Oh, Christmas Tree

Christmas trees. I love them. I didn’t know what being in Hawaii at Christmas time would be like. Our most gracious host offered to put hers out for us to use. I thought we probably just wouldn’t have a tree this year.

There’s a  silly video I especially love this time of year. “Look at the tree!” It’s very silly and very true. I’ll post a link at the end.

For most of our years together, Ed and I have had  live Christmas trees, ones with a root ball. We  then plant them at Epiphany. They’ve made  a fence line along the busy street of the (very urban)  flower farm we call Felder.  You do have to be a little forgiving when it’s a tree you can plant. Obviously it can’t be as big as a cut tree, and oftentimes it’s not perfectly shaped. I’m ok with that. We have some amazing trees in the garden now. 

.We had real trees when I was growing up, some were cut trees, but many of them we planted . I still have a handful of the tiny cones from the hemlock I picked as our tree one year. Hemlocks shouldn’t be asked to grow in the south, but I didn’t know that. I asked, she flourished. I grew up on a street in Memphis called St Nick Drive ( I’m not kidding 🎅🏼), and the last time I drove by, my hemlock was still there, towering over the huge homes that have replaced the 1950’s ranch homes of my childhood.

The  year we trekked to Georgia to be with my grandmothers for Christmas we got a sparkly aluminum tree. I loved it. You know, as an adult I’ve always wondered-how did my parents do that?? Four kids at 4 am, piled into the back of the station wagon with blankets and pillows and of course no seatbelts… I think what I really mean is how did Mama do that. Somehow Santa always knew where we were.

 I still have that sparkly aluminum tree. It’s  a happy extra for me. I love it so much, but it’s not my Christmas Tree. I’m also going to have a REAL tree every year.

I love my Christmas tree.

But our relationship, my tree and I, has a checkered past. These days I know what I want, and I usually get what I want, pretty much when I want it. I can get along with a few different varieties, some others not so much. The tree is up sometime mid advent, lights on. Ornaments might take a few days because the grands are  eager to help. But my tree and I are loving each other while wait for that quiet silence of Christmas Eve.

That hasn’t always been the case.

When Ed and I first married we spent our Christmases around our parents’ trees. We even spent the night at Ed’s parents  the first year to go to midnight mass down the street at Grace St Luke's. By year 2 we were less than 2 months from being parents. I can’t quite remember, but I know we didn’t have a tree year 3, the first year we were parents. We were living at St Columba by then. What I do recall is coming in Christmas Eve with a tired and cranky baby to the tornado of homemade Christmas gift- making I’d left behind. We dropped all of the presents we’d just received along with diaper bag, dishes from dinner and who knows what else in the kitchen before falling into bed.

The kitchen  sink was somehow left dripping. And plugged. We woke up to a flooded kitchen and some soggy gifts.

That year I “met” Gertrud Nelson. Her book, To Dance with God, was water for a thirsty mama.  Her stories of community and family celebrations set me off on a path and I haven’t looked back.

https://www.paulistpress.comhttps//www.paulistpress.com/Products/2812-8/to-dance-with-god.aspx

We decided it was time to grow up, time to figure out who we were as a family. One choice we made was to do our family gift giving on St Nicholas day rather than Christmas Day. Our kids still got oodles of presents from grandparents and cousins on the 25th, but Nicholas came to visit our house on the 6th.  I’ll tell more about that another time.

We also thought we were ready for a Christmas tree.

Somewhere along the line, we decided we really wanted Advent to be Advent and Christmas to be Christmas and,  therefore, we wanted our tree to go up on Christmas Eve. You know, like Clara and Fritz in the Nutcracker.

This meant that Ed and I STILL were up all night on Christmas Eve putting up the tree.

When the trumpet fanfare of Adeste Fideles, David Wilcox style, filled the house on Christmas morning, the kids would come downstairs. Lots of filled mangers to find, stacks of Christmas  books that had heretofore been hidden away, it was always a pretty fabulous morning.

So the Christmas trees…

First year- it was a 14 ft cedar cut from Ed’s family farm in Tunica. It went in the hallway where the ceiling went to the second story. It was impossible to decorate and seemed like it might fall at any minute.

Second year- Live tree. We got it a little early because we wanted to make sure we could get one to plant. Ed put it in a wheelbarrow outside. Rootball froze to the wheelbarrow. Ed thought that was no problem. He wheeled it into the house. Christmas tree in a wheelbarrow. He sorta kinda draped a tree skirt over it. He thought that made it GREAT. I was 25 years old. 2 babies now. I don’t think I’d found my voice yet.

3rd year- This time it was 2 trees, each so pitiful that  we put them together to try to make one happy tree. Obviously I was still working on finding my voice.

4th year- By now we (Ed) had taken to the idea of waiting until Christmas Eve to get a tree. Usually the tree lots were abandoned by then and we often came away with a free one.

5th year- this year the tree was beautiful and full and heavy and a little unbalanced. Ed did an elaborate tying in. Twine around the trunk that went to a nail in the base board on one side, about waist height into the molding around the porch door on the other side. That part is important.

I think we got to bed around 4 am. Soon after 5 Nathanael and Rebekah came bounding into our room. I told them to give me a minute, go sit on the stairs. Nathanael came back in a second later. “ Mommy. I didn’t mean to look, but the tree is upside down.”

Just like Dr. Seuss. It was bouncing from the twine where it had flipped.

6th year- We cut it close this  year. Seemed all the tree lots were completely sold out. I sent my father and sister to check a lot near mama and daddy’s house. It was abandoned, a sign declaring all trees free. The exorbitant price tag was still on it. Somewhere there’s a picture of my father and sister wearing dark glasses and hats. Daddy was sure it was stealing and didn’t want to be recognized.

7th year- By now our children were old enough to be embarrassed. It was bad enough that we drove to church with a dead tree (Jesse tree) on top of the car in early December while everyone else was driving home with their Christmas trees, but now we were driving to Christmas Eve service, stopping to look in dumpsters for trees. My children early on  mastered  the art of slumping in their seats lest they be spotted.

You get the point.

 I found my voice. I chose the trees,  and I’ve had many lovely trees these last 35 years.

And now we’re in Hawaii and we’ve returned to our roots.

I have to say, I’ve loved it. We did buy the strand of lights. Everything else has been foraged. I would’ve loved a Norfolk (Cook’s) pine. They’re everywhere here and many are being cut down but we never found a top of one. So Ed in his Gilligan hat hit up the dumpster.

The rest is magic.

Look at the tree…  https://youtu.be/RTs5eKZ0i1E

Sara Rachel and Emma Mae and Raggedy hearts

I wrote this two years ago. Facebook memories reminded  me and I decided I wanted to save it here. 

As it turned out, Ed officiated the funeral in Memphis a few days later where we celebrated Sara Rachel’s life.. Dale and Kathleen and their children, Lyle and Sara Rachel were amongst our earliest new friends after we married. Dale and Kathy demonstrated Hospitality in ways that formed me. From 4th of July omelets and cantaloupe to Rivka stew to  anything aubergine to celebrations in which a beautiful and very large round of cheese was the focal point, we celebrated. Life brought changes, many of them painful. In the rift that death brings, I was fortunate to, on varying planes, reconnect with folks who live large in who I am. 

And, to demonstrate what’s important and what isn’t… I have no recollection of whatever it was that I let get to me that day. 

————————————————————————

Yesterday   my heart was just all raggedy. I took something personally that maybe wasn’t all about me, but it opened up a hole and I couldn’t find my way back. I tried to get outside of myself- and sort of did- but I still had a lump in my throat all day. I went to see the Mr Rogers movie and cried all the way through. Then last night, just as I was getting in bed, I got a message from a friend. His daughter died. My raggedy heart felt his pain from far across the country.  💔💔💔  

These felt decorations were made by my grandmother, Emma Mae,  to decorate the front of a tablecloth for a tea she hosted. Gra had a raggedy heart, too. She was widowed when my daddy was only 4, another baby already in the grave. I don’t know why she sewed all those tiny little beads on there, but I love them.

“ The Spirit of the Lord God is upon me...he has sent me to bring good news to the oppressed, to bind up the brokenhearted to proclaim liberty to the captives, and to release the prisoners. Isaiah 61:1 

As the waters cover the sea

 On April 4, 1968, Martin Luther King,Jr was assassinated in Memphis, TN He had come to Memphis to support the striking sanitation workers.

I was 10 years old.

I remember how the sanitation workers carried big aluminum tubs balanced on their heads while they walked down our long driveway to the back side yard to collect our garbage from our aluminum garbage cans.

I remember when daddy came to my bedroom door and told me Dr King had been killed.

Schools were closed. Weddings were cancelled. Curfews were enforced. Daddy offered to drive Ellen, our longtime housekeeper (we called her our maid) who was African American, home. She refused thinking it might be unsafe for my father.

That was about the extent of it for a little white girl in a white neighborhood.

When we went back to school, my handful of black friends would be absent on Mondays. Black Mondays we called them. Protest, but I was unclear about what.

Five years later all of a sudden (or so it seemed) I found myself in 10 th grade at St Mary’s episcopal school for girls.

My mother continued to teach in public schools. Both of my brothers had graduated from public schools. 

And here I was at st Mary’s. I wasn’t thrilled.

Here’s why:

•All girls??? You’ve got to be kidding me.

•Bobby socks and saddle oxfords? I had prescription saddle oxfords (for flat feet) until I was 12. I wasn’t going back.

•I’d been at White Station since 1st grade. I had every intention of being in the 12 year club.

•Friends. I was 15. Needs no further explanation.

The decision was made. My little sister and I packed up the mile high stack of books and started our first year at sms.

Today would have been my mama’s 93rd birthday. I would have loved to ask her more about why. Why did she choose to send us to st Mary’s? Yes, it was in the neighborhood. And, yes, the public schools were reeling. But there were schools popping up left and right as frightened white people tried to justify the need for their establishment. My parents had some very noble qualities… well maybe sort of noble- but absence of racism was not one of those qualities. They were products of their time, their birth and the long long history of systemic racism I’m still uncovering and understanding layer by layer even today.

Why did they choose st Mary’s instead of one of the others?

St Mary’s was started by the Sisters of St Mary’s, A long time ago. And while it was VERY( but not entirely) white, it was built on a strong foundation of light and life that continues to serve it to this day.

Let’s talk about all girls. I got past that stigma in no time. When Mrs Daniel came into our 10th grade English class, told us to take our out books, asked for volunteers to read Guy de Maupassant’s  “The Necklace” out loud, I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Dozens of voices volunteering. What??? Back in coed life, we girls had reached the unfortunate age where it wasn’t cool to be enthusiastic about anything school. The Cute Boy might see you and roll his eyes. At St Mary’s  I could freely and happily and enthusiastically participate in class?? I LOVED participating in class. I was sold.

Bobby socks and saddle oxfords came two weeks later.

Leaving White Station took some grieving, but I had a lot of homework and not a lot of time to be too sad.

Friends- some of us kept up. And I made new friends quickly.

Perhaps the most extraordinary bit about st Mary’s happened every morning at 9:10. 

Every morning at 9:10, every girl from every class, every age made their way to chapel. At the doors we all got a little rectangle of white fabric, gathered at one end. We put these chapel caps on our heads and went in to sit with our class in the wooden pews of Holy Communion. I wasn’t an Episcopalian, but I quickly learned the cadence of the prayers from the Morning Prayer service in the Book of Common Prayer. Within days I could say the school prayer:

 

Almighty God, Fountain of wisdom, be with us, we pray thee, in our work today. Endue all the teachers with a sense of their responsibility, and with grace and strength for its fulfillment. Keep the students in health of mind and soul and body; make them diligent in study, guard their inexperience, and save them through all temptations. Bless the patrons and alumnae of this school, and enable us all, more and more each day, to advance in that knowledge which is eternal life. Through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen. 

And sing Day by Day.

It didn’t matter what else might be happening.

Chapel happened.

I didn’t hear the word “mindfulness” until sometime in the 21st century I’m pretty sure. 

St Mary’s trained me in mindfulness in 1974.

We sang hymns from the 1949 hymnal. I didn’t know a lot of them, but I soon had my favorites. The youngest children alway picked “I Sing a Song of the Saints of God” or “All Things Bright and Beautiful”.

I still know every verse by heart, and  I sang them to my children.

The first time we sang “God is working His Purpose Out” I felt it in my bones. The tune is ominous, heavy, it bears the weight of the words.

And we sang it in rounds.

No one told us to. Generations of St Mary’s girls had been singing it in rounds, passing the practice on to the younger girls year after year. So we sang it in rounds..

600  young female voices singing  at 9:10 on a Wednesday before a trig exam… or on the Friday before prom… or on a Tuesday after you checked your mom into the hospital on Monday.

Singing  about God moving through history.

About God working God’s purpose out.

Dr Martin Luther king talked about the moral arc of the universe bending towards justice.

That’s God..

God is working God’s purpose out.

As the waters cover the sea.

God is working God’s purpose out

As year succeeds to year.

God is working God’s purpose out

And the time is drawing near..

Nearer and nearer draws the time

The time that shall surely be

When the earth shall be filled with the glory of God 

As the waters cover the sea.

https://youtu.be/g6s9MdQ7dsY

And that, my friends, is  what Joseph saw today on his way to Bethlehem.  

Aloha.2: 10 years later

A friend asked me before we left for Hawaii if I had set any intentions. Intentions? Intentions? I’m leaving dirty dish towels and a thousand unplanted tulips here in Little Rock. How in the world can I think about what Hawaii will look like? Honestly, that’s just my truth every day. Intentions find me, I don’t set them. I don’t really recommend it as a way of life, but I do know this: if an intention finds you, pay attention. (Yes. I know that’s improper use of the concept of  “intentions”. We’re going with it.)

When we were in Hawaii 10 years ago I kept a blog. Stories I needed to tell would tap me on the shoulder in the middle of the night. The people of St Michael’s had given Ed an iPad before we left, and I took hold. Autocorrect was new and gave me oodles of trouble, but I pushed on. The result was a collection of stories that badly needed an editor filled with reproachable misspellings that made me wince. I’m glad I have those stories. You can still find them right here at keepingupwiththewillses.blogspot.com I think.

That same intention has found me again. Maybe it’s the trade winds, maybe it’s time free of obligations. Whatever it is, stories are tapping me on the shoulder in the wee hours. 

When my children were little, Ed’s mama gave us a small wooden nativity set that (this is important) had Baby Jesus separate from the manger. Baby Jesus would be born on Christmas. Until then, everybody else would be very busy. There was traveling to be done, sheep to tend, stars to read. The manger would need hay for animals to eat.  From the first Sunday of Advent until the Epiphany, these little wooden characters would wind their way around our homes. As Mary and Joseph and the donkey made their way from Nazareth to Bethlehem, their lives became entwined with ours. It takes some time to grow a baby. We needed to make space for Baby Jesus to be born. Through the years, other characters have joined the trip.

Here we are almost 40 years later. Joseph and Mary and the donkey are traveling with my grands in their homes.

And I’m wayyyyyy out in the middle of the Pacific Ocean.

I know I’m spoiled. 

I’ve never not been with family on Christmas.

I cried in a store yesterday when Spice Girls Sleigh Ride came on.

For many reasons it’s a very good thing that we are right here right now. And I am not ABOUT to complain about 3 months in Hawaii! But it’s also ok to feel more than one thing at a time.

And guess what! Joseph and Mary are here traveling with me. That was pretty much my only intention I set. 

I published their first few travels on social media. Then I started getting those shoulder taps. I’m not sure anyone reads blogs anymore…but that’s ok.

These are my stories.

Aloha,

Andrea

Cars, Cash and Kavin

This was written back in the winter---just now posting.

Three weeks ago, my California children had their car stolen off the street while they slept. Inside were the scarves crafted by my daughter's senior residents at her workplace. She was to deliver them to a homeless shelter the next day.

Two weeks ago my niece's car was stolen from her apartment parking lot while she slept. Some of the papers from inside were left behind, but not her tennis shoes.

Saturday morning my baby girl  ran 18 miles as part of her marathon training. While she ran around a lake on a beautiful day surrounded by families with young children, other runners and walkers, her car window was smashed. Everything was stolen from the trunk, even the shampoo she had just purchased.

Saturday evening I sat in my living room watching the sun set out my window, the bare oak trees eerily graceful in their silhouettes against the violet sky.I'd not accomplished a thing all day long. Dinner was in the oven, but we needed a salad. I stood up, picked up my keys, told Ed I'd be back in a sec.
 As soon as I walked out the door, I breathed more easily.
It felt so good to be outside.
 The car was on empty, so after the Kroger stop, I pulled in to the neighborhood Shell. I saw him right away. He had a white garbage bag of stuff and was leaning against the wall along the side of the building.

As I started to pump my gas , he spoke to me- something about 90 cents left over. I told him I had a credit card....
Then I thought. nah... I've got cash.


For at least the last 5 years, probably longer, I've made a practice of keeping dollar bills. whenever I get asked for money, I give a dollar. I don't try to figure anything out. I give a dollar, and we touch hands,  and I look at them. I am doing them no great favor or harm. A dollar isn't going to put them in the gutter or get them out of it, but I am reminded that we belong to each other. We share something.

 I think it's the touching hands that stays with me the most. Sometimes it's the eyes.

So I rumbled around and found a dollar. I gave it to him, touched his hand.
 I started praying. I prayed for the children of whoever stole my California kids' car. Was something different that next day for their family, "good" or" bad"? Who was wearing my niece's shoes now? What was going on at home for them?And who in the world ate all that Wendy's bought with my daughter's  credit card? How was their weekend? What's their mama doing tonight while I'm headed home to have eggplant parmesan?
I finished pumping my gas.
 As I closed the tank, I looked  over the top of the car  to where he was leaning against the wall. "What's your name?"
 I'm not not sure why I asked.
 He looked at me across the night.

 "My name's Kavin,"he said.

         *****

Well, of course his name was Kavin.
Of course.

You see, Kavin is ours. He is the local grifter. I know Kavin by reputation. He has stolen all over the neighborhood. Some time back, I came home to a partially raked yard. I couldn't believe Ed had actually done it! And in truth, he had not. He had  (unknowingly) hired Kavin to rake the leaves. and , not surprisingly, Ed fronted him cash for lunch and lord knows what else. Ed even drove him home.
When Ed dropped him off, Kavin took his white garbage bag with him. That would be the white bag that had Ed's electric drill in it. Kavin had stolen it from the back house.
.

"My name's Kavin."

I did take a beat. I thought about all of those faceless people who had entered my life in the last few weeks. I really wish they hadn't. I don't really want to know them, don't want to touch their hands or meet their gaze.

 I don't really get it.

"Kavin," I said.
"You have a nice night, Kavin."

I went home and had eggplant parmesan made from the summer's bounty.
A California Pinot Noir.
A spinach salad with clementines, pears, tossed with blood orange infused olive oil..
And chocolate.

So damn proud...

 Last Saturday evening, Ed and I were privileged to host  a celebration at St Columba Center. They asked me to talk a bit about our time there. Preparing for the event made me quite nostalgic. For just a moment, I forgot about the horseflies...

Here's what I said:

When I was about 10 or 11 years old, I read Little Women. Every night at the dinner table I would fill everybody in on the latest adventures of Jo, Meg, Amy and Beth.

 Night... 

    after...

        night...

I mean, it's a long book!

 Eventually, my brother James said, ,"Andrea,we could read the book in less time than it takes you to tell the story." 

Well. In order to spare you a similar experience, I have written down what  I'd like to share tonight. Because, not only is it my nature to embellish and-- you know-- go off on tangents every once in awhile, but also the Mr Scheibler/St Columba time in my life is one rich and full of tales I love to tell.

Spring, 1982 . My sister in law, Suzanne, and I are herding babies in the living room when the phone rings. I must have been changing a diaper or feeding a baby, because Suzanne answered

." Hello?"

 " Well, you  don't hafta be so damn proud anymore." His voice was unmistakable.

 "Oh, Mr Scheibler, I think you want Andrea." She handed me the phone.

 No apologies. Just, "You dont hafta be so damn proud anymore. "

You see, I had been showing off my beautiful baby boy  on our daily visits for some time now. I was 5 months pregnant when we moved to St. Columba, never having met Mr Scheibler. I'd heard of him, of course. We knew he'd donated the property to the church years before. Ed had been to the pavilion for Grace-St. Luke's picnics in the 60's. 

And--

 we'd heard he was a bit of a curmudgeon.

 

So once we got settled, I made some bread and we walked through the woods over to his house .

We met him in the cutting garden. He seemed ancient to me at the time, but he was just in his early 70's at best. He suffered severely from arthritis and was unable to stand straight. There he was in his golf cart, wearing a straw hat, his shirt was neatly tucked , and his little dog, Bossman, was by his side.  This was October. The next spring and summer I would  in this garden watch the asparagus come up, pick huckleberries and raspberries, for the first time smell the sweet scent of mock orange. I have a favorite picture of me holding Nathanael in front of the pastel bunny rabbit heads of larkspur. 

He took us up to his house. We went through the iron gate as he told us some of his story. This was his family's summer place. It had been his permanent home since the 40's. As the gate swung closed, weighted by the heavy iron cannon ball thingie he told us of replacing the fence a few years. back . "The fence cost $4000 to replace. That's what it cost to build the whole house. So you see, sometimes it doesn't pay to remember. "

We sat outside facing the lake under a canopy of 8 foot tall camellias, all taken in a cold snap a year or two later. He told us tales of Lohengrin his swan that escaped some former life and lived peacefully for several years on the lake. Until a freeze came and poor Lohengrin was unable to flee his predator. 

And then there was this mama duck .She would come every year in the spring. And once she had her babies, that mama duck would line those babies up and march them up to the house to meet Mr Scheibler. 

"Well you don't hafta be so damn proud." Mama duck had brought her babies. I was no longer the only proud mama around. I had competition.

Just days after our meeting, UPS left a box on our front porch. 100 daffodil bulbs.

 "I hope you don't hate me. Giving you a gift that makes you work."

On the contrary these city kids who'd moved to the country were thrilled. I once asked  Mr Scheibler how many daffodils he had planted . 

"Back in my prime, Sister and I would plant a thousand a season .We'd stand in the meadow, throw the bulbs over our shoulders and plant them where they landed."

But daffodils were just the beginning of a long stream of UPS deliveries. European Lego type castles for Nathanael, a handcrafted wooden puzzle of his name (it was kind of hard to spell) , nativity books form the National Cathedral. He loved his mail order catalogs. Remember, this was an era before cell phones, home computers,  internet.

And then there were other things he gave us. He called Ed one winter morning . His pipes had frozen. Ed spent the morning out in the cold getting things fixed. While he did so, Mr Scheibler took his grandmother Wessendorf's silver hairbrush and mirror set outside. With his arthritic fingers he polished it using the snow since he had no running water. He  gave that lovely set, which we have still, as his thank you. 

The few years we got to spend knowing Mr Scheibler I treasure. I was a young (24) year old mama and he was a bachelor who'd lived alone for years and years. I'm not sure what he expected when we moved out here, but I know it's not what he got. I'm pretty sure he thought he'd get a churchy type. What he got was a young man who grew up reading Johnny Tractor books. 

A tractor? 

That he got to drive?

 And mow 40 acres??

 Ed Wills had died and gone to heaven.

He and Mr Scheibler used to swap stories about the foxes they'd see on the edges of the meadows when mowing.

 

  Ed really did love his tractor.And yes he mowed all 40 acres. One hot July day he busted in the door breathless, hot and sweaty.

 " I ran into a yellow jacket nest. Jumped off the tractor and ran. Left it running. "

So now he had to figure out how to go turn the tractor off without getting stung. He pulled out his big down winter coat. Put it on. Pulled the hood up. Got me to pull the strings really tight down over his face. He put on another pair of pants on top of what he already had. Hands. How was he going to protect his hands??He was just figuring on gloves when Mr Scheibler walked in the door. Remember. It was July. Probably 110 degrees. Mr Scheibler , perpetually stooped, slow moving, looked at Ed and said, "I turned off your tractor. And what the hell are you doing in your winter coat??"

 

 When he got sick and took to his bed, we brought him his meals. I was over one day when Katherine Nesbit came by. Mrs Nesbit was 94. She lived down here on the corner --what's  now a park .She had long since given the property to be a park, but she had life estate. She lived there with dear Tommy Ruth who drove her all over town. She had an old wood burning stove--on which she cooked nothing but hot chocolate which she'd serve us on visits. Her gift of choice was a 10 lb box of Dinstuhl's cashews. Even the electric company guys installing the power lines were recipients . They called her the Cashew Lady. 

This day she'd brought Mr Scheibler a box.

 "Young man, come down these stairs. "

 I think he yelled some expletives back. They'd been friends and neighbors for generations.

Mr Scheibler never came down those stairs. It was Advent. Ed took him breakfast every morning. "Porridge again," he would complain.He hated oatmeal and cream of wheat, but Ed made him eat it. Every morning Ed announced his entrance with the morning prayer advent antiphon. "Our king and saviour now draws near!"

 We don't remember what his usual response was, but it wasn't, "Oh, come let us adore him".

 But this morning  there was no answer. Mr Scheibler had died in the night .At his funeral here in Scheibler lodge, Mrs Nesbit's hug was light and love to me.  He was buried right here on the property alongside his mother and father.

We celebrated St Nicholas with our family that weekend. Even from beyond the grave Mr Scheibler celebrated with us. UPS delivered that day...nesting blocks from Europe for my children.  

We lived at St Columba for 10 years.I had my 3 beautiful babies. Only those first few  years were with Mr Scheibler living. 

 

But walk through a meadow of daffodils.

 Smell the mock orange.

   Listen carefully to the versicle and responses at the liturgies celebrated in this place. 

He's still here.

 

We love you Mr Scheibler.

Thank you for the gift you gave us--St Columba.

 

Here's my story...

In June we took a trip. We headed to my beloved Gulf Coast to spend some time with friends. BEST friends. Best GREAT friends. 20 years before, and many times in between, we had joined these same friends, breathed in sunsets and salt sea air, usually with our families. This week was the four of us. A sweet and holy time. Delicious. My soul is so so so happy in that place, with those Kindreds.

We left on Friday, headed to New Orleans for conversation with more time-tested friends. (Sounds better than old.) This meeting was supposedly about PH and the Next Nine Years. He has been in our parish for 9 years. Would we stay 9 more (barring being run out of town on a rail) or was it time to go elsewhere? If we stayed, it would make PH the second longest lasting priest. What would that look like?

 Now when you tell people you are in New Orleans and talking to someone about your future, an image is conjured, voodoo and back alleys.... Don't get all excited now.This story involves no palm reading or tarot cards.Our meeting was with a spiritual director/friend, a woman we've known for years, through 3 states and as many parishes. She knows us and our parish well. 

I was grumpy. I considered not going to the meeting. I mean, it wasn't really my meeting. They were going to talk about St Michael's and how to approach the next 9 years. But I went. Right away SD (Spiritual Director) keyed in on me. "How are you? How are the kids? What's happening in your life?"  I know this seems highly improbable, but, I did NOT want to talk about myself. For some reason I had a huge lump in my throat, and I DID NOT WANT to talk. I managed to deflect (crazy, I know!) and my clueless husband launched into his stuff. She came back. "Tell me about you." I deflected again. Clueless husband carried on.  (Maybe I'll change his name to CH instead of PH. It fits, mostly.)

Now I have to say, being raised a good southern girl, I know how to fake it. I was not pouting in the corner, although I also know how to do that very well. But the 3rd time she asked me, I tried to answer. I rambled around about the last year or so being a little off for me, colored by back problems and a sort of "in betweenness". And then I started crying and said, "I just need to live on the water, and I don't."

At which point she said, "Ocean Springs is looking for a priest."

Well.

 What SD did not know was that every time I get a little out of sorts, late at night  I go to  realtor.com and zillow.com and look at real estate in Ocean Springs. I don't know if  I will ever live there, but it is my metaphor??Hmmm, maybe not a metaphor. Come on, you English majors, help me out. It's the container for all my longings. Now that's a metaphor for my metaphor. Needless to say, my heart either stopped or raced, I'm not sure which. One part of me thought,  "Oh, my goodness. That would be way too serendipitous and woo-woo." (Remember, no tarot cards.)  Another thought, "Wait! Did I say I wanted to move to the coast? I was just kidding. I'm about to (maybe) be a grandmother! I have a great life where I am! I was just whining. Don't mind me. Talk to PH. This is his meeting."

Fast forward to the end of the meeting...SD looked at Ed and said, "You and St Michael's are in a good place. Here's how you cultivate that good place. And you--"she looked at me--"you need to sell your house. Just sell it out from under yourself. Just do it. " (There is more to why that made sense, but you just gotta trust me. Mostly had to do with me and my "stuckness".  And some about intention and commitment.Not anything wrong with my house. Which is for sale, if you are interested. Just sayin'...

http://www.zillow.com/homedetails/321-Crystal-Court-Little-Rock-AR-72205/2111539713_zpid/ )

Sooo..we came home. We batted around the idea of selling. We drove around a bit, looked at some fixer uppers, got in some fights. We told our kids about it. Interestingly enough, nary a one of those children who spent their growing up years in this house were the least bit sentimental about it. Ha! Will save that thought for future therapy sessions about how I failed as a mother.

Anyway, still thinking....ughh. So much work to  move... We've been here 17 years... I love my Big Bill Memorial screened porch...but maybe...

Then one Saturday we were walking to the market with friends who were visiting from out of town. We passed a cute young family, said hello. When we got to the market, Farmer Boy(FB) said, "I just sent a family to look at your house. They stopped at the school garden booth, said they wanted their kids to go to that school and were looking for a house. I sent them to your house. And there they are." We looked across the street to see the same young family we had passed earlier. We got together, exchanged phone numbers and planned for them to come look the next day.

Okay. That ended up being way too serendipitous and woowoo as well. They did not buy our house, but they got me going.

Then..

A day or two later, FB called and said,  "I've found the house y'all need to buy. " It was a foreclosure. It had been covered in brush for 5 years, a haven for feral cats. Just recently, the brush had been cleared, a lockbox placed on the back door. Ed and I looked at it. And we did NOT have a fight. It had good bones. Definitely needed lots of work, but we love a project.

Two other things about this house---it came with an adjoining lot, perfect setting for FB's  greenhouse and further urban gardening ventures. And it was right across the street from FB and his cute bride (DIL).

Thus would begin the Wills Family Compound.  Still working on those offspring in foreign countries (California and Northwest Arkansas), but we're getting the place ready for them!

We made some offers and some counter offers. And we were in. In mid July, they accepted our offer. 

BUT WAIT!

A week before closing, we got a call. "So sorry, but it turns out the extra lot is NOT included." What?? That was really and truly the biggest part of all this. That was the exciting adventure part. Working with FB and his urban farming has been the shining light for me this last year. Yes, we were excited about restoring life to this sad little house, but what would happen with this lot and the life of the community was central to our dream. 

Apparently, a few days AFTER the lot and the house were turned over to Freddie Mac, the lot was sold at auction for back taxes. The folks who bought it for peanuts were not likely to accept our peanuts in exchange. Cashews, more likely. Gold ones. (More metaphors.) So even though we had a contract stating we were buying a house and a lot, that was not what was going to happen.

But somehow, I still knew it would. I'm not usually that way, but I was...what's that  really calm peaceful thing people talk about all the time?..totally zen about the whole thing. Not really my style. Meanwhile, PH was a mess. Not really his style. 

Cue the lawyers. Emails were buzzing. We were lucky enough to have served up some (apparently) mighty fine martinis to a close friend the night we got all of this information. He just happens to be an attorney and volunteered to "take a look". That was two and a half months ago. 

But you know what??

We got it!!! The house and the lot!!

And in the world of cruel, punishing gods, the world I  occasionally visit, I know all of this is to remind me....

When I am over there in that new house, missing all the roomy comforts of the one I'm leaving behind...

"You asked for this, Andrea! This is what YOU wanted!" 

We closed Wednesday.

Roofers came Thursday.

PH found and repaired the water leak on Saturday.( He's really proud of his methods, too.)

Took off the awnings and started uncovering the front walk.

Here we go...

I'll post upstairs pictures later this week.

Care. Delight.

 It's been a heartwrenching week. So many folks have offered far  better responses than I ever could.

My husband:
http://www.stmichaels-church.org/lections-sermons-1

My friend:
http://www.plantingdandelions.com/dealing-with-grief/

A wise person:
http://dmergent.org/articles/2012/12/19/naughty-or-nice-is-not-the-question

Life is a Great Paradox. While we stand at the grave and weep, while we strain to grow as we walk through this desolation, while we ache as day follows day of funerals....

We laugh (at exceedingly silly things).
https://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_embedded&v=RTs5eKZ0i1E


We glow in the unexpected.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TM1XusYVqNY

And we start the new Christmas with him.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_embedded&v=bjQDl95tOcU#!

Beloved in Christ, in this season of Advent, let it be our care and delight to prepare ourselves to hear again the message of the angels, and in heart and mind, to go even unto Bethlehem, to see the babe lying in the manger.
Care. Delight. Yes.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kWq60oyrHVQ&list=PLC9CBA7E985567228

This one's for Daisy and Papa Henry

Remember my story about Daisy? Not going to the dog tracks in a thunderstorm? This one is for her. Daisy and Papa Henry are the only people I know who really and truly picked cotton, Daisy picked one morning, had her baby, went back out for the afternoon. I grew up with cotton fields all around--not outside my window, but a little drive could get you there. PH , on the other hand, spent every Friday down at the farm. He jumped in grain bins, played with tractors, learned to drive in the fields,as a teenager took girlfriends out there  (LC, farm manager who'd watched him grow up, said, "Hanh, hanh ! TELL me she's your cousin!")

 Jesus gonna be here.

  I didn't pick cotton, but I grew up where cotton was king (along with Elvis.)

He gonna be here  soon

.He gonna cover us up with leaves

 with a blanket from the moon.

I'm gonna leave this place better than the way that I found it was.

Come quickly, Lord Jesus.

That wedding. It takes me awhile.

Old news. But still. Of interest to my nearest and dearest. I wrote this last January. Maybe time to finish a few things?? Here goes.

I might be coming to some conclusions about this blogging business. I didn't know what I was doing when I started .I just stepped right off that virtual cliff and waited to see what was next. Lo and behold, a couple of times I found myself awake in the middle of the night typing things I 'needed' to type. Those are the posts I like to share with people. Other times I wrote little stories of my life. Those are the ones my nearest and dearest can appreciate because they love me. And then there are things I just don't want to forget. Those posts are really for me. Now if  I had an even slightly organized bone in my body, those 3 things would wind up in 3 different places.  Not going to happen. I am doing well to just get it down on virtual paper.
So here we are.
I have some things I want to say.
First up is the wedding miracle at Little Rock. No water to wine (that I know of), but in my drugged state, I never finished the story. I wrote and wrote and wrote, and then I got overwhelmed. I thought of all the things I'd covered and then I thought of all I hadn't. Phew! So here is chapter 2.

Some Really Great People

1. My brothers
Biggest Brother (BB)
BB likes hobbies. I remember many years ago making chicken kiev or cordon bleu or something decidedly adult in my toddler filled kitchen with BB in charge. He has played numerous musical instruments, self taught. Then came the woodworking. I have a number of his pieces. No matter how far his skill level goes, (and he is quite good) I will never treasure a piece more than the little vase he made from the magnolia I used to play under as a child.                
 Now it's photography.
And BB was there with his camera. Thank you! Some great shots. Some of them I got to witness. Some I only knew about because of the pictures. Some I never need to see again!! But I wouldn't trade a barrel of monkeys for the whole lot of them.


MrFatherBrother (MFB)
MFB. We grew up through Young Life together. Amongst other things. I remember many many hours sitting across from him helping figure out chords and strums while he taught himself to play the guitar. These days, James Taylor's got nothin" on MFB.  Now I have a Priest Husband and a Priest Brother. PH was most definitely Daddy in this wedding .Seeing MFB standing facing my precious daughter and her soon-to-be husband alongside our former bishop in the liturgy filled my heart. Between the two of them, BrideGirl was "well known".

2.My sister
Never were there such devoted sisters...
We shared a room growing up. I am the bossy older one. Surprised?
I called her Wedding morning. "Wake up! Wake up! The sun is up!" She answered. She came. Together with some new Zealanders, we spread tablecloths, cut and arranged flowers, spruced up the reception site. She came back later with a niece in tow, or so I was told. We had fun.

3. The Wedding Guild

These women are amazing! They put on their little black jackets and give an entire day to making brides and grooms and mamas and daddies and all sorts of other people comfortable. This is the reaction they got out of the bride at one point. Wow! (can't make the picture work, sorry, You'll just have to take my word for it.)


3.Mary Poppins

Long ago in the land of Mississippi, PH and I left our children. We only left for a few days.( According to BG, we would periodically leave them to go off and lead conferences about all the great family rituals we practiced. She always found that a little suspicious. I found it-GREAT! A chance to GO and SEE and DO! And be all adult about it! ) Yes, we left our children in good hands.(Usually. There was the time the elderly, maybe-a-little-bit-crazy sitter almost blew up the gas stove....)This time we left them with a dear friend, a woman our age, very responsible, loving, attentive, energetic. Could not be topped. When she fixed the kids lunches, she gave them 4 cookies. (I usually gave them fruit. IF they got cookies, two was a party!) She took them to Brent's (seen The Help? It's the soda fountain) after school for milkshakes.  And... this woman had a magic purse. Need some tape? She's got it. Scissors? Full size? Not a problem. Remember Mary Poppins and the hatstand?  WillsKids were sure that was next. So they named her Mary Poppins. And when Bride Girl knew she needed someone to coordinate (since we had no hired Wedding Coordinator) , MP was the one. MP has lived in a different city from us for 16 years. She didn't know a lot of the people there. Didn't matter. She was there with snacks for the wedding party, coordinated the photographer, made sure Bride and Groom had water and sustenance at the reception, and then...the best Mary Poppins moment of all. Bride and Groom needed a ride to the hotel . In the absence of the MusicMan's BMW sporty thing (WAY too scared to do that!), it was decided that the 1970's van that brought us a groom and entourage all the way across the country would be the perfect transport to the Capital Hotel. What was needed was an alcohol-free driver. Mary Poppins to the rescue. She got them there safe and sound. AND THEN...upon her return, as she pulled to the curb to park, a company of Brits opened the door and hopped in. Shuttle service???Can't keep the Poppins down! She shuttled right on to the late night Little Rock hotspots!(They were wedding guests, after all.) Next morning found the Poppins with scissors and tape boxing and loading wedding gifts for the trek back to California. (Update: It is now the Poppins turn to be a bridal parent--I'm hoping to return the love---just gotta find the right purse.)

Advent 2012--Happy one year anniversary(plus) to those grown up children who are continuing to choose love for each other.And a big heart of love to all of you who have chosen to love me.

On the road again....

(Hum a little Willie Nelson as you read)

Joseph and Mary, Bob and Bill, are trudging on. As they do every year.

Bob and Bill? Who are Bob and Bill? you ask. (And, yeah, it looks like Bob brought a friend this year. Sort of flashy in her bright orange, if you ask me. A girl after my own heart!)

Yes, Bob and Bill. They joined the journey to Bethlehem years ago. Joe and Mare (affectionate names given when my babes were wee) begin in Nazareth as we light the first Advent candle. They travel to Bethlehem across windowsills, up and down stairs, (Be careful, Mary. Those stairs are dangerous!) and through the now quiet rooms that once housed my aforementioned wee babes.Ahh, me...

 Bill showed up on the stairs next to the weary couple after a St Andrew's Feastday Celebration in Jackson back in...1994??  He had been a party favor nestled in some blue jello. You know--Andrew the fisherman.  He dropped on the stairs as we came in that night. And, lo and behold, the next morning he had joined them. He proved himself a faithful traveler, going all the way to the stable with them.

We lost Bob the next year. He was gone, nowhere to be found. Sigh.

It happens. Mary got lost one year. She had been in the windowsill when we had our annual St Nicholas Party. This was back in about 1986. There were lots of adults at this party. Multiply "lots" by 10. That's how many children were there.

Mary was at Elizabeth's we were pretty sure.

Writing the Magnificat.

 She??(or something like) showed up in time to give birth, but, Honey, I'm here to tell you, she was lookin' ...
 Well...
 We used to call it "rode hard and put up wet".(I do know PriestHusband spent some time carving on Christmas Eve. I'm just sayin'.) We later found the much healthier looking, fully revived Mary in the tinkertoys.

Back to Bob.We lost him. BUT! He reappeared on St Nicholas Day! Yup. Found him in our mailbox with a note from the saint himself. He's been with us ever since, and, as you can see, he now has a lady friend.

Bill--not sure if he is the rider or the horse--showed up the next year. He doesn't get lost.

Well. Except that the WHOLE GANG was lost for a week this year. My scattered brain seems to be scattering overtime these days.

Now,we are found.

Now, we travel.

I've been making Advent playlists on Spotify today.Two settings of  Oh, Come, Oh, Come Emmanuel  I share with you, each haunting in their own way.

The first one reminds me of Balm in Gilead from Spitfire Grill..
http://grindingtapes.org/artists/mr_sister/merry_christmas_brother_sister/audio/oh_come_oh_come_emmanuel.mp3


This next one. It's just right. Deep, deep longing.

http://www.myspace.com/music/player?sid=74750077&ac=now

And now, I am going to Advent Lessons and Carols.

Wait with me.

My daughter got married! It literally took my breath away!!

Yes, it's true. Bridegirl is now a Mrs. And Future Son-in-Law is now Son-in-Law. It was perhaps the most expansive experience of this whole expansive summer. It broadened my understanding of Love and Sacrament, moving way beyond the couple standing in front of the priest. I kept telling BG not to worry, that it wasn't really about her. I sort of believed myself, but not like I do now. As my friend, MM, said (as he orchestrated rehearsal dinner, altar guild, silver for reception, blah, blah, blah, he did it!), "We did a wedding. We didn't have one done to us."
 And the operative word there is "we". So many lovely people, so many wonderful gifts.
Let's see...just a FEW HIGHLIGHTS...

GIRL PARTY arranged by BBG and DIL where girls from throughout BG's life performed?? songs from the period. If you are savvy enough, you can probably find the video out there. I look like the insane asylum patient singing a frantic lullaby to her. But her friends are really cute.

Meanwhile the boys caramelized onions to be used for the reception food.

FRIDAY MORNING--off to FarmerBoy's farm to harvest vegies for reception and flowers for bouquets and tables.Yes, FB and DIL were the force behind the reception. All local. Much grown by their own good selves.

NEXT--lovely bridesmaids' luncheon hosted by my two Favorite Sisters in all the world. (From Jahhckson, of course!)

THEN--to the flower sacristy with the bridesmaids to make our bouquets. Such delightful , giddy, FUN energy in that room. LOTS of estrogen!! I was able to incorporate  (with the help of the Flower Queen) some of the roses from BG's childhood friend's grandfather's garden. And they were the real deal. Smelled like heaven.( I know that was a lot of possessives to follow, but that is my point. This sacrament--outward and visible sign , you know,---just kept spreading its fingers further and further out. Amazing!!) Also, Number One Flower Assistant ?? Aside from being my oldest dearest friend here and beyond, bridging those two great states, AR and MS, she was also the force behind the  making of BG's  May Day wreaths way back in 4th grade. Amazing again!

ON TO Rehearsal and Dinner. Zipper did break on BG's dress as we were getting ready to go. Never mind! BBG has a hundred to choose from. Ripped through closets, left a maelstrom of shoes and dresses, but, hey. We weren't even late. I don't think. Can't quite remember. Dinner was lovely, outside, perfect night, best bartenders in the world, local fare by the Root Cafe. Lovely, moving words spoken by  beautiful friends.

And I'll say it again--orchestrated by MM. As he said, "You and I will put on some grand affairs in the nursing home."

SATURDAY MORNING--  I felt like a character in The Great Gatsby. Gorgeous weather , delectable brunch in the backyard of our dear friends. I guess they'll be named DF in blogland. Certainly applies. It was a Gift. Singlehandedly they hosted a party for the masses. We were well fed, well attended. And all of the myriad out of towners who came to witness and support were there. Amazing.
SATURDAY AFTERNOON- BG and friend go to get hair done while I (yikes!) press the dress.
Another friend calls out of the blue--"Anything you need?" "Yes! Come get this credit card and veil and take it to BG!" All cars were out and about, and BG had just called me. Multi-friend tasking.
SPEAKING OF  the dress...it was  a 90's rescue. We cut out the shoulders, took off the GIANT flowers and bows, cut out an entire section of the skirt, (thanks to my Favorite Seamstress for then putting it all back together!). And then the Flower Fairy helped me make those beautiful little rosettes that were the new shoulders. More magic.

AND THEN IT'S TIME... we gather for pictures, BBG entertains, we giggle and laugh, we do wall pushups, we sing Disney songs...and then we go to the bell tower. I peek in. The most gorgeous altar flowers ever--a gift from the Flower Queen.They incorporate some of FarmerBoy's zinnias and basil.The music--another gift, this one from...ok. He has to be called Sugar Daddy. But get your mind out of the gutter. He insisted that BG needed music fit for a queen. And he provided it. Strings, a trumpet, the organ and the most wonderfully genuine, talented, sincere, and lovely children's choir. AND--I got to process to Queen of Sheba. How appropriate.

 The church is full of so many pieces of us. So much of our past, linked together now with the past of another.Because, yes,  SIL's people are here as well. Certainly not as many--Cali is a long way away. His grandparents are sorely missed, but we know they are with us. His mother and sister are here. And then there is his Dad's family. They certainly get the travel prize. 3 from New Zealand, one from SC, one from Cali.

 And while this was our first meeting, we hit the ground running. We all worked together...maybe a little more than we intended to, but..we will never forget it.

I can't describe the wedding. I might try later.

AND THE RECEPTION...PH's custom chandelier, St Michael's plates and tables, my mama's and my grandmama's silver, MM's silver, delicious local fare pulled together by FB, DIL and their army, (my mama's pimiento cheese, homemade biscuits made by DIL and FB, homemeade jams from the local jam queen, Beth Retzloff,  it goes on and on.) Too many things to say, but one favorite image. A picture taken by my brother as we encircled the bride and groom and blessed them in confetti. Confetti made by BG, SIL and their cadre. It was punched out of the wrapping paper from wedding gifts received (and some old maps found in Grandmama and Grandaddy's attic). Things a mama ponders in her heart.

SUNDAY MORNING---La D has brought the party to Arkansas. She has toted quiche upon quiche and muffin upon muffin from the Great State of Mississippi to the Great State of Arkansas. (She also made the Amazing tomato sandwiches for the reception. We left for pics on Saturday and she set to slicin'.) A tired but happy crowd gathered on our back porch to relish a little bit more.

BUT WAIT. There's more. Instead of renting plates, it was my great idea  to use St Michael's plates and hire a friend to wash them. Well, he washed a whole lotta dishes . And then his back went out. So on Sunday Bride and Groom (and all of us related to ) washed dishes. We told those new Zealanders and Californians it was a Southern Tradition. We most certainly knew each other by the end of the day. Red beans and rice made by the King of All Things Kitchen on my back porch. No words. Magic.Amazing.

AND THEN!!! I promise. This is it. Most of you know I am  a student of Family Systems. And a cardinal rule of FS is that whenever there is a big Change in the system, the System will do all in its power to keep everything the same. Maintain the status quo. So I had warned BG. Look out for acting out. We joked about their cat. Malarkey (my name for him) would likely be the one to act out.
BUT I WAS WRONG. I get the prize for biggest Post Wedding Acting Out. A week and two days after the wedding I fell down the stairs , broke some ribs, spent 3 days in the hospital with a collapsed lung.

LIKE I SAID... My daughter got married. It literally took my breath away. Amazing!