Emotional Mayhem

This is another special photograph belonging to me that somehow managed to survive moisture, curious children, decluttering, and decades of time. It seems almost miraculous to me now when I gaze at this photo of a grandmother I never met. She appears quite elegant and poised at the well. Could she ever have imagined it would one day fall into a future granddaughter's hands? I have no idea if this well where she stands was her own or belonged to someone else. She appears to be a bit dressed up with her pumps and skirt. Over the years I have wondered what was going on that day when she went to this well. Who was with her? Why did someone decide a photo should be taken of this trip to get water? Was there a celebration taking place and more water was required? This grandmother in the photo died when I was a baby. My Mama once told me that Callie (my paternal grandmother's name) called me Apple Cheeks, because of the rosy color of my cheeks. When I gaze at this photo, I marvel with

THE MYSTERY COUPLE As a little girl growing up in the Smoky Mountains of Western North Carolina I had the privilege of growing up in same house my Daddy was born in. His parents built this home in 1899. His sister, Ruth was born in our house in 1900. In 1917, my Daddy was born in this house. I was a later in life child as my Daddy was 45 years old when I was born. My Daddy and Mama inherited our home upon the death of Daddy's mama, Callie Dickey. Her husband passed away in the late 1940's. For some reason, my parents decided not to part with some of the items collected over the years. We did not use the upstairs of our mountain home built of oak and secured on a foundation of local river rocks. Our home had a tin roof and when it rained the sound was glorious to me. I loved climbing the narrow stairs on rainy days to search through old trunks, play with antiques such as my grandmother's sewing machine, boxes of old records, and an old stovepipe hat once worn by a grandfathe

I've got a one-liner for you!  "That's not my thing!" Have you ever asked someone to help with a project, activity, or another important and vital function? Maybe you are the lead on a project for your company for the upcoming Christmas fund raiser for needy families in the community. Perhaps you oversee setting up monthly potlucks at your office. Your church has an annual outreach event that draws hundreds of folks. But, when you ask for help people suddenly "think" they are busy that day, or you get the proverbial, "That's not my thing." Most of us have experienced the steel anchor of weight on our shoulders when discouragement takes hold of us after we receive these refusals to support a worthy cause or event. I know my brain races to how friends will quickly respond to my text or email about getting together for lunch, but when I share there is a need to serve in some capacity, then suddenly I have been "ghosted." Perhaps I have s

 I love the season of fall. I was blessed to live in a part of the country as a child and during college where fall was brilliantly clothed with shades of amber, crimson, mustard, and tangerine. The trees were so vibrant with a voice that daily sang the miraculous creation of our world.  Today, I live in the warm and sunny climate of southern California. I appreciate the lack of anything remotely resembling coldness. But I do miss the glorious days of fall and the crunch of leaves beneath my feet on long walks in the woods. There is something spectacular about the mystery of how God makes all things beautiful in their own way. I have similar feelings about the ocean. The sound of crashing waves billowing toward me always make me feel inspired and refreshed. The frothy water laps at my toes like the tongue of a puppy. I feel small when I am at the ocean just as I feel small surrounded by acres of trees in the mountains.  Nature brings me closer to God. It always has. In my finite wisdom

What makes people selfish? Are we selfish because we simply live in our own bodies and truly can't relate to what it means to be someone else? When I was very small, I used to look at my Daddy and my Mama wondering what it would be like to be them. I knew what it was like to be me. I had my own thoughts. I had my own worries and triumphs. But I honestly had no idea what it meant to be someone else. I can recall sitting in my Daddy's lap as a very young child with my ear firmly pressed to his chest listening to the beat of his heart. He had a different heart from me. It beat with a steady rhythm just like mine. Yet, my Daddy and my Mama did not live the same life I was living. We are all unique individuals, right? Yet, we are connected to other people through our different roles during the decades of our lives. We seem to be more selfish about the people we love and care about than someone who is a stranger or just a face on the news. We might foster moments of compassion and em

Gazing at the ocean is an activity of vast wonder and sublime beauty.  During a recent respite visit to our favorite local beach, I spent about ten minutes mesmerized by a precious hummingbird circling bushes of bright yellow flowers. This tiny creature would leave and return again in mere seconds dipping its long beak into the center of a blossom near my feet as I lazily sat in a beach chair. Sitting there with the sound of the ocean nearby and the scent of salt water helped me focus on being present in the moment. This moment blocked out any intrusive thoughts or plans in my typically overloaded brain. I peered curiously at something so small and yet so effective and determined. That hummingbird flew away, but just kept returning.  I wondered what lesson I could learn here on this glorious and uncomplicated beach where this little hummingbird enjoyed an existence of nature and nurture. How small it appeared in such a vast universe, and yet, how perfectly provided for by nature. I fel