Hiking the PCT

I woke up this morning moaning.

The first thing that came into my mind was, “oh my neck, oh my back. Oh my neck and my back”.

It’s nothing more than a mass of knots and pain. Caused from carrying EK on my back yesterday on a hike in the woods, you know in one of those backpacks that holds kids.

This one to be exact.

You see, I read a book called Wild, by Cheryl Strayed and it’s kind of sent me into a frenzy. I can’t explain it. The book is a memoir about a lady who hiked the Pacific Coast Trail by herself. If you’re not familiar with the PCT, like I was, it is a stretch that runs from Mexico to Canada, through California, Oregon, and Washington. It took her three months, carrying everything she needed to survive on her back, living, eating, sleeping, and pooping in the wilderness. All alone. A switch went off in my brain. A desire to do the same.

Then a flash of reality went off in my brain reminding me I am 1) married 2) a mother 3) nearly forty 4) smarter than that.

So me and my brain, we compromised. I may not be able to hike the PCT, but I can go hike in the woods around me, my own personal PCT known as Perk Canyon Trail. So me and EK decided to do just that.

I strapped her on my back and we headed up.

About 14 steps up a very easy trail, I questioned my decision. It wasn’t easy.

It proved to actually be pretty hard. And I was reminded of a poster that hung in the Dyslexic teacher’s classroom at my former school. In big bold letters it read, WE CAN DO HARD THINGS.

I can do hard things, I kept telling myself.

In the book, Strayed keeps mentioning the weight of her pack was heavier than most backpackers. She never said the weight, but said it was at least half of what she weighed. I’m figuring an average 26 year old lady at about 120-130 pounds, so she’s probably carrying at least 60 pounds. Me, on the other hand, I’m carrying probably 25–30. And it ain’t easy for me.

A little ways up the trail, the air became a little nippy, so I stopped at a log to remove EK and put her jacket on her. It was a welcome relief. She then wanted to walk a little ways, and I was glad to have to only carry the pack without the added 22 pounds.

It is a real joy watching her exploring the woods, considering how she’s gonna cross this bride.

With mama’s helping hand of course.

Even getting off of logs proved to be a challenge.

Of course she had to stop and tie her “untie able” shoes after watching me tie mine, since she had been the one to bend over and untie mine, of course.

Later, I strapped her back in and we continued on. The leaves this time of year are remarkable. The colors are vibrant, although pictures don’t really do them justice.

The silence surrounds you. The only sounds are the crunching of your feet, the occasional call of a bird or flutter of their wings, and the rush of the water in the nearby stream falling over the rocks.

Eventually, EK fell asleep, her head bumping into mine, forbidding her to get a good sound rest. She finally laid her head against mine, pushing my neck forward, causing the tension in my upper back to increase. I lifted up on the pack, adjusting it, trying to relieve some discomfort without disturbing her, but it was only temporary.

It was a great time. It wasn’t the PCT. Thank goodness. It wasn’t 3 months but only shy of 3 hours. But it was enough.

If my back didn’t hurt so badly today, we might even do it again. Maybe.

I hope EK learns to love nature. There is just something about it. Something everyone should experience. We need to escape this modern world every now and again, and find solace in the wild.

And sometimes, we need to trade in our hiking shoes for some heels.

There’s nothing wrong with that.

****The youngest to hike the real PCT was 9 years old. Something to think about.

My Journey as a Writer

I’m beginning. I’m still at the beginning. I’m no longer at the starting line, and I don’t know the route or the way to the finish line. But I’ve begun.

Not long ago, my mom gave me a green folder that had special mementoes she had discovered while cleaning out. There were notes and letters. A child’s drawings of hearts and flowers. A book report in the shape of Oklahoma. Just a few things she had saved of mine during my elementary school years. I looked through them, not seeing much more than a pile of faded construction paper hearts with “I love my mom” scribbled in crayon.

Not until I dug deep, did I find something significant. It was a story I’d written, actually two. My mom had written on the back, “Angel came home today so excited to be a writer. An author visited the school. Here are two of her stories she has written so far.” The stories were lackluster and quite morbid. There were no happily ever afters to them. It actually made me sad to read them and there wasn’t much talent there at all, just a childhood imagination.

I don’t remember the day the author visited. I don’t remember writing those stories either. I’m grateful my mom saved them, though. It’s seems to confirm that writing is something I’ve wanted to do for a very long time. I like to think it’s engrained. It’s stitched in the fibers of my soul. It holds me together with big sloppy stitches. I guess somehow, throughout the years, my childhood dream of writing got pushed beneath all the glamourous, or high paying, or practical jobs that the teachers, parents, and society dictated instead. The little girl who desired to be an ice skater, then a psychiatrist, who settled on a teacher but not before becoming a waitress forgot her aspiration. No one valued writing that I can remember. No one encouraged that. Instead it was the doctor, lawyer, dentist, Dallas cowboy cheerleader kind of jobs to strive for.

I started this blog a few years ago. It’s one of my most valued treasures. I’ve nurtured it and it is my life memoir, so to speak. Some people actually read it. And those same people actually told me I should write more.

So I did.

Last month, I had a small (not so great) ebook published. That was the first hill of my journey.

Today I turned in a second book, and conquered another hill. It is actually a ghost writing project, meaning my name will not appear on it. Someone else will take my story, put their name on it, and pretend they wrote it. For now, that’s okay with me. If I were them, I couldn’t sleep at night, but that’s their issue not mine.

Tomorrow I begin another story.

And then, I have another one after that.

It’s good. It’s all good.

I am beginning to think of myself as a writer. Not a novelist, not even an author, but a just a little bit of a writer.

I’m not getting rich and famous. I’m not even being paid much, but it gives me a little Christmas cash, so I’m pleased.

Maybe somewhere down my journey, I might be considered a novelist. That would be so cool. Maybe at mile marker 1,458, I might have an agent, and an editor, and a publisher.

Dream with me just for a moment. Close your eyes.

Can you see it? I’m wearing glasses and a scarf to hide my old neck. My hair is grayer and I’m autographing a book.

Yes, I can see it. It makes me smile.

When I arrive at mile marker 1,459 I’ll look back on this little post right here, and all the ones before it, and see my beginnings. The ones where I wrote while my baby napped beside me in the bed. The late nights of lots of coffee while the rest of the house slept, the times I took my laptop to the backyard while EK played with the dogs and chickens and I slaved away and on plot twists and character sketches.

It’s an exciting journey, and at times it’s hard and long. But I’m not alone.

Lots have gone before me, and many are with me now.

You’d better listen.

This morning I sent this 14 year old off to school.

It’s Homecoming here. Last night there was a bonfire, today a pep rally, tonight a football game, tomorrow a dance.

We be busy.

So later, I was replying to some comments here on my blog and I ended up clicking on something that took me way back to some of my first posts. I saw comments from my dad, which made me smile and brought a touch of sadness as well. Clicking here led to clicking there until I came across this post from a few years back that is entitled “Listen.”

I think it’s my favorite blog post of all time.

It’s a voicemail from that sweet 14 year old above when she was a bit younger. A bit more innocent. But still as fun. And crazy. And tender.

You have to listen to this message. It shows her heart.

A beautiful heart.

Here’s the original post from 2010:

My niece called me. She left the sweetest, most precious voicemail.

Before you hear more, I must tell you this.

“Mama” in the message, works in bail bonds. They were at the jail to bail someone out. Thankfully, not a member of the family…….this time.

My niece had been prostrate weeping and wailing for hours because her friend Perla couldn’t come over after she had been planning it for a whole entire week. She was devastated.

And lastly, Jesus is her homeboy.

Click on the link below. You must. It’ll make you smile, I hope.

http://www.divshare.com/flash/playlist?myId=10255644-023

Authors Note: It took me 17 hours, 904 online tutorials, and ten of my own dollars to learn how to post this to my blog. I have yanked every hair from my head and am now forever changed, not to mention bald. So it had better make you smile.

Thanks for listening 🙂

My Heavy Heart Needs Lifting

Lately I’ve found myself in a very deep place of sadness. I can’t seem to shake it. I’ve tried prayer, meditation, positive thoughts, reading His word, music, exercise, even sitting alone and forcing myself to smile for a minute at a time. I’m about to resort to shopping. I may temporarily feel better after these endeavors, but it is short lived.

No one knows I’m sad. Not even the people I share my house with. They just think I’m constantly in a bad mood because I mask it with irritability. My heart’s hope is by blogging and sharing my struggle, it will help me find my happiness.

I could blame it on the rainy weather that threatens to linger through 2017 or through Christmas at least. But I think that isn’t the cause of my sadness, but only exacerbates it.

There’s other factors as well. I’ve been fighting an infection for over a week, and in other body news my thyroid which revolted against me 20 years ago is completely out of whack right now. I’m not sleeping and I just feel overwhelmed. I know these physical conditions can affect the mind. But again, I don’t think they are the cause.

I am battling with my weight, exercising all the time, and then counteracting the good effects by eating much more than one woman ever should. This is a troubling cycle which only causes frustration. Each day, I stand again on square one.

I am not a crier, but fighting tears has become too common lately.

When I delve deeply and truly question it all, when I sit still and don’t distract myself with the boring household chores or the internet, when I truthfully look at my situation, I realize the reason for my melancholy is that I feel all alone. I am living in a beautiful place, surrounded by glory and majesty and color. A place where people escape to. I’m surrounded by people and yet I am all alone. I have no family here. I have no friends here. It’s not even that I’m a big friend person. It’s that if I wanted to call someone up and say, “Hey let’s do something”, I wouldn’t have that option. Sure, me and EK have a play group and story time and church that we attend each week, but those are just people I see every week, not people who know me.

Is it also that I feel purposeless? Yes. Being a housewife is boring and tedious and repetitious. But do I even want to leave this messy house? No. I want to stay in bed, letting the raindrops make trails down my window and imagine God is crying with me.

I know there’s many people who suffer from the blues. I’ve not been one of them really, until now. Down in the dumps usually last only a short time for me. I don’t want to call this the D word, because it will pass, but while I’m here in it, it really sucks. I also feel really guilty for feeling this way, because I’m super blessed and I have no reason to feel sad. So then I throw guilt in the mixing bowl with all my other emotional ingredients and I end up with a batter very unappealing.

But anyway, I’ve said enough. I do feel better, strange as it seems, to open up my soul and show all of you my ugly insides. It’s like a release. And because I know many of you after you read this will stop and send happy thoughts my way, all the way across the states, the plains, hills, and streams, all the way to this valley that I’m sitting in right now. And I will see your happy thoughts coming on the winds, like little messenger pigeons bringing me your well wishes, your smiles, your “everything will be okays”.

I will look to the sky and wait for them. As they approach, I will open my heart and reach out my hand and catch them as they flutter to the ground. I will clasp them to my chest, close my eyes, and then send you one back.

“Every man has his secret sorrows which the world knows not; and often times we call a man cold when he is only sad.”
― Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

My story: Hearts in Rhythm

Here it is.

My first published story.

My first story, period.

It’s been published as an e-book for Kindle. It only costs $.99 and I completely picked out that juicy cover picture.

Just kidding.

I had no say in anything after I sent in the story, including the steamy cover.

Gauging from the picture, you might guess it’s a mystery. Well, you would be wrong. It’s a romance, but if you know me at all, it is completely PG. Or even G for that matter. No Fifty Shades of Gray here.

I don’t expect you to buy it, but you can if you want.

I didn’t go through the traditional publishing route, it was freelance work, which means even if you do buy it, I’ll never see one red cent from it. I’ve already been paid everything I’m going to be paid. So even when MGM makes a movie out of it and it becomes a blockbuster starring Leonardo DeCaprio, I will still be wearing ratty socks and buying underwear from Walmart.

A girl can dream, right?

I’m working on another project now, and the lady who published Hearts in Rhythm has hired me to write another story, so I’m chalking all this up as practice, diligence, and experience, not wealth or fame.

Anyway friends, thanks to all those who encouraged me, told me I should write a book, and said you loved my blog. You helped me believe in myself.

(Especially my cousin, Jay!)

I must go, I have a deadline to meet. (Doesn’t that sound cool?)

Much love,

Angel

Oh, here’s the link:
http://www.amazon.com/Hearts-In-Rhythm-ebook/dp/B00F25GLRY/ref=sr_1_7?ie=UTF8&qid=1379082331&sr=8-7&keywords=hearts+in+rhythm

Moment Dwelling

Last night a physical sickness hit me and I couldn’t sleep because of it.

I crept out of the bedroom leaving my husband and EK snoozing soundly, grabbed a down comforter, my robe, and headed to the couch where I still couldn’t sleep.

I got my laptop and for a reason unknown, I began looking at pictures I had stored on it. For three hours, I looked at my baby’s pictures and videos from way back.

Oh my heart.

My cheeks began to hurt and I realized I’d been wearing a smile for a very long time.

You tried to tell me how precious, beautiful, adorable, etc., etc. she was and boy, were you right.

Now that I’m a bit removed from that baby-baby stage, I can’t hardly believe how wonderful she was. And she still is, just bigger.

It’s just that when you’re in the big middle of it, sometimes you see through a glass darkly. Or as J-Dub would say, your tail lights are brighter than your headlights.

But last night, everything carried a new light. The way her hair grew. The dimples on her hands, her budding teeth, the way her rolls of fat lay upon one another, her grins and her frowns.

I sat and watched each little video from before she was born where I videoed her kicking in the womb, to her cooing, to rolling, to her wounded soldier crawl, to sitting, and all the beautiful steps in between.

After breakfast this morning, I sat her in my lap with the computer and continued my nostalgic trip. She knew that was baby Emma on the screen and her face wore the most proud expression as she watched herself growing up and doing this little things that we praised.

Our movie watching didn’t last long. She wanted to read a Monkey book, and color on the TV with a blue marker, get in the clothes I was folding, eat fish and peaches, then play with the dogs and chickens.

Now she stomps around in too big play shoes, puts Cheerios in her ears, and throws a mean temper tantrum.

We’re just doing life over here.

I have to remind myself that these mundane, day-to-day chores are the little things that become the big things. In another year, I’ll be watching the videos and studying the pictures from this season of our life together and realizing how precious, beautiful, adorable etc., etc., she was.

Then……

And now….

I must tell myself to live in the moment.

I’m trying.

Blogging……finally

I had to do a little digging for this fun fact, but for the first time since August of 2009, I did not publish a blog post.

For 4 years…..

48 months……

every month……

I have had a post except this last month.

That’s kind of a sad situation.

But it doesn’t have to be that way.

Since I missed August 2013, I’ll give a quick recap of the other things that stole my time, that is if I can remember.

First off, we got a puppy.

I started having some puppy fever back in the early summer and I found myself searching for a dog. This was crazy. My bro-in-law said what I needed was another baby, but you know, puppies don’t live as long. Or cost as much.

Here he is running like crazy to get away from these 2, who seem to want to love him a little too much.

And here he is, realizing love is a pretty cool thing.

We call him Ozzie.

Oz, the great and powerful. He likes to bark at himself in the mirror and other inanimate objects like EK’s little rocking horse. He is a sweet boy and is equivalent to having another 19 month old in the house. He’s into everything, I have to tell him not to chew on crayons too, and he pees and poops as he pleases. Kind of like some one else I know.

Speaking of…….I’m attempting to potty train this sweet girl of mine. She’s not having any part of it. She wants to wear her panties, but is a bit traumatized by the potty chair. This came about after she peed on my lap and I screamed. She got scared and cried as my mom yanked her britches down and plopped her on the potty that was sitting in the living room floor. I had run to the bathroom to wipe the pee that was running down my bare legs and onto my socks, so let’s just say that now, she is not sitting on that potty for nothing. So we put away the concept for a while and we’ll work on house training Ozzie instead.

Once upon a time, she liked her potty, but only with her clothes on.

Also, in the month of August, I met a writing deadline. This is something I’m super proud of. I freelanced a story and spent most of August writing/editing/crying/drinking coffee/burning the midnight oil/stressing/praying/walking the floor/and doubting my ability. But by August 31, it was complete and I actually received payment, which is pretty awesome. It was 30,000 words which is about 29,300 more than the longest blog post I’ve ever written. It ended up being 115 pages and I feel like I birthed a baby.

I think, if I’m brave enough, I can maybe call myself a writer now that someone actually paid me to write a story. I have another one to write this month, due by Sept. 30. I need a few extra hours in the day, or just to unplug from the internet, hire a babysitter, and sit my butt down long enough to write. It’s hard y’all, real hard. But it’s also completely cool.

The month was also spent with family who came to visit and outings to the mountains to hike and camp. School started for my sweet niece Ash who made cheerleader. So we’re acquainting ourselves with the rules of volleyball and dusting off our stadium seats for football games.

Here she is on her first day of high school.

Life is busy here.

As one of my friend’s daddy used to say, the days go by slow but the years go by fast.

May we cherish every moment.

18 months old

Dear Emma Kate,

Today you are 18 months old. One and a half. You are a delight to this world. You make it a better place to live already, in just 18 short months you’ve truly made a difference in many people’s lives. Remember to always strive to add beauty and make this world a better place.

Let’s see……there is so much to say about you. First off, you are talker! You aren’t easily understood except by those close to you, but you talk up a storm, and I don’t just mean you babble.

You like to pray, and that makes my heart so happy. When we sit down to eat, you remind us to “pay” and you reach for our hands. You bow your little head, but still peek out from under your hair (we know that because we’re peeking at you too). When we’re finished, you say Amen and squeeze three times. It is so precious.

You love books as always and want us to read to you all the time.

You are so smart. I know I’ve told you that since you were born, but you were born smarter than most adults ever manage to become! You love to write your letters. You call them all E, A, and O’s.

You sing songs. Your favorite is Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star and you have these sweet hand motions that go with it that you learned from play group. You also sing If You’re Happy and You Know it, B-I-N-G-O, You are my sunshine and lots more!

If you had a choice, you’d be outside! You are not a prissy pants, although you do like dressing up in necklaces and grown up shoes and calling yourself “toot” (cute), but you also eat dog food, waller in dirt, and don’t mind a little grit under your fingernails.

You love our dogs Drew and Grace and it is so funny to hear you talk to them. If you’re not giving them hugs and kisses, then you’re telling them “Go, Move, and No”! You also love the chickens and you hug their butts all the time.

You are just a little thing. We’ll be going to the doctor soon for a check up but I bet you weigh just barely over twenty pounds. You can still wear 12 month clothes and the 18 months are just a little roomy for you. You are super healthy and have never been too sick!!! I’m so happy about that.

As far as your personality goes, you are adorable! You like familiar people, and it takes you a good while to warm up to others that you aren’t around much. It hurts their feelings sometimes I think, but they’re grown ups and can deal with it. So you keep on being careful around others and be choosy in your friends. You are a watcher and an observer. You don’t just jump in and do things, but you analyze situations and sit back rather than dive right in.

You are a mommy’s girl! And you’ve even started being jealous if someone else touches me or tries to love on me. You yell “no no no” and wring your little hands. It’s so cute. I know you won’t always be a mommy’s girl, and there will be times that you, dare I say, will even think you hate me. But I will love you no matter what. Through all the highs and lows and ups and downs. You are my baby girl. You’re growing up and I am so proud to have you! Always know how much you are loved!

I love you!!!!!

xoxo

Mommy

Compassion

At what age did you lose your compassion?

I read this question on the internet the other day, and it has been bouncing around in my brain ever since. My first thought of course was, “I haven’t lost my compassion.” But then I had to call boloney on that one. I asked my husband this question last night after getting little to no sympathy for some aches and pain I was experiencing. His response: “about one year after I married you.”

Alrighty then.

It is no secret by those who know me near and dear that I am a hard hearted person. But I wasn’t always. I tried to remember when I lost my compassion. I remember as a little girl being very torn up when I saw a dead dog or cat in the road. And I remember having to tell myself one day that I was going to have to deal with it, it was just a fact of life. Dogs and cats die on streets every day. I began to avert my eyes when I saw one and go on with life.

Of course I like to think I have some compassion. I have compassion for children, for victims, for the elderly, for the sick.

But loving people is hard for me. I’m not sure why. I wish it were easier. I used to love and I wanted to help others. I was for the underdog, and I even began a graduate program to be a professional counselor. I felt sorry for people. I wanted to help them. But at some point, I got jaded. I learned that not everyone is genuine, that some even use emotions to manipulate and connive. I learned that most people end up in their predicaments because of choices they make, not all, but most. And some people even repeat those choices to dig themselves a deeper and deeper pit. And some then want you to dig them out of the pit they dug for themselves. It’s hard for me to have compassion for that.

Yet, that is what we are called to do.

I saw a couple of men standing at the corner by our Walmart the other day with a cardboard sign. I judged them. Immediately. Two men. Able bodied. Young. Clean-shaven. It’s not likely they had been to war. It’s not likely they were both suffering mental illness.

Get a job instead of a handout.

It’s a tough one. Because I know by the same measure I use, that will be used against me. I know that, and yet, I can’t help it.

*********

A road crew was working outside my bedroom window where I was attempting quite unsuccessfully to put my daughter down for an afternoon nap. I shut the window and turned on the fan to drown out the beeps and grinds of their back hoe/front loader/interrupter of sleep machines. Right at the point of entering Napdom, there was a knock on the door. I decided it was probably one of the road crew informing me that I was about to be blocked in my drive, so I got up and opened the door.

Instead of a man in an orange vest, I was met by a young boy, man rather, of about 23 or 24 years old. He apologized for bothering me and went on to tell me his woes. I’m sure you’ve heard them yourself. I’m stranded, I’m afoot, I’m hungry, I need to get to Abilene, I walked from a town 30 miles away, if I could only get to Roswell, and finally do you have any work for me so I can have some money for food?

His eyes were a vivid blue. He held a large McDonald’s cup in his hand. He had a dip in his mouth, and the way he kept using his tongue to push the dip deeper into his lip told me he was either new at dipping snuff or had a nervous habit. Both the McDonald’s cup and the snuff were good indicators to me that he obviously had some money. Probably more than I.

No, I have no work for you. Good luck and have a good day. I closed the door and watched through the window as he walked off in his baggy dirty blue jeans with the snuff ring in a back pocket. As soon as he was out of ear shot, I used my key fob to lock my car where I had left my purse earlier in the day. Yes, I think the worst of most people.

I walked back to the bedroom where my baby is yelling from the bed, and the question comes to me again.

At what age did you lose your compassion?

And then also, do not forget to entertain strangers for thereby some have entertained angels unaware.

Was this a test? What if my child someday is knocking door to door for money, might I hope someone help her? My conviction got the best of me. So I threw some vienna wienies, half a loaf of bread, a jar of peanut butter, a couple bottles of water and some nutrigrain bars in a plastic sack. I threw my baby on my hip. I threw some shoes on my feet and headed out the door. His legs were longer than mine and he’d walked much farther than I expected in amount of time it took for me to gather up the stuff. He’d walked past the road crew, around the corner, and was standing in a neighbor’s drive way when I found him. I handed him the sack of food and wished him well.

He thanked me.

I wanted him to vanish right then and there. To vaporize into thin air. Just to prove that I had passed my test. That yes, he was an angel and I had helped him and had pleased God. But he didn’t. He probably chunked my food in the nearest dumpster on his way down the road. My brand new unopened jar of peanut butter which was a big sacrifice for me.

Did I feel compassion for this man? Not really. I felt guilty for not helping him. I felt convicted that I might be judged and not helped someday I find myself in need. I felt tested. At what age did I lose my compassion?

Hmm…….It was such a long time ago, I don’t remember.

So do we all lose compassion? Do we all become jaded? Does life harden us? Or is it just me?

What about Mother Theresa? Wasn’t she the most compassionate human on earth? Was it forced for her? Was it out of duty? Responsibility? Fear of retribution?

Do you have the answers for me?

At what age did you lose your compassion?

The Clock on the Wall

When I was 25, I had a birthday party. Just a family party. Nothing out of the ordinary, we celebrate birthdays until we die and my mom goes all out. My grannie was there. My dad was there. Neither of which are here anymore. My dad got me several presents. He never really knew how to shop and this could have been the last birthday that he physically bought and wrapped presents. Later it became money, which was appreciated just as much but not as nearly as sentimental.

One of the gifts he gave me was a clock. Just a wall clock, nothing fancy. It has a pendulum and it chimes on the hour. It probably cost him $19.99, maybe even $14.99 from Walmart. We talking 13 years ago. It’s moved with me and always hung in a prominent place in the living room. It takes 4 AA batteries to get it to work. Two for the tick tock part, and two for the chimes. I haven’t had batteries in the chiming part for a long time. I can’t even remember the last time it chimed. I’m sure I didn’t have enough batteries to change out, and only replaced the two for tick tocking.

This past weekend, it stopped. Like most clocks, it slowed down at first, began losing time, then the second hand just stood on the number ten and twitched for a while before it completely shut down. Like a slow death. Like a person dying. First they slow down, then began losing some of their function, and then they just seem to hang on for a long time, like the second hand on the number ten before they’re gone. Just gone.

Today, I dug some AA batteries out of my big gallon jug appropriately labeled “batteries” and took the clock off the wall. I began the simple task, or what I thought would be, of getting a clock to run again. I had to pry the old batteries out with a butter knife, then replace with new ones. Nothing happened. I pried them out again, checking that they were in the right direction, nothing. I dug through my gallon jug for different batteries, replaced them and still….nothing. I wiggled the silver parts that hold the batteries in place, I jiggled different things, nothing was working.

And then I was hit with emotion. Wham! Bam! It took me completely by surprise and waylaid me. My heart started to hurt, tears began to well up. I took a deep breath and did some internal talking trying to make sense of why this was so upsetting to me. It’s just a clock. But on the flip side, it’s not just a clock. It’s a clock that I like, and my dad gave it to me. And that, my friends, put me into a tail spin. My mind began racing, tears flowing, fingers still using a butter knife to place and replace batteries in a clock, trying to find the meaning, the symbolism in all this. One more thing of my dad’s that’s gone? Lost time? Am I losing time? Am I wasting time? What does this mean? Why is this wrecking me right now?

I sat the clock down on the kitchen table and walked off. I had to get a grip. But my steps took me to the living room where I instinctively looked at the wall and saw the bare spot where it hung. I went back to the kitchen. I needed something to eat. Eating would stop the shaking. I popped two pieces of bread in the toaster, but couldn’t leave it alone. I went back into the utility room and pulled the jug of batteries off the shelf. Rummaging through all the triple A’s and the C’s, I found my last two double A batteries. I said a prayer, please God let this work. I need help.

I put the batteries in, and the clock began to tick. It began to tock. Relief swept over me. I looked up and said, Thank you Jesus. Thank you.

I then put two of the batteries that were not working in the chiming part, and it began to chime. I will never allow it not to chime again.

I hung it back on the wall, my wall of favorite things.

The clock from my dad, with the family prayer plaque from our dear friends Brad and Suzanne. The cross was given to me by my sweet friend Mrs. Z. The dog on the bed picture was something I bought for myself from JC Penney. I paid $109 for it when I was in college and it nearly broke me. My dad gave me the cedar chest. My sister and family gave me the old red truck, and I’m going to have one like it someday. The little church was bought with some money from my Aunt Bert after she sold us our house in Texas.