This is how I know God has a sense of humor: Warren Barfield is one of the best live acts I've ever seen. He's a Christian performer and when he played at our church, he and his guitar made a joyful noise unto the Lord, all right. Were he a secular performer, he'd probably be at least as popular as Jack Johnson (and loads more entertaining, with his sense of humor and his blues/soul/funk spin). But God called him to something different, and there he is.
Not that I'm an expert, but I've seen Nanci Griffith, the Who, Rush, Paul McCartney, Neil Diamond, John Denver, Yes, Jimmy Buffett, Ringo Starr and some other fairly well-known and talented folks who put on terrific live shows, and Warren Barfield was every bit as entertaining. No techno garbage, no laser show, no wall of sound, not even an electric instrument -- just him and his guitar.
So buy his stuff, including the album that comes out in May. Don't believe how great he is? Check out his version of "Sitting on the Dock of the Bay." That should convince even people who aren't Christian music fans.
Monday, February 25, 2008
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
Curly Sue's tonsils
What about them? Well, they may have to come out.
After thinking, researching and talking to two nurses, I decided to go ahead and take her to the ENT doctor tomorrow morning. I canceled her bloodwork because I think she has chronic tonsillitis rather than anything more sinister -- not that chronic tonsillitis and the looming prospect of major surgery isn't sinister enough!
I'd just like to see her feeling better again.
I'm working in a Bible/book study called Homeschooling With a Meek and Quiet Spirit by Teri Maxwell, who is the author of Managers of Their Homes. I'm impulsive, hot-tempered and impatient and this is the right season of my life for this study, though I've had it for years. I highly recommend it.
After thinking, researching and talking to two nurses, I decided to go ahead and take her to the ENT doctor tomorrow morning. I canceled her bloodwork because I think she has chronic tonsillitis rather than anything more sinister -- not that chronic tonsillitis and the looming prospect of major surgery isn't sinister enough!
I'd just like to see her feeling better again.
I'm working in a Bible/book study called Homeschooling With a Meek and Quiet Spirit by Teri Maxwell, who is the author of Managers of Their Homes. I'm impulsive, hot-tempered and impatient and this is the right season of my life for this study, though I've had it for years. I highly recommend it.
Monday, February 18, 2008
From the diary of boring old whatsit
I'm on Day 4 of a fierce diet/exercise program. Ask me later. (SparkPeople is the greatest support site ever!)
Curly Sue is sick...again. When I awoke this morning at 5:45 a.m., she had already been up since 1 a.m., running a high fever. She didn't want to wake me, bless 'er, but her throat is sore (again) and her tonsils red and swollen (again). Rather than take her in to get yet another negative strep screen/culture and unnecessary antibiotic, I scheduled her for bloodwork to rule out mono. Not that I think she has mono, but we need to test for it before they refer her to an ENT, who will decide if she needs to have her tonsils out.
When I took Moe for his allergy shots, I ran into an elementary schoolteacher of mine who also knew Ben. She lost her brother -- her only sibling -- in July of '06 and her father in '07. She is unmarried and has no children and I believe her mother must have been dead for awhile. She is all alone. It's the first time I've seen her since my brother died, so we stood in the middle of the allergist's office and went through a box of tissue. I tell you, it is not a comfort to me to see a woman this far out from her brother's death still in so much pain. On the other hand, because she and I have the same pain, maybe she just felt freer to grieve with me.
I have so much to be thankful for, truly. To imagine not having my little sons and daughter, my sweet husband and lots of siblings, nieces, nephews, healthy parents and assorted other extended family makes my heart ache. Not that Ben was expendable, but the agony of his loss is shared by so many of us that it must be diluted somewhat. Being left totally alone to grieve your entire family must be unendurable.
Oh, and in other things to be burdened about: A sweet lady who works in the allergist's office confided in me today that her 17-year-old daughter, who is unmarried and the mother of an almost-1-year-old child by one boy, is pregnant again by another boy. She is devastated and I will be praying for her and her family.
Curly Sue is sick...again. When I awoke this morning at 5:45 a.m., she had already been up since 1 a.m., running a high fever. She didn't want to wake me, bless 'er, but her throat is sore (again) and her tonsils red and swollen (again). Rather than take her in to get yet another negative strep screen/culture and unnecessary antibiotic, I scheduled her for bloodwork to rule out mono. Not that I think she has mono, but we need to test for it before they refer her to an ENT, who will decide if she needs to have her tonsils out.
When I took Moe for his allergy shots, I ran into an elementary schoolteacher of mine who also knew Ben. She lost her brother -- her only sibling -- in July of '06 and her father in '07. She is unmarried and has no children and I believe her mother must have been dead for awhile. She is all alone. It's the first time I've seen her since my brother died, so we stood in the middle of the allergist's office and went through a box of tissue. I tell you, it is not a comfort to me to see a woman this far out from her brother's death still in so much pain. On the other hand, because she and I have the same pain, maybe she just felt freer to grieve with me.
I have so much to be thankful for, truly. To imagine not having my little sons and daughter, my sweet husband and lots of siblings, nieces, nephews, healthy parents and assorted other extended family makes my heart ache. Not that Ben was expendable, but the agony of his loss is shared by so many of us that it must be diluted somewhat. Being left totally alone to grieve your entire family must be unendurable.
Oh, and in other things to be burdened about: A sweet lady who works in the allergist's office confided in me today that her 17-year-old daughter, who is unmarried and the mother of an almost-1-year-old child by one boy, is pregnant again by another boy. She is devastated and I will be praying for her and her family.
Thursday, February 14, 2008
Happy Valentine's Day, y'all!
We don't do much to celebrate ,which always seems to get my poor Geddy in hot water with the women at work. As I've said before, I'm not too sentimental, so I never get my feelings hurt if I don't have a dozen roses on my doorstep come Valentine's afternoon. In fact, I'm more likely to calculate how many weeks' worth of groceries the money spent on flowers would buy.
Sick, I know.
But I have a husband who never criticizes. He does dishes and scrubs the shower. He watches silly TV shows with me and teaches math to our sixth-grader. He takes us to church and participates himself. He reads books about how to be a better husband and father. He loves my grandmother.
This could go on for awhile, so suffice it to say that I get Valentine's love every day of the year, and this one day doesn't change anything.
That said, we are planning a couple of special treats for the whole family. We are having grilled steak, baked potatoes, rolls, salad and possibly corn on the cob for dinner tonight. For dessert, ginormous strawberries with whipped cream, chocolate syrup and/or powdered sugar for dipping. Afterward, Nannie's famous cookies.
After Bible and math today, the children are going to make cards to exchange. They will each get a Snickers bar and a box of conversation hearts from their daddy and me.
Hopefully, the evening will be a nice celebration of our love for each other, and not just a dutiful gift exchange between a husband and wife who try to show their love every day instead of saving it up for one day a year.
Sick, I know.
But I have a husband who never criticizes. He does dishes and scrubs the shower. He watches silly TV shows with me and teaches math to our sixth-grader. He takes us to church and participates himself. He reads books about how to be a better husband and father. He loves my grandmother.
This could go on for awhile, so suffice it to say that I get Valentine's love every day of the year, and this one day doesn't change anything.
That said, we are planning a couple of special treats for the whole family. We are having grilled steak, baked potatoes, rolls, salad and possibly corn on the cob for dinner tonight. For dessert, ginormous strawberries with whipped cream, chocolate syrup and/or powdered sugar for dipping. Afterward, Nannie's famous cookies.
After Bible and math today, the children are going to make cards to exchange. They will each get a Snickers bar and a box of conversation hearts from their daddy and me.
Hopefully, the evening will be a nice celebration of our love for each other, and not just a dutiful gift exchange between a husband and wife who try to show their love every day instead of saving it up for one day a year.
Sunday, February 10, 2008
Wednesday, February 6, 2008
Who's your Daddy?
A spew came forth -- recently, again -- about grown women calling their fathers "Daddy." At the point where I should have stopped reading this particular forum (around the time the theory was forwarded that ignorant Southern women are the main ones perpetuating this "irritating" habit) I instead started thinking about what makes the man who fathered me my Daddy.
I'm 39 years old now, but once upon a time I was 8. I looked very much like my own little freckle-faced, big-eyed, honey-blond daughter. My Daddy sketched pictures of how I would look when I was a teenager and they were dead-on when I was 16. He wrote poetry about my four brothers and me, about God, about nature, about my Mama. He took us to church, to revival, to ice-cream socials and dinners-on-the-ground and sunrise services. He honed our vocabulary and spelling skills by cracking open a huge Webster's after dinner and playing The Dictionary Game, challenging us with fascinating, unfamiliar, beautiful words to define or spell.
Daddy rejected several job opportunities because they would mean relocation to New York or Washington or some other far-off, foreign place, and he didn't want to give up our small-town Southern upbringing, even if it meant more money and status for our family. He traveled a week per month, 10-11 months per year, to make sales calls, but there were always surprises in his suitcase for wee weary ones who accompanied Mama to the Atlanta airport to collect him.
When I was a teenager, we butted heads over whether I should be allowed to play high school baseball. His politics were wrong and his sense of social injustice nonexistent, I thought; still, I appreciated how Daddy managed to overcome his obvious shortcomings to raise five future Jesus freaks.
He drove 40 miles each way to work every day for 30-plus years, but Daddy still managed to coach football and baseball teams, cheer from the stands at band festivals and take us fishing and wading in our little creek. He made me feel precious and loved even when we disagreed, which was often. He has treated Geddy like a fifth son from the time we started dating. He flew home from a business trip in Texas at 5 a.m. when Larry was born prematurely almost 12 years ago.
Daddy and Mama -- Paw-Paw and Nannie -- have 11 cherished grandchildren, for whom they have provided everything from clothes to movies, from Big Wheels to medicine to school supplies. Babysitting is a privilege and not an inconvenience to them. Daddy has taught our children how to make newspaper hats, fixed up old scooters and bikes and built them a plywood biplane with water-bottle propeller. When my brother died unmarried, childless and intestate, Daddy vowed to use any insurance money left over from estate settlement to set up college funds for Ben's beloved "babies," his nieces and nephews.
I was the fourth-born child and the first to earn a degree. I knew what I wanted to be when I grew up because my Daddy was a newspaper man, and I wanted to be a newspaper (wo)man, too. Daddy told me I had a talent from an early age and he never let me doubt myself. He funded most of my college education but was my biggest supporter when I chose to leave the career it provided to raise and educate my own children. "After all, Becca Honey-Honey, that's the most important job you'll have," Daddy said. "Besides, you can write anywhere."
And as it turns out, I was wrong in my teenage judgments about both his politics and his sense of social responsibility. At 72, Daddy now is president of a local civic club, which raises tens of thousands of dollars each year to directly benefit children's charities and programs in our county. He volunteers at the soup kitchen, is a Mason and a certified Methodist lay speaker, sings in the church choir and reads to elementary public school children regularly. He and my Mama have been married nearly 47 years.
Not everyone is lucky enough to have a Daddy, and some of the people who do...well, clearly they don't appreciate their blessings. So I'll continue to address my Daddy by his proper name, regardless of how it sounds to other folks.
He's earned it.
I'm 39 years old now, but once upon a time I was 8. I looked very much like my own little freckle-faced, big-eyed, honey-blond daughter. My Daddy sketched pictures of how I would look when I was a teenager and they were dead-on when I was 16. He wrote poetry about my four brothers and me, about God, about nature, about my Mama. He took us to church, to revival, to ice-cream socials and dinners-on-the-ground and sunrise services. He honed our vocabulary and spelling skills by cracking open a huge Webster's after dinner and playing The Dictionary Game, challenging us with fascinating, unfamiliar, beautiful words to define or spell.
Daddy rejected several job opportunities because they would mean relocation to New York or Washington or some other far-off, foreign place, and he didn't want to give up our small-town Southern upbringing, even if it meant more money and status for our family. He traveled a week per month, 10-11 months per year, to make sales calls, but there were always surprises in his suitcase for wee weary ones who accompanied Mama to the Atlanta airport to collect him.
When I was a teenager, we butted heads over whether I should be allowed to play high school baseball. His politics were wrong and his sense of social injustice nonexistent, I thought; still, I appreciated how Daddy managed to overcome his obvious shortcomings to raise five future Jesus freaks.
He drove 40 miles each way to work every day for 30-plus years, but Daddy still managed to coach football and baseball teams, cheer from the stands at band festivals and take us fishing and wading in our little creek. He made me feel precious and loved even when we disagreed, which was often. He has treated Geddy like a fifth son from the time we started dating. He flew home from a business trip in Texas at 5 a.m. when Larry was born prematurely almost 12 years ago.
Daddy and Mama -- Paw-Paw and Nannie -- have 11 cherished grandchildren, for whom they have provided everything from clothes to movies, from Big Wheels to medicine to school supplies. Babysitting is a privilege and not an inconvenience to them. Daddy has taught our children how to make newspaper hats, fixed up old scooters and bikes and built them a plywood biplane with water-bottle propeller. When my brother died unmarried, childless and intestate, Daddy vowed to use any insurance money left over from estate settlement to set up college funds for Ben's beloved "babies," his nieces and nephews.
I was the fourth-born child and the first to earn a degree. I knew what I wanted to be when I grew up because my Daddy was a newspaper man, and I wanted to be a newspaper (wo)man, too. Daddy told me I had a talent from an early age and he never let me doubt myself. He funded most of my college education but was my biggest supporter when I chose to leave the career it provided to raise and educate my own children. "After all, Becca Honey-Honey, that's the most important job you'll have," Daddy said. "Besides, you can write anywhere."
And as it turns out, I was wrong in my teenage judgments about both his politics and his sense of social responsibility. At 72, Daddy now is president of a local civic club, which raises tens of thousands of dollars each year to directly benefit children's charities and programs in our county. He volunteers at the soup kitchen, is a Mason and a certified Methodist lay speaker, sings in the church choir and reads to elementary public school children regularly. He and my Mama have been married nearly 47 years.
Not everyone is lucky enough to have a Daddy, and some of the people who do...well, clearly they don't appreciate their blessings. So I'll continue to address my Daddy by his proper name, regardless of how it sounds to other folks.
He's earned it.
Monday, February 4, 2008
Because I can
Here's our sweet Ben, left, and Bubby. Those crazy boys were always playing guitar (Rowdy, too) and making Rally and me sing. This was Christmas 2006 at my parents' house -- can you tell Nannie collects Christmas bears? I've been missing Benjie a bunch lately, but apparently bereaved adult siblings are only allowed a brief grieving period so I'm supposed to be over it by now.
My Curly Girl
Curly Girl by Lorraine Massey teaches those of us with naturally wavy/curly hair to properly care for our lovely locks. This is Curly Sue with her hair still wet from last night, when we used Massey's suggestions for the first time.
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