God and Me on a Porch Swing

I’m done.

My son’s 100 person Western Kentucky wedding reception/fried catfish yard party is over and has been vigorously marked off my List of Things To Do with a three-inch permanent marker and a can of black spray paint.  I don’t know if I am high from a lack of responsibility or an abundance of paint fumes.

I look around me slowly.  I am too hot and too tired to look around quickly.

The yard is empty.

The kitchen is clean.

The left-over food . . . enough catfish and potato salad to keep a third-world country alive until Jesus returns . . .  is stored in my fridge and freezer . . .  because shipping fish and potato salad seemed a bit problematic and my kids suggested that physical death is preferable to eating potato salad every day till Jesus returns . . . or every day till the end of the month which is pretty much what they will have to do.

And, I am tired.

I take a seat in the swing on my front porch and I rest.

This isn’t a Sunday afternoon kind of resting . . . like the 20 minutes that people have free after church when they put up their feet and think about how much they don’t want to get up and go to the next meeting.

This is God and me on a porch swing.  My feet push against the floor and rock the swing.  His Spirit rides on the breeze and refreshes my soul.

I pray slowly.  I am too hot and too tired to pray quickly.

He listens.

“Wasn’t it a good party?”

He nods.  It was.

“Those are good people.”

He nods.  They are.

I’m pretty sure that this is Sabbath Rest.

I rock.  He refreshes.

We swing.

“Thank You.”

He smiles.  I am welcome.

Truth? They Can’t Handle the Truth!

Last week I turned 51.

I ended the day with a facebook comment saying that it had been a great birthday and that being 51 didn’t hurt at all.

I lied.

In the last few days, I’ve sanded and painted two sets of porch rails . . . twice.  I’ve also replaced 18 impatiens and a handful of hostas that were eaten by my husband’s sheep with some ivy I dug up from my garden and 10 tall, leggy “something” plants that the nursery lady sold me for a dollar a piece.

(I got fleeced by the sheep . . .  and the nursery lady.)

As a result of all that physical work, my 51 year-old knees ache, my 51 year-old shoulders have knots that a sailor could use to tie off the Queen Mary and my 51 year-old back feels like it is 10 months pregnant.

I lied like a dog . . . like an old, arthritic dog . . . after an all-night coon hunt.

Actually, I’ve found that I lie rather well.

Most mothers do.

We get a lot of practice. . .

. . . When our first babies are born and our husbands are trying to decide which end goes up, we say, “See this small, fragile child that just ripped through my body and grabbed hold of my heart on the way out?  I think you should hold it now.”

. . . When our infants clinch their teeth and refuse to eat, we say,  ”This may look like smashed up, watered down, unseasoned green crap . . . But, if you try it, you’ll like it.  It’s really yummy!!”

. . . What do we do when our preschoolers watch Bambi for the first time and they see the fawn with big, sad eyes running through the woods crying for his mother?  We pick up our children and we think fast, . . . ”Don’t worry, Sweety.  Bambi is playing hide and seek in the forest and he is hunting for his mother.  Doesn’t that look like fun?”

. . . When, as we are reading the 25th bedtime book, our kindergarteners want to know if we are reading the whole story, we turn five pages as one and we declare, “Every single word.”

. . . When our elementary schoolers present us with crayon drawings that would confuse Picasso, we proclaim, “This is really beautiful!  Of course, I know what it is!”

. . . When our middle schoolers enter adolescent angsthood, we reassure, “Don’t worry about me, Punkin.  I promise never to embarrass you in public.”

. . . When our high schoolers are preparing for their first dates, we persuade, “What?  Where?  A big, red pimple in the middle of  your forehead?  I can’t see it at all.”

. . . When our college students call to say they aren’t coming home for the weekend, we convince, “It’s okay.  I was hoping to be able to spend a couple of days with your dad watching 600ish episodes of “The Dog Whisperer” helps all the “Pawn Stars” do a bunch of “Dirty Jobs” in the swamp with “Turtleman” anyway.

Lord, it seems to me that a bit of lying is in the job description for a mother.

And, I think that maybe we have some exemptions from the “Thou shalt not bear false witness” commandment.

My son, the seminary graduate, disagrees.

. . . When our adult children take the time to THOROUGHLY explain why we are wrong, mothers reply, “Wow.  I never thought of that.  You are probably right.”

Sidebar:  Dietrich Bonhoeffer, a German pastor during WWII who lied to the Nazi government to stop Hitler’s regime, said that truth is more than the recitation of accurate facts.

Tears of Joy or Tears of Sorrow? They All Smudge Your Mascara and Snot Up Your Nose.

MY WEEKEND IN PICTURES:

In Chronological Order

++++++++

This is the manchild that I prepared to send into the world . . .

The world of college classes and coeds.

My Response: Depression and anxiety with moments of panic palpitations

++++++++

These are my grandchildren

who threw themselves down in despair at the departure of their uncle.

And then they just laid there together . . .

Watching Phineas and Ferb write a title sequence.

My Response:  Delight flopped down on my depression and wallered all over my anxiety.

++++++++

This is my son who left home to save the world.

He called in semi-despair to say that his new world doesn’t want to be saved.

My Response:  Anxiety returned wrapped in concern and knotted up with a mother’s helplessness.

++++++++

The next Northcutt Super-Hero

WITH THE POWER TO PACIFY THE WORLD.

However, he’ll be needing the power of ”Bassy” for himself everyday around nap time.

My Response:  Cute trumps concern and I was feeling better.

++++++++

This is Pete the Barn Cat.

He was born on the Ark, sailed on the Mayflower,

Colonized Kentucky with the Boone family,

And has been Peter’s playmate since Peter was four.

This was Pete the Barn Cat’s desired response when Peter told him goodbye . . .

And thanked him for digging his claws into the last of his nine lives

and living until Peter left for college . . .

Then asked him to take care of the family while Peter was away.

The Whole Family’s Response:  Sorrowing, sobbing, snivelling and snotting

(Pete the Barn Cat never did like snivelling and snotting.)

++++++++

This is my oldest daughter who spent the weekend overjoyed

By the christening of her new used-car.

My Response:  I wiped the snot on the sleeve of my shirt and made merry with her.

++++++++

This is my youngest daughter who spent the weekend terribly upset

By the baptism of her stuffed duck . . . in the toilet. . . full of pee.

My Response:  I threw up my hands as my emotional roller coaster jumped the track,

I threw back my head and I laughed out loud!

The culprit and the victim

Too cute to criticize!

My Other Response:  It’s a DUCK! It was made to be wet and it’s already yellow.  No big deal!

++++++++

This is my oldest son and his wife

Who added a newborn Northcutt to the family.

My Response:  I started stashing away money to pay them for letting me babysit.

++++++++

This is  my granddaughter, Emmelyne.

On Friday she said, “Hello” to the world.

This is my son, Peter.

On Saturday he said, “Goodbye” to his childhood.

++++++++

My Response: 

Lord, hold both those babies in Your arms and sing the song of grace in their ears.

++++++++

And, Lord . . .

 I’d like to tell the angel in charge of scheduling my life calendar that when Solomon said,

“To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven . . .

A time to weep, and a time to laugh; A time to mourn, and a time to dance . . .

A time to get, and a time to lose; A time to keep, and a time to cast away”,

I’m pretty sure he didn’t intend to cram all that stuff into one weekend.

 

Lord, You Know I Can’t Make Up This Stuff

I was asked this week, by a lady who laughs at this blog, if I make up the things I write or if I find them somewhere.

To answer that question, let me set the stage to tell you about my morning.

My daughter, Casey, came home after a couple of years in Thailand to find that her car had died a loud and painfully expensive death and had been laid to rest in a junkyard where he selflessly donates his used parts so other Mitsubishi Mirages can live.

Casey was forced to either buy a cheap car or drive the 1990 Buick Century that had previously belonged to her 92 year-old great-grandmother.  Her bank account persuaded her to choose free over cheap and for the last year she has been driving an “old lady” car that she named Miss Daisy.

A few weeks ago, Miss Daisy also kicked the oil bucket.

My husband, Greg, was taught by his father, who was taught by his father before him, the Northcutt automotive philosophy, “Why spend money to buy a new car when you can hold an old one together with toothpicks and duct tape?”  Greg found Casey a new used-car.  It will be delivered to our house as soon as the back half of its body has been replaced.

(It recently survived a wreck, which according to its insurance company, totalled it.  But, Greg feels that once a little superglue and a rubber band or two are applied, it will be just the car for his I’m-25-but-I-look-like-I’m-12-and-easy-to-kidnap-if-stranded-on-the-side-of-the-road daughter to drive.)

Until the car is ready, Casey has been forced to borrow a car from me or her brother, Peter.

Not long after Miss Daisy’s passing, my son, Ben, who has been taught from birth the Northcutt ”One for All; All for Cheap” automotive philosophy, lost one of his family’s minivans to ADHD . . . need-Attention . . .  owner-has-money-Deficit . . .  just-Hyperactivate-me-right-on-over-a-cliff-please . . .  Disorder.

So, Ben, who had to spend this week in Louisville, borrowed Peter’s car, leaving Casey, Peter and I to share my van.

Last night my van broke.

Casey, Peter and I are now sharing our only working vehicle other than Greg’s car, . . . a souped-up, diesel, farm truck . . . that smells like a horse . . . makes enough noise to drown out KISS in concert . . . blows black smoke up the engine cover of every car following within a half-mile distance . . . and is currently loaded with dead limbs that have hung from our trees since the ice storm of ’09 . . . which we cut down this week so our yard would look reeaall nice for the fried catfish wedding reception of our other son, Micah, in a few weeks.

The truck has a stick shift.  Casey and Peter can’t drive a stick shift.  So, in actuality, Casey, Peter and I are sharing a vehicle that only I can drive.

This morning, Casey, who is working as a freelance writer had to cover a breakfast meeting of governmental representatives in Paducah.

I got up at six o’clock to drive Casey to the meeting in the farm truck.  We rode to Paducah with the windows down because the chewing gum that held in the air conditioner coolant fell off years ago.

Casey was dabbing at her make-up . . . which she applied to her freckles this morning in hopes that her interviewees would take her seriously and the breakfast hostess wouldn’t offer her the children’s menu.  I was mentally writing this blog.

My philosophy is:  If I have to live it, I sooooo should get to write about it.

I dropped off Casey a block from the building that hosts her meeting.  She didn’t want the guys in ties and the ladies in heels to see her repelling from the cab of a jacked-up truck that her mother was driving . . . something about professional behaviour and embarrassment.

Evidently, Northcuttness runs recessive in her genetic makeup.

As I put this story in writing, the truck and I are parked in an abandoned lot overlooking the Ohio River with an eight foot concrete wall blocking us from the view of the men in ties and women in heels.  We are waiting for the meeting to end and for Casey to covertly find her way back to us.

It’s actually not a bad place to spend a couple of hours.  (However, I could be spending the time more usefully if the stupid truck had enough gas to get me to Wal-Mart and back.  But that is another story . . . )

So . . .

To answer the original question, I don’t invent the stuff I blog.  And, I certainly don’t hear about it happening to any other family.

I’ll admit that my stories and blogs may have been stretched just a bit and perhaps dusted with a little extra humor.  But the canvas on which they are painted is the truth of my life . . . absurd and aggravating and occasionally awesome as it is.

For those concerned:  This was written last Thursday.  The kids and I now have two of our vehicles running and Greg’s car is broken down. 

A New Song Released by the Heavenly Choir this Week:

Jesus loves the little children.

All the children of the world.

Red and yellow,

Black and white . . .

PUT THEM TOGETHER AND WATCH THEM FIGHT!

Jesus loves the little children of the world.

—————————————————————————————————————————————-

. . . And loves us all even as we scream at each other like hateful kids on the Chic-fil-A playground.

How Does a Mother Survive Her Child’s Wedding Tear-free and with Mascara Intact?

Here is my advice:

1.  On the day you decide to have children, hit your knees, lift your voice to heaven and beseech . . . spelled capital B E G, exclamation point, exclamation point . . . the Lord for boys.  As the mother of the groom, there is a chance that you will have enough physical, mental and emotional energy to survive the weeks before the wedding without melting into a puddle of pooped poverty.

2.  Wait until 20 minutes before the rehearsal dinner to paint your toenails with polish that you borrow from your daughter-in-law because the bottle you brought is 20ish years old.  Then, when you slide your not-quite-dry toenails into your sandals, the polish will clump up and scrape off.  Every time you look at your toes, your mind will be preoccupied with the cussing that you can’t say in front of your new in-laws and you will barely hear the preparations for the following day . . . the day your son becomes a husband.

3.  When shopping for a dress to wear to the wedding, choose one that you consider to be . . . 6 . . . 8 . . . 10 . . . oh, let’s say, even 12 inches too-dang short.  Then, when placed on the front row of the church . . . in plain sight of God and a dozen or so people 30 years younger than you, your attention will be focused on keeping your legs together and you will almost miss the tears in your little boy’s eyes as he sees his bride for the first time.

4.  Buy your dress intending to drop about 10 pounds before the wedding.  But then every time you drop one of those little things, reach down and pick it up again with a BBQed rib rack, or a pile of mashed potatoes fried in Crisco, or, my personal favorite, a king-sized snickers bar dipped in peanut butter.  Pull on that dress over all those pounds, suck in reeeaaal hard and then hold your breath until the wedding reception is over.  That will stop up your tear ducts . . . guaranteed.  One lone tear could crack the emotional dam, explode the lungs, release the diaphragm and bust the seams of your dress all over the wedding cake.

With your stomach sucked up into your throat it will be nearly impossible to tell your son how truly, terribly much you love him.

5.  When buying shoes for the wedding, pick a pair that are attractive . . . as in, “Cute as a button” . . . and . . . ”Cost a crapload of pretty pennies that you won’t, under any circumstances, tell your husband about”. . . and make sure they are the most uncomfortable things you have ever put on your feet.   The blisters on your heels, the cramps in your arches and the pinching toe pain that throbs through your body to make your teeth hurt will distract you from the ache in your heart as you dance with your son . . . the son who now has a wonderful, new woman in his life.

I can tell you, from experience, that if you do these things, you can make it through your son’s wedding tear-free with mascara intact.

However, if at the end of a wedding that turns out to be lovely and touching and a surprising amount of fun, you go to bed without taking a hot bath or drinking a glass of warm milk or downing a bottle and a half of your kids’ dramamine, all these preparations will be in vain.  Because, you will lie in bed as your over-stimulated brain races to review the day.

And your tears will run rivers down your face as you thank God for your son, his new wife, and their family that will, hopefully, spend a lot of time at your house.

Mr. and Mrs. Micah Northcutt

Thank You, Lord

When I Get to Heaven . . .

Lord, Micah gets married Saturday and I am spending the week playing the “Remember When” game.

Remember when Micah was four and his hair hung in curlets and he dressed up like a girl so Casey and her friends would play with him?  Remember when he was in high school and his hair hung in curlets and he dressed up like a girl because . . . well, there were just so many times and reasons in high school that Micah dressed up like a girl.

Remember how loudly little Micah talked . . . every time he talked . . . every word of every time he talked . . . which was every waking moment?

And, Lord, do you remember things about my other kids when they were small?

. . . The vehemence with which Ben pretended . . . and how it ultimately landed he and his dad and I in his principal’s office during his first grade year because he BECAME a ninja-turtle and repeatedly kicked his classmates in the . . . well, at just about leg-fully-extended height.

. . . The innocence that shrouded Casey . . . even as she cussed like a little sailorette because the boy next door taught her some interesting new words.

. . . The giggle that jumped up in Peter’s throat and rolled around his body every day of his life . . . except the day I showed up at his high school wearing the same shirt he had on and told his friends that we had “go together shirts”.

. . . The tears that consumed Tessa when she found out that the mother of her friend, Ashley, had died . . . a natural and heart-wrenching reaction . . . unless you knew that Ashley, Ashley’s mother and Ashley’s mother’s terrible death were all figments of Tessa’s dramatic imagination.

Do you remember those things clearly, Lord?

Because I don’t.  Not so much anymore.  Those memories and a thousand more like them are becoming fuzzy around the edges:

The way my heart melted when my newborns tucked their heads into my neck to sleep . . .

The smell of my infants after they had been bathed and lotioned . . .

The feel of their baby buns in the palm of my hand . . .

Their first words, their best stories . . . their cackling laughs, their boo-boos and tears . . .

The trees they climbed, the swords they swung, the fine jewelry they made for me from broken shells and pasta noodles.

Lord, would You gather Your copies of those memories and put them all in a time-proof box with my name on it?  And, would You have an angel place it on the coffee table in the family room of the mansion that You have prepared for me?

Then, when I get to heaven, I’m going to tell Jesus “Thank You”.  I’m going to dance with the Holy Spirit. And, after sitting in Your lap for about a thousand years, I’m going to settle into my mansion and I’m going to open that box.

I’ll sit on the floor with a piece of apple pie that will add no fat to my perfect body and a cup of spiced tea.  I’ll spread the memories out around me and I’ll look at them for a long time.

Then, I’ll pick up every one of those complete, pure, flawless memories.  I’ll set them in my lap.

And, I’ll hold my babies again.