Iris Love

For the life of me, I can't remember where I was when I fell in love with irises. 

Could've been Jean and Grover's house down the corner from mine. Jean used one of those old timey washing machines with the wringer instead of a spinner. You could see it on her back patio, and it seemed a little medieval even in the '70s. But there might've been some irises growing nearby. 

Or maybe it was at Mrs. Hart's house down the hill where we'd all four of us girlfriends beg for some sweetener to go with the grapes (her grapes) we'd just squeezed into a couple of Dixie cups.

It might even have been at my very home on Poplar Street, but I swear, I just can't see the place. 

I can only smell it.  And feel the sweet slightly dewy blossoms between my fingers.

It's that smell that takes me back to pig-tailed days running between our friends Kim and Karen's and the woods and, well, Mrs. Hart's. Somewhere in that mix are purple irises tall and fragrant and buzzing with bees. Not scary bees, but the big fat happy ones that seem too heavy to bother with us. The blossoms are springtime fresh and so big-scented. You can't run by them without getting a noseful of their fragrance. You can't jump rope without sniffing them out before you run through school to 12th grade. You can't even decide who goes first on the swing without taking in a big whiff of sweet iris.

Mom grew some some flowers, but they were mostly the kind you bought at the local nursery and put up in pots or window boxes. Impatiens, petunias, geraniums. The only thing I remember coming back year-round was the little cactus with yellow blooms that Dad saved from the trash somewhere in Coeburn. The irises of my childhood are hidden from me, but not that smell.

When I saw these irises blooming in front of the house this week, I grabbed my kitchen shears and marched down the steps to cut a few stems. Only a few though. I have to ensure that there are plenty of blooms left to fill the air with their sweet scent. And then I can sit on my front porch and remember the days when hidden irises were the star of my spring play. 

There is a time to live...

There’s a time to live

And a time to die

There’s a time to laugh

And a time to cry

There’s a time for war

And a time for peace

There’s a hand to hold

In the worst of these

Mom's been gone for more than six months now. And still, all it takes is a snippet of a song, a flash of highway, a chance view of her name on my Favorites list to send me careening back to Nashville to the Cardiac ICU and her bedside.

There’s a time for yes

And a time for no

There’s a time to be angry

And a time to let it go

There is a time to run

And a time to face it

There is love to see you

Through all of this

This morning is was Mandisa on the local Spirit FM. 

He is with you in the ICU

When the doctors don’t know what to do

And it scares you to the core

He is with you

This song was hot back in October. I heard it every day on Fish FM, the Nashville Christian radio station. I'd bet that each day, as I anxiously followed my GPS to Vanderbilt University Medical Center and tiredly drove back to the hotel at night, I heard it. I heard it so often that I'd begun to think it was written for me. 

We may weep for a time

But joy will come in the morning

The morning light

And this morning, a happen-stance hearing on my 10 minute drive to school, tears threatened to spill. If I'd had a good half hour to cry, I might have let them. 

When nothing else is left

And you take your final breath

He is with you

I pulled into the school lot, parked my car - the one Mom had given me a couple of years ago, and said a quick arrow prayer. Father God, thank you. Thank you that Mom is with you. Thank you that you are with me. Amen.

Alone with the Kryptonite

Curt took the boys to see The Hobbit today. That left me at home with the dogs for about 3 and a half hours. I've decided that's too long for me to be alone. Even with the dogs. 

I'd been doing so well this Christmas, you know? So joy-filled and full of grace and all Pollyanna positive. The spirit of Christmas and all that.

And then left to my own quiet as the evening sun poured through the living room window, my fragile peace shattered and I was alone with Mom again. Back in her ICU room in another time zone where I had begged God for a miracle. 

She died anyway. 

Oh yes, I am thankful that if Mom can't be here with me, she's there with Him. But still. 

But still.

I just miss her. And left to my own, that hole in my heart that I'd plugged with God-sent strength leaked a little and dried-up tears slid down my cheeks.

These days are inevitable, I suppose. There were times when I thought I was grieving all wrong with my sunshiny self spouting thankfulness and God praise. For some time I couldn't cry. Was this really what it felt like to lose your mom?

No, only a part of it.

Today I felt human-weak again. Perhaps tomorrow I'll pull from God's strength. But for today, I'm just oddly content to cover myself with his blanket of comfort. 

An Orphan's Hope

It didn't take me long to figure out that I was an orphan. I had just buried Mom in Powell Valley and returned to Roanoke with my own family. We brought back the Death Box that Dad had told Curt about years ago, and we found Mom's will squeezed between the files. In it, I was the only one left, short of Curt and the boys. 

I, little Orphan Wendi. 

I could have stopped, I suppose. Just stopped living and cried forever. I wanted to. But life has a way of carrying you along. I was still a wife. I was still a mom. I was still a teacher. I was still alive. No, stopping wasn't an option. And it wasn't anything I seriously entertained.

Because deep down, I didn't feel the hopelessness that comes with despair. Instead, I felt a surge of joy. Not at Mom's death, but at her home-going. I knew that she was in a place I could not even imagine. She was with Jesus. 

As Mom slipped from this life in the Vanderbilt cardiac ICU, I grieved even as I gave her my blessing to go. At that time,  I didn't see her leaving me so much as I saw her going home, going to Him. Her Savior was waiting. And with Him were her dad and mom, and my sister and father, and every other loved one who also loved God's son. It was powerful. And it was comforting. 

And it has been sustaining. 

I can't begin to tell you how it works, just that it does. This faith in God, in his Son, and in his plan has carried me since I first said yes to Jesus back at the First Baptist Church in Norton. It was easy to believe at first. Untested, I could know all the answers in my head and not really worry about my heart.

But when my sister died suddenly in 2008, I found my faith tested. What if Michelle was gone, really gone, forever?  There could be nothing as dark as thinking she was apart from anything good for all eternity. And even if God and faith weren't in the mix, there was certainly no hope in knowing that a life lived out on earth was suddenly gone. Where's the purpose, the calling, in that? 

That's when God sent Betty Jean to remind me that Michelle was with Jesus. She was safe forever because she had once professed her faith in him, back at that same church where we grew up all pig-tailed and blue-eyed and dolled-up. In the years since,  Michelle had not lived a perfect life. She had made some mistakes and not lived up to perfection. But she didn't have to. And we don't either. Jesus is perfect enough to save her and the rest of us.

And so Shell's with Mom now. Mom, who also was not perfect. Dad, again, not perfect. And one day, me, my husband, and my own sons. We are definitely not perfect. But Jesus is. And He has done the work to save us all. If we just believe. 

Choosing to believe in this greatest of all gifts brings hope to this orphan's Christmas. I pray you find it, too. 

Meet Cody

Meet Cody.

He is the latest member to be adopted into our family. 

We are now a unit of six boys and one girl. 

Bless my heart.

Cody is special. He came to us from friends in Connecticut, friends we met and loved through our Calvary Fellowship church family. He's from good stock, even if he is a Yankee.

Cody's family recently learned that their nearly one-year-old baby was allergic to dogs, and so given the choice - the dog or the child - they knew they had to give up their first baby, the dog they adopted as a rescue puppy in need of a loving home. 

We never imagined they'd say OK to our family, what with us living in Virginia, a huge 10 hours away. But they did. And so Curt and the boys left this morning at 3 a.m. and drove 5 hours north to meet Chip, the dad, who drove 5 hours south to say goodbye to his first "son". 

And now Cody lives with us. 

Camden is his master of sorts. He loves this dog. Especially the snuggle time. Cody follows him around the house, sniffing the new scents along the way, a-hem, Ian, the Yankee cat rescued from the alleys of New York City. Ian could dominate all of us in a split second.

Bo, meanwhile, searches for his place in this new pecking order. He is a bit concerned, jealous of the attention to another tail. He follows Cody around, but he also growls at him when he gets too close.

I guess I'd growl, too, if a new girl found her way to our home. I'd growl a-plenty. 

I get it, Bo. I get it. But I also know that one day soon you and Cody will be the best of pals, friends while the rest of us are at work and school and you are left on your own. You two can have parties while we are gone. You can lie around all day without a complaint from a single one of us. You can bark about how weird I am about keeping dirty clothes off the floor. I will never blame you for that. 

Welcome home, Cody. We are so sad you had to leave your first home, but we are blessed to welcome you here to your new one. You are our boy now - Amanda's, Chip's, Christian's, and ours. We promise to love you forever, as if you'd been born here. That's how we roll here down in the south.

This Old House...

 …is about a hundred years old.

It has its quirks (just like our dog).
But it also has its charms. 
Here's a mishmash of some of my favorite things about our home and some of the things I'm just gonna have to live with. (The photos were snapped with my iPhone, so you're just gonna have to live with those.)

Quirk: Boxes 
They've been here since Sept. 30. And these in the foyer aren't going anywhere anytime soon. Good thing since Ein prefers these to any real furniture (which we do have).






Quirk: The foyer
These old houses boasted big foyers with grand staircases. Here's a peek at what used to be the grand staircase before the house was subdivided into upper and lower apartments. The door on the lower landing used to open to a closet for the downstairs apartment. The steps you see at the far right of the photo were what led to the upstairs abode. Our plan for this space is to get rid of the stage (after we perform a few musical numbers for close friends) and move the wall more into the room so we can make space for a larger kitchen, half bath, and pantry on the other side. Old house lovers are appalled but this plan makes sense for us. We'd rather hang out in a nice kitchen than a grand foyer. 

Charm: those two rounded steps

We do plan to reuse them, albeit in a shorter version on a smaller landing. It's hard to explain, so you'll just have to trust me here. We also love the wainscoting but that'll be lost in the re-do -- a sacrifice we kitchen-lovers are willing to make. 

Quirk: the mess

Here's a shot of the foyer from the landing mid-way up the stairs. 

More boxes. 

The studs from the wall that separated the upstairs from the downstairs. 

The door that led to the upstairs apartment. 

The wool rug reclaimed from the trash transfer station right here in Roanoke way back when I lived here in 2001. 

Just one of the many hot messes we now claim as our very own.

All worth every day we have to live with it. 

Charm:  a plate rail

This runs around the dining room, and it's perfect for placing pictures, but I'm leaving the plates in the cupboard. And check out my birthday present from my mother- and sister-in-law - this awesome buffet picked up at an estate sale in nearby Salem. Why yes, those would be boxes mucking up the view to the left of my new furniture piece. They house crystal of sorts we've not set eyes on since we moved away from here in 2003. 

Quirk: the back staircase
Here's what you see when you go upstairs from the kitchen at the back of the house. This used to be a closet that was walled off at the top. Did you notice that drain pipe there on the right? We don't dangle dried herbs or shiny crystals from that. It's just a drain pipe. Perhaps you didn't see it because of the scuffed-up risers or the missing one altogether. 

 Charm:  electric sconces

LOVE these! Curt wants to put shades upon them, but I won't let him. I think they look just-right old.  Yes, that vintage metal tree is tilted. The mantel has a significant slant. It's a part of the charm, I'm sure.

Charm: Steam heat

It has its drawbacks at 4:12 a.m. what with the puff, puff, sssssssssssss.

But it's the most comfy heat I've known, and it even puts a little moisture back in the air so that we don't shock ourselves every time we touch the stove. I'll take the noise over the dry heat we've had in all our other houses. 

Quirk: the boiler

While the boiler "works", it needs to be primed every couple of days. By primed I mean, somebody (Curt) has to go to the basement and check the system's water level. If it's low, more water has to be added. If this doesn't happen, there's no heat. We've learned this the hard way. It's annoying enough to be a quirk, but honest enough to remind us how blessed we are to have heat at all. 

Charm: Pocket doors

These offer a separation between the dining and living room. 

Quirk: Chipping paint

The pocket doors also offer a delightful eyeful of a hundred years of chippiness. One day, perhaps, when I'm a great grandmother, I'll strip them and make them perfect. Right now, they're beautiful enough for me.  

 Charm: dining room mantel
I just love that oval mirror. See that apothecary jar on the far right? Those are jackrocks inside. Honest-to-goodness jackrocks tossed in the roads by miners during the days of coal strikes in far southwest Virginia.

Quirk: ancient wallpaper                                                            I can't imagine how many layers of paint cover this, but I do know that it's all over this house. And sometime, at a date of my choosing, it has to come down. I realize this date will be in the 23rd century, and I'm OK with that. It doesn't have to be perfect to be beautiful, I'm told. 

 Charm: claw foot bathtub

This bathtub is so huge that the upstairs water heater is too small to heat enough water to fill it. Still, it's a claw foot tub with enough charm to help me overlook that tiny flaw. Never mind the quirky vinyl flooring and mini blinds, remnants of apartment living. This is a spa compared to our last house.

Charm: Glass door knobs

DO NOT LOOK AT PEELING PAINT.

Just feast your eyes upon REAL glass doorknobs. 

All over the house.

Skeleton keys that open each and every door can be found at Home Depot. 

Charm: OCCUPIED 

This remnant certainly isn't original to the house, but it has its own awesomeness. 

And here it's OPEN for business.

Charm: French doors

These separate the guest room from the former kitchen/now laundry room. 

Quirk: catch-all room
This is the former upstairs apartment kitchen.
Now it's the laundry room.
One day it will be divided into a laundry room and 2nd full bath. 
One day. 
For now, it's just fine as it is. 



And that's the story of this house we call our forever home. So much of it is just fine as it is. For now.

How Mom Led Us To Bo

Oh, how this dog has blessed us in the month we've called him ours. 

This is Bo. 

BoBo. 
Boba Fett. 
Bobolicious. 
BoBunny. 
BoBear.
Bo Boy. 

Bo is a rescue Beagle who had the fortune of being dumped at the end of a dirt driveway in the wilds of Grayson County. That driveway ended at Vicky's house. And Vicky is That Crazy Dog Lady who rescues dogs. I met her through Mom. Vickie rescued two puppy-mill Maltese who had been bred and bred and bred. And then Mom adopted them and loved them and called them her own. They were her forever dogs. And then she was gone. 

Vicky graciously re-homed Buddy and Chloe. And through our Facebook conversations about Mom and her much-loved dogs, she became my own friend. I could see why Mom adored Vicky. Her desperation to help Mom's daughter and her love for these helpless dogs sealed it. 

And then there was Bo. I kept seeing pictures of him on her Facebook wall, pictures of an adorable Beagle with floppy ears and a sweet fuzzy face. For months Vicky had tried to find a home for Bo, but he was just too "quirky". Nobody wanted him enough to keep him. Frankly, I just don't get that. A dog with no quirks must be a statue. Or a cat. What were dog owners expecting? 

We drove 2 hours and 20 minutes to meet Bo. Benjy was the most excited because he had already fallen in love with the Beagle and had declared him HIS. And sure enough, as soon as he jumped out of the car, Bo was all over him. Face-sniffing, tail-wagging, following-him-down-the-drive all over him. Bo had met his master. And even as we left an hour later, Bo never looked back. He was ours. 

Now that we've had him around a bit, I can name some of his quirks. He's a hoarder, preferring to hide his bones instead of eating them. He has to be led; he can't be pushed. He loves being a lap dog, but he won't sit still. He sleeps all the time, and he snores. Loudly. I guess rabbits are safe in Bo's presence.

Not that I mind any of Bo's quirky ways. They are perfectly doggy to me. 

A new kind of hope

Just 40-something days after I moved to Virginia I drove to Knoxville, Tennessee, to be with my mother following emergency open heart surgery. I held her bloated hand and noticed for the thousandth time how my hands are so like hers, which were so like her father's.

I'd always hated my "football" hands, chubby and stumpy with peely fingernails and wrinkled knuckles. Michelle was graced with the slender Gibson fingers of a model. I got the hands of a coal miner's daughter. 

But holding Mom's swollen hand, bruised from IV sticks and needle pricks, I was so proud to have that little bit of her in me. I told her as much, though she couldn't answer. A ventilator tube snaked out of her mouth. Her eyes were closed as she struggled to just live. 

Two days later I headed out of Volunteer town to Nashville. A helicopter was flying Mom to Vanderbilt where some of the best pulmonary doctors in our nation were waiting for her. I didn't think of how scary the interstates were or how much I hated driving at high speeds. I just drove. I sang along to my Passion CD on iTunes and drove. The irony of how much she feared flying didn't escape me, and I was thankful that she, at the very least, didn't have to know she was zooming through the air minutes ahead of me.

The next five days were a lesson in patience, trust, and faith. 

Romans 12:12 - Be joyful in hope, patient in affliction, faithful in prayer.

I did find some rays of joy. Mom smiled at me - a few times - when I got right in her face, her brown eyes open and alert for just a moment, she really smiled around her vent tube. Her nurses at Vanderbilt University Medical Center's Cardiac ICU made me smile, too. These amazing men and women, gifted with the ability to care for both critical patients and their fragile families, treated her with great respect and even love. They never gave me false hope, but they never let me lose hope. There's joy in nursing, as Mom showed me so many times. I told her over and over how much she would have loved her very own personal nurses.

I found patience at Mom's bedside when there was no news. No healing. No miracle. Only minute after minute of sitting, talking to Mom and trying to hide my cries. Just holding her hand, pleading for prayer on Facebook and trying to keep up with lesson plans via email. A break in the day to head down five floors and speed walk to the cafeteria for lunch. Comfort in a BLT, Diet Coke, and vanilla pudding cup. Then more waiting till it was time to go home to the hotel where I'd wait some more, praying that my phone wouldn't ring.

I found faith in prayer. Oh, how I prayed. Eyes wide open prayers. Eyes sealed shut and dripping with salty tears prayers. Collective prayers as family and friends joined in lifting Mom up to God. Prayers for healing, but really for God to do as He saw best. Deep down, I think I knew. 

And then on Thursday, when her left eye no longer responded to the flash of a light, and the doctors said her brain had suffered a hemorrhage, and her right ventricle was simply beat, I was advised to make the call. To keep her alive on machines? Or to let her go? I had prayed. I had kept the faith. I knew the joy she would find, even if I was far from joyous. It was time. Mom was telling us she was ready to go home.

And so she did. 

I held her hand. I cried over it, and I rubbed those stumpy fingers so like my own. I told her to go. We'd be OK. I kissed her cheek and watched her chest fail to move. I laid my head on her shoulder and just cried. And yet, I also knew a peace like no other. Mom was with Jesus. She was with Michelle. She was home. And one day I'd be there with her.

That's the joy, I guess. The joy of knowing it's not over. It's not finished here. It's finished there. And there is where my hope is. 

A handmade card from one of my 2nd graders 

One more night on HI

My bloggy spot. Yes, that's my heating pad warming my backside. 

One last dip in the ocean smack dab in between high and low tides.
The waves were wild and the winds were strong.

Benjy begged to be buried in the sand.

He got his wish. 

One boogie board - dead, thanks to the strong waves tonight

These two = love

Benjy gets a little help finding a wave.

"Mom, get a picture of me doing a handstand in the ocean!"  - Camden

 

These two, every now and again, are more than brothers. They're friends.

Holding the camera down an inch from the sand

We think that's Benjy riding the wave with Curt.

Griffin the dog with the family from Pittsburgh.
Benjy was the dog whisperer to him.

Two of the three fish

Amazing - this guy was kite boarding, and he actually flew 20 feet in the air a bunch of times!

Until next year, sea oats.

Until next year, Hatteras skies

Dang, that boy is growing up.