Stories to Tell: Part IX

Baptism

I love that I can remember my baptism.  In some faith traditions, it is crucial that children be baptized as infants.  In others, it is only when one becomes an adult that they can be baptized.  In our tradition as Presbyterians, it does not matter if you are 1 day old or 100 years old--it is the holiness of the moment that matters as well as all of those both before and after it.  You see, for us, baptism is a sign and a seal of something that happened before you were ever born, before you were in the womb even; God loved you and called you by name.  You are saved by God's grace before you can even claim it for yourself because God is always, always reaching for you. 

My parents decided that they would let me choose if and when I would be baptized.  I think this taught me that my relationship with Christ is personal and something that I need to believe in because of my own heart, not because of someone else's choice.  But, being part of a loving congregation taught me that my relationship with Christ is also communal, because you need the community to guide and teach you in the faith.  You need the community to be present as you ask hard questions and interpret the Scriptures.  And so it was that as my relationship with the church I was intending was forged--so was my relationship with Christ. 

After my grandfather died and I attended Montreat for the first time-I knew that I wanted to be baptized for certain.  Rev. Bill Buchanan baptized me on August 15, 1999.  It was his first baptism which creates a special bond for us I think.  My dear friend and elder, Jo Carson stood beside me, smiling her gorgeous smile of encouragement.  Bedford Presbyterian has large, clear windows that while shaded by shutters, let in shafts of summer sunlight.  I remember the bright morning sun beaming on the mint green carpet at my feet. My family and friends sat in pews in front of me.  And I truly felt that I had people who loved both before and behind me.  The choir sat robed in maroon in the choir loft behind me (don't touch the brass railing please) and youth sat above me in the balcony (don't let the golf pencils roll off the edge please).  I remember the water being cool on my head, warmed by Bill's hand as he pressed down on me in the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.  I remember the calm in Bill's voice and the smile in his eyes. 

We had a party that day at home, after worship.  Why wouldn't we?  Neighbors, church families, close friends, and teenagers piled plates high and scattered around the house in fellowship.  Gertie, our basset hound wove her way in and out of legs, hoping to catch some fallen scraps.  As she exited through the doggie door, so did Bill and Aimee's daughter, Elli-in close pursuit. 

I was given a Teen Study Bible in a sturdy zipper case.  Since that time treasured scraps of tangible faith have been folded between the pages and stuffed in side pockets.  There is a letter there from my friend John, who wrote to me when my grandfather died.  There is a little packet of confetti from when we attended a Millennium youth conference in Indianapolis.  There are pictures from that trip as well as ones from Montreat and Massanetta.  The pages are highlighted with Scriptures that mean the most to me and bookmarked with quotes or lyrics that spoke to my teenage heart.  There's a swatch of terrycloth to remind me of my baptism.  The first of my Montreat wristbands. So many other baubles and notes that I can scarcely zip the thing much less carry it anywhere.  But, if I am looking to the Bible for solace and not for study...this is still the Bible to which I turn. 

I guess we never forget our roots and these are mine. 

Stories To Tell: VIII

Montreat

It is all I can do not to take my shoes off and pick up the soil and dirt on my soles to carry with me.  This week I am walking on holy ground. The birds are chirping and the mountain rises deep green against the bright blue sky. And friends, it is HOT!  From where I sit I can see the paddle boats and canoes creating ripples on the water and hear echoes from the voices of 1000+ youth enjoying each other’s company in this sacred space. 

For this week I am in my favorite, favorite place, Montreat, accompanying the youth from Covenant Presbyterian and Presbyterian Community Center.  We are having a wonderful experience together as we sleep and eat and sweat in tight quarters! Through our keynotes, small groups, worship services, and back-home discussions we are exploring the theme, A Missing Peace, and I am excited for our youth to return home and share that message with the rest of our congregation. 

This morning, the keynote speaker, Paul, talked about disruption in our lives, the chaos that can happen, and how we can find peace in the midst of that through the Holy Spirit.  He directed us to several Biblical examples, beginning with the first verses of Genesis.  In the beginning there was toh-vu-va-voh-hu  (my favorite Hebrew word) meaning chaos, by my favorite definition.  And then the ruach, the breath/wind/Spirit of God hovered over the deep.  In this moment God separated the light from the darkness.  I was struck by this because no matter how chaotic life feels, there is a shift for me when I drive through the gates of Montreat.  And believe me, Sunday was chaotic as we loaded up after church and made our way here.  I was feeling stretched in many directions and anxious about how this week would play out.  Then, I entered this thin place where God is so close, and I felt at peace. 

On Sunday night as we gathered for opening worship a face almost as familiar to me as my own hovered in front of me and I squealed in delight at the shock of it! My dear friend Erin, the one I wrote of a few weeks ago, my forever friend who brought me into the church is HERE in Montreat!  Her youth group sits across the aisle from mine.  Neither of us had any idea we would be here together.  What a gift from God that we have been able to spend time together.  Never expecting to be where we are now when it first began….

I will never forget my first Montreat, I was so nervous to come, I almost did not make the trip but Bill, my amazing youth pastor and now mentor and friend convinced me.  It was 1999. Week Four. My small group number was 33. The theme was On The Threshold  and Bill and his wife Aimee were keynoting the conference.  What a perfect, perfect theme—I was indeed on the threshold, the threshold of my faith and ultimately my vocation.  One day at keynote there was this incredible opening with Bill drumming a tribal beat and a team of youth did a chant about God calling us to fish for people.  It was incredible.  I have never seen anything like it since.  It was a powerful moment and it transformed the way I thought about worship. 

Most of my closest friends growing up were in the youth group, so coming to Montreat was basically like being with my family.  We shared hard conversations after we sat on hard pews that are older than your grandmother.  But we also had so much fun.  We spent hours rock-hopping or getting ice cream at The Huck. My first year I shared a room with Erin and Katie.  We took turns sleeping on a cot in the middle of the room we shared.  One night, in the middle of the night, I woke up (sort of) and I tried to make my way to the bathroom in the dark.  I reached out my hand and touched Katie’s cot, I think so I would not trip.  Katie bolted straight up on the cot and screamed bloody murder and then laid right back down, seemingly asleep.  (I am still laughing with tears in my eyes as I write this almost 20 years later)I dove back into the bed and covered myself.  Then, maybe 10 seconds later I hear Erin’s voice, “WHAT. WAS. THAT?” By that point we were all awake and belly-laughing.

   I also remember seeing David LaMotte’s first concert that year. It is amazing the way music can impact our memories.  I bought David’s latest CD in the bookstore this week.  I listened to it on the way into Montreat this morning.  As I was driving through Asheville the song he had written about our friend Aimee who died I few years ago came on and I thought, wow what a God moment to flood my mind today with memories of her, her mentorship and her motherhood. I also remember her telling a profound story from her young adult life from the stage one morning when I was a young adult, that I had never heard before.  It made me run to my own mother, who was there as an advisor for my home church and hug her tightly.  Someone snapped a photo of the moment and it is framed in my office.

I remember summers here with Bill and Aimee’s children Elli and Taylor.  One day I asked Elli (she was about 7 at the time) if she would come to Montreat youth conference when she was older.  And she said, “well, yea, I basically live here.”  Elli was three when I met her, a precious little blond child.  And now, I have my precious little blond child here with me for the first time.  Kemper is loving the energizers and the music.  When we sing the song, Ten Thousand Reasons he sings the chorus and does the motions that Ms. Candace taught him in Vacation Bible School.  It is the most precious thing in the world and brought tears to my eyes to see him so happy in the place that brings me such joy.  He was in worship a few nights ago when the pastor began to read the story of “doubting Thomas.” Kemper piped up with, “I know Thomas!”  

I’ve always loved Communion at Montreat along with the Candlelight service around Lake Susan.  I remember one Communion service in particular sitting next to Bill in the pew after we had taken Communion and singing the hymns.  Bill just hugged us, one youth on either side of him, with his arms on the back of the pews.  Watching all of those teenagers who had been working through hard conversations and sharing deeply personal things together having The Lord’s Supper was really meaningful to me.  And knowing how lucky I was to have many adults like Bill who loved us and cared for us enough to support us financially to send us to Montreat. By far, my favorite memory of Bill here has been seeing his alternate ego-Right Rev. Smoothe get on stage and do a rap about the Protestant Reformation.  It was amazing!

I’ve come to Montreat Youth Conference a few times as an adult advisor.  When I was in college I came back with my home church, Bedford Pres.  I got to know the youth who were younger than me in my home church and that was a special experience.  In Richmond, I was a youth advisor at Three Chopt Presbyterian Church.  I drove by a few of the houses we stayed in and smiled to think of them.  Such great kids.  I will never, ever forget one of our Seniors, Graham, thinking that he was mooning a bunch of boys that our girls had invited over for lunch, and mooning the pastor, Brenda instead. This earned him the name Moon Pie.  He took the ribbing, all in good fun.  I also remember having deep and meaningful conversations with some of the girls about what it meant to be intimate with another person at such a young age and what the Bible said about sexuality and relationships. I talked to the boys about respecting the young women they were interacting with—even if those young girls acted like they didn’t have much respect for themselves.  Now they are young adults; getting married and graduating from college.  I know we are not supposed to be prideful or boastful—but my goodness, I am proud of them! 

This is my first time coming with Covenant, but I hope it will not be my last.  I have been so impressed with their willingness to engage with other people, and with one another.  We are still getting to know one another and building relationships takes time.  But I am honored that they have shared this time with me and that they have been so patient and welcoming of Kemper. 

If I didn’t believe in the Holy Spirit, I’d call it magic—what this place can do for a person’s soul.  But I know that it is God.  I know that it is God because I meet God here time and time again—and we become reacquainted, God and I.  I remember who God is, and who I am, and who God created me to be.  And I am home.  

Stories To Tell Part VII

The Second Miracle

My life seems to be stitched together by miracles.  Mostly of the modern medical kind, if you want to be technical about it.  But, that's okay, because God has given us the gift of our minds to understand and discover science, medicine,  and the healing arts.  There are still things that happen that are beyond our understanding when it comes to our minds and bodies.  We learn more each day.  The second miracle becomes more fuzzy in my mind as time goes on.  Besides that, God keeps adding new miracles, each one more life-changing and critical than the one before it.  

As I entered high school, my Papa Tate was growing increasingly frail.  Now, the best description I can give you of my grandfather before his illness is to point you to my Dad. Dad looks like him, walks like him, talks like him, acts like him.  My Dad got his incredible talents of building things and fixing things from my Papa.  Papa had green eyes that twinkled when he was tickled at something. He also had a quick temper and you could hear him cursing from his shop on top of the hill when you walked out of the back door of their house. I have fun memories of him. When I wasn't much older than four I was staying at their house. I went into the bathroom while he was shaving.  I got stuck in the toilet and he had to pull me out.  I don't know why I thought it would be fun to see if I'd fit all the way into the toilet bowl while I was sitting there!  I also remember how he would say a blessing before our meals.  He mumbled the prayer and said it so quickly that no one in the family actually new what the words at the end of the blessing were! Same blessing for years on end, but no one can replicate it. He also loved gravy and country style steak more than any other person on the planet! 

Papa had Alzheimer's, followed by colon cancer.  I remember that in his last few years he would tell stories from his early life, but they were muddled and did not always make sense.  He began to talk less and less about the present and lived in the past.  He would do things like put on his clothes over his pajamas.  I am sure there were way more things going on for him than I really remember, I was only 13 or 14 years old at the time.  But I do remember it being very difficult for my grandmother.  It is one thing to know someone has this horrible disease but another thing entirely to really understand the depths of it.  It takes that person away from you in reality.  The body is there but the individual inside can become different altogether.  I don't think Grandma could fully fathom this so she spent a lot of time worrying (who wouldn't) and fussing at him about things he couldn't make sense of or understand.  There came a time near the end of his life that he couldn't call us by name anymore.  

It was early June of my freshman year of High School when Papa went into the hospital.  The cancer was ravaging his body.  I think he had some surgery to remove part of his colon...but what I remember is  that he was unresponsive for several days. The day he woke up he remembered every one of us by name!  I was fortunate enough to be able to go and spend an afternoon with him in the hospital.  I was so pleased that he could say our names, even people he had not seen for a long time.   He passed away only a day or so after that.  Mom called my school and had someone come and tell me of his passing during my last class period of the day, gym.  She knew I would have friends around me to comfort me.  

I do recall (humorously) that when Dad went to Lewis Gale the day he passed away, he left the sunroof and windows down in his car and it poured down rain.  I insisted on riding back to my grandparents house in Salem with Dad.  We sat on soaked seats as we drove down the River Road, back to the "holler" which would never quite be the same again.  Papa Tate had basically lived in that neighborhood near Green Hill Park his whole life, spending his Sunday mornings at Green Hill Church of the Brethren.  

I am so thankful for the gift of that warm, sunny afternoon that I got to spend by my Papa's bedside.  We were never as close as I was with my grandmothers, but I loved him all the same.  All of that happened as we were becoming more involved at Bedford Presbyterian and I was sorting out if I was ready to join the church or not.  I had a lot of questions about my faith.  In a few weeks time, I traveled to Montreat for the first time.  I have no doubt that the experience of miracles I witnessed with my grandparents and my trip to Montreat solidified my belief in the Triune God and the ways in which he works continuously in the world.  

Stories to Tell: Part VI

HANSON

Mmmbop

When you are thirteen or fourteen years old, there are experiences that stay with you.  There are memories or moments in time that become a part of your identity.  You are beginning to discover who you are and consider who you want to be.  You are beginning to be more reflective--even in the midst or raging hormones, rash reactions, and rampant distractions at every turn! But, with some guidance (which I thankfully had via family and church) you can begin to contemplate issues about your life and the world on a deeper level.  You find things you enjoy and see people you admire.

One sunny afternoon when I was fourteen my friend Anitha came over to hang out.  Y'all, I love Anitha with my whole heart. She has been one of my closest friends since those middle school days.  She was my friend with whom I could be my goofiest self.  She was my shopping buddy, and my boy crazy buddy, and my friend who loved junk food and Surge soda!  She was always creative and crafty.  And she grew from this gangly girl in glasses to one of the most beautiful women you've ever seen.  To know her is to love her, because for all of her outer beauty, it is magnified ten times within.  When I officiated her wedding a few years ago it was one of the most special things I've done since being ordained.  I cried when I left her wedding because it had been years since I'd seen her in person and it will likely be several more years before I see her again. 

Anyway, I have lots of good stories on Anitha-- but I was telling you about that Sunny Bedford afternoon.  She came over to the house and said, "let's watch this new video I have, it's about the band Hanson."  "Oh, I don't know....I don't even know anything about them..."  "Loren, come on, they are so awesome...." I am sure she also said something about Taylor Hanson being dreamy because, well, she was a Taylor girl. She was also a Justin Timberlake girl... hey, for a 90s kid, she had good taste!   After that day, I too was a Hanson fan and to know me now is to know that it stuck. 

This may seem like a really odd thing to talk about...I mean, following a band is like telling people about your hobbies, right?  It doesn't give your life definition. It doesn't alter who you are.  Until it does. 

What Hanson first did for me as a teenager was give me something in common with some of my newest friends.  Anitha and I bonded over our fandom, as did some of our other friends.  Hanson's first single Mmmbop went to number 1 in 27 countries at the same time.  They were a huge deal in 1997-1998, nominated for 3 Grammy's when they were just 17, 14, and 11 years old.  But, as with many artists-they were either loved or hated.  And if you were a person who loved them, you got picked on by the kids who hated them.  So, all the more reason to bond together with the people who shared your enthusiasm.  The music became a place to hide. I would spend hours in my room listening to that first CD and plastering my bedroom walls with Hanson posters.   I gobbled up every teeny-bopper magazine I could get my hands on and I knew everything about my favorite band.  I video-taped them each time they were on television.  I *think* I had a cake with the Hanson symbol on it for one of my birthdays.  I. Just. Loved. Them.  Think about the hysteria over Elvis, The Beatles, The Monkeys... or modern day  One Direction, Taylor Swift, or Justin Bieber.  Y'all-this was my life.  To see these three brothers writing and performing all of their own music also fueled my creativity.  I loved to write and they inspired me to never give up on doing what I enjoyed. 

As time went on my love for Hanson faded into the background while I moved into and through High School.  However, I will never forget Anitha's mom winning tickets from the radio to see Hanson in concert.  Anitha gave me the tickets.  I was SO excited. Whitney and I went together, her parents took us to Greensboro to see them.  I didn't see them again live until 2007. We were living in Richmond and a friend of Michael's said off handedly, "Hanson is doing a show here."  WHAT!?  I bought tickets in 10 minutes flat, and called Whitney to tell her we were going.  We've gone to at least one show on every tour since.

The Music Lives

Hanson is celebrating 25 years as a band this year.  It has been 20 years since Mmmbop hit number one on the pop radio charts.  That's insane.  That's a lot of life lived!  They are all married and they all have children.  The truth is, we grew up together--as a band they acknowledge how special that is.   Michael tells me it is strange to talk about them like I know them--but to a fan who has followed their career since the beginning- we do know them.  We know them as authentic people with individual personalities and interests.  We know them as passionate businessmen and dedicated family men. They became independent and created their own record label when they were in their early twenties.   We are inspired by their interest in their own community of Tulsa, OK and their compassionate service to others through raising funds for needs in Africa as well as bringing in food trucks in local urban food deserts, with Food On The Move.    Hanson's dedication to their fans means that I've met them now several times, before or after concerts.  It doesn't get old!  I finally got a front row spot on the last tour in Atlanta.  Another life goal achieved! They do live-stream events online for fans, they have destination concerts and host a huge festival in Tulsa every year. 

It may sound strange, but the music has always been there for me.  Through every milestone and difficult trial-- the music has been there.  It has grown and evolved with me and continued to be a place to find refuge, and strength, and joy. 

In recent years, what being a Hanson fan has done for me, is it has brought me into yet another community.  In 2013 I met some amazing women while waiting for a show in Richmond.  We bonded as we waited in line, sitting on the sidewalk outside of The National on a hot September day.  These girls became close friends, who I talk to regularly.  We've gone to other shows together and had reunions to celebrate our friendship.  What started out as a friendship built on music, built around our common love of Hanson, became another place of safety all together--where we can share our joys and concerns day in and day out.  In fact, I just attended a baby shower for one of these friends.  A few of them were able to come to mine when Kemper was born. 

So I always tell young people to be themselves and not conform to what other people think. I could have stopped listening to Hanson at 14 because my peers gave me a hard time.  I could have taken down my posters and given away my CDs when my other friends stopped listening.  But then I wouldn't have this amazing collection of music to crank up and dance to with Kemper.  I wouldn't have these awesome memories of meeting Isaac, Taylor, and Zac for the first time or asking them for parenting advice.  And I wouldn't have these supportive friendships that have been formed all because we shared one common interest.  

Music doesn't matter--until it does. 

Stories to Tell: Part V

The Town Criers 

I started seventh grade at a new middle school.  The great thing about Bedford Middle was that there were multiple elementary schools feeding into this one school so there were strangers to everyone.  The hard part was being the kid who no one knew.  I remember tiny snapshots of my first day.  I remember the uncomfortable feeling in the pit of my stomach. I remember feeling like everyone was starring at me and judging me.  Let's be fair this is not an uncommon feeling for any kid in their early teens but I felt like it was so magnified for me.  I remember sitting close to the front of the classroom while everyone filed in chatting excitedly, all curious of what to expect.  I recall watching the second hand slowly tick by on the large clock over the chalk board of home room.  Bedford Middle is this amazing old building set up like a square where hallways circled around the central auditorium.  I am so sad that they are planning to build a new middle school--what will they do with such a special landmark right smack in the middle of town?  Anyway, the building was set up so that in each corner of the building there were different "teams" of classrooms.  We would all rotate to different classes in our team.  I don't remember my eighth grade team name, but I do remember seventh grade--The Town Criers (they were all revolutionary themed things).  My homeroom teacher was Mrs. Johnson.  She was a beautifully petite black woman.  She was graceful, eloquent, and kind.    She was always gracious but she also had that little bit of bite to her wit and humor that you so often need with a bunch of young teens.  I loved her instantly. 

Beyond appreciating my teachers, the rest of seventh grade was pretty difficult for me.  There were "mean girls" in my class--just like the movie.  At least it felt that way.  I remember their names but no need to repeat them.  I tried to stay out of their way as much as possible.  My first friend was Mandy Stanley!  We did not remain close friends but we are friendly I would say. Goodness, I must thank the Lord for her though as I look back on those days.  You know, we both needed a good friend in those days and I am glad that we could be that for each other.  The first time I heard Alanis Morisette was in her bedroom.  And I met my first high school boyfriend because she dated his older brother.  The first day I invited her over to our house to work on a school project on the Battle of Saratoga, I begged and pleaded with my mother not to embarrass me.   My old friends knew that Mom could randomly burst into song about anything from ice cream to toilet paper--but my new friends did not and I did not trust that these cool "city" (haha) kids would appreciate her lively personality.  "Please, Mama, no singing." 

She sang.  I'm pretty sure it was the song, "In The Heat of the Night."  It's a classic for her. She stopped in the middle of it, remembering my censure.  I was mortified.  It was fine.  I still have friends.  Mama lived to see another day. In fact, she became everyone's Mama in time. 

Bedford Pres

By the beginning of eighth grade I had found my circle of friends.  Many of these women are still my sisters.  We've been in each other's weddings (I've officiated 3 of them), we've celebrated milestones like graduate school, ordination (for two of us), and children.  If they are reading this right now they are probably thinking, "Oh no, what will she tell on me" or "I wonder if she will call me by name." Sorry girls, in the course of this blog series, I probably will, at least once.  :) 

One Friday night, my friend Erin, (Erin Jean) had a sleepover at her house.  Her daddy was the Presbyterian minister in town.  Literally the nicest folks you'd ever meet.  I think Mama was nervous to take me to my first sleepover in Bedford until she met the Gaston's.  What do I remember about that sleepover?  Eating snacks and watching movies in the basement. Sliding down the stairs in our sleeping bags.  Gossiping about boys.  Discussing the merits of Hootie & The Blowfish--who Erin adored.  What Mama remembered?  Joseph Gaston invited us to church. 

I have lots of memories about that church manse, where Erin lived.  As we got older, I remember Erin painting her room Purple & Orange (yes?) because in addition to Hootie, she was (IS) also passionate about the Clemson Tigers.  I remember hiding under her little brother Caleb's bed one night to scare him... my giggles gave it away.  I remember Erin's mom selling Mary Kay and doing a make up party for us to get ready for Junior Prom.  Now Erin and I are both ordained ministers, both married, and Erin is expecting her first child.  What neither of us realized is that from that slumber party our friendship was solidified and my life was forever changed because of her invitation.

Grandma Pearlie was living with us at this time.  She told Mama that if I didn't get to church I'd become a heathen.  She is probably right (the tendencies are still there, just below the surface). I told my parents if they wanted to visit churches we should start at Bedford Presbyterian with the Gaston's because my friends went to church there.  We never went anywhere else.    

There will be more to tell about BPC in the segments to come, it has been such a central part of my faith and also my social anchor growing up.  I'll tell you a little bit about some of the first adults I remember in the church.  Bob & Jo Carson were instrumental in my life.  Bob taught us Senior High Sunday School-- he taught me that it is okay to ask questions about our faith, that is how we learn.  He taught us about the Scriptures and World Religions too.  We always started Sunday School with High's & Low's from our week--a tradition I've carried into my own ministry.  Bob & Jo are awesome people as individuals--but Elli Buchanan (who I've known since she was 3-now favorite young adult ever) as a toddler made me see Bob & Jo as a unit--they became "BobandJo." Jo was on session and stood with me at my baptism.  They've been staple adults in my life ever since.  There is also Joyce.  I've talked about Joyce before--the most humble, God-fearing, kind woman you will ever meet in your life.  She always showed interest in the life of my family.  And if you ever wanted someone to pray for you-Joyce is the woman....she has a direct line to God, I am certain of it.   There's Dick Thomas, a lawyer and just killer guitarist, who when I was older and my mom was in the hospital--came to visit her every day.  There's also the Stetson's....my friend Katie's parents.  They were youth advisors who loved us all completely.  Their quirkiness and willingness to be silly with us helped us all to embrace our individuality.  Another youth advisor was Eunice.  When I grow up I want to be just like Eunice.  She's just the coolest woman, and she has a great sense of humor.  When I had Kemper I also discovered that she is a baby-whisperer.  No lie. 

These were our friends, the people we built our lives with. The people who have continued to be with us through the best and most difficult times in our lives.   But, I have no doubt now that God brought us into this particular community- knowing that we needed them and, well,  they needed us. 

Stories To Tell: Part IV

Moving Day

It was snowing the day my parents forced me to leave everything I knew and loved.  It was a process that had actually begun many months before.  In the midst of Pearlie's illness and recovery it became more pressing than ever before that my grandmother needed to move in with us.  Our house on the Ponderosa just wouldn't accommodate her needs.  It had lots of stairs and she would need a more accessible bathroom.  That makes sense to me now--it didn't necessarily feel right then.  It started with Daddy picking up those free magazines in restaurants with house listings in them.  Then we began taking Sunday drives around the countryside.  I remember Mama and Daddy sitting on the front porch one warm evening and telling me that we were moving. I would have to change schools. We were to begin looking at homes in Bedford--a middle ground for my parents who were by that time both commuting to work--Mama to Lynchburg and Daddy to Roanoke.  We would look for a house for Pearlie to live in with us. I ran crying to my room.  I don't think I spoke to them for days.  

The summer before starting 6th grade, I wrote a letter to Whitney outlining what was to come.  I wrote her a letter and gave it to her one afternoon at Pearlie's house because I couldn't bear to tell her face to face.  She read it and we cried together in the late afternoon sunlight streaming in through Pearlie's bathroom window.  I'm pretty sure she didn't speak to my parents for days either.

Looking at houses was kind of fun. After all, I'd never done that before and the prospect of a new room was fascinating.  I remember one ranch home with a full basement and we talked about me having a room downstairs.  That sounded fun.  One old house has a basement room filled with every National Geographic ever printed--no exaggeration.  Finally my parents chose the house on Woodcreek.  It would need some work to fit our family but it seemed to have good potential.  And let's not forget my Daddy can build anything.  And so, on a blustery winter day, Whitney and her parents came and helped us take loads of boxes and furniture to our new house. 

The silver lining was that since the house needed renovations before we could all move in, Mama and I would live with Pearlie and Daddy would live in the Bedford house until I finished sixth grade at Hurt Elementary.  I know how fortunate I was to not be moved in the middle of the school year.  We would all be moving on to middle school the next year.  The year marched on.  I had my first boyfriend who I feel like I've known literally my whole life.  In those days a boyfriend in sixth grade meant buying each other Christmas presents and holding hands at the skating rink.  I got braces which I endured for several years.  Instead of spending every weekend at Whitney's though, I had to go spend the weekends at the Bedford house instead.  We lost Mama's beloved cat, Pete.  He went out in a snowstorm and got lost, we saw him a few times after that but we could never catch him.  

The house transformed in those months, and even more so in the years since.  Daddy took the downstairs master bathroom and created two bathrooms--a handicap one for Pearlie.  He extended the tiny (I mean really tiny) bedroom upstairs out into the attic and created a master bedroom for them.  My bedroom had pink and blue striped wallpaper with baby jungle animals on the border.  We talked about painting it but then I started putting posters all over the wall so that wallpaper stayed up until I got married and moved to Richmond.  I put glow in the dark stars all over the ceiling and used my two attic spaces to create extra playrooms when the weather wasn't too hot or too cold.  

After my sixth grade graduation we moved out of Pearlie's little gray house on Pocket Road and it sold to some friends of ours-- the family of the first friend I ever made in Kindergarten. It was really a blessing to them and so I think that eased my sadness. For a time I kept in touch with those beloved childhood friends.  We used to write letters and have sleepovers.  But as time progressed and we entered into middle school, new friendships flourished.  My friendship with Whitney never faltered.  Although our time was more limited we still spent weekends and vacations together.  She also helped to keep me tied to those old friends. I even went their Senior Prom as a date for that first boyfriend.  

Woodcreek Road became another community all together.  It was different in the sense that we lived in a neighborhood with houses lined up on either side of the road.  And I could ride my bike all around and we could go for walks in the evenings--there was traffic but typically quiet.  Just as it had been in Hurt, we grew to know and love our neighbors.  Kind and generous people who were there for all of my milestones--from high school graduation, to Mama and Daddy's accident, to my wedding, and my baby shower.  As I grew older I came to understand how special it was that my circle of community had grown.  Now I had special people in two towns.  

Nevertheless, I was convinced that when I grew up I would return to hurt and buy back our white house up on the Ponderosa--some of my fondest memories indeed. 

Stories To Tell Part III

Miracle # 1

I believe in miracles.  I don't talk about it much. It seems personal in a way, to have the Spirit move in your life in such a way that you feel like you've witnessed the hand of God at work.  But, that's what telling the good news is about, isn't it?  This isn't really the story of the first miracle of my life--the first was my birth, but I don't remember that so we'll jump ahead.  

Grandma Pearlie got sick; like really sick.  I was in sixth grade (or was it fifth?).   Pearlie was diabetic and for as long as I could remember she'd been sticking her finger with a needle several times a day, squeezing that dark red dot onto a thin strip and sliding it into a little computer that blinked back a number at her. Then she'd give herself some insulin and go about her way. Most days it was pretty good.  One day, it showed low numbers--maybe it was for a few days, I can't remember.  Anyway, Pearlie drank some orange juice to bring her sugar up.  The problem was, instead of her sugar levels being low, they were actually really high.  Her strips had gone bad and gave her inaccurate readings. She had a stroke.  She went into a coma.

I don't remember what hour of the day or night it was when it happened. But I do remember my mama going into her room and finding her on the bed and saying, "Mama, Mama!" trying to get her to wake up. As a young child, even though I was as shielded from it as I could have been- it was scary.   The ambulance was called.  We spent hours, days, weeks at her bedside in the hospital. Mama tried to talk to me about it.  To prepare me for the fact that she wouldn't wake up. That she would pass away from this world into the next where she would be with her three other sons and her husband who "went before her."  Then as the days turned to weeks the family began to joke that Pearlie was "too ornery to die." That sounds terrible, but it was said with love and a smile to reflect on her tough skin and tenacity.   I began to think that maybe we could put my dark colored dress and shoes back in the closet.  She should have died. But she hadn't yet....and so I believed in something greater than us at work.  The God she'd taken me to church to learn about. 

While Pearlie was hospitalized, I spent the afternoons after school with those beloved neighbors I told you about: Margaret & Kyle and Kent and Barbara.  I got on and off the school bus from their house.  I was even closer to Whitney's grandpa's house so we could still hang out in the afternoons.  Margaret and Kyle always had treats for me. I'd go into their kitchen, all the windows would be open and Kyle would have the Altavista Journal spread across his red marble looking table top.  Margaret, in her flowered house dress would be clipping coupons.  I'd wander across the yard back to Kent and Barbara's.  Kent was a taxidermist. He had a constant twinkle in his eye and two moods if I remember--he'd be laughing and joking or all fired up about something.  Not in an angry tone but in a way that you knew he was serious about what he was saying.  If it was cold, Kent would have the wood stove burning in his shed where he worked.  There were mounts sitting all around and all manner of animal hides waiting to be dressed.  He had a black cat named Malcolm X who followed him everywhere.  Malcolm's tail was slightly bent because he'd gotten too close to the wood stove several times.  Malcolm's mama cat, lovingly named "Mama" blessed Pocket Rd with a litter of kittens twice a year.  All my cats growing up were from Mama.  Aggador Spartacus is probably her last living offspring still lives a cushy life with my parents in Bedford.  He's about 16 years old.  Anyway, her kittens were often running around out back and I'd go spend the afternoon playing with them.  Barbara was always kind, welcoming me into her home and calling me, "baby girl".  

I'll tell you another side story about Kent and Barbara that I'll never forget.  They had a copper head snake in an aquarium in their living room.  His name was Slick Willy.  This was in the Clinton days.  Well one night, late in the evening we got a call at home. They said, "Slick Willy had babies and they got out of the breathing holes of the aquarium and they are all over the house!"  HA! I am pretty sure I stayed at home in the bed and Daddy and Mama went over there to help them.  Slick had a name change "Slick Hilary" and got sent back out into the wild.   

Pearlie was a miracle you see, because in time, she woke up.  She was awake and she could talk and eat.  She had to learn to walk again if I remember.  And she was never quite strong enough after that to really get back into good shape.  She walked with a walker but spent most of her time in a wheelchair.  We put our dark clothes back in the closest.  Pearlie went into assisted living for a time.  And then it was decided for certain that she could not be on her own and she would come and live with us.  Pearlie lived another 9 or 10 years.  Those were not always rosy times.  As I got older I didn't want to listen to Pearlie anymore.  I certainly couldn't be bothered to help around the house even though Mama was doing everything.  But what a gift God gave us--more time to hear her stories.  More time to watch the Atlanta Braves play baseball. More time for me to tell her about high school and graduation.  More time to show her pictures of Hollins and introduce her to Michael.  

Now that I am older I see again that there were lots of miracles.  The miracle of Pearlie, the miracle of family and of friends.  How lucky.