My mother's hands

 I have become obsessed with my mother's hands and particularly her fingernails.

Strange I think because she's never been one to have professional manicures.  She kept her nails short and wore no polish for most of our lives.

I do know that almost 80 years ago (August 5, 1942) she did have red nails.  Her nails are painted now.  Not red - but some polish and they are long.  I trimmed them but I'm no manicurist.

I kept wondering why this is so important to me.

And then I remembered.  Years ago mother told my sister, Cindy, and me that she didn't want us to take care of her personal needs when she was no longer able to.  She wanted us to come to see her - and "do her nails".

And so because there appears to be nothing I need to do for her now -- I guess I've zoomed in on her nails.  Now don't get me wrong - they really did need attention.  Thankfully, my cousin, Evalyn Campbell was with me and she used the light on her phone to help as I clipped.  They look better - but certainly not as nice as in the photo below.

These hands are those of hers and her four sisters.  I'm pretty sure the hand with the painted nails is  Aunt Carolyn's.  The one with no ring is Aunt Thelma - the photo was taken just before she passed.  

Mother has told me that when our grandma Nesmith was about to go to Heaven, Cindy sat with her and talked with her about her hands - and how they had cared for so many over the years.

Like their mother, Iva Pauline Mercer Nesmith, our mother, and her sisters have used their hands to care for others as well.  

A couple of years after daddy passed mother saw a notice about an art class at Mandarin Presbyterian Church.  She had done some acrylic painting in the 80's.  This was simpler - colored pencils.  So she found a friend who wanted to go to the class - and off she went.  For the next five years, she could often be seen with a drawing pad and a box of pencils.  I now have several binders that hold some of her work.  

On the left is my favorite.

However, to the right is the one    that I think aptly describes Iva Louise Nesmith Huffingham as our mother.  Far from her best and yet the four of us believe that it's her greatest contribution as our mother. Even when I see her lying in the bed sleeping her way into Heaven I have no doubt but that she is praying for us.  

I remembered a quote that sang the praises of a mother who offered wealth and riches and ended "but I had a mother who read to me".  I'd like to change the last line -- "we had a mother who prayed for us".   We are indeed blessed!

And we thank you for praying  - for her - and for us!

May your life have enough sunshine

                                                             To make you appreciate the shadows

Chicken and rice???

Earl and Iva Huffingham both were guilty.  

They encouraged people by satisfying the pallet.

"How about a little bowl of grits?"

Those words were my daddy's answer when I was sad.

I was continuing to process the realization that my mother's life on this earth is fleeting.  I had a little meltdown.  The ingredients for the supper that I had planned were on the kitchen counter.   I was too tired to read the directions much less cook the meal 

I opened the pantry door.    I heard my daddy's voice.

Hum

Less than minutes later a bowl of girts ---

A few weeks ago I had an automobile accident that required an overnight stay in the hospital.  As I prepared to come home I had a little meltdown.  

I kept thinking - I wish my mother was going to be waiting at my home to offer me chicken and rice.

Of course that wasn't going to happen.  I had to settle for remembering the times she had done that - and I do...

Remember...

I'm doing a lot of that these days  - including the way my mother could always make things better.

Whether it was preparing something I liked to eat, brewing a cup of tea or making a suggestion of a way for me to change my circumstances or my attitude.  If I didn't want to go to school she often said "are you sick, tired or indifferent?" and sometimes the word indifferent worked.

"Walk away from the problem", she would say.

I'd like to walk away from this one - this sad time of farewell - but I know in my heart that it is soon to be her time.  And it's very strange for me - not having her to help me work through this.

I guess I'll have to make my own chicken and rice.  And yes I know what  my daddy's best solution was  

                                                             May your life have enough sunshine

                                                             To make you appreciate the shadows

Not pretty when you cry

Dear Mother,

Most of the time I spend with you these days - you are sleeping.

I remember when I was a teenager  - you thought sleeping was a waste of time.

And now it seems like such a normal thing.  Wait, how can this be normal?

Where's the person who knows the answer before the question has come out of my mouth?

And are you dreaming?  Are you remembering?  

That's what I'm doing - I'm remembering

One thing I remember is when daddy and you were taking me to college in 1965,  You were giving me advice and I guess laying down some rules.  Daddy piped in - "don't call too often" and then you said, "just once a day".

And then it was my time to talk and I said: "Whatever you do - don't cry when we get to the campus -- I mean after all  You are just not pretty when you cry".

Right - no one is pretty when they cry.

Maybe that's why I don't cry easily.

I digress. 

So while you are sleeping - peacefully, I am being thankful that you are my mother.

You were a good daughter.  I remember when our family moved in with grandma and granddaddy because her health was preventing her from being a good minister's wife.  I know that when it was time for grandma to go from here to there (as granddaddy liked to call it) you were there for both of your parents and your sisters.  As I wrote that last sentence I realized I did the same thing.  When you couldn't care for daddy without assistance, you moved in with me.  Daddy went to heaven from a room in my home and now I'm the one who is telling my siblings what's going on with you.

Your sisters value you and have always looked up to you. Ellie and Pauline Nesmith raised you to love and care for others and there are countless people who could tell the story of something you (and daddy -  but with your urging) did for them. The visit by Carolyn, Ann and Beth today is an example of the love you all share.

Cindy, Jonathan, Lester, and I all agree - you have been a good mother.  You taught us to appreciate our faith.  You taught us the value of Romans 8:28.  

Even now as I am almost home-bound because I don't have a vehicle I am continually relying on the fact that I truly believe that all things work together for good.  That's because you lived it and taught us to do that as well.

As Grandma Honey, you have been a supportive and caring grandmother.  All four of your children can point to a time in our children's lives that you were there for them - taking them on trips, encouraging them in their studies, and in some cases protecting them from harm.

And of course, you were a wonderful wife to our daddy.  Even when you didn't agree with him you still called him honey.

Now, let's see have I left anyone out.  Oh yes - you have been a good friend.  We all remember women who were dear to you at different times in our lives.  If I start naming them Id be sure to leave someoneout. Almost five years ago your oldest friend Margaret Woodson came for a visit.   And you've been a good friend to our friends -- especially our mates.

So let's talk about the crying deal.

Only God knows when you will be going to heaven.  As the book of Job says "Our days are determined by the Lord" (Job 14:5).  But when that happens...

Go ahead and cry - when you see Uncle Rudolph, Grandma and Granddaddy, Rich, daddy, Blakelie,  and Jonathan.  Somehow I think you know he's there although you never mention him.

    Because the bottom line is this  You're pretty no matter what!                                                 

NOTE:  My method of processing emotion is through words.  While we have engaged Vitas Hospice to help us at this time because our mother has become very agitated, we all believe that her life is in God's hands.  She is has been returned to her room at Westminster Woods.

                            May your life have enough sunshine

                            To make you appreciate the shadows

 

 

Just like your mother

I had not been dating Rich Suhey very long when he met my mother.

He told me that if I was going to grow old like her - he looked forward to loving me for a long time.

Unfortunately, he passed away when she was only 76 (a year older than I am now) but if he were still around, my guess is that he'd say he was glad he stuck with me (she is now 99 years old).

I do look like her but more than that this week I've been reminded how much I am like her  and I've seen that my daughters are like me

I had a vehicular accident on Thursday.  I needed stitches in my head and had the joy of spending the night at Memorial Hospital because of a little brain bleed.

The first thing I did was like my mother:

As I waited for the ambulance, with some blood making its way down my neck, I realized that someone I knew had arrived on the scene  It was Alexis, the winner of the Key Club Scholarship at Christ Church Academy  A few days ago I had given the award to Alexis but did not have a certificate with me  That certificate was on the front seat of my car ready to be mailed.

I saved a stamp.

I was also happy to be able to introduce Alexis to my friend Joe who had come to the scene when I called him with the news of my accident.  ("This is Alexis", I said - "I've been telling you about her")

Later that day I recounted this story to my daughters.

They laughed as they reminded me of the time that we had a structural fire on our family's property in the middle of the night.  My mother went into the house and made lemonade for the firefighters.

We both seem to focus elsewhere in what seems to be a crisis.

You are just like grandma, they suggested.

And then I told them something else. Earlier that day a nurse had asked if my head hurt.

My response:

"I am aware that I have a head".

I gasped,

Those words have come out of my mother's mouth so many times.  And I have absolutely hated it.  

Which is what I told the nurse.

"We always become our mothers", she had said.

So I sadly told my daughters - you are likely to become just like me - as I have become just like your grandma.

These are simple remembrances.  In reality, my mother has always had a strong Christian spirit of love and caring for others  Both of my girls have that as well as does their younger brother.  

During my recuperation - Renee wanted to find a way for me to have chicken and rice (something my mother always did for me when I was puny); Becca took me for a quiet visit with her children and in the emergency room, Tray was very firm, but kind encouraging me that I really did need to go to the hospital and spend the night.  It was as if my mother was speaking through him (better safe than sorry, she would have said).

This has been an experience!  My car is ugly and I'm probably faced with decisions as to what happens next.  I've been forced to be still - yeah right.  And I really don't like my independent spirit being quieted.

However,  It has been a time for me to put what my mother taught me through the years into practice.

That's the importance of Romans 8:28 - God has a plan and He's working it all together for my good  (and I think the good of those closest to me at this time in my life).  My responsibility in this is to accept the love and care (Joe brought me chicken and rice soup; Debbie brought me flowers, and many persons have called and texted) that I am offered and to know that all will be well.

I recently have taken on a new mantra "Life is Good and God is better".  There surely is a reason for it all.

            May your life have enough sunshine 

           to make you appreciate the shadows

PS Becca and Renee also asked if I suggested to the woman who helped me at the accident - her name was Candy - and I meet for coffee

The END? No the BEGINNING

When I learned that Ray Parker no longer wanted to be married and that my children and I would not be a part of his life, I was beyond devastated. My dear Aunt Thelma sent me a card with this message: 

“Sometimes what seems like the end…. Is really just the beginning”.  

Those words have provided comfort and peace in my life for many years.

So many times, I’ve felt like something was over and I felt very sad, sometimes even destitute.  And I often draw from those words of encouragement.

I imagine that’s how the followers of Jesus must have felt on this day in history.

Even though Jesus had been telling them, it was more than they wanted to take hold of.  Surely Jesus was going to come into His kingdom as a King.

Why in the world this day has become known as GOOD FRIDAY??? It’s a horrifying day in History. Cicero called Jesus’s death on the cross “cruelty a most disgusting penalty” and Josephus said” it was the most pitiable of deaths.

 And yet hear Jesus' words:

“It is finished – not it’s finally over"

It’s as if he said “For this, I was born, and I have come to the world to bear witness to this truth”

On this day we remember the steps and the horror  - So we leave the story with friends coming to take Jesus down off of the cross and take his body to a tomb.  We all know how difficult it is to leave our loved one’s body in a cemetery or even a columbarium. 

Except – “It’s Friday, but Sunday’s coming”

                                               May your life have enough sunshine 

                                               to make you appreciate the shadows

Tell me a story

Have you ever heard this little song?

"Tell me a story, tell me a story, tell my a story before I go to bed

Tell me about the birds and bees; tell me what makes a chicken sneeze

Tell me a story before I go to bed"

My daddy used to sing that to us.  Now I have a very dear friend who tells a great story. If only I could get him to put those stories on paper.  The first time I met him he told me someone had told him he should write a book - and said he wouldn't know how to do that - and of course, I told him I knew a little widow woman who could write. . .

In the meantime, this week I read the book,, Chilled in Chattanooga by Deborah Malone.  Ir's fiction and a mystery.  I don't normally read that genre.  HOWEVER. . .

Reading about the place I lived from 1972 to 1979, the birthplace of my children, and one of my very favorite towns made me begin to remember that I have some of my own stories - particularly relating to that time in my history.  And the book I read reminded me. . .

It was May 1976.  Ray Parker had just received his Doctorate from Luther Rice Seminary in Jacksonville and as was our custom we were going part of the way to Chattanooga on Saturday afternoon and the rest of the way on Sunday.  

Sunday - that meant we would find a church.  We were in a small town in south Georgia.  I don't remember the exact location..

Now independent sort that I am, my choice would have been to find a church that was not our "denomination" so the girls (Becca was 5 and Renee was 2) could worship in a different setting.

Oh no.  Had to be a Baptist church.

But -- let's be sure it's not one of those who might be handling snakes as a part of their worship (that's what the story in the book reminded me of - a feisty little grandmother had actually done that. But I digress).

As Ray and the girls and I went up to the front door of the church we met the minister.  He was in his 70's and that seemed elderly then.  He was also a bit frail.

"I've been out of the pulpit for a few Sundays", he said, continuing that he had been ill and that this was his first Sunday back.

Ray told him that he was a minister.

About halfway into the service, the minister cane to the pulpit:

"I'm not feeling well and I'm going to ask Rev. Parker to come up and preach.

I don't know what you know about "preachers", but most of them have what is called a candy stick in their pocket.  This means they have a message they can preach on demand.

It was Mother's Day.  Do you think his candy stick was geared toward mothers???

To Ray's relief, the congregation sang all four verses of "Holy Spirit, Breathe on me".

And fortunately, there were no snakes in the church.

That was so long ago.  Sometimes I forget life as the wife of a pastor.  But all these years later I can remember some of those experiences with a smile.   

Usually what I write on this blog has some sort of a message.  I've been pondering why I thought I needed to tell this story today.  Who knows?

EXCEPT

I know we all have stories. . . and our stories should be told!  

                                               May your life have enough sunshine 

                                               to make you appreciate the shadows

PS - This year marks the 40th anniversary of the time that I stopped being a minister's wife.  It seems appropriate for me to say that the sunshine of those forty years has surely made me appreciate the shadows.  As I often say "Have you met my children?"  Thanks be to God!!!

 

 

"You're supposed to prune it?"

 "So, when's the last time you pruned this sago palm?"

"Uh - never", I replied.

We were getting my backyard ready for a necessary extension of the drain pipe that is on the back of my house.  This is in addition to loads of dirt that keep showing up in hopes that we can make the backyard level.

I've actually enjoyed the project.  Before it was finished there were four garbage cans ready for pick up on yard trash day.

As I have been working I've thought of the fact that we are just a few days away from what we now know as Palm Sunday.  According to Scripture, it was a day of celebration and proclamation as people lined the streets with palms and even their cloaks paying homage to Jesus as He rode a donkey through the town. 

As I snipped the fronds off of the Palm I wondered about the process for securing the palms that were strewed in front of the kingly procession.  

I have always loved Palm Sunday.  I love the pageantry, the celebration, the music.  Each year I listen again and again to "The Palms" by Jean-Baptiste Faure.  I have a special memory of the Junior Choir singing that with the Adult choir at Glendale Community Church when I was in the third or fourth grade.  I remember that we carried palms.

Back to my Sago Palm.

Yes, I know that sometimes we need to take the growth away to make room for new growth to come forth.  (You might remember how aghast I was when my yard man pruned my crepe myrtle). And by that same token, I do know that sometimes we need to remove something from our lives to make room for something else.

One of my Lenten Disciplines for years has been to take a piece of clothing from my closet each day for 40 days and then give those clothes to an organization that would provide clothes for those who need them.  An interesting thing this year is that I realized sometimes I need to give something I really liked instead of what I didn't.  That's where the sacrificing comes in.  So some of the shoes I really liked - have made their way to the bag.  

And now Lent 2022 is about to be a memory.  Holy week begins with the swaying of palms and the words from Scripture that are referred to as "the Passion".  I first experienced the reading of the Passion when Rich Suhey and I went to Mass at the Basilica in St Augustine in 1997. It meant much to me then and continues to.  The music, the discipline, the tradition - all are part of what is a wonderful season.  Two years ago I added this tradition:

Holy week begins with celebration - ends with desperation and defeat - only to be met with celebration - when the sun rises on Easter morning and we all respond  - The Lord is Risen indeed -

But I'm getting ahead of my story. . . 

                                              May your life have enough sunshine 

                                               to make you appreciate the shadows

 

 

 

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