The Middle of Nowhere

When we describe where Walnut Hill is to someone, I normally hear the phrase "in the middle of nowhere", during the conversation.  It is in the country.  There are far more trees than people.  There are farms rather than subdivisions.  There are critters rather than pets.  The roads wind and the land rolls.  There are stars rather than streetlights and stop lights.  There are frogs that croak and crickets that chirp rather than sirens that blare and engines that roar.

I think there is a preconceived notion that there is nothing to do in "the middle of nowhere".  There are no movie theaters or malls.  There are no fast food restaurants.  There aren't even sidewalks.  And there is very little (and I'm talking nano here folks) cell service.

So, the minute my children return from the "middle of nowhere", why would they ask when they get to go back?  The "middle of nowhere" is where shoes become an afterthought and boundaries don't exist.  You become king of the forest and a pilot in the clouds.  Your imagination rules your world. You explore and discover and build and play.  And when your dirty toes get tired, you can swing to the stars.  And when you've grown weary of playing in the stars, you can rest in the love of your Memaw and Papa.

Well, as it turns out, the "middle of nowhere" happens to be smack-dab in the "middle of somewhere".

Hair of Red and Eyes Without Color

In my new role at home, my focus has shifted from my classroom and students to growing my children to be people who are broken for others.  I want them to genuinely love others as they do themselves.  Even more than themselves.  I want them to see the beauty that exists in their neighbors.  I want them to invest in others.  I want them to pour into others all the love and compassion they can muster.

I have lived in Pensacola for the majority of my life.  I've seen how people live.  I've walked up to houses where I could see inside, not by a window or a door, but by looking through slats that make up the wall.  There are children in our city who live in one bedroom apartments with 13 of their relatives.  I know because I taught them.  Our city is made up of people who live differently than we do.  They are people with stories and lessons.  I think it is imperative for Margo and Jude to understand that their perspective is shaped by their own little lives.  I want them to have a broader view.  I want them to connect with others who look and live differently than we do, to better understand how much we really have in common.  It's hard to love a neighbor if we never get to know them.

This summer I began to pray for God to lead me with a sovereign Hand in revealing the streets and people of our city to my children.  


Most mornings, after dropping Margo off at school, I pass a man on my way back home.  His red hair caught my attention.  Maybe it's because some of the most loved people in my life are redheads.  I've watched him stand with his sign.  That is all most of us see of his life.  Standing on a corner with a sign.  His red hair catching the light, he stands and looks past the people and the cars.  Last week, while stopped at the red light, he didn't look past me.  He looked at me.  And there he stood with his red hair and his eyes without color.  I expected them to be blue, but they weren't.  They weren't a color recognizable to me.  Not brown or green or even gray.  They were just deep and full.

And so that was it.  I went home and put together a practical bag of goodies for him and went back, equipped with my camera, a notebook and a pen.

Walking towards him, I was nervous that he would think I was crazy.  

Closer and closer I got, and he just assumed that I'd just keep walking, but instead I just walked right up to him, "Hi".  Ha!  That was it!  That's all I said.  "Hi".  And at that small, insignificant word, his sign dropped to his side.

He surprised me with his intelligent conversation.  He was so with it and present and willing to just talk.  Throughout our entire conversation, he never held his sign to catch the countless cars passing.  His focus never left our conversation, with the small exception of the dog that hung his body out of the car to give us a loving pant, with accompanying head tilt and tail wag. Well, and with that we shared a great laugh.

Gary was born December 12, 1957.  Right out of high school he joined the Marine Corps and he served in the mid and late 70s, while stationed in California.  As he told me about being 2nd in his class in Supply School, his chin lifted and his posture straitened.  I could feel that he felt valued in that moment.  I was proud of his accomplishments.  I was also thankful for his service as I stood there listening to his story.  He was a son and a brother to three bothers and a sister.  The pride he felt in his father was obvious.  That pride was a role in his journey to Pensacola.  Before Gary's birth, his dad was stationed in Pensacola and he grew up hearing stories of our city.

So how does a veteran, whose father was once stationed in our city, end up standing on our streets without a home or a family?  He lost his job in Savannah, Georgia without a savings.  And before long, he was on the street.  As he told me about the life that he's living, his shoulders drooped back and his chin found a way back closer to his chest.

We continued to talk and I told him about the difficulty of raising children in a selfish society.  He wanted me to pass on to them to value school and to walk away from trouble. He felt those were great contributing factors that lead him to life as it is.

As our conversation and time together came to an end, I asked him if I could take his picture and share our conversation.  He agreed, and at first he held his sign back in front, like that was who he is.  I took that picture, but then I dropped my camera down a bit to look at him.  I asked him if he'd feel uncomfortable if I got in really close to capture him.  It is funny the way little things can change people.  He straightened up again and dropped his sign.  He ran his fingers through his hair and beard in an attempt to groom it somewhat. He felt valued and I valued him.  His worth is indeed great to me.

I thanked him for sharing a bit of himself with me and I gave him the little bag and I walked away.  I was probably about ten feet away when I looked back at him.  He was walking away from his corner with his bag.  As I drove away, I saw that he'd moved to a tree, where he went through his bag.

As I passed him, I could envision him as a boy with his red hair, surrounded by all his brothers and his sister and loved dearly by his parents, opening the gift.

Her Soul

Two years ago this week, Josh read The Giving Tree to his Gurney one last time.  Her casket was covered in roses and hydrangea.  It was beautiful. Just like her soul.  After the service, Jude took the book and held it.  And he wept for her.  He loved the tree and he already missed her laugh that required her to hold her belly.  He sat in the vehicle while we loaded everything for the graveside service, and he quietly embraced his book, covered in his crayon markings; the one that he had read to her just days before her soul slipped into Heaven.  

We drove through the country roads, following the roses and hydrangea.  And Jude held his book and took in the ride.  He watched the farmer stop his tractor in his field, the boy shut off his lawn mower and put his hat over his heart, the Mennonite girl stand from her garden and dust her hands on her dress apron.  I leaned over to Jude and softly told him, "For Gurney".   He never looked over at me, but I know he was touched by their love.  They didn't love Gurney like we did, but they understood the love of the soul and how we grieve when it leaves it's earthly body.  Once we drove up to the grave site,  Josh left us to join the pallbearers and I grabbed Jude's free hand, the other one still grasping his book.  Margo joined her Memaw and Papa.  We were watching the pallbearers lift her casket when Jude let go of my hand and handed me his book.  My seven year old boy silently left my side and joined the pallbearers.  What they were carrying was precious to him.

Josh holding his hand out to Jude.

We sat under the tent and a few words were spoken before Margo tried one last time to sing a song to her Gurney.  But she couldn't.  In the space where notes were supposed to fill, was overwhelming sadness.  

Lucy comforting Jude with her presence.

Only a few weeks later, we were back in school.  Margo started 5th Grade and her teacher, Mrs. Rose, assigned the project of writing a memoir.  This writing assignment is still my favorite that she's written in school.  It's filled with the love that a 9 year old girl has for her 87 year old great-grandmother.

Indivisible

Well, this post has been almost a month in the making.  The 4th of July is always a big day for our family.  The cousins come to our house and we celebrate our country's independence in a big way.  We've been doing this since the oldest of the cousins, Chloe and Margo, were just toddlers.  We do the same thing every year.  It's tradition. 

 A few days after the 4th, I sat down to go through our pictures of this year's get together.  Every time I'd sit to write a post, chronicling our 4th of July holiday, some horrible event of hate or division would be in the headlines.  I'm not sure exactly how I felt, but it just seemed insensitive to post.  At one point, I had actually finished an entire post, but after the news of another tragedy hit the headlines, I just dropped it.

Last weekend we went to watch our Blue Angels fly. This year, things were different.  There were only five.  But with people from all over the country, we sat on our beautiful beach with anticipation of seeing them in the sky again.  For the cousins, the day was much like the 4th, full of splashing and underwater explorations and just playing together in the July water.

At 2 o'clock Fat Albert flew across the beach, turning around directly in front of us and taking a deep dive as if in need of a sip of water from the Gulf.  And then, with a thunderous explosion, she sped off towards the heavens.  The response was involuntary.  On that stretch of beach, people from all ages, races, and walks of life screamed and laughed together in amazement, grabbing their neighbors.  It just seemed so starkly different than every news story I read or every picture I saw on the internet and on TV.  We stood there proud.  Proud of that girl, Captain Katie Higgins, who just roared past us for a vertical leap towards the sun.  Proud of the five who had the courage to continue with their mission after their loss.  Proud to be American.

Normally, we'd watch our Blues fly by in spectacular fashion in their Delta formation, but that would take 6.  So instead, they flew by in a formation similar to a cross.  And we all stood there grateful.  I stood there grateful.  Grateful for those who made such great sacrifices for my freedom.  Grateful for redemption.  Grateful for salvation.

In the week since the Blues, there have been more headlines focused on cruelty and division.  I know that there are issues in our world that must be addressed.  I am so aware of the ever growing sense of fear that exists due to the changing society that we live in.  But there is so much good that we ignore. We all have a choice to be divided by the words and actions of others and by the headlines of the media.  Or, we can choose to be undivided, and focused on the goodness that still exists in the world.  Division is a choice.  When my child takes off in a parking lot, I grab her.  I make the choice to reach out. I make the choice to hold her tight and draw her in.  She's mine.  I'll always make the choice for unity.

I choose to focus on the immense goodness that far outweighs the bad.  I choose to grab my country.  I'll hold her tight and draw her in.   

So today, I'm going to pick back up the post that I had dropped.

There are certain things we do every single year on the 4th of July, and starting our day at the beach with the cousins is one of them.  This year, they were in search of treasure.  With goggles and masks secured so tight that their little faces were distorted into amphibious sea creatures, they sought the most beautiful shells.  And like with everything else they do, it turned into a competition of sorts.  Who could find the most shells?  Who could find the most beautiful shell?  Chloe and Jude stayed focused on their hunt, and boy was the loot magnificent!  The others though, well, they ventured off into their own world.  If I had to guess, they became mermaids on a tropical island or something like that.

And once we start to hear complaints of jellyfish stings, or disabling sand rashes, or shark bites, we head back to the house.  Every year the kids make an American Flag cake. And a mess. Just as all American kids should, they make a good ole fashion mess. They own their project with pride and it is fun to watch!

Once they've put the cake in the oven, they have 45 minutes of bake time, which equates to 45 minutes of play time.  And off they go!  This year, those blueberries, that were meant solely for the blue portion of the American Flag cake, became objects to catapult across the sky and into one's mouth.  And again, it became a competition.  And  again, Chloe and Jude owned it.  Let's just say they have major berry handling skills!  Molly and Margo ventured off to paint their fingernails and make the difficult decisions about the pattern of the red, white and blue and which shades of blue would look best and which fingernail should have the accent color.  And Lucy, she enjoyed the blueberry show!  She became a judge of sorts.  Chloe really topped things off when she did her "launch the berry, then do a cartwheel while the berry is hurling across the sky like a meteor, then catch the blueberry meteorite with a fist pumping ending"!  I mean really!  How amazing is that?!

Do you see that blueberry?  It's descending straight for her trap!

See that look?  He's gloating about his skills.

After their 45 minute bake/play/throw-a-blueberry-then-catch-it-with-your-mouth/manicure time, it's American Flag decorating time!  And since the kitchen is such a mess from batter splatter, egg cracking and such, they decided to decorate the cake in the dining room.  And make a mess.  And lick their fingers.  It is impossible to count how many times a finger gets licked in this process of decorating a cake to become an American Flag. I tried.  It is impossible.

Once the American Flag cake is complete, we put it in the refrigerator and get ready for our All-American picnic.  This year's menu was the typical July 4th lineup: grilled hot dogs, baked beans, coleslaw, corn on the cob, BBQ potato chips and Coca-Cola Classic.  And Molly assumed that when Pappy asked her if she wanted ketchup, that he meant on her hot dog.  Well, she should have known better!

After we eat dinner, it's time for American Flag cake and watermelon.  I always conveniently make myself very busy during that time so that I can skip the consumption of the American Flag cake without the kids noticing.  You know, that whole finger-licking-good process of decorating the stars and stripes stays fresh in my mind, making it a little tough to swallow.  After dessert, we always try to take pictures of the kids in front of the flag before sunset.  The cousins really don't appreciate this part of the day.  We just simply ask for a few minutes of sitting in front of a camera for a few pictures and they act like we are torturing them.  Seriously.  You should see it.  It is ridiculous.  

 

When we can't handle the complaining any longer about the itchy grass, or the leg cramp from having to sit in one position, or the dimple contraction from smiling too much or the shark bite, we set them free to play again.  And off they go!  This year they played Frisbee, did cartwheels, had water chugging contests and swung on the porch swing.  Like all Americans should.

This is impressive, but they've got nothing on Aunt Emily!

 With an hour until our city's fireworks show begins, we gather our blankets, sparklers, glow sticks and waters and begin our walk to Gulf Power's lawn.  This walk has evolved.  It started years ago with sleeping baby cousins being pulled in the wagon, a toddler cousin being pushed in the little red car, and the other toddler cousin being passed from one set of shoulders to the other.  Since the youngest of the cousins, Marshall and Vivian, couldn't make it this year, the little red car sat parked in the basement.  But she will stay parked there until next year, in the event they choose her as their mode of transport down to the fireworks display.  And as a family, we walk down together to join our neighbors; to celebrate our freedom and our great country.  

Daylight diminishes and the stars light the last leg of our walk.  We lay our blankets down in the same spot every year and watch the kids dance with their glow sticks and wave their sparklers, performing their pregame event.  And it is fabulous!

And right there, together with our community, we settle down in unison when the street lights dim to darkness.  The patriotic songs dance through the night and the fireworks blast off, illuminating the faces of their city.  We were all there for the same reasons.  There's goodness.  And we celebrate it.  We're one nation under God.  And we're indivisible if we so choose.