it work for thirty-four years, until death finally parted them.

I've lost three uncles in the last two years. Seems like my family is just slipping away, like sand through my fingers, and I'm one of the "old people" now. I mean, I'm a great-aunt! The cycle of life is quite exciting...seeing young ones come along and how they grow, what kinds of decisions they make, the kinds of people they become. But the cycle brings sadness on a day like yesterday, when I learned I have lost another uncle.

Filling In The Little Ovaries

I just came from voting at our rural volunteer fire department. Election volunteers were so genial, especially the little old lady who handed me my ballot and ink pen, and instructed me to make sure that I fill in the little ovaries completely. A check mark, or an X won't do, she advised.

I chuckled to myself and proceeded to the booth to do my duty. I was almost distracted by her telling voters behind me in line to fill in their little ovaries. No one corrected her, no one advised her that they were ovals.

David, my nephew, had brought me to vote. I asked him when we left if he filled in his ovaries. He chuckled. He hadn't even noticed what the woman had said.

It's a common phenomenon around here, especially with the older folks. Not only can ovals be called ovaries, hysterectomy is often called hysterectum, hiatal hernia is known as high hernia, and kerosene is kerasan. If they can't remember the actual word, any variation will do. And, rarely does anyone bother to correct them.

Well, I guess it's not really that important. At least the voting ballot seemed right. Unless I'm so immune to local vernacular that I wouldn't even notice!

What a Difference Autumn Makes

What a difference a few weeks make! The photo above was in our Sunday, Nov 5, 2006 Stanly News and Press. It's the same field I photographed (below) just a few weeks ago, on October 11, 2006.

The Land Of Cotton

There's no delicate way to say this. I'm a Yankee. The worst kind of Yankee—I married a Southerner and came south in a U-Haul.

Folks around here are still fighting a civil war of sorts: school mascots (rebels) and Confederate flags are challenged; each high school has a black prom court and a white prom court; even churches of the same denomination are racially segregated. Foreigners, pronounced fariners, and loosely translated as anyone not from the south, quickly learn how things are. Change is not welcome. It reminds me of the tune, "Oh, I wish I was in the land of cotton. Old times there are not forgotten...." Rarely a truer statement has been spoken.

Constancy is not so bad in other ways, however. The countryside is still awe inspiring. I live in a beautiful place with rolling hills, forest, lakes, an extinct volcano, and fields of soybeans, corn and cotton.

Here's a few pictures of the field across the road from where I live. This field is lovely in all its seasons. Right now it's cotton. Soon it will be harvested, and the land will rest. When hunting season rolls in, the field will come alive with herds of deer.

This place may be dragging its feet into the twenty-first century, but, thank God, it brings with it natural beauty. I think of these things every day when I open the front door and look upon the rolling field of cotton across the road.

Kory's sister, Shevelle.

Roughing It

We had no water for some time today. That's because a friend, who was trying to snake a clogged drain under the house, accidentally broke an old water pipe. He had to turn off the water and go buy more parts.

Ironically, we had too much water yesterday. It flowed out of my dishwasher and onto the floor, because the drain was clogged under the house.

To top it all off, the central heat/air has been out for several weeks. The contractor is supposed to come this week and put in a new unit...that is, if he doesn't get delayed AGAIN. So, we struggled through the summer's end with no air conditioning, and now we think we're freezing in our unseasonable cold weather. (Tonight's forecast is 28° Fahrenheit.)

I was just telling my sister today how we have no heat, and no running water. She said, "You might as well stay in a tent." I gave it some thought, while I hovered near the space heater.

Well, at least there's that—a space heater! And the water came back on in time for a rush to the bathroom. Tomorrow may be another story. For now, I'm going to bed, to bask in the warmth of the space heater.

Rumors

Three little country boys were outside playing, when a kitten was strangled to death. Two of the boys, better talkers, said the third boy did it—my foster nephew, Kory.

Kory vehemently denied it. He had no history of harming animals. By all accounts, he loved animals and was always gentle toward them. But, Kory, with a diagnosis of ADHD, a record of violent temper tantrums, and who had other problems, was assumed to have been the culprit. Neighborhood consensus was established.

The kitten's owner called the Department of Social Services, reporting that Kory had killed her kitten. The boy's mother was called in. She was threatened with losing both her children. Kory was sent to a psychiatrist for evaluation. The doctor didn't believe Kory was guilty. Eventually, the family's DSS anal exam ended.

Kory, himself, was not so lucky. When he came around the neighborhood, he was called "Kory the Cat-killer." Even the adults teased Kory, asking him to "take care of" the stray dogs and cats that came around. Kory calmly maintained his innocence.

Guess what happened? The other two boys finally admitted to killing the kitten! After all that my foster nephew and his family went through! So the lady who called DSS apologized to Kory's parents. She's promised to call DSS on Monday and report her error.

But, once the toothpaste is out of the tube, it's hard to get it back in. Can a family's trauma from being investigated be undone with an apology? Can a child's mandated visit to a psychiatrist be taken back by an apology? Can the self-esteem of a little boy who was unfairly ostracized be restored by a simple apology?

How aptly the writer defined the power of the tongue in James, chapter 3:

[5] Even so the tongue is a little member, and boasteth great things. Behold, how great a matter a little fire kindleth!
[6] And the tongue is a fire, a world of iniquity: so is the tongue among our members, that it defileth the whole body, and setteth on fire the course of nature; and it is set on fire of hell.

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Kory feeds the gazelle at Lazy 5 Ranch

It Is Well With My Soul

Once upon a time, when I couln't handle my problems, I crawled into a bottle of pills. When I miscarried, after years of trying to get pregnant, it was Atavan. When my husband stroked out, it was Xanex.

But I can't do that anymore. I'm reaching for higher ground, trusting God to carry me through. How blessed is that sense of calm that caused the writer to say:

When peace like a river attends my way
When sorrow like sea billows roll
Whatever my lot
Thou hast brought me to say
It is well, it is well with my soul.

Boundaries

After my mom died, I would sit up all night long wishing someone would tell me it's time to go to bed.

I think of this whenever I'm reminding my son to do his homework, clean his room, take out the trash, and yes, go to bed. He needs to know that I have expectations for his behavior and comportment. Whether he understands it now, or not, he needs limitations. He needs boundaries.

I know good child rearing is complicated, and cannot be reduced to one principle. But when I see a child out of control—one who cannot control his anger or his desires—I cannot help but think of my own mother reminding me of bedtime; or standing in my bedroom door with a switch in hand and demanding that I clean my room; or taking me to the mirror and proclaiming, "Look how beautiful you are! Why would you want to ruin that with make-up?" when I wanted to look like other girls.

While I don't believe in clipping a child's wings, or hindering them from finding out the hard way, I do think ample guidance is needed along the way. It's important to teach kids how to think, not just what to think.

The Poor Little Paper Boy

When my mother was a child, she read and memorized a poem found in her local newspaper. The writer unknown, my mother adopted the poem for herself. She and a neighbor girl set it to music, and thus a lamentable tune was born. She later sang it to her children. I wish I could record it for posterity, could convey the feeling behind the bluegrass sound my mother had. Until then, I'll just have to play it in my mind. Here's the poem, however one-dimensional its presentation:

Please buy a paper from me
So I can get me something to eat
His clothes were all ragged, no shoes on his feet
The poor little paper boy there on the street

Early one morning, the people passed by
They wondered why the little boy wasn't there
They searched and they searched, and found him dead
He died with a newspaper under his head.

--author unknown