flea markets & friendship

Sixteen years ago this month, Matt and I drove around our cul-de-sac, and a covey of children stopped our car with questions. They jumped out of a tree when they spotted our car and broke up like ants in an ant bed. They asked us if we had any kids. How old is he?  Are you going to buy this house? Where will he go to school? What grade? 

A few days later we moved our meager belongings into our home on Whalley Court and a long chapter of history began in our families. Those kids belonged to Tammy and Marla. Since then Marla has moved out of the neighborhood and then back in. Our family moved to Honduras for four years. We rented our home and moved back into it in 2006. Whalley Court proved to be a soft place to land even for the bruised. Tammy retained her sentinel corner address keeping careful watch over the sacred cul-de-sac. 

Saturday Tammy escorted us to the flea market. Yes, escorted. Marla and I are no seasoned shoppers. Tammy could lead you through the flea market in her sleep. 

The flea market is a sub-culture all its own. The self-expression surprised me. We passed a twenty something girl with purple lips (I don't believe she was cold) and pink hair with a bird's nest sitting atop. I caught myself staring mouth agape several times at hair. I could do an entire post on hair at the flea market, but it would not be as worthwhile.

On the way over we checked in on our families: recent marriages, marriage prospects, dating relationships, two surgeries, unemployment, new business ventures, loose front teeth and ongoing car repairs. We conducted all this mental health business in a Town and Country minivan in the time it took to get from home to the flea market, and we didn't even write each other a check. We could save a lot of money on therapy if we did this once a month.

Each of us had one specific item to buy: a desk, a chair, a dresser. We followed our fearless leader in and out of aisles, coves of tables, buildings, and a few concessions. August in Tennessee seems like a horrible time to shop outside. It is. We poured sweat and then enjoyed a reprieve in the air-conditioned buildings. The lemonade tasted extra sweet and fresh after sweating for several hours. The kettle corn, well, it's kettle corn. Who can turn that down even with dirty hands? The nurse in me thought about the germs but the hunger and the sweet and salty won out!

We found Tammy's chair at the first stop. She started bargaining with the vendor. I felt pretty suave when I mouthed to her "I like it!" instead of saying it out loud and ruining her process. I murmured something about having most of this stuff in my garage. They knew it. You don’t hide your junk from true friends.

The second purchase was not on the list. In fact, it was an emotional purchase for $18. My grandmother, Momice, always sat on a stool at her island. Impromptu visits or family feasts found her ruling court from that stool. 

My face gives away everything so I sent Tammy in to bargain. We only got $2 off. I told her I was happy to pay full price. See my problems with bargaining at a flea market?

Quickly I found the dresser - right color, right price. Instead of a desk, we picked a table bar-height that can function as either. Plus, the child can take it with him when he launches. Brilliant. The man selling the table/desk wore his shirt open his shoulder-length gray curly hair swung around as he moved. I’m marrying off my daughter tonight. “What are you doing at the flea market!” We all three chimed in three-part harmony. 

We breezed by the Fiestaware shop. Tammy found a lucite chair for $35 that she later discovered regularly sold for $180. Men may think it is all about the bargains. That’s what we tell them. We know the mystery of friendship is sealed over a bargain. Oh, I’m not giving away any secrets. How many men would have read this far? 

We unloaded the booty at Marla’s. When we went to unload mine a straggly bouquet of black-eyed-susans adorned the back hatch. Tammy gasped, “OH! We took home some of Marla's flowers!” 

I grabbed them up from the back hatch and tossed them into a bed in my front yard. "Maybe I'll have some black-eyed-susans next spring."

Even if I don't, seeds were planted in my heart. The harvest is promising. Friendship springs in our hearts.

the launch

I posted this three years ago. Today I am honoring those of you who are launching children to college. Here is our story.

On the day that we moved my oldest son to college, I walked into his room among the boxes holdinghis future. “Hey, want me to help you make your bed?” I asked smiling. We tidied the covers and I tucked his teddy bear in among the pillows. 

We drove east into the rising sun and Vol-land. The pit of my stomach turned and rumbled as I joined the throngs of parents pushing loaded carts vying for elevators. The dismal and exhausted dorm room has welcomed students since 1965. We packed as much warmth into it as we could leaving the white walls a blank slate. 

A college friend of Matt’s from Knoxville offered us respite in his beautiful home. Some of the most tender steak I’ve ever had the pleasure of eating settled my rumbly tummy. The fellowship warmed my weak heart. A few months earlier we had spent the weekend with Woody and Jennifer. We had told him Matthew may be attending UT. He smiled, took a sip of his cold beer and said, “You know if he does come to UT, he’s mine.” I’ve never heard such comforting words. 

On Matthew’s first night in the dorm, I spent a long and restless night at Woody’s with Matt and Sam. Awake from 3-4 a.m., I listed the things we could do to bring some life to the cell of a dorm room. Up to now, the males had given me a lot of flack. Being as I am outnumbered in this family, it added up to quite a bit! Boys don’t care about a dorm room. Boys don’t need it to be beautiful. Mom, (eyes rolling) I don’t care what comforter I have or if it matches Sean’s! But now everyone was brainstorming!

Sunday morning early, we arrived to the dorm early and dragged Matthew out of bed. We headed to the equivalent of Mecca for new dorm residents: Walmart. Zealous parents and students had ransacked the place. No hangers. No cork boards. A kind employee dug in a box to find shower curtain rings. 

Back at Alcatraz, I mean Massey Dorm, we added the Walmart-touch and the place livened up. As I placed pictures on the wall, Matt said, “It’s time to go.” Matthew’s tour of campus began in 5 minutes. “But can’t we just stay here and work on the room while he’s gone?” 

“No,” Matt said. No explanation.

“Is it against the rules?” I stammered.

“It’s time for us to go,” he gently reassured. 

We all rolled out the door into the hall with the force of a tsunami. There next to the elevators sat 8 or so freshman young men with the RA, Hunter. Awkward. We quickly hugged goodbye and I boarded the elevator with Rhode Island in my throat. I had been told not to look back. Afraid of what may happen if Rhode Island broke up, I checked my flip flops. On the ground, I kicked the gravel and spit out, “That was just awful.” Matt agreed. 

“We don’t have to leave on that note,” we both agreed. We decided to eat and return for a better goodbye. Now, if a parent had asked for my advice in this situation, I would have said, “Leave. Go on home.” Reason did not have the wheel.

Amidst tears, we found our way to the Old City, a quirky and whimsical part of Knoxville. “You have not told me about these shops,” I accused Matt. 

“These were not here when we dated 20 years ago,” he said.

“Yeah, right.”

I texted Matthew: We have a gift for you. Can you meet us after the tour to pick it up?

Shameful. We had visited the bookstore and bought him a lanyard for his keys. For me visiting the all-orange store traumatized me even more. I am an Ole Miss girl by heart. 

We proceeded as planned since we did not hear from him. Funny how my texts and calls are not answered even though the phone grows out of his right palm. He may have been strategizing: how can I get them to leave?

At last, the phone rang. “Mom, I’m pretty busy. I have something else at 4.” 

“We just wanted to say goodbye over. That goodbye was terribly awkward,” I explained. “It will only take a second.”

Our Odyssey roared back to campus. There on the corner sat Matthew with his tour. He hurried over to our car. We tried to park out of the way and out of sight certainly out of earshot. I said the things I wanted to say without an audience. Hugged him. Touched his face. Matt gave him a huge man-hug. We drove off. Again. 

Tomato Head Restaurant offered yet another respite. Good food is a comfort. Lazy Magnolia Southern Pecan Ale is brewed in Kiln, MS. From the first drop on my tongue I felt the love. Apparently, it is the only beer in the world made with roasted pecans. I needed a Mississippi touch. Outside, Sam danced in the water fountain. Then, we headed west: home. 

Some things remain private. The ride home. The tears. The talk. The snorts. 

The family who kept Joshua lives on one of the most beautiful stretches of road in the country. We rounded Del Rio and the stunning sunset bade us welcome.

The next morning I awoke before the sunrise aware of an emptiness in my gut. I’ve been reading a book about getting in touch with the gut: the seat of emotions, the home of the soul. I stealthily stole out to the patio. As I wrote in my journal, the pages turned golden under the sunrise. I checked in with the gut. Warmth, fullness, life. The emptiness is true: I miss Matthew. 

The life is truer. 

So much of parenting is negotiating endings, the unceasing process of disconnecting the strings that tie our children to us, preparing them for a life on their own. That has always been the ache and beauty of it for me – taking the deep breath and trusting somehow in the goodness of life, in God, in something beyond myself. – Sue Monk Kidd

Update on 08.17.2013 by gigi

One of my best friends will be taking her oldest child to college today. I want to remind her and all of you launching those arrows today that it's gonna be ok. IGBOK. It's hard to believe that I posted this three years ago. As I write this update, Matthew is asleep upstairs. This summer is the first that he did not return home. It was right. It was what he needed. It was lonely. I felt his absence. He is here for another few days before returning to Knoxville. We are drinking it in. 

appointed

Appoint means to assign, to determine to decide on. Have you ever considered that the trials in your life were pre-determined by our God? 

I started this post several days ago. Since then several things have happened that made me approach this subject with trepidation. A friend was diagnosed with cancer. I had to tell a patient at the clinic she probably had cancer. A friend’s father died. After these things happened, I sat down to write and thought to myself: I don’t have a thing to say about this subject.

Given some time, I want to attempt to share about it. During a troubling time in my past, the notion that God had ordained the days was one thing that continued to bring me comfort. Yes, I believe our God orchestrates our days and sometimes directly leads us into pain, trials, hardship even heartbreak. 

Consider Jonah. The New American Standard Bible says that God appointed a whale. Then he appointed a plant, a worm and finally a wind. Only one of these things comforted Jonah. The plant gave him shade and comfort and he was happy about it. I suppose the whale saved his life, but spending three days in the belly of a whale probably was not on his life plan. Surely the worm and the wind taught him lessons. 

The knowledge that God appoints events, people, births and deaths, storms and shade gives me comfort. I can trust He is working for my good even when all around me life is crumbling. While we sit in ruins trusting God can seem impossible. We have to lean on people who have walked through darkness and come out on the other side with strength and hope. 

My experience with trusting God even in the appointed heartbreaks of life builds my trust. I can lend that faith to others in times of uncertainty and doubt. Thus I am comforted while see those around me suffering. God is at work. He is good. 

He appoints my days.

full heart

They grow up fast. 

This may be the understatement of all understatements. For the first time in weeks, I have all my boys under the same roof. Since they are spread out from ages 22 (Matthew) to 13 (Joshua) to 7 (Sam), we get to see our parenting change. We get evaluations from time to time from Matthew. Last night at dinner, we had an opportunity for feedback. 

Matt grilled salmon. I had agreed to cook pasta for Sam since he is not a salmon fan. We tried to convince him since it is so close to his name: Sam-man. Nonetheless, he broke down like a kid exhausted from the first week of school. 

I said, “Tell him, Matthew, what would have happened to you if you had refused to eat what we cooked.”

“Well,” he began in the seasoned voice of a story-teller, “I would have been told to eat the fish or go to bed hungry.” This did not comfort Sam at all. Still hiccupping tears, he softened his daddy. Matt agreed to cook the pasta but said it would take 15 minutes. Matthew’s brows furrowed. 

Joshua said, “Just try it, Sam. It’s been a while. You haven’t tried Dad’s grilled salmon.” 

Sam cut the tiniest piece and plopped it in his mouth unbelieving. “Bad,” he spit. 

Undaunted, Joshua said, “That piece was tiny! You need to try a bigger piece to get the taste!” 

Sam didn’ t argue but quickly scooped up the rest of the fish on his plate. Joshua screamed, “You like it!” A big grin stole Sam’s face. He could not resist the delicious fish even at the expense of his pride. 

“I knew it! You didn’t argue about eating a second bite!” Joshua said. 

We laughed exhaling relieved by a resolution to the dinner drama. I felt spared of a failing parent grade. And I relished this moment like Mary treasuring it in my heart.

Later several of Matthew’s buds came over to play a board game and then hit Nashville. I hadn’t seen these young men in some months. They kept us up with their loud hoots and occasional music streaming through the open doors when someone sneaked downstairs for one more helping of blueberry crumble. 

This morning at the busstop Sam found a leaf bug. He named it Cornbread Maxwell. Sam is the Finder at our house. If something is lost, this kid can round it up.  For the next 20 minutes the bug delighted all the kids at our busstop climbing over Sam then fluttering off to someone’s backpack. Once the bug flew over to a bike tire and nearly met an early death. Sam rescued it and held on to it for dear life. 

Guess who had to take the bug when the bus came? I happened to have chosen a green coffee mug that morning. Cornbread rode home in the mug.

Then I carefully staged a home for him in an old salsa jar. Finding the right size shell for water and putting some leaves in for food enchanged my inner child.

  This afternoon we will likely let Cornbread loose. But the beauty of the moment will live in our hearts. Is that too lofty a purpose for Cornbread? For a bite of salmon? For laughter of 20-somethings? I don’t think so. 

We are told, after all, to consider the lillies

Beauty is all around me. If I don’t open my eyes to His Presence in the Moment, I am likely to miss it. I have to open my soul to find the beauty sometimes.

Don't fuss about what's on the table at mealtimes or if the clothes in your closet are in fashion. There is far more to your inner life than the food you put in your stomach, more to your outer appearance than the clothes you hang on your body. Look at the ravens, free and unfettered, not tied down to a job description, carefree in the care of God. And you count far more. Has anyone by fussing before the mirror ever gotten taller by so much as an inch? If fussing can't even do that, why fuss at all? Walk into the fields and look at the wildflowers. They don't fuss with their appearance - but have you ever seen color and design quite like it? The ten best-dressed men and women in the country look shabby alongside them. If God gives such attention to the wildflowers, most of them never even seen, don't you think he'll attend to you, take pride in you, do his best for you? "What I'm trying to do here is get you to relax, not be so preoccupied with getting so you can respond to God's giving. People who don't know God and the way he works fuss over these things, but you know both God and how he works. Steep yourself in God-reality, God-initiative, God-provisions. You'll find all your everyday human concerns will be met. Don't be afraid of missing out. You're my dearest friends! The Father wants to give you the very kingdom itself. Luke 12: 22-32

soil level: heavy

Yesterday my college kid arrived home for a week. This summer he has been living in Knoxville working two jobs. Needless to say his trips home have been few and far between and short. This house has been aching for his presence.

This morning I walked out to his car to grab laundry.  A laundry hamper, a basket and a bag all heaped over with clothes that need some TLC. And it is the most fantastic sight for sore eyes. 

I piled in a load and adjusted the washing machine settings. For soil level, I chose “heavy.” And it got me to thinking about Sunday’s sermon. We’ve been preaching through a series on “wisdom.” The focus Sunday lasered in on our walk. “Walk in a manner worthy,” Michael Easley quipped under the spotlights up front. 

We spent a couple of minutes on the phrase “let no unwholesome talk come out of your mouths.” Ephesians 4 and 5 are full of challenging one liners. This word “unwholesome” apparently means rotten. 

I am guilty. My language needs some work, needs some laundering, needs a little attention. Someone I greatly respect told me that there is only a hair’s difference between a blessing and a curse. I think he meant that passion is present in both. Indifference is the opposite of love; hate is not the opposite of love. 

When we came home from Honduras seven years ago, we were in pieces. The process nearly unraveled us. Matt and I sat with that respected friend and I told him, “my friends don’t know that I cuss.” 

I knew that on a level my friends didn’t know who I really was. And so I began to get a lot more real. To survive. To not go under. To hold on. And my language began to match my insides which is to say I cussed a lot more often. 

Now as I have had time to heal, I understand that my language needs to match again. I need to pay attention to my words. My words can be reckless and hurt people. I don’t want to lose the passion. I don’t want to go back to being a fraud. I want people to know that I’m a brawler and stubborn and so often throw out the curses instead of the blessings. 

And so to tame that tongue doesn’t look like pruning my external image with my own shears. It looks like owning my iron will and bringing it to my God. It looks like asking Him to cleanse and purify. It looks like applying the blood of Jesus when the curses flow and attending the broken or hurting heart underneath. 

When I turned that dial on the soil level to “heavy,” the timer read 1:27. One hour and twenty-seven minutes to wash that load of heavily soiled shirts, stinky socks and sweaty shorts. As I begin to pay attention to my tongue and to my language, I realize that it will take some time.