Blessings

Don't you just love a compliment? I'm talking about a sincere, warm, straight-from-the-heart compliment—not a "I like your shoes" compliment. As a teenager and young adult, I had a hard time convincing people I was really as old as I claimed to be. For example, when I was a senior in high school I had this huge crush on David* (name changed to save embarrassment). I just melted every time I was around him. Granted, he was in his early 20s and too old for a 17-year-old, but I could dream, couldn't I? Then I discovered one day he thought I was in junior high school—a baby! Another time was when I was a young wife and mother, all of 24 years old. I was going to go back to school and take a few classes at Christopher Newport College in Newport News, VA. Eddie was a 2nd LT in the army at the time. When I went to register and it was discovered I was an army dependent, everyone assumed I was the child of an officer, not the wife of one. Had to show a lot of ID to prove I was over 18. . . . . . . Fast-forward 30 years. Don't usually have that problem anymore. However, there are rare occasions when the "you don't look old enough to (fill in the blank)" compliment appears. Today was such a day! Finally it was 3 p.m. and time to go home. I'm on the top floor of the "Ivory Tower" and rarely get a "nonstop" ride to the parking level. Sure nuff, it stopped a few floors down and a man I recognized as an employee but have no idea who he is stepped on the elevator. Now a bit of background before I go any further. We have to wear ID's at work. Most of us have them encased in a clear plastic cover and on a lanyard. But I also have a picture of Jay (Mawmaw's Precious) on the backside of my ID. So this kind man looked at the picture and I suppose trying to make conversation says, "Nice looking little fella you have there." To which I reply, "Thanks! That's my little grandson." "Grandson!" this heaven-sent man said with surprise in his voice. "You don't look old enough to have a grandson." About that time the elevator doors opened again and a friend of mine, Rhonda, hopped on. I told her, "Come on in, Rhonda. This nice man is giving out compliments. Come get you one!" We all had a good laugh. Don't you reckon that's just the nicest way to end a workday?

Lord, make me an instrument of Thy peace; where there is hatred, let me sow love; where there is injury, pardon; where there is doubt, faith; where there is despair, hope; where there is darkness, light; and where there is sadness, joy. O Divine Master, grant that I may not so much seek to be consoled as to console; to be understood, as to understand; to be loved, as to love; for it is in giving that we receive, it is in pardoning that we are pardoned, and it is in dying that we are born to eternal life. Amen. st. francis of assisi - 13th century

Shelly (name has been changed to protect the guilty) is a 26-year-old young lady at our church who has taken it upon herself to be the Town (or Church) Crier. The drawback to this is that 99% of the information she shares is completely fabricated. She is a compulsive liar and obsessed with me and my family. Therefore, the stories she tells usually revolve around me. . . . . . The sad part is I'm not sure how much of it Shelly can help. You see, about 4 years ago she had a major stroke while undergoing heart surgery to replace a defective valve. While she was already somewhat mentally challenged prior to the stroke, it's more severe now. Doctor's didn't think she would survive, and Shelly spent 53 days in Vanderbilt. But her life was spared, and physically she's doing well. But her mental health is a different story. . . . . . . As I said, Shelly is obsessed with me. I don't know why. I've always tried to be extra nice to her and pay special attention to her, only now it's come back to haunt me. It got so bad a few months ago that her parents decided to keep her out of adult choir for a while, a form of punishment. They've talked to her until they are blue in the face, and she promises to stop. Just never does. So is this beyond her capability to understand? Can she not tell the difference between a thought/dream that enters her head and reality? I dunno. I do know I'm about ready to slap a muzzle on her mouth and truth serum into her veins. . . . . . Shelly started back to choir last week. One week. 7 days. And she's at it again. I had 4 people say something to me this morning about a wild tale Shelly has told. Apparently she announced in the choir room this morning that my sister and I walked in a marathon yesterday. Ha! Anyone who knows either of us know we are NOT marathon material. And on top of that, supposedly my sister got overheated and fainted. Just to cover my bases, I called Nancy to verify the story. No, she did not walk in a marathon; therefore, it was impossible for her to have overheated and then to faint. . . . . . . . So I'm at the boiling point. I've already emailed Shelly's mom and filled her in on the latest. I know her mom is frustrated, but someone needs to take this bull by the horns and deal with it. If it means keeping her under her mom or dad's watch 24-hours a day, so be it. Just has to stop. And now. . . . . . One more ranting. While I am the subject of most of her ramblings, she did recently tell one of the deacons that our minister of music is leaving. Of course, Mr. Deacon went straight to the minister, shut the door, and asked, "What's going on?" Thankfully, that rumor was put to an end, but not before word had gotten around church. You know how these Baptist grapevines work. Too well.

When I die, you can bury me deep. . . . . . Put a jug of sorghum at my feet. . . . . Put nine biscuits in each hand . . . . . . . . . And I'll sop my way to the Promised Land!

Linda and I tramped all over Section 19 of Mt. Olivet Cemetery. The place is huge! An office worker had been kind enough to supply us with a photocopy of the layout of Section 19, but it was difficult to read and there were a lot of names/markers in the cemetery that were not on the paper we were trying to read. We must have walked around at least half an hour or more before we finally found a name that coincided with those on the paper. Five minutes later we found Oscar & Margaret (Maggie) Norton's final resting place. . . . . . . . . . . Then we drove around the cemetery for a while. It's worse than a maze. But some of the tombstones are incredible. I made a few minutes and tried to post them, but Flickr tells me I've downloaded my limit for the month. Gotta figure that one out because even though I deleted some, I keep getting the same message. Anyway, back to the tombstones/markers. Huge, ornate sculptures. One even shaped like a pyramid, complete with 2 sphinx guarding it. Lots of sculptures of churches and angels. People apparently used to take great pride in the places where they buried their dead. When Linda and I finally found our great-grandparents' headstone, she said, "Imagine all the Norton's that stood around here all those years ago." Oscar died in 1923; Maggie in 1932. My mom wasn't born until 1933. Such a long, long time ago.

Mt. Olivet is one of the oldest, most historic cemeteries in Nashville. It also happens to be where my great-grandparents, Oscar and Maggie Norton, are buried. I just found that out a few months ago while researching my ancestry. Mt. Olivet's burial records are on microfilm in the public library, so I trucked myself down there one afternoon and found the location of their plot. Newspapers back to the 1860s are also on microfilm, so once I had the dates of their deaths, I was able to find their obituaries. If you've never read newspapers from nearly 100 years ago, you ought to take the time to look at them. Fascinating, but then, I'm a history buff. . . . . Oscar died of a paralytic stroke on Tuesday, 11/23/23. He was a wallpaper contractor and lived on Maxey Lane (later Gallatin Road) in Nashville. His funeral service was conducted by Father Abbott at St. Patrick's Church. Maggie died on Sunday, June 26, 1932. She was living with one of her daughters in Los Angeles at the time. Her body was flown back to Nashville and she was buried on July 2. . . . . . . . . . . So today on our lunch hours, I'm meeting my cousin Linda at the cemetery. Our intent is to track down their burial place. I'll add pictures later.

Had to get my allergy shots today. Sitting in the waiting room floor was a boy I would guess to be about 12. Pretty big boy, but I don't think he'd hit puberty just yet. So cute and so happy and so obviously autistic. Autism runs a very broad spectrum, from folks who may have a mild tic and whose autism isn't apparent to those who are forever locked away in their own worlds. This young boy, Kevin, was in the floor looking at books. Having a wonderful time, although he could not speak. He made some sounds, but he communicated through signing. Of course I assumed the lady in the floor with him was his mom . . . until she turned around. It was Cathy, who goes to the same church we do. I don't really know Cathy except by sight, but I do know her aunt and uncle very well. In a few minutes Cathy got back up in her seat, and the boy signed "Thank you for sitting in the floor with me." Awesome. Then his mom sat in the floor and read with him. He was so happy . . . rocking and flapping his hands/arms around (typical autism characteristics). When Kevin's name was called, he slowly and carefully got up from the floor. Kevin has an awkward gait, and bless his heart, was wearing adult-sized diapers. But I cannot explain how perfectly content and happy he was. And it thrilled my soul to see how accepting everyone in the waiting room was of Kevin and his mom and caregiver. . . . . . . We have 2 perfectly healthy, normal children. And we have 2 perfectly healthy, autistic grandson. Jay is on the other end of the spectrum from Kevin. Jay talks a blue streak, reads above the first-grade level, writes, and is a computer whiz. That doesn't mean he is problem free. Speech is his biggest problem. Yet Jay has made tremendous progress and I know he'll continue to improve. I love him unconditionally and wouldn't change him if I could. . . . . . . . . Today I read how Linda, who is about to be a grandma for the 5th time, is already praying for the life and health of that new gift. Made me think how often we take for granted that our babies will be born healthy. And most of the time they are; yet in my own extended family we have a child with cerebral palsy, another with moderate retardation and will never be able to live on his own, a great-aunt who died in a mental institution decades ago—and those are just the ones I can think of off the top of my head. We are so blessed in this country to have the medical facilities and knowledge and technology available to us so that even when their are children/adults with health issues, we have the means to help them.

Had lunch today with my goodest friend, Ann . . . the one who lent us her car last week while mine was in the car hospital having a transplant. Both of us have done some geneaology work, although Ann and her hubby have done much more in-depth work than I have. She sent me the following, written by her cousin Evelyn J from Crawford County, Indiana:............ WE are the CHOSEN...My feelings are...in each family there is one who seems called to find the ancestors. To put flesh on their bones and make them live again, to tell the family story and to feel that somehow they know and approve. To me, doing genealogy is not a cold gathering of facts, but instead, breathing life into all who have gone before. WE are the storytellers of the tribe...all tribes have one. We have been called, as it were, by our genes. Those who have gone before cry out to us..."TELL OUR STORY"... so we do. In finding them, we somehow find ourselves. How many graves have I stood before, and cried? I have lost count. How many times have I told the ancestors..."YOU HAVE A LOVELY FAMILY, YOU WOULD BE PROUD OF US"? How many times have I walked up to a grave and felt somehow there was love there for me? I cannot count the times. It goes beyond just documenting facts; it is who I am and why I do the things I do. It is seeing a cemetery about to be lost forever to weeds and indifference and saying "I CAN'T LET THIS HAPPEN." The bones here are bone of my bone and flesh of my flesh. So I start doing something about it. It is pride in what our ancestors were able to accomplish and contributed to what we are today. It is respecting their hardships and losses, never giving in or giving up their resolve to build a life for their family. It is deep pride that they fought to make and keep us a Nation and understanding that they were doing it for us. So we were born to be as we are, and that we might remember them. So we remember, with love and caring, recording each fact of their existance because they are a part of us. So as a chosen scribe, I tell the story of MY family. It is up to that ONE called and chosen in the next generation to answer the call and take their place in the long line of FAMILY STORYTELLERS...."So shall it be written, so shall it be done."

In case you want to leave a comment on any of my posts and weren't able to figure it out, let me offer a word of help and encouragement. User-friendly it ain't. But click on comment, write your comment, and at the end of the screen is a box that has authencode written to the left and a number written to the right. Enter the number in the box and hit "send." Should work.

If you're not familiar with World Changers, well, you SHOULD be! The following is the devotional I wrote for LifeWay. It was the March 19 bulletin cover. .......................... You Can Be a World Changer! As Southern Baptist youth prepare for and celebrate Youth Week, they take on leadership responsibilities in churches throughout the United States. New leadership leads to change, to new ways of “doing” church.   Do you want to change the world . . . maybe even change your world? Since its beginning in 1990 World Changers, sponsored by the North American Mission Board of the Southern Baptist Convention, has evolved from offering hands-on missions experience to youth to now offering a variety of projects for all ages. Projects range from replacing a roof to painting to putting on aluminum siding to hanging dry wall to repairing plumbing to building decks and porches.   Today one out of every seven Americans lives in substandard housing. Each summer thousands of volunteers—both youth and adults—donate one week of summer vacation to helping meet the needs of homeowners who can ill afford necessary home repairs, to sharing the love of Jesus Christ to a lost world, and to impacting communities all over the world.   Would you consider volunteering to be the hands and feet of Christ, working with youth of all ages who have a heartfelt desire to change the world in which they live? Construction experience isn’t required. All World Changers asks is that you simply are willing to be used of God. Can you find the time to dedicate one week of your summer to make a difference in His kingdom? “Now every house is built by someone, but the One who built everything is God” (Heb. 3:4). ...................................................OK, that's it. I've been on 10 World Changer mission trips all over the South and kinda figured I'd served my time and I'm too old and any number of other reasons NOT to do it. Found out last night at church that there will be a Nashville World Changers project in July. YEH!!!! Kevin, who is a dear friend and suffers through sitting next to me in choir, is the project coordinator. That's the Big Dog job. Asked if he needed some help, and he was all over that like a duck on a junebug! Put in my request this morning at work and had approval in less than 5 minutes. I can hardly wait! . . . . . . A few years ago there was a Nashville World Changer project and I worked as a runner—picking up supplies from one site and taking them to another. Had to pick up a load of OSB board in West Nashville and take it to a site in East Nashville. I was driving Eddie's 5-speed truck. Some strong teenage boys loaded the 10 or so sheets of board in the truck and thought they had it secured. Thankfully, I had the good sense to avoid the interstate and instead drove through town. Had to stop at a light on James Robertson Parkway, one of the major thoroughfares in downtown Nashville. Was right in front of the Municipal Auditorium. The light changed, I started off in first gear, and would you believe it? Every single sheet of that OSB slid out the back of the truck and landed in a nice stack in the middle of the road. I knew it immediately. Looked in the rearview mirror and there it was. I could barely get out of the car for laughing. . . ... . . .. . . At the time Eddie worked only a few blocks from there. So I called him for help reloading the board. He was NOT laughing; in fact, he was quite angry (out of character for him). But before he could get there, the nice man in the car behind me helped me reload the OSB and I was on my way again. Stopped by to see Eddie so he could secure the load a little better and for a lecture on how I needed to be more careful. Like I planned this or something! . . . . . . . . Anyway, it was a great week. Also ended up being in a photo shoot with a crew. The picture was for Life Truths, SS curriculum. It was not only a cover for LT, but it was also on the cover of the teaching kit. And I bet I've seen it 10 more times in other pieces of curriculum. Sure got their money's worth out of that picture! Me in overalls. Not a pretty sight!