Deer Reader :)

We’ve started a new bible study at my church, just us ladies. It’s about being a Godly woman and doing Godly, womanly things. It’s a good study and I’m enjoying it.

My life is different than most women I know. I have other female friends that have chicken houses, but their husbands stay home with them and they work together for the most part. In our world, I stay home and Clint goes to work and unless I’ve got a problem I rarely want him out there. He has so much to do and is so busy, I feel it a burden to ask him to do much in the chicken houses.  That being said, sometimes there are things I CANNOT do physically or are out of my comfort zone to fix. I can’t fix vent door cables. I know HOW to fix them, but physically I’m not strong enough. I’m good at trouble shooting and often can call Clint and tell him exactly what’s wrong and even what parts he may need to pick up.

 Sometimes my days blur between being a girly girl and being a tomboy. Saturday morning, I got up and worked out. Clint was gone hunting and I don’t have chickens right now. So, I made a big pot of homemade cream of tomato soup, homemade potato soup, and homemade pimento cheese. I cooked and I cooked. Then I cleaned and I cleaned. I painted old furniture and then distressed it to look old and beat up. I love things that look old and beat up. I like to tell Clint that’s why I love him and he just laughs. 

  Clint came home with a buck he had shot and I took my camera out there and snapped a few proud pictures. Aaron was there, a young man who came home with Trevor one day after school several years ago and just seemed to never completely leave. Clint and I feel like he is a stepson at this point. He comes for Sunday dinner pretty regularly and calls Clint to ask for advice or chat. Clint went into the shop and Aaron grabbed all four legs of the buck and heaved it out of the bed of the pickup. Aaron is a big, strong guy but the buck’s head just wouldn’t clear the tail gate so, I grabbed the antlers and helped Aaron carry it into the shop. I watched as Clint cut behind the tendons just above the back hooves and ran a hook thru them. They hoisted the buck into the air with the chain lift. Clint placed a piece of wood about a foot and a half across with wedges cut out of it between the buck’s back legs to hold them apart. It had already been gutted. He grabbed the hose and began washing the blood and grass and hair that had stuck to the inner part of the deer. The water and blood ran into the drain in the floor of the shop.  The dogs sniffed and snuffed the air. I watched as he cut around the white tail of the deer and  started to skin it. I’ve helped to skin many deer, but Aaron was there so I left it to him. “When y’all are done, I’ve got soup and pimento cheese and pound cake.”

Clint smiled at me, his camo splatted here and there with blood. “you’re a good woman. She’s a good woman, huh, Aaron? She’s a good cook, too.” Aaron smiled and agreed and said “I know.” I grinned at them and said “y’all just holler when you’re ready to eat.” and I headed inside the house.

I washed the blood off my hands and set about to painting again and cleaning. After finishing up with the deer,  Clint came in and ate and said he was going to take a nap. We’d both been fighting allergies/colds all week. I rarely nap. I actually dislike naps and always have. But I found the nap idea intriguing for some reason, so I lay down on the bed beside him  and fell asleep almost immediately.

I woke an hour later, confused and stupid. This is why I hate naps. I wake up confused and stupid every time and it doesn’t wear off for an hour.

I got up quietly and slipped out, Clint’s snore a steady sound. I puttered around the house til he got up.

We sat quietly and visited until his phone vibrated. He answered it and had a short conversation.

He stood up and said “well, that was Greg, he and his wife saw a deer limping across the pasture. Said it was limping pretty bad. It may have been shot or hit by a car. Either way, it’s limping and hurt.  Wanna  go with me and see if it needs put down?”

I got up and changed shoes. Clint dressed me in an orange vest and frowned at my pale pink ball cap and pulled it off and put on a hunter’s orange one. “I don’t look good in orange” I jokingly protested. “I’m a winter.” He sighed like he always does and we climbed into the truck.

We headed down the road, just across from our old house. The house we lived in when we first married and brought the babies home to. I always look at it if I drive by. It’s so full of memories of early years. I half expect to see Trevor or Tara, ages 6 and 4, playing on the carport. They are never there except in my mind.

We parked and got out and headed into the pasture. Clint got his rifle out in case he had to put the deer down. Many round bales of hay dotted here and there. We whispered to each other quietly about where this deer might be. I said “if I were a deer, and I was hurt, I’d get in the shade, and hide under a tree.” Clint said “yup.” I said “don’t deer head for water when they’re hurt?” “yup.” said Clint. “ooh, I bet it’s down there, there’s a creek and it’d be cool and a good hiding place!” I said excitedly.  Clint said “yup.” then he added “ Shhhhh. Don’t talk. Walk quieter.”

We walked along side by side and I said “this is a nice evening for a walk!” Clint agreed. I reached to take his hand, as if we were on a lover’s lane or walking in a store. He said “sweetie, I gotta have my hands free in case I have to shoot.”

I sighed. I forgot we weren’t just walking and  I have trouble being quiet. I tried. I saw in the distance the trees, the inside of the woods dark and cool, inviting. I started walked toward it, sure that’s where a hurt deer would go.

“would you slow DOWN??” Clint said. “you walk too fast. You have to slip around.” I sighed again. I cannot slip around. But I tried.

Finally we got to where we thought the deer might be and I slowed, looking carefully into the brush. Clint walked on ahead about 30 feet and did the same, slowly peering and peeking. I took a step into the beginning of the brush, feeling sure the deer was near me. Clint got my attention and said in a whisper “if it’s wounded, it might try to hurt you if you get too close. Be careful!” I nodded and took another step. I could see the creek. I could see the slope of the bank, the large dead trees lying here and there, pushed by  past flood waters. It was beautiful. If I were an injured deer, this is where I’d rest, in the shade, near the cool water.  

I heard the deer before I saw it, just 15 or 20 feet in front of me. It was a small doe. She scrambled to her feet and turned away from me and then she just LEAPT over the barb wire fence behind the creek. She seemed to hang in the air for a moment, her tail a white flag, her feet elegantly tucked up, her tiny hooves black and shiny. Her eyes were dark, and big, and full of fear. Her ears, one angled toward me to listen, to see if I would follow. Her fur, smooth and brown and beautiful. She leapt over the fence, out of the shade and into the sun.

And then she was gone.

Clint tried to track her for a while, but she was nowhere to be found. “I knew that’s where she was! I had a feeling!” I said.

“you and your feelings!” he smiled at me. He shook his head. “Well….I was RIGHT.” I smiled back. “you were.” he said.

We headed back to the truck, the long walk across the pasture in our orange vests and hats. I was hot and sweaty and so was he. This time when I took his hand, he didn’t scold me and we walked hand in hand toward the truck.

People drove by on the highway near the pasture and I thought how strange we must look, these hunters holding hands, dressed in orange vests and hats.

We drove home and I thought about that doe, leaping like that. Even though she was hurt. She summoned enough strength and ignored her pain enough to save her life, to keep from being put down.  

I told Clint she didn’t look like she was hurt that bad. He said she’d probably be alright if she could jump like that.

I thought about being a Godly woman. How my life, the girly girl part and the tomboy part, blurs and crosses back and forth. One minute I’m making soup. The next minute, I’m hoisting a dead buck by the antlers. One minute, I’m dressed for church. The next minute, I’m running barefoot thru a flood, fully made up for church, having kicked my shoes off so not to ruin them, in the chicken houses trying to find where the water is coming from. One minute, I’m driving my pastor’s wife (Susie, who made brownies and has them carefully covered in Saran Wrap on a plate and holds them in her lap)  to a bible study. The next minute, I’m pulling into the church parking lot and leaping from the car, screaming STOP IT, STOP HITTING THAT GIRL, NOT IN MY CHURCH PARKING LOT OR YOU’LL HAVE TO FIGHT ME TOO SO HELP ME GOD  at  a young man who is shoving his girlfriend around, chest bumping her, raising his forearm to knock her in the side of the head.   (Susie never even drops the brownies, so stunned is she.)

God made us both, He made male and female. We are both made in His image. Clint is tough and manly, but he is tender and sweet with babies and small children and me. I am soft and curvy, but do a man’s job in the chicken houses. Clint zigs where I zag and I rise when he falls and he lifts when I feel put down.

 I thought about that doe, elegant  and tiny footed, her lean, beautiful face as she leapt into the sunlight, regardless of her pain. 

I want to be like that.

Tender, but tough.

Delicate, but durable.

Injured, yet inspiring.

“As the deer panteth after the water brooks, so panteth my soul after Thee, oh God.” Psalm 42:1

Oh dear (deer?) reader. Injured you may be, seek the cool of the shade by the brook. His living water is there, to quench your panting soul.

And never, ever let the world put you down.

Deer Reader :)

We’ve started a new bible study at my church, just us ladies. It’s about being a Godly woman and doing Godly, womanly things. It’s a good study and I’m enjoying it.

My life is different than most women I know. I have other female friends that have chicken houses, but their husbands stay home with them and they work together for the most part. In our world, I stay home and Clint goes to work and unless I’ve got a problem I rarely want him out there. He has so much to do and is so busy, I feel it a burden to ask him to do much in the chicken houses.  That being said, sometimes there are things I CANNOT do physically or are out of my comfort zone to fix. I can’t fix vent door cables. I know HOW to fix them, but physically I’m not strong enough. I’m good at trouble shooting and often can call Clint and tell him exactly what’s wrong and even what parts he may need to pick up.

 Sometimes my days blur between being a girly girl and being a tomboy. Saturday morning, I got up and worked out. Clint was gone hunting and I don’t have chickens right now. So, I made a big pot of homemade cream of tomato soup, homemade potato soup, and homemade pimento cheese. I cooked and I cooked. Then I cleaned and I cleaned. I painted old furniture and then distressed it to look old and beat up. I love things that look old and beat up. I like to tell Clint that’s why I love him and he just laughs. 

  Clint came home with a buck he had shot and I took my camera out there and snapped a few proud pictures. Aaron was there, a young man who came home with Trevor one day after school several years ago and just seemed to never completely leave. Clint and I feel like he is a stepson at this point. He comes for Sunday dinner pretty regularly and calls Clint to ask for advice or chat. Clint went into the shop and Aaron grabbed all four legs of the buck and heaved it out of the bed of the pickup. Aaron is a big, strong guy but the buck’s head just wouldn’t clear the tail gate so, I grabbed the antlers and helped Aaron carry it into the shop. I watched as Clint cut behind the tendons just above the back hooves and ran a hook thru them. They hoisted the buck into the air with the chain lift. Clint placed a piece of wood about a foot and a half across with wedges cut out of it between the buck’s back legs to hold them apart. It had already been gutted. He grabbed the hose and began washing the blood and grass and hair that had stuck to the inner part of the deer. The water and blood ran into the drain in the floor of the shop.  The dogs sniffed and snuffed the air. I watched as he cut around the white tail of the deer and  started to skin it. I’ve helped to skin many deer, but Aaron was there so I left it to him. “When y’all are done, I’ve got soup and pimento cheese and pound cake.”

Clint smiled at me, his camo splatted here and there with blood. “you’re a good woman. She’s a good woman, huh, Aaron? She’s a good cook, too.” Aaron smiled and agreed and said “I know.” I grinned at them and said “y’all just holler when you’re ready to eat.” and I headed inside the house.

I washed the blood off my hands and set about to painting again and cleaning. After finishing up with the deer,  Clint came in and ate and said he was going to take a nap. We’d both been fighting allergies/colds all week. I rarely nap. I actually dislike naps and always have. But I found the nap idea intriguing for some reason, so I lay down on the bed beside him  and fell asleep almost immediately.

I woke an hour later, confused and stupid. This is why I hate naps. I wake up confused and stupid every time and it doesn’t wear off for an hour.

I got up quietly and slipped out, Clint’s snore a steady sound. I puttered around the house til he got up.

We sat quietly and visited until his phone vibrated. He answered it and had a short conversation.

He stood up and said “well, that was Greg, he and his wife saw a deer limping across the pasture. Said it was limping pretty bad. It may have been shot or hit by a car. Either way, it’s limping and hurt.  Wanna  go with me and see if it needs put down?”

I got up and changed shoes. Clint dressed me in an orange vest and frowned at my pale pink ball cap and pulled it off and put on a hunter’s orange one. “I don’t look good in orange” I jokingly protested. “I’m a winter.” He sighed like he always does and we climbed into the truck.

We headed down the road, just across from our old house. The house we lived in when we first married and brought the babies home to. I always look at it if I drive by. It’s so full of memories of early years. I half expect to see Trevor or Tara, ages 6 and 4, playing on the carport. They are never there except in my mind.

We parked and got out and headed into the pasture. Clint got his rifle out in case he had to put the deer down. Many round bales of hay dotted here and there. We whispered to each other quietly about where this deer might be. I said “if I were a deer, and I was hurt, I’d get in the shade, and hide under a tree.” Clint said “yup.” I said “don’t deer head for water when they’re hurt?” “yup.” said Clint. “ooh, I bet it’s down there, there’s a creek and it’d be cool and a good hiding place!” I said excitedly.  Clint said “yup.” then he added “ Shhhhh. Don’t talk. Walk quieter.”

We walked along side by side and I said “this is a nice evening for a walk!” Clint agreed. I reached to take his hand, as if we were on a lover’s lane or walking in a store. He said “sweetie, I gotta have my hands free in case I have to shoot.”

I sighed. I forgot we weren’t just walking and  I have trouble being quiet. I tried. I saw in the distance the trees, the inside of the woods dark and cool, inviting. I started walked toward it, sure that’s where a hurt deer would go.

“would you slow DOWN??” Clint said. “you walk too fast. You have to slip around.” I sighed again. I cannot slip around. But I tried.

Finally we got to where we thought the deer might be and I slowed, looking carefully into the brush. Clint walked on ahead about 30 feet and did the same, slowly peering and peeking. I took a step into the beginning of the brush, feeling sure the deer was near me. Clint got my attention and said in a whisper “if it’s wounded, it might try to hurt you if you get too close. Be careful!” I nodded and took another step. I could see the creek. I could see the slope of the bank, the large dead trees lying here and there, pushed by  past flood waters. It was beautiful. If I were an injured deer, this is where I’d rest, in the shade, near the cool water.  

I heard the deer before I saw it, just 15 or 20 feet in front of me. It was a small doe. She scrambled to her feet and turned away from me and then she just LEAPT over the barb wire fence behind the creek. She seemed to hang in the air for a moment, her tail a white flag, her feet elegantly tucked up, her tiny hooves black and shiny. Her eyes were dark, and big, and full of fear. Her ears, one angled toward me to listen, to see if I would follow. Her fur, smooth and brown and beautiful. She leapt over the fence, out of the shade and into the sun.

And then she was gone.

Clint tried to track her for a while, but she was nowhere to be found. “I knew that’s where she was! I had a feeling!” I said.

“you and your feelings!” he smiled at me. He shook his head. “Well….I was RIGHT.” I smiled back. “you were.” he said.

We headed back to the truck, the long walk across the pasture in our orange vests and hats. I was hot and sweaty and so was he. This time when I took his hand, he didn’t scold me and we walked hand in hand toward the truck.

People drove by on the highway near the pasture and I thought how strange we must look, these hunters holding hands, dressed in orange vests and hats.

We drove home and I thought about that doe, leaping like that. Even though she was hurt. She summoned enough strength and ignored her pain enough to save her life, to keep from being put down.  

I told Clint she didn’t look like she was hurt that bad. He said she’d probably be alright if she could jump like that.

I thought about being a Godly woman. How my life, the girly girl part and the tomboy part, blurs and crosses back and forth. One minute I’m making soup. The next minute, I’m hoisting a dead buck by the antlers. One minute, I’m dressed for church. The next minute, I’m running barefoot thru a flood, fully made up for church, having kicked my shoes off so not to ruin them, in the chicken houses trying to find where the water is coming from. One minute, I’m driving my pastor’s wife (Susie, who made brownies and has them carefully covered in Saran Wrap on a plate and holds them in her lap)  to a bible study. The next minute, I’m pulling into the church parking lot and leaping from the car, screaming STOP IT, STOP HITTING THAT GIRL, NOT IN MY CHURCH PARKING LOT OR YOU’LL HAVE TO FIGHT ME TOO SO HELP ME GOD  at  a young man who is shoving his girlfriend around, chest bumping her, raising his forearm to knock her in the side of the head.   (Susie never even drops the brownies, so stunned is she.)

God made us both, He made male and female. We are both made in His image. Clint is tough and manly, but he is tender and sweet with babies and small children and me. I am soft and curvy, but do a man’s job in the chicken houses. Clint zigs where I zag and I rise when he falls and he lifts when I feel put down.

 I thought about that doe, elegant  and tiny footed, her lean, beautiful face as she leapt into the sunlight, regardless of her pain. 

I want to be like that.

Tender, but tough.

Delicate, but durable.

Injured, yet inspiring.

“As the deer panteth after the water brooks, so panteth my soul after Thee, oh God.” Psalm 42:1

Oh dear (deer?) reader. Injured you may be, seek the cool of the shade by the brook. His living water is there, to quench your panting soul.

And never, ever let the world put you down.

Deer Reader :)

We’ve started a new bible study at my church, just us ladies. It’s about being a Godly woman and doing Godly, womanly things. It’s a good study and I’m enjoying it.

My life is different than most women I know. I have other female friends that have chicken houses, but their husbands stay home with them and they work together for the most part. In our world, I stay home and Clint goes to work and unless I’ve got a problem I rarely want him out there. He has so much to do and is so busy, I feel it a burden to ask him to do much in the chicken houses.  That being said, sometimes there are things I CANNOT do physically or are out of my comfort zone to fix. I can’t fix vent door cables. I know HOW to fix them, but physically I’m not strong enough. I’m good at trouble shooting and often can call Clint and tell him exactly what’s wrong and even what parts he may need to pick up.

 Sometimes my days blur between being a girly girl and being a tomboy. Saturday morning, I got up and worked out. Clint was gone hunting and I don’t have chickens right now. So, I made a big pot of homemade cream of tomato soup, homemade potato soup, and homemade pimento cheese. I cooked and I cooked. Then I cleaned and I cleaned. I painted old furniture and then distressed it to look old and beat up. I love things that look old and beat up. I like to tell Clint that’s why I love him and he just laughs. 

  Clint came home with a buck he had shot and I took my camera out there and snapped a few proud pictures. Aaron was there, a young man who came home with Trevor one day after school several years ago and just seemed to never completely leave. Clint and I feel like he is a stepson at this point. He comes for Sunday dinner pretty regularly and calls Clint to ask for advice or chat. Clint went into the shop and Aaron grabbed all four legs of the buck and heaved it out of the bed of the pickup. Aaron is a big, strong guy but the buck’s head just wouldn’t clear the tail gate so, I grabbed the antlers and helped Aaron carry it into the shop. I watched as Clint cut behind the tendons just above the back hooves and ran a hook thru them. They hoisted the buck into the air with the chain lift. Clint placed a piece of wood about a foot and a half across with wedges cut out of it between the buck’s back legs to hold them apart. It had already been gutted. He grabbed the hose and began washing the blood and grass and hair that had stuck to the inner part of the deer. The water and blood ran into the drain in the floor of the shop.  The dogs sniffed and snuffed the air. I watched as he cut around the white tail of the deer and  started to skin it. I’ve helped to skin many deer, but Aaron was there so I left it to him. “When y’all are done, I’ve got soup and pimento cheese and pound cake.”

Clint smiled at me, his camo splatted here and there with blood. “you’re a good woman. She’s a good woman, huh, Aaron? She’s a good cook, too.” Aaron smiled and agreed and said “I know.” I grinned at them and said “y’all just holler when you’re ready to eat.” and I headed inside the house.

I washed the blood off my hands and set about to painting again and cleaning. After finishing up with the deer,  Clint came in and ate and said he was going to take a nap. We’d both been fighting allergies/colds all week. I rarely nap. I actually dislike naps and always have. But I found the nap idea intriguing for some reason, so I lay down on the bed beside him  and fell asleep almost immediately.

I woke an hour later, confused and stupid. This is why I hate naps. I wake up confused and stupid every time and it doesn’t wear off for an hour.

I got up quietly and slipped out, Clint’s snore a steady sound. I puttered around the house til he got up.

We sat quietly and visited until his phone vibrated. He answered it and had a short conversation.

He stood up and said “well, that was Greg, he and his wife saw a deer limping across the pasture. Said it was limping pretty bad. It may have been shot or hit by a car. Either way, it’s limping and hurt.  Wanna  go with me and see if it needs put down?”

I got up and changed shoes. Clint dressed me in an orange vest and frowned at my pale pink ball cap and pulled it off and put on a hunter’s orange one. “I don’t look good in orange” I jokingly protested. “I’m a winter.” He sighed like he always does and we climbed into the truck.

We headed down the road, just across from our old house. The house we lived in when we first married and brought the babies home to. I always look at it if I drive by. It’s so full of memories of early years. I half expect to see Trevor or Tara, ages 6 and 4, playing on the carport. They are never there except in my mind.

We parked and got out and headed into the pasture. Clint got his rifle out in case he had to put the deer down. Many round bales of hay dotted here and there. We whispered to each other quietly about where this deer might be. I said “if I were a deer, and I was hurt, I’d get in the shade, and hide under a tree.” Clint said “yup.” I said “don’t deer head for water when they’re hurt?” “yup.” said Clint. “ooh, I bet it’s down there, there’s a creek and it’d be cool and a good hiding place!” I said excitedly.  Clint said “yup.” then he added “ Shhhhh. Don’t talk. Walk quieter.”

We walked along side by side and I said “this is a nice evening for a walk!” Clint agreed. I reached to take his hand, as if we were on a lover’s lane or walking in a store. He said “sweetie, I gotta have my hands free in case I have to shoot.”

I sighed. I forgot we weren’t just walking and  I have trouble being quiet. I tried. I saw in the distance the trees, the inside of the woods dark and cool, inviting. I started walked toward it, sure that’s where a hurt deer would go.

“would you slow DOWN??” Clint said. “you walk too fast. You have to slip around.” I sighed again. I cannot slip around. But I tried.

Finally we got to where we thought the deer might be and I slowed, looking carefully into the brush. Clint walked on ahead about 30 feet and did the same, slowly peering and peeking. I took a step into the beginning of the brush, feeling sure the deer was near me. Clint got my attention and said in a whisper “if it’s wounded, it might try to hurt you if you get too close. Be careful!” I nodded and took another step. I could see the creek. I could see the slope of the bank, the large dead trees lying here and there, pushed by  past flood waters. It was beautiful. If I were an injured deer, this is where I’d rest, in the shade, near the cool water.  

I heard the deer before I saw it, just 15 or 20 feet in front of me. It was a small doe. She scrambled to her feet and turned away from me and then she just LEAPT over the barb wire fence behind the creek. She seemed to hang in the air for a moment, her tail a white flag, her feet elegantly tucked up, her tiny hooves black and shiny. Her eyes were dark, and big, and full of fear. Her ears, one angled toward me to listen, to see if I would follow. Her fur, smooth and brown and beautiful. She leapt over the fence, out of the shade and into the sun.

And then she was gone.

Clint tried to track her for a while, but she was nowhere to be found. “I knew that’s where she was! I had a feeling!” I said.

“you and your feelings!” he smiled at me. He shook his head. “Well….I was RIGHT.” I smiled back. “you were.” he said.

We headed back to the truck, the long walk across the pasture in our orange vests and hats. I was hot and sweaty and so was he. This time when I took his hand, he didn’t scold me and we walked hand in hand toward the truck.

People drove by on the highway near the pasture and I thought how strange we must look, these hunters holding hands, dressed in orange vests and hats.

We drove home and I thought about that doe, leaping like that. Even though she was hurt. She summoned enough strength and ignored her pain enough to save her life, to keep from being put down.  

I told Clint she didn’t look like she was hurt that bad. He said she’d probably be alright if she could jump like that.

I thought about being a Godly woman. How my life, the girly girl part and the tomboy part, blurs and crosses back and forth. One minute I’m making soup. The next minute, I’m hoisting a dead buck by the antlers. One minute, I’m dressed for church. The next minute, I’m running barefoot thru a flood, fully made up for church, having kicked my shoes off so not to ruin them, in the chicken houses trying to find where the water is coming from. One minute, I’m driving my pastor’s wife (Susie, who made brownies and has them carefully covered in Saran Wrap on a plate and holds them in her lap)  to a bible study. The next minute, I’m pulling into the church parking lot and leaping from the car, screaming STOP IT, STOP HITTING THAT GIRL, NOT IN MY CHURCH PARKING LOT OR YOU’LL HAVE TO FIGHT ME TOO SO HELP ME GOD  at  a young man who is shoving his girlfriend around, chest bumping her, raising his forearm to knock her in the side of the head.   (Susie never even drops the brownies, so stunned is she.)

God made us both, He made male and female. We are both made in His image. Clint is tough and manly, but he is tender and sweet with babies and small children and me. I am soft and curvy, but do a man’s job in the chicken houses. Clint zigs where I zag and I rise when he falls and he lifts when I feel put down.

 I thought about that doe, elegant  and tiny footed, her lean, beautiful face as she leapt into the sunlight, regardless of her pain. 

I want to be like that.

Tender, but tough.

Delicate, but durable.

Injured, yet inspiring.

“As the deer panteth after the water brooks, so panteth my soul after Thee, oh God.” Psalm 42:1

Oh dear (deer?) reader. Injured you may be, seek the cool of the shade by the brook. His living water is there, to quench your panting soul.

And never, ever let the world put you down.

Deer Reader

We’ve started a new bible study at my church, just us ladies. It’s about being a Godly woman and doing Godly, womanly things. It’s a good study and I’m enjoying it.

My life is different than most women I know. I have other female friends that have chicken houses, but their husbands stay home with them and they work together for the most part. In our world, I stay home and Clint goes to work and unless I’ve got a problem I rarely want him out there. He has so much to do and is so busy, I feel it a burden to ask him to do much in the chicken houses.  That being said, sometimes there are things I CANNOT do physically or are out of my comfort zone to fix. I can’t fix vent door cables. I know HOW to fix them, but physically I’m not strong enough. I’m good at trouble shooting and often can call Clint and tell him exactly what’s wrong and even what parts he may need to pick up.

 Sometimes my days blur between being a girly girl and being a tomboy. Saturday morning, I got up and worked out. Clint was gone hunting and I don’t have chickens right now. So, I made a big pot of homemade cream of tomato soup, homemade potato soup, and homemade pimento cheese. I cooked and I cooked. Then I cleaned and I cleaned. I painted old furniture and then distressed it to look old and beat up. I love things that look old and beat up. I like to tell Clint that’s why I love him and he just laughs. 

  Clint came home with a buck he had shot and I took my camera out there and snapped a few proud pictures. Aaron was there, a young man who came home with Trevor one day after school several years ago and just seemed to never completely leave. Clint and I feel like he is a stepson at this point. He comes for Sunday dinner pretty regularly and calls Clint to ask for advice or chat. Clint went into the shop and Aaron grabbed all four legs of the buck and heaved it out of the bed of the pickup. Aaron is a big, strong guy but the buck’s head just wouldn’t clear the tail gate so, I grabbed the antlers and helped Aaron carry it into the shop. I watched as Clint cut behind the tendons just above the back hooves and ran a hook thru them. They hoisted the buck into the air with the chain lift. Clint placed a piece of wood about a foot and a half across with wedges cut out of it between the buck’s back legs to hold them apart. It had already been gutted. He grabbed the hose and began washing the blood and grass and hair that had stuck to the inner part of the deer. The water and blood ran into the drain in the floor of the shop.  The dogs sniffed and snuffed the air. I watched as he cut around the white tail of the deer and  started to skin it. I’ve helped to skin many deer, but Aaron was there, so I left it to him. “When y’all are done, I’ve got soup and pimento cheese and pound cake.”

Clint smiled at me, his camo splatted here and there with blood. “you’re a good woman. She’s a good woman, huh, Aaron? She’s a good cook, too.” Aaron smiled and agreed and said “I know.” I grinned at them and said “y’all just holler when you’re ready to eat.” and I headed inside the house.

I washed the blood off my hands and set about to painting again and cleaning. After finishing up with the deer,  Clint came in and ate and said he was going to take a nap. We’d both been fighting allergies/colds all week. I rarely nap. I actually dislike naps and always have. But I found the nap idea intriguing for some reason, so I lay down on the bed beside him  and fell asleep almost immediately.

I woke an hour later, confused and stupid. This is why I hate naps. I wake up confused and stupid every time and it doesn’t wear off for an hour.

I got up quietly and slipped out, Clint’s snore a steady sound. I puttered around the house til he got up. He got up an hour after me and stood in the door with his just-woke-from-a-nap face and said “hey, babe.” He headed to his recliner.

We sat quietly and visited until his phone vibrated. He answered it and had a short conversation.

He stood up and said “well, that was Greg, he and his wife saw a deer limping across the pasture. Said it was limping pretty bad. It may have been shot or hit by a car. Either way, it’s limping and hurt.  Wanna  go with me and see if it needs put down?”

I got up and changed shoes. Clint dressed me in an orange vest and frowned at my pale pink ball cap and pulled it off and put on a hunter’s orange one. “I don’t look good in orange” I jokingly protested. “I’m a winter.” He sighed like he always does and we climbed into the truck.

We headed down the road, just across from our old house. The house we lived in when we first married and brought the babies home to. I always look at it if I drive by. It’s so full of memories of early years. I half expect to see Trevor or Tara, ages 6 and 4, playing on the carport. They are never there except in my mind.

We parked and got out and headed into the pasture. Clint got his rifle out in case he had to put the deer down. Many round bales of hay dotted here and there. We whispered to each other quietly about where this deer might be. I said “if I were a deer, and I was hurt, I’d get in the shade, and hide under a tree.” Clint said “yup.”

 I said “don’t deer head for water when they’re hurt?” “yup.” said Clint.

 “ooh, I bet it’s down there, there’s a creek and it’d be cool and a good hiding place!” I said excitedly.  

Clint said “yup.” then he added “ Shhhhh. Don’t talk. Walk quieter.”

We walked along side by side and I said “this is a nice evening for a walk!” Clint agreed. I reached to take his hand, as if we were on a lover’s lane or walking in a store. He said “sweetie, I gotta have my hands free in case I have to shoot.”

I sighed. I forgot we weren’t just walking and  I have trouble being quiet. I tried. I saw in the distance the trees, the inside of the woods dark and cool, inviting. I started walked toward it, sure that’s where a hurt deer would go.

“would you slow DOWN??” Clint said. “you walk too fast. You have to slip around.” I sighed again. I cannot slip around. But I tried.

Finally we got to where we thought the deer might be and I slowed, looking carefully into the brush. Clint walked on ahead about 30 feet and did the same, slowly peering and peeking. I took a step into the beginning of the brush, feeling sure the deer was near me. Clint got my attention and said in a whisper “if it’s wounded, it might try to hurt you if you get too close. Be careful!” I nodded and took another step. I could see the creek. I could see the slope of the bank, the large dead trees lying here and there, pushed by  past flood waters. It was beautiful. If I were an injured deer, this is where I’d rest, in the shade, near the cool water.  

I heard the deer before I saw it, just 15 or 20 feet in front of me. It was a small doe. She scrambled to her feet and turned away from me and then she just LEAPT over the barb wire fence behind the creek. She seemed to hang in the air for a moment, her tail a white flag, her feet elegantly tucked up, her tiny hooves black and shiny. Her eyes were dark, and big, and full of fear. Her ears, one angled toward me to listen, to see if I would follow. Her fur, smooth and brown and beautiful. She leapt over the fence, out of the shade and into the sun.

And then she was gone.

Clint tried to track her for a while, but she was nowhere to be found. “I knew that’s where she was! I had a feeling!” I said.

“you and your feelings!” he smiled at me. He shook his head. “Well….I was RIGHT.” I smiled back. “you were.” he said.

We headed back to the truck, the long walk across the pasture in our orange vests and hats. I was hot and sweaty and so was he. This time when I took his hand, he didn’t scold me and we walked hand in hand toward the truck.

People drove by on the highway near the pasture and I thought how strange we must look, these hunters holding hands, dressed in orange vests and hats.

We drove home and I thought about that doe, leaping like that. Even though she was hurt. She summoned enough strength and ignored her pain enough to save her life, to keep from being put down.  

I told Clint she didn’t look like she was hurt that bad. He said she’d probably be alright if she could jump like that.

I thought about being a Godly woman. How my life, the girly girl part and the tomboy part, blurs and crosses back and forth. One minute I’m making soup. The next minute, I’m hoisting a dead buck by the antlers. One minute, I’m dressed for church. The next minute, I’m running barefoot thru a flood, fully made up for church, having kicked my shoes off so not to ruin them, in the chicken houses trying to find where the water is coming from. One minute, I’m driving my pastor’s wife (Susie, who made brownies and has them carefully covered in Saran Wrap on a plate and holds them in her lap)  to a bible study. The next minute, I’m pulling into the church parking lot and leaping from the car, screaming STOP IT, STOP HITTING THAT GIRL, NOT IN MY CHURCH PARKING LOT OR YOU’LL HAVE TO FIGHT ME TOO SO HELP ME GOD  at  a young man who is shoving his girlfriend around, chest bumping her, raising his forearm to knock her in the side of the head.   (Susie never even drops the brownies, so stunned is she.)

God made us both, He made male and female. We are both made in His image. Clint is tough and manly, but he is tender and sweet with babies and small children and me. I am soft and round and  curvy, but do a man’s job in the chicken houses. Clint zigs where I zag and I rise when he falls and he lifts when I feel put down.

 I thought about that doe, elegant  and tiny footed, her lean, beautiful face as she leapt into the sunlight, regardless of her pain. 

I want to be like that.

Tender, but tough.

Delicate, but durable.

Injured, yet inspiring.

“As the deer panteth after the water brooks, so panteth my soul after Thee, oh God.” Psalm 42:1

Oh dear (deer?) reader. Injured you may be, seek the cool of the shade by the brook. His living water is there, to quench your panting soul.

And never, ever let the world put you down

Slamming Doors

  I sighed as I looked at who the text was from. I have been in the process of untangling myself from her for a while now. Sometimes, dear reader…you can help and listen and do and care and work and counsel and it is all for NAUGHT. Might as well teach a pig to sing, I remind myself, thus wasting  your time and annoying the pig.

  I don’t respond to the texts, they are hurtful and useless, like stripping the bloom off the rose, leaving only the thorns. This bloom was stripped off long ago and I tire of trying to pick up the thorns without being poked and stabbed. There was no way to not get hurt. 

  It seemed as though God finally looked at me and said “would you just STOP and let Me handle her??” I finally listened and I handed her to God. I pray for her and her family that I am no longer a part of. But…I do not miss her. How can you miss what was never really yours to start with? I never felt a part of her. Never. I tried, early on…but dropped it self consciously a while back. So, it was what it was and it is what it is and what it is is GONE.

  I like 2% cheese. Bear with me. It tastes the same, melts the same, looks the same…but has less fat and MORE calcium. See? This is my clumsy way of telling you that removing unhealthy, life clogging things can leave room for healthy, bone building things. Things that strengthen femurs and tibias and yes, spines.

  Sometimes you may have to shut the door on something in your past. Just SLAM it shut, like doors are slammed in anger and rage. I’ve heard a lot of slamming doors and the sound is final and sure, full of sad endings, scary beginnings, happy relief.  

  So, shut the doors on rooms in your life filled with junk and trash  and garbage that you don’t want or need to hang onto. Hurt? Anger? Rage? Pain? Slam. Slam. Slam. SLAM! Hand God the key to that room and lock it up and SLAM IT SHUT.

  What’s funny is….sometimes when you do that…slam it shut…there are people in there. Family.  Former friends. Relationships. Tangled, tense torsion. You’ve been wrapped up in their godlessness and strife so long, you expect pain. You even welcome it. You feel you deserve it. You think you can fix it.  Because you are the fixer, the runner, the one who overlooks it all and drops everything and gallops to the rescue.

 Would you just STOP and give them over to God? Let Him handle it? Get out of the way, lest that door slam shut, trapping you inside that room? Put the thorns DOWN for heaven’s sake and for ONCE enjoy the scent of the roses without getting hurt. God gave you a spine. A strong, steely spine.  Fortified with good things. A spine.  USE IT.

 I closed my eyes and said a prayer for her, this unwanted texter, this thorn. I clicked the “view” button for the text. I smiled.

  It was, dear reader…a picture of a door.

 Of all things to send me…a door.  Coincidence, you say? Oh, I do not believe in coincidences. God has led me to this point, to this threshold…to this door. It is up to me what to do with it.

Thus being shown the door, I mentally slammed it shut. What a glorious, final sound.

Slam some doors in your life. It’s about dadburn time you did. Ask God which ones and hand Him the key and slam with all your might.  Never go back to that door. Never knock on it. Never try the doorknob. And…if you are tempted to go back..tell God about it.

“Behold, I stand at the door, and knock: if any man hear my voice and open the door, I will come in to him and will sup with him, and he with me.” Revelation 3:20 KJV

Tell God about it and He’ll go knock on that door.

That’s the key. So…lock that door and give it and THEM  to God.

No Stranger to the Rain

I heard the rain on the roof of the chicken houses. Loud and steady. It’s an unmistakable sound, this clatter of rain drops on a tin roof , 500 feet long and 40 feet wide. Funny thing, the dimensions of Noah’s ark, the length, the width, are very similar to my chicken houses. I think about this as the rain falls and I look at the chickens and think perhaps I have spent 40 days and nights in there just today it seems. I’m getting ready to “go out” which means they come get the chickens and I get a few days off. I never forget I don’t have chickens, I like to say and often will catch myself headed out there to check them only to realize they are gone. Getting ready to “go out” is a tedious process of rolling a few things up out of the way and hiding handles to the vent doors and tunnel curtains because for some reason, the catch crew (the men who come get the chickens, usually Hispanic, usually don’t speak English) will turn the cranks and then, when I come out there to get ready for baby chicks everything is out of whack and I turn on machines and  it breaks cables and pulls things literally off the wall. Sigh. So, I’ve learned to check things and put things right but mostly, to pull those durn handles OFF beforehand  so as not to temp the little darlings to spin them.

  I heard the rain and my heart sank just a little. Crud, I thought. I had driven the Kubota out there. It’s the best thing for me to dump the dead chickens but…it has no roof. It has no windshield. I looked out the door, the rain pulled in on my face by the fans. It was cold. Maggie My Dog and Tika came running inside, scattering the big chickens. Tika waited patiently by the door while Maggie trotted behind me. I threw the chickens into the back of the bed of the Kubota. My wrists were hurting. I had done a fair amount of culling. To make it quick and painless for the chickens, I have to be brutal and quick with my hands. This causes me great pain. Not internally, mind you. It truly does not faze me at all to kill a chicken. It causes me no more grief than plucking a tomato from the vine. I don’t want these runty, sickly, fuzzed up culls in the food chain. So, kill them I must.  You can thank me later.

But it causes my hands to shake and my wrists to be achy for days sometimes. I’ll turn a doorknob and feel a twinge. Arthritis, I’ll think. And that, dear reader, is what it is. Regardless of the age I FEEL I am (oh, around 30) I am FORTY TWO. Every bit of it and my body reminds me every day. It reminds me as I type, as I sew, as I chop vegetables or mix a cake batter by hand.

  I counted the chickens and wrote them down and tallied them in the computer that runs the chicken house.

 I stuck my phone in my bra, dear reader, to keep it dry and safe and not be dropped in disgusting puddles of goo. I strode into the rain and sat on the seat, my lower half instantly drenched. I drove to each house and gathered up the dead from each one, counting as I picked up and threw. The feathers in the houses stuck to my wet arms, my face. I spit them from my lips.

  I drove to the composter and dumped the dead, the rain falling on me, coming in sideways.

           ( a memory)

 Rain hit my shirt, hit my neck, hit my eyes.

(so long ago. the sounds of violence. glass breaking)

I drove on, feeling this memory break thru the surface of glass that my brain can be.

(screams. thud. get help. get help. cold rain)

I feel the glass of my brain crack and give and snap.

(me,  clad in a t-shirt and underwear, dressed for bed but now… barefoot, running in the night)

I feel my heart beat quicken. What is this memory? Flotsam, jetsam, bits of leaves and sticks floating in a stream of dark water.

(my t shirt soaked, my feet fly over rocks and puddles, the highway glistens in the night, headlights blind  me and pass without stopping, this ten year old running, in the cold rain, along the highway)

I stop the Kubota and sit. I lean my forehead on to the steering wheel. Rain drips from my hat. Maggie My Dog whimpers from the seat, looks at me. Go home, her whine says. Go home.

 (I am standing on a porch. the neighbor lady  drags me inside, throws a towel over me, tells me I’m indecent, cover up. get help, I stutter)

I start the Kubota. Maggie My Dog looks pleased. I drive home, feeling the rain on my face. It feels good, crisp, pure.

(I try to leave the neighbor’s house, she tries to stop me. she has called the police. I run, she scrabbles at me, grabbing the towel. I run, indecent again, down the highway back to the house.)

I kick my boots off in the breezeway. I let Maggie My Dog inside, she runs to her soft bed and sighs contentedly.

I pull my wet clothes off and step into the shower. Water hits me again, but warm. I turn it as hot as I can stand, my skin turning bright red.

(I’m in the house, pulling wet t shirt and undies off and putting on dry ones. the violence is winding down, blue lights flash and flash again, low voices, assurances and explanations)

I dry myself  from my hot shower and put on dry clothes and sit on my bed.

(I slide into bed, pretend to sleep, but there is none that night, only bits and pieces and dreams of running down black highways alone in the cold)

I call Clint.

“ I’m done with chickens! They were fine. Got brooders and sensors up.”

“well, sounds like you earned your keep today.” he says. I hear the smile in his voice.

“it’s raining, hard. And it’s cold. I got soaked!” I tell him.

“oh, you’ll live.” he laughs. “ a little water never hurt you. You won’t melt.”

I laugh back.

“that’s true!” I say.

“you’ve been wet before.” he continues. “you’ll get dry.”

    (rain slicked highway, headlights blinding, soaked t shirts, dirty, wet feet)

“oh, yes,” I say. “I’ve gotten soaked several times. Hasn’t killed me yet.”

          (rain in my eyes mixed with my tears I’m indecent)

We chat for a minute or two, then I hang up and sit on the couch. The house is quiet, save for the rain. Sweet, blessed, cold rain.

Washes the glass of my brain clean, I think.

 I sit on my couch. I curl my feet up underneath me.

 I pray for a moment, a silent, wordless prayer of jumbled thoughts of Clint and my children and their spouses, my friends who are my surrogate mother and sisters and brothers. Thank You, God, for washing me in Your rain. Flotsam and jetsam float away in His rivulets of rain.

Oh, dear reader. I am no stranger to cold rain and dirty, running feet.  Of breaking glass, and glistening wet highways.

Neither are you.

And that is our bond.

Poultry Princess Poetry

I have too many lipsticks and too many shoes

about, oh…once a month or so, I’m stricken with the blues

so I sit down and I sniffle about babies that are grown

and married children that won’t ever come home

and dogs that I  loved and a cat that I tried

and I hold a washcloth to my face to sop the  tears that I’ve cried

and I BOO and I HOO and I BAWL and I KEEN

and I sob about things, dark, deep and unseen

of people I miss and people I won’t

( they know what they did. Do they care? No,  they DON’T)

and so I cry about THAT and their uncaring souls

and I feel the waves of the tears, how they rack,  how they roll

so, I drip and I snot and I snuffle and blow

and I suddenly notice…hey! where’d the tears go?

they are GONE just like that and the burden is lightened

what WAS I so sad about? so fearful? so frightened?

it’s gone, like a snowball that  melts in the rain

I feel lighter and free-er and lesser the pain

oh, thankful for tears that clean and burn

and thankful to God for lessons I’ve learned

and grateful of all the bittersweet things I may  taste

and bemused by things once important that now, seem a waste

of time and of tears and of love and of sleep

they are not worth the trouble it takes to try to keep

so, I’ve  winnowed them out and find true friends that will stick

and I’ve learned that blood really  isn’t THAT thick

and I think I’ll choose water, cool and sweet

to bathe my soul and wash my feet…

then Clint will come home and kiss me and ask “how was your day?”

and I’ll pause, smile, and think..and truthfully say

“I had a “moment” this afternoon… but now I am fine,

I’ll ask about your day as you asked about mine”

he’ll smile and say back “I had a moment, too

but let’s eat supper and watch Gunsmoke and just know I love you”

and that, dear reader, is how our day will end

this Poultry Princess and her Prince, her husband and  friend

Loves Me Like a Rock

Tara came home from school that day and I knew something was wrong right away. She looked sad. Fifth grade is hard, so I asked her vague questions about her day and she shrugged them off. That night, she lay down by me on the bed to watch “Survivor” and little by little she told me about a boy that she sort of liked that told her he liked her and they decided they would be “boyfriend and girlfriend” which in the fifth grade means you sit by each other at lunch.

But, he had changed his mind, this fifth grade Lothario, and instead of telling Tara to her face, he sent a friend to do it. This angered and hurt her very much and she told me so.

  The show was over and Clint came in to lay down on the bed where Tara and I were talking quietly about what had happened. He asked what we were talking about and I gave him the Cliff’s notes version.

  Clint seemed very nonplussed about this and for a moment, didn’t get how hurt Tara was. So I looked at Tara and said this:

  “in the morning, let’s go to the chicken house road and gather up a bunch of big old gravel ROCKS and put them  in your pockets and load up your purse. Then, we pass out all the rocks to your friends and y’all throw them at this stupid boy because of what he did.”

Clint sat up in bed, horrified at the turn of our conversation. Tara just giggled and said “yes! let’s do that!”

 I continued. “then, tomorrow at school, you and your friends gang up on him and give him a big ol’ wedgie in front of the whole school during assembly.”

Tara and I are both giggling at this point.

Clint continues to be horrified. He tries to interject, to stop this stream of violence I am seeming to  approve of. He looks at me sternly…and…a little worried.    

“THEN….all your friends can sit around you at the table and be mean to him ALL day and stick your tongue out and not talk to him and don’t let him sit by you at lunch. But just for one day. But don’t TELL him it’s just for one day.”

Giggle. Snort. Giggle. Guffaw.

Clint sat up and said “THAT’S IT!!! Tara Bottoms, don’t do ANY of those things to that little boy. He doesn’t realize what he did!”

“well…..”said Tara. “he’ll realize it NOW. This’ll learn HIM. How’s he gonna know you can’t act like that unless he’s taught? Right, mom?” giggle. gersnort. hee hee

Clint sat back, astounded. Looks at me.  “woman, I had no idea you were so mean.”

This brings guffaws of laughter from Tara and I both. Tara knows. How Clint missed it, I’m not sure.

Tara looks at Clint and says “would YOU do that to mom? Decide to break up with her and send someone else?”

“of course not. She’d kill me.” comes Clint’s quick reply.

“SEE????” said Tara. “you learned!! That stupid boy will learn now!!”

Clint is giggling with us now, all three of us in our bed. “ok, ok. y’all win. I give up.Throw rocks. Give wedgies. Woman, what ARE you teaching our children?” says Clint.

Tara climbs out of the bed. She is giggling and picturing wedgies and gangs of marauding girls teaching boys how to act. She turns to me and says one word.

“Rocks.”

then she giggles and heads to bed.

And dear reader, our daughter Tara? All five feet and 110 pounds of her? Married to a big bear of a man that wouldn’t hurt her for anything. Our daughter Tara?

 She ROCKS. J

knowing

Sometimes, dear reader,  I know things I shouldn’t really know. Things I have NO way of knowing.

Hear me out.

I’m not saying I’m psychic. I’m not. I don’t see dead people. I don’t talk to spirits. I don’t see angels. None of that stuff.  It’s just that sometimes…out of the blue…I get these...well…nudges.

Little pushes. A thought will bubble up from the depths of my brain like a soft shell turtle popping his head out of the water and I’ll just know something I have no way of knowing.

  It’s from God, I surmise. It’s a mother’s intuition in overdrive. Although, to be frank, it started when I was a child. I have early memories of saying things and getting shushed by an adult saying “my word, child! where did you hear THAT?”. But I didn’t hear it…I just knew it. I learned to not say anything after a while. Learning when to shut up is a marvelous thing. I should really practice it more.

  One funny way it manifests itself is with Clint. I’ll get an idea of something to cook for supper. Swiss steak! I’ll think to myself. Stewed potatoes! Broccoli and cheese! I never make Swiss steak. Once a year, maybe. Clint walks in. “what’s cookin’?” he’ll ask and I’ll tell him and he’ll laugh.

“that’s what I had for lunch.” he  will  announce.

This happens so often that I will now call him to tell him what I’m thinking of cooking. A good 75% of the time, it’s what he ate for lunch. I have no way of knowing this. See?  

Once, Clint called and said “guess what I ate for lunch?” as soon as he said it, a picture of a beautiful piece of salmon popped into my head. I thought “that can’t be right. Clint HATES salmon.”

 But, going with my gut, I asked slowly “did you eat… salmon?”

Clint got very quiet.

“woman, I don’t know how you know that, but it’s creepy. Yes, I had salmon and YES it was good.”

  I won’t write the number of times I couldn’t get someone off my mind. Just be walking chickens and find that even when  I try to think of someone else or something else they keep popping back in.

  So I’ll pray for them and often I’ll send them a text or a message on facebook or call. Invariably, they are going thru some trauma or drama and are happy to know they were being prayed for. My friends are no longer shocked by this, they know that somehow God will give me that nudge, that push, if I am needed.

  Once, Clint invited a young couple to our house for a Sunday School class get together. They were new at our church and had a daughter Tara’s age. Everybody came over and we played volleyball and ate good food. I visited with the new couple a bit and after everybody left, Clint asked me what I thought about the husband.

“he’s the DEVIL.” I blurted out without thinking. Clint stared at me. “what?” he said. “he’s….he’s….trouble” I went on. “ He’s…. bad news. I don’t like him.” I stammered. “Why? did he do something? say something?” Clint looked confused. “no….he just…is…BAD.” I tried to explain but couldn’t. He had acted perfectly fine. He was nice and even funny. His wife seemed likeable.

  This man is now in prison for molesting a 14 year old girl after he was busted for selling meth.

What’s funny is, I have NO idea when the nudge will happen. I can’t make it happen. I can’t pray it into being. Things catch me off guard all the time. But sometimes, it comes together in a fruition that can ONLY be God.

  We went to Branson that July with a couple from church and their children. We had a week planned of Silver Dollar City and shows and good food. On day 5, I awoke from a sound sleep. I had been dreaming of my grandmother’s lake. I could see clearly the tree with the rope hanging from it. The ever present flat bottomed boat pulled up on the shore. The bank of the lake, rocky and steep. Something was wrong. The water was dark, the sky blurry and gray. I woke with tears on my face. It was 4 am. I touched Clint and he woke. “what’s wrong?” he said. “something’s wrong…at home….the lake..at granny and papaw’s…there’s something wrong.” I whispered. “I need to call and check.”

“It’s 4 in the morning!” he whispered back.

“Granny will be up, I know she will.” I said.

I got up and got my cell phone and went into the bathroom. Granny answered on the second ring.

“granny? it’s Lichea. I had a bad dream, a dream about your lake. Something bad had happened. Is everything ok?” I tried not to cry.

“why, of course everything is ok.” she said. Granny didn’t ask about my dream. It was unspoken that she did that too, that she just KNEW things. She didn’t have to set an alarm ever because she would wake on her own at exactly the time she needed to. I do that, too, waking up and sitting up on the side of the bed and reaching for my alarm just as the very minute turns, setting it off.

(once, dear reader, on a hot Saturday afternoon, I had a sudden panic in my chest. I got up off the couch and slipped my feet into my flip flops  and yelled to Clint “where’s my phone??” then I saw it on the counter and  I RAN to the phone just as it rang. I saw it was Tammie and I said out loud “this is BAD this is BAD” and dear reader it  was BAD, she had her one year old grandson in her arms and he was seizuring and Tammie was SCREAMING for me to come, hurry, 911, she said, panic in her voice…Tammie is a nurse, too and had her 2 other grandchildren with her and this seizuring baby…I drove so fast and picked up my other friend Susie and we just FLEW there so fast and we ran in past the ambulance and the baby was still seizuring and I yelled WHAT’S HIS TEMP??? and the EMT’s looked at me like I was a loony and his temp was 104.5 and I KNEW that’s why he seizured and we shouted PRAISE GOD FOR FEVER. A seizure from fever I can DEAL WITH, that means it’s not epilepsy or a tumor or some other scary thing. It’s a fever, a virus, just get the temp down and all will be fine … Then we got damp towels and fans and got his temp down to 101 and the seizure stopped and he sat up and asked for juice. We sat on the floor, all us women…the EMT’s staring….Tammie’s shirt soaking wet from the towels and his fever breaking and her tears. We cried and praised God.)

  Granny assured me all was well. It didn’t settle well with me, though and the dream hummed in the back of my head all day. I brought it up several times with Clint and he just patted me and assured me it was just a silly dream. “but, it was so….just…it was the lake, and something bad…” I tried to make my case.

  We were in our hotel room that afternoon, getting ready to go out one a dining cruise around the big lake. It had nice food and a show and we were looking forward to it.

  There was a knock at the door and John (the husband of the couple) stood in the doorway looking stunned.

“I’ve got bad news.” he stopped, not knowing what to say next. “they’ve been trying to get a hold of y’all all day. Sparky and Carolyn’s son Stephen was killed this morning.”

   Carolyn is one of my dearest friends. Tall and strikingly beautiful. Smart. Wonderful Christian. Sparky is one of those men like Clint, strong and solid and sweet and hardworking. Stephen was 16, just a couple of years older than Trevor. Stephen was one of those boys that didn’t mind letting Tara put makeup on him or playing tea party. He would bring Trevor cool stuff he had outgrown, like  a glow in the dark cup with the cartoon character “Mr. Bumpy” on it. (I have it still, dear reader….it glows softly at me every night from a cabinet in my bedroom after we shut the lamp off. It glows softly and I think of Stephen and how he glowed in this world)  He held the cup up to the light for Trevor, then they would dash to the closet and shut the door and marvel at the glowing cup. He was smart and sweet and handsome. He had just got his driver’s license and a job and was driving himself back and forth. Somehow, he had a wreck and now he was gone. Gone? No, not Stephen. They’ve got the wrong boy. It’s not our Stephen. No no no NO. The word no ran in a loop in my head.

  I fell to my knees, stunned. Trevor and Tara were wordless in their grief. We clung to each other and cried.

  We should have just headed home, but we decided we would finish out this day in Branson and head back to Arkansas in the morning, cutting our trip short. I remember very little about the boat, the show, the food. It’s all a blur of prime rib and baked Alaska…none of which I was able to keep down.

  We drove in early the next morning. We didn’t even stop at our house, we just drove to Sparky and Carolyn’s.

  Their driveway was packed and we made our way in thru the crowd. When Carolyn saw us, we fell into each other, sobbing and racked with grief, wordless, just keening and crying, no words, just sounds, the sounds of sadness.

  She had in her hand a small photo album. She handed it to me and said “these are Stephen’s favorite pictures. He went thru our pictures a while back and picked out the ones he loved the most and put them in this album.  They are wonderful.”

    I opened to the first page. I stared, mouth open. I looked at Clint, shoving the album  toward him, crying even harder now. Clint stared at the picture, stared at me. He held my arm as I felt the world spin, nearly throwing me off my feet. I felt hot and dizzy and sat down on the couch, holding the album, clutching it to my face.

  There stood 8 year old Stephen in the picture, standing beside Trevor. Stephen is holding a fish, grinning and so proud. Trevor is smiling and touching the fish. A day of fun, on a flatbottom boat, in the sun, drinking lukewarm soda and eating soggy sandwiches. Clint and Sparky on the boat, all the kids waving to the camera, Carolyn snapping pictures. What a good day that was! So fun. Such good memories. Trevor and Stephen, laughing and throwing the fish back into the murky water,  Trevor, smiling up at his hero, Stephen who never lost patience with him and played silly games and stood in the dark with glowing cups. Trevor and Stephen, standing in the sun, the old tree visible with the rope swing in the background.  

   (dear reader, this part makes me cry. give me just a moment. take a moment for you, too, because sometimes that’s all you have, a moment,  a snapshot, a nudge, a push, bubbling up from underneath dark water)

They are smiling and proud, Trevor and Stephen, and…. they are standing on the bank of my grandmother’s lake.

knowing

Sometimes, dear reader,  I know things I shouldn’t really know. Things I have NO way of knowing.

Hear me out.

I’m not saying I’m psychic. I’m not. I don’t see dead people. I don’t talk to spirits. I don’t see angels. None of that stuff.  It’s just that sometimes…out of the blue…I get these...well…nudges.

Little pushes. A thought will bubble up from the depths of my brain like a soft shell turtle popping his head out of the water and I’ll just know something I have no way of knowing.

  It’s from God, I surmise. It’s a mother’s intuition in overdrive. Although, to be frank, it started when I was a child. I have early memories of saying things and getting shushed by an adult saying “my word, child! where did you hear THAT?”. But I didn’t hear it…I just knew it. I learned to not say anything after a while. Learning when to shut up is a marvelous thing. I should really practice it more.

  One funny way it manifests itself is with Clint. I’ll get an idea of something to cook for supper. Swiss steak! I’ll think to myself. Stewed potatoes! Broccoli and cheese! I never make Swiss steak. Once a year, maybe. Clint walks in. “what’s cookin’?” he’ll ask and I’ll tell him and he’ll laugh.

“that’s what I had for lunch.” he  will  announce.

This happens so often that I will now call him to tell him what I’m thinking of cooking. A good 75% of the time, it’s what he ate for lunch. I have no way of knowing this. See?  

Once, Clint called and said “guess what I ate for lunch?” as soon as he said it, a picture of a beautiful piece of salmon popped into my head. I thought “that can’t be right. Clint HATES salmon.”

 But, going with my gut, I asked slowly “did you eat… salmon?”

Clint got very quiet.

“woman, I don’t know how you know that, but it’s creepy. Yes, I had salmon and YES it was good.”

  I won’t write the number of times I couldn’t get someone off my mind. Just be walking chickens and find that even when  I try to think of someone else or something else they keep popping back in.

  So I’ll pray for them and often I’ll send them a text or a message on facebook or call. Invariably, they are going thru some trauma or drama and are happy to know they were being prayed for. My friends are no longer shocked by this, they know that somehow God will give me that nudge, that push, if I am needed.

  Once, Clint invited a young couple to our house for a Sunday School class get together. They were new at our church and had a daughter Tara’s age. Everybody came over and we played volleyball and ate good food. I visited with the new couple a bit and after everybody left, Clint asked me what I thought about the husband.

“he’s the DEVIL.” I blurted out without thinking. Clint stared at me. “what?” he said. “he’s….he’s….trouble” I went on. “ He’s…. bad news. I don’t like him.” I stammered. “Why? did he do something? say something?” Clint looked confused. “no….he just…is…BAD.” I tried to explain but couldn’t. He had acted perfectly fine. He was nice and even funny. His wife seemed likeable.

  This man is now in prison for molesting a 14 year old girl after he was busted for selling meth.

What’s funny is, I have NO idea when the nudge will happen. I can’t make it happen. I can’t pray it into being. Things catch me off guard all the time. But sometimes, it comes together in a fruition that can ONLY be God.

  We went to Branson that July with a couple from church and their children. We had a week planned of Silver Dollar City and shows and good food. On day 5, I awoke from a sound sleep. I had been dreaming of my grandmother’s lake. I could see clearly the tree with the rope hanging from it. The ever present flat bottomed boat pulled up on the shore. The bank of the lake, rocky and steep. Something was wrong. The water was dark, the sky blurry and gray. I woke with tears on my face. It was 4 am. I touched Clint and he woke. “what’s wrong?” he said. “something’s wrong…at home….the lake..at granny and papaw’s…there’s something wrong.” I whispered. “I need to call and check.”

“It’s 4 in the morning!” he whispered back.

“Granny will be up, I know she will.” I said.

I got up and got my cell phone and went into the bathroom. Granny answered on the second ring.

“granny? it’s Lichea. I had a bad dream, a dream about your lake. Something bad had happened. Is everything ok?” I tried not to cry.

“why, of course everything is ok.” she said. Granny didn’t ask about my dream. It was unspoken that she did that too, that she just KNEW things. She didn’t have to set an alarm ever because she would wake on her own at exactly the time she needed to. I do that, too, waking up and sitting up on the side of the bed and reaching for my alarm just as the very minute turns, setting it off.

(once, dear reader, on a hot Saturday afternoon, I had a sudden panic in my chest. I got up off the couch and slipped my feet into my flip flops  and yelled to Clint “where’s my phone??” then I saw it on the counter and  I RAN to the phone just as it rang. I saw it was Tammie and I said out loud “this is BAD this is BAD” and dear reader it  was BAD, she had her one year old grandson in her arms and he was seizuring and Tammie was SCREAMING for me to come, hurry, 911, she said, panic in her voice…Tammie is a nurse, too and had her 2 other grandchildren with her and this seizuring baby…I drove so fast and picked up my other friend Susie and we just FLEW there so fast and we ran in past the ambulance and the baby was still seizuring and I yelled WHAT’S HIS TEMP??? and the EMT’s looked at me like I was a loony and his temp was 104.5 and I KNEW that’s why he seizured and we shouted PRAISE GOD FOR FEVER. A seizure from fever I can DEAL WITH, that means it’s not epilepsy or a tumor or some other scary thing. It’s a fever, a virus, just get the temp down and all will be fine … Then we got damp towels and fans and got his temp down to 101 and the seizure stopped and he sat up and asked for juice. We sat on the floor, all us women…the EMT’s staring….Tammie’s shirt soaking wet from the towels and his fever breaking and her tears. We cried and praised God.)

  Granny assured me all was well. It didn’t settle well with me, though and the dream hummed in the back of my head all day. I brought it up several times with Clint and he just patted me and assured me it was just a silly dream. “but, it was so….just…it was the lake, and something bad…” I tried to make my case.

  We were in our hotel room that afternoon, getting ready to go out one a dining cruise around the big lake. It had nice food and a show and we were looking forward to it.

  There was a knock at the door and John (the husband of the couple) stood in the doorway looking stunned.

“I’ve got bad news.” he stopped, not knowing what to say next. “they’ve been trying to get a hold of y’all all day. Sparky and Carolyn’s son Stephen was killed this morning.”

   Carolyn is one of my dearest friends. Tall and strikingly beautiful. Smart. Wonderful Christian. Sparky is one of those men like Clint, strong and solid and sweet and hardworking. Stephen was 16, just a couple of years older than Trevor. Stephen was one of those boys that didn’t mind letting Tara put makeup on him or playing tea party. He would bring Trevor cool stuff he had outgrown, like  a glow in the dark cup with the cartoon character “Mr. Bumpy” on it. (I have it still, dear reader….it glows softly at me every night from a cabinet in my bedroom after we shut the lamp off. It glows softly and I think of Stephen and how he glowed in this world)  He held the cup up to the light for Trevor, then they would dash to the closet and shut the door and marvel at the glowing cup. He was smart and sweet and handsome. He had just got his driver’s license and a job and was driving himself back and forth. Somehow, he had a wreck and now he was gone. Gone? No, not Stephen. They’ve got the wrong boy. It’s not our Stephen. No no no NO. The word no ran in a loop in my head.

  I fell to my knees, stunned. Trevor and Tara were wordless in their grief. We clung to each other and cried.

  We should have just headed home, but we decided we would finish out this day in Branson and head back to Arkansas in the morning, cutting our trip short. I remember very little about the boat, the show, the food. It’s all a blur of prime rib and baked Alaska…none of which I was able to keep down.

  We drove in early the next morning. We didn’t even stop at our house, we just drove to Sparky and Carolyn’s.

  Their driveway was packed and we made our way in thru the crowd. When Carolyn saw us, we fell into each other, sobbing and racked with grief, wordless, just keening and crying, no words, just sounds, the sounds of sadness.

  She had in her hand a small photo album. She handed it to me and said “these are Stephen’s favorite pictures. He went thru our pictures a while back and picked out the ones he loved the most and put them in this album.  They are wonderful.”

    I opened to the first page. I stared, mouth open. I looked at Clint, shoving the album  toward him, crying even harder now. Clint stared at the picture, stared at me. He held my arm as I felt the world spin, nearly throwing me off my feet. I felt hot and dizzy and sat down on the couch, holding the album, clutching it to my face.

  There stood 8 year old Stephen in the picture, standing beside Trevor. Stephen is holding a fish, grinning and so proud. Trevor is smiling and touching the fish. A day of fun, on a flatbottom boat, in the sun, drinking lukewarm soda and eating soggy sandwiches. Clint and Sparky on the boat, all the kids waving to the camera, Carolyn snapping pictures. What a good day that was! So fun. Such good memories. Trevor and Stephen, laughing and throwing the fish back into the murky water,  Trevor, smiling up at his hero, Stephen who never lost patience with him and played silly games and stood in the dark with glowing cups. Trevor and Stephen, standing in the sun, the old tree visible with the rope swing in the background.  

   (dear reader, this part makes me cry. give me just a moment. take a moment for you, too, because sometimes that’s all you have, a moment,  a snapshot, a nudge, a push, bubbling up from underneath dark water)

They are smiling and proud, Trevor and Stephen, and…. they are standing on the bank of my grandmother’s lake.