Directionally challenged

I am a direction-illiterate.
That’s right, the queen bee of OCD can’t tell her north from south, let alone be trusted to safely navigate the streets of Springfield.
And that’s why I married Matt. He’s the perfect ying to my yang. He likes the inner pieces of a brownie; I like the edge. He likes a little bit of spaghetti sauce; I like a lot. He is cool, calm and collected while I’m frazzled, frenzied and fried.
And, best of all, that guy knows how to get around. He can navigate with the best of them.
So when Matt found himself parked in a hospital bed last week, he left me, navigator of the year, to fend for myself.
Now getting to the hospital is no biggie for me. I’ve had four kids and have visited that section of Springfield regularly. But once inside those walls, unless I’m heading to labor and delivery, I’m lost.
My handicap may seem ridiculous to those of you who can get around with ease. But if you were to spin me around in even a semi-circular motion, I would be lost. It’s a problem.
Add elevators, no sleep, multiple strangers and stress — forget about it.
I was a mess.
Every time I left Matt’s room (which, of course, was on the top floor of the hospital totally away from EVERYTHING I might have needed, including my car), I had to psych myself up.
My pep talk and deep breaths gave me the false confidence I needed to exit the room without the look of a lost mental patient.
And when I finally found the elevator, I was nearly home free.
Just one other problem. Since there was a little bank of elevators — four to be exact — and you were stuck riding whichever one came first, I was always turned around after I exited.
I had to stop and reorient myself before moving. I’m sure this little quirk of mine was a little annoying for all those who knew exactly where to go.
It was all so stressful I don’t know how I survived.
But I did.
And, more importantly, Matt did.
And I think that if I hadn’t had all the direction drama, I might have worried about him more.
In a weird way, my inability to get from one place to another kept me distracted enough to keep me from losing my cool in more important areas.
While I sit here with those turbulent few days left only in my memory, I am thankful.
I am thankful my partner is safe and returning to his optimal health.
I am thankful we had family and friends to help with the kids and animals and other logistical parts of our life.
I am thankful for the prayers that sustained Matt and me and our family.
I am thankful for our God, who answered those prayers.
And last, but definitely not least, I’m thankful to live in a place where I only rarely find myself lost.

Just the other day

Just the other day, I was a kid.
Just the other day, life was simple.
Just the other day, we were walking down the graduation aisle, toilet papering people’s houses and cruising around the square.
When did we grow up?
I don’t feel “grown up.” But does anybody ever really feel ready to take on life as an adult?
Memory lane was reopened last week and, thankfully, only happy memories came to the surface.
Like when a childhood friend and I dumped an entire bottle of liquid glue into another classmate’s school box.
But he totally deserved it. And I, consequently, totally deserved being sent to the principal’s office in (wait for it) KINDERGARTEN!
(I’ve always been a parent pleaser!)
Or the slumber parties. Water wars with enemy girls from higher grades.
Police were called and we were all told to go to bed.
Dance competitions. Show Choir rehearsals. Home games.
We were all so innocent back then.
There were no bills. There was no stress besides the who’s mad at who and the other inevitable middle and high school drama.
But then we grew up and moved away from the sheltered existence of our youth.
I think most adults long for the days of no bills and real responsiblities.
I don’t want to go back to being a teen, but I certainly would love to be that carefree for a few more years. Maybe if I knew then what I know now I wouldn’t rush the growing up process.
I would savor sleeping in. I would appreciate someone else cooking my meals, buying my groceries, driving me to and fro.
I would forget about having a boyfriend and just hang with my pals.
And we would laugh.
Because that’s the thing I remember most about my youth.
Laughter. Gut-wrenching, pee-in-your-pants, tears-freely-flowing laughter.

You know you're from Mt. Vernon when...

I love Mt. Vernon. There’s no other place I’d rather live.
When I was graduating, I couldn’t wait to get out, and I left for a few years. But since being home, I’ve realized what an emerald of a place we have here.
Now don’t get me wrong, there are some down sides to living in a small town. Everybody knowing everybody’s everything can get a little old. Especially when everybody tells your everything to everybody.
But, all in all, there’s nothing more special than the way this town rallies around people who are having a hard time — or a good time, for that matter.
People in this little old town of Mt. Vernon are good stock, and they care about each other.
And that outweighs not having a Wal-Mart or a 15-show movie theater. At least in my book.
So in honor of all you out there who bleed green, I asked my online Facebook friends to help me think of some things unique to Mt. Vernon by finishing this sentence. Here’s what some of them said:
“You know you’re from Mt. Vernon when ...”
• you think apple butter is a food group.
• you don’t look twice when you see people driving lawnmowers or golf carts instead of cars.
• you realize other high schools don’t bale hay on the school’s front lawn.
• someone’s pulled over by police, you stare to see who it is because you probably know them.
• you pronounce it supe R market.
• you know where “Tater Town” is.
• someone hears on the scanner that your teenager got pulled over. Then they call to tell you.
• you can’t help viewing anybody in black and red as an “enemy” to the homeland.
• you move away and plan vacations back home around Apple Butter Makin’ Days.
• you used to hang on the square after Friday night games.
• someone gives you a local name, you could probably recite most of that person’s family members — including cousins and ex-spouses — and the year they graduated.
• your mascot has a coonskin hat and a shotgun.
• you can remember middle school movie nights at Ruble’s theater and have cruised around the Golden Keg.
• you would rather drive home to eat Mt. Vernon cashew chicken than eat it anywhere else.
• you don’t know street names. Directions are given based on who used to live near or around there or businesses that don’t exist anymore.
• you remember eating Queenie burgers.
• someone tells you to meet them at the “big tree” and you know exactly where it is.
• you know what Happy Brew, Jolly Curls and Smile Dogs are AND you know how to make them.
• you know most names — if not all — of people you see in the grocery store.
• your child is taught by teachers who also taught you, and, in some cases, your mom and dad.
The list could go on and on. But really, the spirit of this little town rests in the fact that there’s no place like home.
And that’s just what Mt. Vernon is to me. Home.

Hoping to survive with grace

I am currently reading a true account of a woman from the early 1900s and her life on the Canadian frontier.
Boy, am I a wuss!
Page after page I am baffled by the obstacles day-to-day life brought this woman. The book told of a time when she and her husband were forced (due to starvation) to make a 25-mile hike in 65-degree-below weather with a toddler to a “nearby” cabin for help. Oh, and she was seven months pregnant! And they survived!
Stories like these are the norm in this woman’s life. After giving birth to her third child, she got word that her husband had drowned. Now she and her three young kids were on their own. There were tales about moose hunting — all four of them — from a crooked canoe. And more times than not there wasn’t enough food. There were wolf attacks and very vivid descriptions of nature and the majesty and terror that life on a homestead can bring.
I love reading books like this. It might seem weird, but reading about women who have had it worse — and most do — than me brings comfort and strength where I might lack.
Because since moving onto the farm, I have never been so humbled. There’s nothing like this type of life to make you see where you lack in physical strength and mental knowledge.
Like a few weeks ago when the kids and I went to check the chickens. And then one got out.
“No big deal,” I thought. I was just going to grab the fishing net we use for this type of situation and collect the bird and place her back inside.
And the kids were going to help ...
Which meant that our little fix turned into a half-hour trek through the pasture, back and around all sorts of nooks and crannies.
Finally, I surrendered. We went back inside to eat dinner and let the bird deal with the consequences that might befall her. But when Matt got wind of the events, he told me (he was at work) that I needed to try harder to save his blessed hen.
So every 15 minutes or so, I went out into the dark, cold night trying different scenarios to catch the already spooked bird and lead her back to captivity.
I’m thankful you didn’t see me that night. Because in the light of the chicken house, I could be seen running — with Matt’s too-big-for-me knee-high work boots on — chasing the winged creature around the entire back of my yard with the fishing net. A ridiculous, and unfortunately accurate, display of my farming abilities.
See, I gave up my pride a long time ago. Situations like these forced me to. Whether it’s trying to free my beloved bottle calf from his own stupidity (and mine) or attempting to help wrangle our entire herd of escaped cows. A life of pride simply does not go with my reality.
So reading these books of women who encountered actual life and death situations and handled them with what seemed to me as poise and grace, is inspiring.
And although I wasn’t able to save that stubborn hen — Matt had to catch her — I gave it my all.
Hopefully, one day all of my predicaments will amount to a story about a young city girl who survived this life with a lot of joy and, hopefully, a little bit of grace.

As seen in the Lawrence County Record
www.lawrencecountyrecord.com

My Story

Pastor Jim told the congregation Sunday that we should prepare "our stories” because he is going to call on us to tell them. And I think he is serious.
Fear was nearly palpable as people imagined themselves standing in the spotlight, eyes watching them stand alone to tell some of the most intimate details of their lives.
I’m sure some are contemplating not returning to church until after his assignment is due and everybody has completed the terrifying task. My thoughts have been more on conjuring up the best excuse — the most believable — for why I won’t be able, unfortunately, to speak.
So that was settled. There is no way I’m going to obey. No way I am going to step out of my comfort zone, walk down that aisle and up those steps. There is no way I am going to hold the microphone, let alone speak into it.
And then it came to me Monday afternoon as I was struggling for a topic for this column. The reason I don’t want to get up in front of the church to tell my story is because I don’t think it’s special enough to hear. I don’t think you’ll care. And maybe you won’t.
But what if you do?
And the “what if you do” part is why I’m going to lay it all on the line. Because while you probably know a lot about me since I am a born-and-raised Lawrence countian, I’m pretty sure I’ve never been this candid about the most important thing in my life.
It all started a couple of years ago when we found ourselves attending church. But it wasn’t until I began participating in Sunday school that I found Christ.
I remember the day clearly. The kids were taking a morning nap, and I was sitting on the couch reading that day’s Bible lesson. The story was about Abraham and his son, Isaac. God tested Abraham’s devotion by asking him to sacrifice his one and only son, whom he loved. When Abraham was about to kill his son, God provided a ram for sacrifice so Abraham’s beloved son could live.
It was like a light bulb turned on inside my head and woke me up from my 20-plus year slumber!
God sacrificed his one and only son, whom he loved, so that we could live. He is our ultimate provider and His son, Jesus, is what He has provided so that we can live and not die.
Life changed for me that moment. And the journey since has been one of incredible personal growth, which has made me a better wife and mom. I wish I had the space to tell you all the different ways I’ve seen God move in my life, including two financial miracles that only can be explained by divine intervention.
And I know, without a doubt, He has an army of angels living in my attic to rescue my kids from all the shenanigans they pull! (Next time you see me, ask about the space heater and toilet water!)
Even with all the miracles and my changed heart, I struggle daily, hourly and some times moment-to-moment to keep my minds’ eye focused on what is pure, what is right and what is holy. I still want to control what I can’t control, and my fleshly desires still sometimes win.
I don’t want you to think this profession of my faith in any way elevates me. Since becoming a Christian, I see myself in a whole other light. It’s like my faults are blared in neon lights. But my shortcomings, thankfully, are not nearly as important as the path I’m on now.
And I hope you’ve sensed a change in me. I pray that you see I’m not the same girl you once knew. Because I’m not. And now you know why.

As seen in the Lawrence County Record
www.lawrencecountyrecord.com