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What I Hope for in November?

A question was posed on Facebook earlier — “what do you hope for in November?” I didn’t know the person asking the question personally to know what his endgame was, but it got me to thinking about how this day has gone since Cruz and Kasich both suspended their campaigns.

I’ve seen terrible debates, vitriolic anger even. People able to look past the litany of his questionable behaviors (or sins for those of us who are more faith minded) are passionately entreating others to vote for Trump so Hillary won’t win. Guilt is used as a weapon — if those who take moral issue with Trump don’t vote, it will be their fault that Hillary wins.

It’s this high-pressured, anger driven demand for my vote that made me really examine the fact that it’s my vote to do with as I will. To use on Election Day, or to “throw away” as the Trump supporters would claim. Somehow in the examination of my vote, I started to think about what I would do in other high-pressured “my way or the highway” situations. Situations like this one:

In the last days, we will be forced to choose. Choose the way of man (the antichrist), or fidelity to Christ. Fidelity to Christ will not be a popular choice for those who don’t truly forsake all others, including themselves. Fidelity to Christ will mean suffering, persecution, even death. Most likely death. DEATH. And yet, I have people yelling that I must choose Trump. If I don’t, terrible things are going to happen. My taxes may go up (again). My guns may be taken away. I may not be able to speak freely and they may even tell me I can’t go to church. The truth is, these things may still happen, even with Trump. His claim to Christianity is thin and as the man who wrote The Art of the Deal, I’m pretty sure Trump says whatever Trump thinks he needs to say at that moment to gain his objective, which is the presidency.

Ultimately, whatever may happen to me under a Trump or Hillary presidency, it can’t be as bad or worse as the consequences for compromising my faith.

Unless I get some clear sense of peace about voting for Trump, I won’t be able to do so. A man who says he sees no need to ask forgiveness from Christ is full of pride which, if you’ll remember, is the same sin that led to Lucifer’s fall from the angels. Of course, I did read the article below earlier, which gives a more positive, although painful spin on what a Trump presidency might do for America. If my vote will help bring this about, hopefully the Lord will give me peace about voting for Trump. Of course, I don’t think this is what the Trump supporters have in mind when they say he’s going to “make American great again.”

7 Reasons Why a Trump Administration Might be a Good Thing

Posted on by Laura Jinkins

Our Best Hope

So you get two posts today! Or maybe more — there’s still daylight left before we leave the fourth behind.

This election mess has people crosseyed in their passion regarding #nevertrump and #neverhillary. It startles me to see family members and close friends so angry with each other over personal conviction regarding the sacredness of one’s vote. I’m trying very hard to steer clear of conversations that will provoke debate. Debate? That’s the wrong word. Barroom brawling is probably a more precise description of what threatens to break out as a result of opinion. Thank heavens for the internet, which puts a bit of distance between the opponents.

Chatting with a family member online, we agreed that whatever happens in November, ultimately our trust has to be in the Lord. No matter what happens in DC, God is who will see us through the times ahead. She gave me permission to share the following, which I think is so true:

Elections are important and they have consequences for supporters and dissenters alike, but our best hope of righting the ship is in how we live.

Our best hope of righting the ship is in how we live…

So we seek to truly live according to His word and in the process the ship begins to turn…

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RIP, Grand Old Party…

As much as I miss my mama, I can’t help but think that God in His mercy took her home last August before the political mess became so… messy.

My mother was a passionate conservative, a proud Republican. She watched the news with her father when she was a teenager, as well as baseball and Gorgeous George, the wrestler. She didn’t carry her interest in baseball or wrestling into adulthood, but she always watched the news, and before her health declined, she was very active in the Republican political scene in her community.

As I’ve gone through the things at her house, I’ve discovered dozens of elephants, many adored in red, white and blue enamel. Lapel pins, earrings, buttons, stickers – you name it,  I’ve found it. She loved Ronald Reagan and the Bushes. We will not get into debates about whether they were good or not — she also believed in Ronald Reagan’s Eleventh Commandment:

Thou shalt not speak ill of any fellow Republican.

I know that she would be heartbroken by the condition of our nation, the travesty that our government has become – both sides guilty without question. I ran across the following obituary, which I think explains it pretty well:

The Republican Party, 162, has died

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Preparations

My beautiful picture
My beautiful mama and me, 1965

My mama is never far from my mind these days. Even though I’ve been busy with usual day-to-day responsibilities, more days than not I spend a few minutes thinking “this time last year, we were in the waiting room at MD Anderson” or “this time last year, we were about to start radiation treatments,” or “this time last year, I was living with Mama in Alvin…”

It’s hard to believe in only three months it will be a year since Mama passed away and we laid her to rest under the beautiful old oak tree at the Confederate Cemetery in Alvin. Of course, it’s just her physical body lying there. We know where she really is. We know she’s with Jesus.

When I think back to last August — how the expected was still very unexpected — I am so grateful for Mama’s planning. I think it was around the time of her first battle with melanoma, probably four years ago, that she started thinking about preparations for the inevitable journey that we all face at the end of our time on earth. I am the daughter who usually sticks her head in the sand about things like this. I can’t help but also be grateful that my sister, Angie, handles “things like this” so much better than I do. (I owe you big time, Little Sister!)

Whenever Mama tried to talk to me about it, I emphatically insisted on changing the subject. Poor Mama! It was important to her to have a “nice” funeral — she did not want to be cremated. She pointed out how much respect the living paid the dead in the Bible. She couldn’t reconcile cremation with the traditions of the early church, and did not want us to have to resort to that because a traditional funeral was too expensive. I have to assume my sister helped her coordinate the information needed to purchase a $10,000 life insurance policy for burial expenses when the time came. Mama paid the monthly premium faithfully to make sure we wouldn’t have to worry about anything.

During the last few months of her life, she started making known the specifics that she wanted for her last “party.” It sounds strange, but to us it is a party, a celebration of eternal life through the saving grace of Jesus Christ. Don’t get me wrong — we cried plenty, but there is comfort in knowing we will see her again.

The Christmas before she found out her cancer had come back, she faxed me her Christmas list. She asked for two specific songs: “I’d Rather Have Jesus” by George Beverly Shea and “There’s Just Something About That Name” by Danny Gaither. I was able to find the first, but could not find the second. I gave her the one I could find on Christmas Eve and then discovered she’d asked for them because she wanted those songs played at her funeral! I fussed at her about that, asking for funeral music as a Christmas gift! My silly mama.

From the time she was diagnosed the first week of April, until she passed away the first week of August, she kept hoping and praying that she would get well, but she also faced the fact that might not be God’s plan for her. So my sister brought her computer over and they looked at caskets and flowers and headstones online. It was during their conversations that she let it be known she would really like a mahogany casket, and that she wanted her full name, “Norma Jean Swearingen Swan” on her headstone. My niece was paying attention, because when it came time to choose a casket piece from the florist, I could not remember what my mama’s favorite flower was. My niece quickly offered that Mama said she loved lilies. Mama mentioned that there was an available spot near her friends at the Confederate Cemetery and my sweet husband took care of securing the spot under the beautiful oak tree.

When you lose a loved one, it’s amazing how quickly everything happens. You’re standing in a hospital room at 4:35 am being told your mama is gone, and before the end of the day, you’re talking to a funeral director and trying to deal with how far $10,000 will go in between close encounters with a soggy Kleenex. It’s painful and messy, but much less so than if you had to make these decisions all the while wondering how to pay for everything.

The precious funeral director took such excellent care of us. My sister brought the paperwork from the life insurance policy to the funeral home and with the ease of a couple of signatures, signed it over to them. The funeral home kept a tally of how much everything cost and deducted it from the value of the policy. We looked at caskets, and in the course of the conversation, mentioned that Mama really wanted a mahogany casket. The funeral director asked us if we’d looked online. We were both a bit shocked by that, but she smiled gently and said, “You can get what she wanted for half the price if you order it online. But you need to do it tonight so the truck will be able to deliver it from Dallas in time.” I cannot say how much we appreciated this kind soul who basically took money out of her own pocket so that we could honor our mama’s wishes. When all was said and done, they returned a balance to us which we set aside for Mama’s headstone.

The service was beautiful and I’m pretty sure Mama was pleased with how we did things. The mahogany casket arrived on time, and we were invited to come see Mama the night before the funeral. The director had taken special care and even allowed my sister to come sit with her while she did Mama’s hair and makeup. It was really important to Angie that Mama’s makeup look the way we remembered it. As we stood there next to the casket, Angie said, “Mama, how do you like your new bed?” We both burst into laughter through our tears because we knew it was what she wanted and that she would be pleased. The flowers were beautiful, and we displayed photos that Mama loved in the foyer. The next day, during the service, the entire congregation joined together to sing the songs Mama had asked for, as well as Amazing Grace. It was the most beautiful funeral I think I’ve ever attended.

I’m so grateful that Mama made provision with the insurance policy, and that she made her wishes known so we, her daughters, her son-in-law, and her grandchildren, could honor her in a way that reflected who she really was at heart: a loving mother, grandmother, and most importantly a woman who’d rather have Jesus than anything.

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Change

Change is on the horizon for us. Our girl is planning on transferring to the University of Houston this fall. She could commute, but she wants the experience of living on her own, even if it’s in the slightly more protected environment of a dorm, rather than an apartment.

It’s so strange thinking of her being somewhere else, rather than down the hall from our room. I can remember going into her room at night when she was a little thing. I’d stand next to her crib, and later her bed, holding my breath so I could see the gentle rise and fall of her little back as she slept. When she was a toddler and a little older, she would sleep with us sometimes. I remember wrapping my arms around her and pulling her close to me, because I knew then that time passes quickly and opportunities to snuggle with my only child would eventually disappear.

Now she is a good three or four inches taller than me, and those opportunities have long passed. Sometimes when she walks past me, I grab her for a hug and hold on tight. She laughs and starts to pull away and I say, “I’m not done yet.” So she lets me hug her a little longer and for that split moment, I remember what it felt like to snuggle with my baby girl on those quiet nights years ago.

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Resistance is futile, you must assimilate…

So my efforts at divorcing Facebook are proving to be more difficult than I originally anticipated. As much as I might despise certain aspects of The Borg, one thing you cannot argue: if you are involved in any kind of business or group effort, FB can’t be beat for getting the news out to large numbers of people quickly.

I fought with myself (as is often the case with addicts trying to kick a habit), and I will own it — I confess I peeked at the notifications on my account a few times since my last post. Not nearly as often as I usually do, but I did peek.

Then I saw a friend request from one of the main players at Baystar Group (the publishers of Image magazine, where I recently had an article published).  I received a very nice letter from the president of the Alvin Historical Society regarding my article on the museum, and she also sent a copy to the editor of Image.  My new FB friend at the publisher scanned the letter and posted it to FB. I’d be fibbing if I said that wasn’t a bit of an ego boost.

I learned that FB is one of the primary ways that the group communicates regarding the magazine, as well as promoting the magazine, the articles, the writers, photographers, etc. This set me thinking about the FB group that our church utilizes to spread the word regarding prayer requests, and the FB page that I use to post photos of window treatment projects I’ve completed.

* * * H E A V Y     S I G H * * *

So I spent a good part of this morning, between sneezes (because, of course, I’m coming down with an allergy-inspired spring cold) trying to fine-tune FB to work for me, rather than me work for it. I unfollowed dozens and dozens of people and pages, while still remaining FB friends. The way I hope this works is that when I share a blog post, or something pertinent to my freelance writing, my window treatment business, or my church family, the right people will see it. And I hope that I will not be inundated with videos of fluffy puppies. political diatribes, and endless recipes.

As always, if you have something to say, please say it down there ▼▼▼▼▼ in the comments box, rather than responding on FB. I will be eternally grateful. 💗

 

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My Name is Laura, and I’m a FB Addict

I’ve toyed with the idea, off and on, for years about severing ties to Facebook. Thoughts race through my mind regarding this idea, with increasing stress, indicating there is a problem. Thoughts, in no specific order:

  • “How will I stay in touch with people?” The same way I stayed in touch with people before. I’ll email. I’ll text. I’ll call. I’ll blog. And hopefully, if they care about me as a friend, as family, they’ll do the same.
  • “How will I know what’s going on?” See above.
  • “It’s fun!” Really? This morning, while reading a loved one’s comments regarding the current election cycle, I became stressed, angry, and frustrated as to how someone I truly consider brilliant could reach the conclusions reflected in a FB post. Right now, I’ve a pounding headache because I chose to spend time unwisely – I knew this person was leaning in that direction, but because the topic had been avoided in conversation, I was able to put it out of mind. FB forced it into my periphery where I could not ignore it. There’s a reason our votes are supposed to be secret – so we can vote as we believe we should, without judgment or judging others.

I’m tired of the effect FB has on my attitude, on my day, on my time management, and most importantly my feelings towards others (I totally get it now, Marcelyn). I’m tired of wasting hours of my life scrolling through a newsfeed to see if something interesting has happened. I’ve decided I would rather be doing interesting things than watching other people do them.

I’m tired of wasting time I could be using to do productive things like WRITE… Years ago, I started blogging at Xanga (does anyone even remember that site any longer). I blogged faithfully, at least three or four times a week, and through that site I made several good friends. (Hat tips to Marcelyn, Tim, and Jennifer…)

After several years of blogging, I remember hearing that FB was going to be opened up to the general public (rather than just university students) and I thought I would check it out. It was fun, with silly games (does anyone remember collecting “Flair” or “Water Globes?”) It was easy to communicate in sound bites, rather than lengthy posts, and much time was spent re-doing FB pages every time Mark Zuckerberg’s minions decided to change FB layouts. The more time I spent on FB, the less time I spent on blogging/writing.

So I’m stepping back. I’m done with it. I’ll be blogging here from now on. I’ll share my blog posts for a while — I’m not sure how long I’ll continue to link to them on FB, because I really want to make the separation complete. If you are at all interested in reading what I write here, please subscribe to my blog so you’ll get it in your email box. Because at some point, I’m not going to share them with FB any longer.

And for the love of pete, please comment here – NOT FB. I’m not going back over there, so I’m not going to see your comments if you make them on FB. FB is like crack for me. If I log on, I lose minutes or hours of time that could be used better elsewhere. So I won’t be logging on to see anything. 

I guess this is one good way to find out who really loves and appreciates me. I hope you’ll come along for the ride here.

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Our Sweet Evelyn May

IMG_0279
The Three Musketeers…or Stooges. You decide.

We have always loved our furry babies. In the 24 years that my husband and I have been married, we have never been without pets. Our babies have added so much joy and laughter to our family. It’s never easy when our journey together ends.

The photo above was taken about five years ago. I love it, though, because it’s such a perfect illustration of our dogs and their relationships with each other. Hurley Monroe, the golden, is my husband’s baby and this shows her laid-back, even tempered nature. She just goes with the flow and doesn’t let anything upset her. Sweetie, the chihuahua, is mine. She’s independent, and her pose in this photo shows that. What she doesn’t let on is that she’s actually very affectionate and loves attention, in spite of her independence. Sweetie will turn eleven in June, and Hurley will turn eleven in September. It’s hard to believe they’ve been part of our family for so many years.

The little girl lying across Hurley’s back, though. That little girl is who I hope to honor today. Evelyn May was Sweetie’s daughter, but her father was a Yorkshire Terrier. Evelyn inherited her mama’s big ears and soulful eyes. Her fur was this crazy long/short business – long yorkie hairs randomly popping up from shorter chihuahua-like hairs, and all yorkie markings. Her birth was a science lesson – our daughter watching her come into this world, and immediately wanting to keep her. We couldn’t say no to the roly-poly little pudge ball.

Sweetie was a good mama, and Hurley would fill in for her in a pinch. I can still see Evelyn rolling over on her back so Hurley could groom her if Sweetie wasn’t nearby. It was the craziest thing I’d ever seen. The pups truly seemed to love each other, playing with each other and on more than one occasion, I’d discover Evelyn using Hurley like a bed, and Hurley peacefully obliging.

My girl adored that spoiled little dog and they had the joy of each other’s love for almost nine years. A few weeks ago, though, Evelyn began to have some health problems and preliminary tests indicated an enlarged heart and issues with her spleen. If that weren’t bad enough, there were also indicators of cancer. We hoped, really hoped she would get better, even if to have her with us just a little longer, but when she couldn’t keep her food down, we knew our time with her was at an end.

I was incredibly proud when my girl made the hard, but right decision. She let her beloved Evelyn go. She was with her when she was born, and she loved her as she left this world. I don’t have any scriptural backup for it, but I just can’t help but think that our beloved pets are waiting for us in heaven. I’d like to think Evelyn and my Australian shepherd, Sydney, are waiting for us – running in a spring meadow with lots of other dogs waiting for their families, too.

I miss you, Evelyn May.

IMG_3320
Jami and her sweet Evelyn May.
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The Bee’s Knees

. . . or not. My poor knees took a beating again on Saturday. You would think someone who started out this life with the surname of “Swan” would have at least a smidgen of grace, a scintilla of coordination.

Nope.

My first recollection of being truly klutzy goes back to my freshman year in high school, when we lived on the island. I remember some of the sidewalks being wooden at Country Day School, and this particular day it was drizzling, so the wood was slick. Down I went, and when my knee made contact, I lost a good chunk of flesh. So much so that I have a scar there to this day. Of course, it didn’t help that I tripped and busted open the same knee in the same spot a few weeks later. No wonder there’s a scar.

I don’t remember any pratfalls after that one for a long time. That doesn’t mean there weren’t any. I just don’t remember them. I do remember, in vivid detail, the last four years’ “adventures in grace (or lack thereof),” though.

Christmas Eve 2011: For a short time, I cleaned house for a family who purchased a weekend place at Hideaway on the Gulf. I’d sold them window coverings for the house, and when they asked if I knew a trustworthy housekeeper to make the place ready whenever they headed this way, I volunteered for the job. It was hard work. The house was three stories and the owner was very particular about how it was cleaned, even though it appeared spotless before I picked up a dust cloth. When I finished cleaning this time, I looked out to the canal and thought, “I’d love a view like this. No one’s here. I think I’ll enjoy it for a few minutes.” I started to walk over to the boat slip, only to find the ground disappear from beneath my feet. There was a step down from where I’d been standing, and I hadn’t realized it. Faster than I could cry out, I landed hard on my hands and knees.

Of course, I did what anyone else in my situation would do: I looked around quickly to make sure none of the neighbors had been outside to see my embarrassing embrace with the earth. As soon as I verified there were no witnesses to my humiliation, I let out a yelp. It took me a few minutes to collect myself. Gingerly, I got up, hobbled over to my car and decided the view wasn’t nearly as lovely as I’d originally thought.

February 2012: Not even two months later — we had a grand plan to take our girl and several of her friends to see Riverdance at the Hobby Center in Houston. Because my sister was working that day, I drove over to Angleton to pick my niece up so she could come with us. It was a grey, drizzly day. I went into the office, signed her out, and we headed back to the car for an evening of Italian food at the Spaghetti Warehouse, followed by the amazing dancers from Ireland.

I don’t even know how it happened. One second we were walking away from the front doors of Angleton High School, and the next, my umbrella went flying and I lost a shoe. BAM! Both knees crashing to the pavement again, but this time I had a witness. Krista gasped, and immediately moved to help me up. I probably would have stayed there a few minutes except it was starting to rain harder, so I made myself get up and hobble to my car once again.

For a while, I thought I’d really messed my knees up. The right one would feel “sloppy” when I went up and down the steps between my kitchen and laundry room. I finally went to an orthopedic doctor, who did x-rays and determined they were just badly bruised, and it would take between six and eight months for them to fully recover. I committed myself to walk more carefully.

January 2015: Good things can’t last forever, can they? Sitting at the kitchen table late one night, I decided a cup of tea would be the ticket while I finished working on something. The problem? I forgot about a big plastic tub of Christmas decorations behind my chair. When I stood up and turned to go into the kitchen, I fell right across it! And this time I didn’t get my hands under me, so I fell flat on the floor from head to toe. Jami came stumbling into the kitchen — she’d been asleep, but apparently when a tree falls in the forest (or when Mom falls in the kitchen), it does make a sound. Since I was becoming accustomed to this, I waved her off. “I’m fine. Go back to bed. See you in the morning.”

And that brings us to this past Saturday, March 12, 2016:

My sister and I are in the process of deciding what to do with the house we inherited from our mother last year. We’ve been going over there as often as possible to clean it out and get things ready to list it on the market. The flooring needs to be replaced, so Saturday my sister and nephew pulled a lot of the old stuff up earlier in the day before I arrived. They left to run an errand and I thought, “I can get this piece in the dining area. I’ll pull up this area rug, and then I’ll get that tool and get the sheet vinyl up, easy peasy.”

HA.

The area rug came up easy enough on one side, but I figured I needed to go to the other side to finish rolling it up. My darling husband, who was dressed in nice clothes after attending a memorial service, had stopped by to see how we were doing. And of course, he got to witness yet another dazzling performance by my graceful self. As I stepped toward the other side of the rug, I do not have a clue how it happened, but I know that I fell on that concrete slab — knees and hands, just like the day at the house on the canal.

I did not even try to retain  my dignity. I think I said a colorful word. And then I started crying. And once he checked to make sure I hadn’t broken anything, he did a very good job of holding back his laughter at the 52-year-old woman sitting in the middle of the floor crying like a big ol’ baby. Finally, he held out his hand and said, “Come on, get up, let’s call it a night.”

I had a pretty good run between 2012 and 2016 . . . hoping I can have another trip-free run for a few years. This is getting old, and so am I.

 

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A Perfect Day…

…which I will have to tell you about later. The plate is full to overflowing today, but I had such a lovely day yesterday, celebrating 24 years with my darling guy. I will definitely come back and tell you how wonderful he is and how blessed I am that he chose me.