It occurs to me again and again that God didn’t have to make the world beautiful. He didn’t have to make rainbows or blue skies or bright green baby leaves. We’d have never known any different if the world were black and white and shades of gray.

Think about that for a second. Think about the hot, colorless sky of late summer and imagine it every day of the year. Think of wintry, bare gray branches all year long. Think of the people in your life being colorless – no bright blue smiling eyes, no cheeks pink with laughter, no sun glinting off bright red hair…how sad that would be!

So it seems that God likes being creative. I found this cool scripture – thought I’d share it…

He who forms the mountains,
who creates the wind,
and who reveals his thoughts to mankind,
who turns dawn to darkness,
and treads on the heights of the earth –
The Lord God Almighty is his name.
Amos 4:13 (NIV)

God makes all of us creative in one way or another. He made me need to sing, even if it’s not that awesome. He made me need to write, even if most of it is ridiculous rambling. He made me need to make things beautiful – to create an environment that is full of the things that remind me of all the beauty in the world.

We all appreciate beauty. Some of us recognize the orderly beauty of binary code. Some of us see it in a perfectly prepared meal. Others see it in the varied color of a mountain sunset’s fading light. Even when my heart is sore, maybe especially when my heart is sore, I need beauty. Whether I’m making something beautiful by hand, making something ugly beautiful again, or simply appreciating the gorgeous flowers I just planted, it eases me.

I hope that if you read this far you will take a minute to look around and notice the beautiful things that God has put in your life and in your surroundings. Internalize that God made that beauty for you to enjoy and be inspired by. He didn’t have to do it. He did it because he is by nature creative. And I also believe that it’s a gift to us.

If you’re heartsore, as I am tonight, may you take comfort in the fact that God loves you. He made that sunset, that double rainbow, that wildflower JUST FOR YOU. You mean that much to Him. We mean that much to Him.

“It’s too late. It’s just too late for me. I’ve got to face it. I’ve got to stop hoping. I need resign myself to the fact that I’ll never get married. I’ll never have a family. It’s just too late…too late for me…”

All weekend these words had been repeating over and over inside of my brain. Another failed relationship had thrown me. I wept. I prayed fervently that I was wrong, that I COULD hope, but then in the same breath I’d get mad at God. Of course, I’d immediately apologize for getting mad at Him. Then I’d repeat to myself that it was just too late. I was too old. I had to stop hoping. I was a fool. It was too late…

Even in the depths of depression you still realize that you and the cat have to eat. So I forced myself to get dressed and go to Wal-Mart for cat food and cereal. It was a sunny, beautiful Sunday, but I didn’t notice any of that. Even as I walked through the store those words were playing on a loop inside my head. It’s too late. Stop hoping, stupid. It’s too late for you, Sherrin. You’re unlovable. No one would ever want you, especially now. It’s too late.

I avoided the gaze of every person I encountered. I was consumed by this overwhelming sadness in my spirit. All I wanted to do was buy my cat food and go home to cry. I finally found the things I needed and got into line at the self checkout. As I started to unfold my reusable shopping bags, a family got into line behind me. It was a well-dressed dad and his teenage sons. They’d obviously just come from church. I’d skipped church that morning, myself. I didn’t have to be there – it wasn’t my week to sing. The depression just wouldn’t allow me to get up and go sit completely alone, once again, amongst that sea of happy couples and adorable families. I couldn’t do it.

The man said hello to me. I said hi and started to unpack my buggy in order to avoid his gaze. I didn’t want to talk. Please, everyone in the world, just leave me alone. I began to shake my reusable bags out to hang on the rack at the checkout so that I could ring up my groceries.

“Those are nice bags,” he said. “Where’d you get those?”

I glanced at him briefly and replied, “I got them online. It’s a website called ____.”

I smiled but kept avoiding his eyes and continued to ring up my stuff. I just wanted out of there.

“That’s a great idea,” he said. I replied that I thought it was too, yes.

I hurriedly, clumsily finished buying my stuff and dumped it all into my buggy. As I ripped the receipt off of the machine I happened to look back and my eyes met his.

“Have a good one,” I said.

I turned and started to push my buggy toward the exit. I just wanted to be alone with my pain, away from people and their demands for interaction.

As I walked away the man said, “Hey, miss?”

I thought I must’ve left something. I turned back to look at the man.

“God wants me to tell you something. God wants me to tell you that it’s not too late.”

That’s what he said. *GOD* wanted him to tell me that it’s not too late.

My face immediately crumpled and I started to cry. Ugly cry. I managed to whisper a thank you and sprinted out of the store. I cried for hours that afternoon, but my tears started to shift from despair to hope and thankfulness that God would even bother to speak to me in this way.

So…That was five years ago. I know. A long time to keep hoping. From the outside, people wouldn’t think that much has changed in my life. Same job, same house, same church. True, on the outside I look a little different now, but on the inside…the change has been enormous. The pit of depression doesn’t trap me anymore. I’m constantly at work on my emotional and physical health. I’m determined to be creative and to learn and to live a life that I enjoy.

But now…as I face yet another relationship that didn’t work out, I feel that pull toward the old thinking. You weren’t worth waiting for, Sherrin. You weren’t pretty enough. Cool enough. Sweet enough. No one will ever love you. You might as well stop hoping. You’re too old. It’s too late for you. Stop hoping…stop hoping…stop hoping.

But then I remember that Sunday afternoon. I remember a nice man who was willing to heed the Holy Spirit’s prompting and give me a word from God. And I especially remember a God who cares so deeply for me and for the things that hurt me – yes, small, pathetic, sinful me – that He’d take the time to reassure me in a Wal-Mart checkout lane.

So life isn’t working out the way I’d like for it to. But I’m trusting God. He sees the big picture that I can’t see, and won’t be able to see until Heaven. I’m trusting that there’s a purpose for the hurt I feel, and for the growth it forces.

And yes…I’m still going to hope.

Fifteen months isn’t really a very long time, if you think about it. Female camels can grow and birth a new camel in fifteen months. Joan Baez has a pretty good song called Fifteen Months. And it’s also how long it took me to reach my goal weight after gastric bypass surgery…

It’s hard to put into words how I’m feeling today. I don’t generally weigh myself every week, even though that’s what the doctors recommend in order to prevent re-gain. I have never wanted to get too obsessed with the number on the scale. I’m not even sure why I thought to weigh myself today, to be honest. Suffice to say that the number on the scale surprised me!

On one hand I’m proud of myself. I know that a lot of people think of weight loss surgery as “the easy way out”, but it truly isn’t. It’s hard emotional and physical work. The people who are in my life on a daily basis, and the people who really love me, know how hard I’ve worked and I know that they’re happy for me. That makes me feel great.

On the other hand, I was told from childhood that being proud of yourself is vain. So the past fifteen months has been tough for me in a way I never expected. Because I’m afraid of being vain, it’s always hard for me to accept compliments. And people give you compliments on changes to your physical appearance more than anything else. Obviously. Yet I really do feel grateful, because it’s very kind of people to notice you at all, much less take the trouble to compliment you.

I feel like a completely different person, but not in the essential inside part of me. That’s the same. The difference is in things like not being ashamed to have my photo taken (or heaven forbid, posted on Facebook). It’s in being willing to try things that I would’ve been scared to try before. It’s in fitting in an airplane seat and not crowding my neighbor and making them angry. It’s in men actually making eye contact as I pass, instead of quickly looking away. It’s in the enjoyment of being simply average.

A few months ago I met a really funny, kind, thoughtful guy. I didn’t ask if I could talk about him here, so I won’t say too much, though I don’t think he’d care. Anyway, since he lives in Virginia, we’re trading visits and trying to meet up as we can. Earlier this month I went to visit him for a long weekend. We got to do a lot of cool stuff, but one thing in particular was fantastic.

There’s a big waterfall there called Crabtree Falls. It’s the largest cascading waterfall east of the Mississippi, according to their website. Steven likes to hike, and it looked like a beautiful place to go, so we decided we’d go there while I was visiting.

So…I’m a Florida resident. Florida is a mostly a flat, purely sea level state. I think my neighborhood on the bluffs off Scenic Highway is hilly. But it turns out that I wasn’t at all prepared for the altitude OR the incline, even though it’s only 1.7 miles and I’d been working out a good bit. I guess that having asthma didn’t really help either, though…

The climb was tough for me. I had to stop several times because I felt like I was hyperventilating. But my coach was pretty awesome. He gave me a lot of helpful tips and encouraged me and looked out for me the whole way. Once he even told me it was no big deal; we could turn around and go back down. But I was completely determined to get to the top at that point. There was no way I was going to NOT get to the top of that trail.

When we got to the top I think Steven was surprised that I was so excited and that it was such a big deal to me (he’d barely broken a sweat!). I even made him take a picture of the mile marker so that I could prove I made it all the way. It was an accomplishment.

Steven didn’t know the old me. Unfortunately I still have some “old me” issues with fear and insecurity that he’s been understanding about, but it’s not surprising that he didn’t even think about the fact that a year prior I could NEVER have made it even halfway up that trail. I’ve lost almost half of my body weight. The fact that I was able to do it, even though it was hard (and maybe because it WAS so hard), was huge to me.

A lot has happened in fifteen months. I feel like my world got bigger. I’m stronger and healthier, both emotionally and physically. Reaching my goal weight today has made me look back over this experience and appreciate how far I’ve come. And I’m going to try to feel okay about being proud of it.

Twenty or so school children ranged over the wide, flat field. Northwest Florida’s spring rains had left the ground slick and muddy, so the kids picked their way over ruts made by the farm’s big 4×4 trucks. The lowering sky was dim and didn’t provide much light, especially for midday. So they moved slowly, heads down, studying the mud with unusual intensity. Once in a while someone would drop down into a crouch, paw at the mud, and pop up with a shout. They’d found something!

The farmer who owned the field and Mrs Ailes would hurry over to exclaim over the find – most likely a broken arrow head or bit of pottery. The other kids would start searching again with a will, itching to find something too. That it was cold, that the mud was thick enough to suck the shoes off your feet (and then that you’d get in trouble for ruining them), none of that mattered. What mattered was THE FIND.

That day I found several Choctaw arrow heads and a shard of pottery from the curved edge of a bowl. It was incised with decorative x’s and was a coarse brown-gray color. It was one of the coolest days of my life. Struggling through the mud with my friends, searching for artifacts like a real archaeologist, holding items in my hand that were an untold number of years old…I was in heaven.

The other day I was watching a documentary from PBS about a village in the midlands of England called Kibworth. It’s apparently built on a very old crossroad that has been in use for millennia. Someone had the fantastic idea to research the area by teaching the residents how to excavate and document what they found in their very own back gardens.

In one scene a boy of about 8 or 9 is talking about what his family had found. You could see mom and grandma in the background and a couple of little sisters helping out, so it was obviously a family project. The boy was lit up with pride as he talked knowledgeably about finding Roman artifacts. History had just become real. [ Watch Michael Wood's Story of England]

Six or more years ago I was visiting my sister and her family in Tyler, TX. I’d always wanted to tour this beautiful old house that stands in the downtown area, so we took an afternoon to explore it. I have a tremendous love of history and a huge soft spot for old houses, but I wasn’t sure my nephews (aged probably 8, 9 & 12 at the time) would be at all interested. I was pleasantly surprised when they were actually curious.

One downstairs room was dedicated to the members of the family who had fought in the Civil War. We gazed at cases full of guns, knives, mess kits, and all kinds of other warlike things that boys like. I told them what I knew about some of the items and they told me things they’d learned in school about the era themselves.

We made our way upstairs where bedrooms opened off of a wide hallway. We looked into each room (they were staged and roped off) and talked about what it would’ve been like to live there. My sister and I described the uses of the more unfamiliar items like wash stands and slipper chairs. They noticed how the beds looked small by modern standards and I pointed out how low all of the doorknobs in the house were because people were smaller 150 years ago.

The girl’s bedroom was especially interesting to them. It was full of old toys and smaller versions of the furniture we’d seen in the other bedrooms. I thought that the tiny writing desk was especially adorable. As we were heading back downstairs, my middle nephew said, “Wouldn’t it be cool if we could open up that desk and find a secret compartment? And inside it was that girl’s diary?” Suddenly that wasn’t just a room full of furniture to Jacob, it was where a real little girl slept and dreamed and played.

Each time that history steps off the pages of a book and into your hand is breathtaking, whether it’s the first time or the thousandth time. History shouldn’t only be about lists of names and dates and battles fought. It’s important for us to remember those things. But the past doesn’t come alive because you’ve memorized that Columbus sailed the ocean blue in fourteen hundred ninety two. It comes alive when you find a piece of the past in a muddy field, your own backyard, or in the Victorian mansion you always pass when you drive to town.

Ever since I had gastric bypass I’ve been asked a ton of questions. People are very kindly interested in how I’m doing, which is really sweet. And I think that people are genuinely curious about what it’s like. So since I’ve decided to be real about the whole thing, here are my two cent’s worth on the subject… 

The first few days right after surgery are honestly a painkiller’d-up blur of breathing exercises to prevent pneumonia, slow walks around the ward pushing an IV stand to prevent blood clots, and (apparently) long conversations with loved ones and friends that you don’t remember later. At all. It’s a painful effort to do even the smallest task, and you have to ask for a lot of help. I don’t appreciate having to ask for help. I do, however, appreciate having HAD the help of my sweet Sister, some wonderful nurses, and a few fantastic friends. I had to stay in the hospital a day longer than most because I was in a lot of pain, and that has always made me really nauseated. Being really nauseated is not what you want after just having rerouted your interior plumbing, so to be on the safe side the doc kept me in.

When I finally got home I realized that all the books and blog posts I’d read were right. My sense of smell really WAS suddenly about 1000% more acute. And I have a seriously acute sense of smell already. I could smell the dead rat in the ceiling above my desk at work a full week before anyone else could smell it. When I go into Starbucks I can smell the scent of coffee in my hair all day long. When I walked back into my house for the first time after surgery, I almost gagged on the smell of stargazer lilies and litter box. I don’t think there’s any way to prepare for this. I just dabbed Bath & Body Works lotion under my nose all day and Sister put the lilies on the back porch.

The first few days at home following surgery were uncomfortable. I was always burning up. My awesome Sister (meanie!) kept making me get up and walk even though I just wanted to stay still. She made me drink water when I didn’t want to because ingesting anything made me feel nauseated. She made me take medicine and do my blood pressure and temperature, as per directed. Annoying! Then my cat inexplicably wanted to sleep on my stomach when I was lying in bed. He NEVER wants to sleep on me, but suddenly he was dying to after I had major abdominal surgery. WTH???

After a few days, though, Sister had to go home. I was an emotional wreck and was honestly terrified to be by myself. I didn’t know how I could take care of myself when I couldn’t bend over, could barely get in and out of bed, and might not have the sense to know if I was having complications I should call the doc about.

Of course I was okay, but I won’t lie – it was hard…If I dropped something it stayed on the floor unless I could pick it up with my toes. There were days when I struggled with being alone and having no one to talk to. I cried a lot (anesthesia can make you very emotional). I fretted over getting dehydrated because it’s really hard to drink at first. I ate too little and felt weak. I ate too much and it hurt. There were days when I planned to venture out (Sister’s orders), but was so tired by the time I showered and dressed that I’d fall asleep on the couch for three hours. When I went back to work after three weeks I could barely make it through the day. But every day I got a little better.

The morning that I woke up and was lying on my side WITHOUT PAIN was the day that I knew I was getting back to normal. I think that was about six or eight weeks out. Soon I could eat two full ounces. By three months out I could eat almost three! People are shocked when I tell them how little I eat. But here’s the thing. You don’t feel like you’re missing out on anything. If you eat one smidgen too much you feel like you stuffed yourself at Thanksgiving dinner. After eating just the proper amount you’re disgusted by the thought of eating anything else. You do not feel deprived at all. It’s kind of a miracle.

Today is my five month anniversary. I feel completely normal again. I’ve lost almost 80 pounds. I’ve also lost a BUNCH of hair, but that’s normal. I don’t like it, but I expected it. I exercise. I have more energy. I eat low carb because I need a whole lot of protein, and with a small stomach you can’t afford to let carbs take up much room. But I do eat carbs sometimes and don’t sweat it. I take, and will always take, a variety of vitamin supplements. I don’t eat sugar at all. I haven’t even risked it because sugar can cause dumping syndrome, the particulars of which I will spare you because it’s pretty gross. I thankfully haven’t experienced it yet. I’m learning to deal with emotions that I used to just cover up with food. Overall it’s been fantastic.

When I first got back to work/church, people would ask me if I’d “do it again.” In those early days I just told them that I couldn’t really say because I still hurt, didn’t feel like myself, and also hadn’t lost much weight. But now I can unequivocally say that I would have this surgery again. Even the tough first days are worth the end result. And I’m not even to my goal yet! But probably the most satisfying thing about this experience is knowing that I’ve done a brave, hard thing and I’m stronger and healthier because of it.

Landry had stood hand-in-hand with Grandmother as the old house was pulled down. Everything of use or of historic significance had long ago been taken out and re-used over the years. In fact, Landry had recently filled her parents’ barn full of cypress floor planks, trim work, and doors. She’d carefully packed and stored every salvageable pane of original glass and all the metal hardware she could find. They had pieces of Oak Hill left. But still…watching it fall was heartbreaking. Tears ran down both their cheeks, but they each pretended not to notice the other’s weakness.

Oak Hill Plantation was officially gone, the house a pile of rubble and the last bit of land sold.

Landry and her Grandmother had been the only two who had cared enough about the old place to come witness its passing. It didn’t deserve to go. Landry hated for any old house to be pulled down. Seeing it happen always gave her a stabbing pain in the chest. Sometimes there’s just no way around it, and it’s an ugly realization that many families have faced. Old houses need a level of care that’s hard to afford in modern times.

The wide, welcoming raised cottage was homey rather than grand but had graceful, pleasing proportions. Identical dormers on each end of the roof gave the impression of eyebrows lifted in a smile. In her heyday she was beautiful and full of life, with clean white paint, tall sparkling windows, and neat lawns full of playing children. Inside she bustled with the wonderful, mundane, complicated lives of many generations, both black and white.

But she’d been faded and sagging by the time Landry met her. Time and lack of maintenance had taken their toll. Grandmother had gone every week to look for the small things they could afford to fix – leaks, broken windows, and interlopers of the human or animal kind. She felt it was the very least she could do. Landry always went with her.

This had been Grandmother’s home; she couldn’t bear to stay away from it for long. Standing in the airy dogtrot hall that ran down the middle of the house, Grandmother would heave an unconscious sigh. And then she’d begin to tell Landry stories about the old house and her history.

Oak Hill Plantation’s first house, long gone now, was built by the Wheeler family in the mid 1700’s on a modest land grant from the Crown. When the Revolution came the patriotic Wheelers lost the land. None daunted, the Wheelers worked and worried and lobbied and finally got their home back. As the Wheeler family fortunes grew, so did the number of acres. In time the first house became what they quaintly called the Dower House, as the Big House had been built in 1832 for the current heir’s new bride.

The days of King Cotton were good to Oak Hill and the Wheelers. Fine paintings and furnishings and books were acquired. The ladies of the family were all accomplished and fashionable. The gentlemen were well educated and confident – truly the lords of all they surveyed. The political influence of the family, in South Carolina at least, was firmly established. The one hundred or so slaves were a testament to the wealth of the family.

Then wartime changed everything for the Wheelers. Their men were killed at the front and the ladies were left to shift for themselves and their children. The slaves were freed and had gone, except for a few. Whether the few stayed out of love and loyalty or because they simply didn’t know what else to do, no one will ever know. But together, as was the case all over the South, they survived. They made do. The Wheelers remained pillars of Orangeburg County. Anything less would have been admitting defeat.

Oak Hill, off the beaten path and isolated, had escaped Sherman’s torches. “That Bastard Sherman,” Grandmother still called him, with a vehemence that would surprise anyone but a southerner of good family. His march to Atlanta had destroyed some of the most priceless jewels of the South, in Landry’s opinion – the beautiful houses of the planters. Landry cared far more for houses than for politics. Of course the institution of slavery had to be destroyed. But did Sherman have to burn so much history and beauty?

Landry was born loving wavy glass, ceiling medallions, and sweeping staircases. She adored squeaky wooden floors and high ceilings and enchantingly low doorknobs. She wanted to keep Oak Hill and restore it. How sad that the house had survived two wars, Sherman, Reconstruction, and the many indignities of modern life only to be torn down with just two people there to pay their respects. But she was smart enough to know that the house was too far gone.

Jeremy eyed the woman with trepidation. Among all things, Jeremy counted self awareness among his greatest strengths. And while his slender build and dark good looks made him popular among the ladies, he knew he wasn’t particularly strong. There was no way he could shift the woman by himself if she didn’t wake up. Not far, anyway.

Although he wouldn’t mind trying, he thought to himself with a quick smile. He wasn’t one for overly slender women, himself. If he wanted someone as skinny as he was, he’d sleep with blokes. Not that there was anything wrong with that, his PC inner voice automatically added. No, he thought with a speculative gaze at his prisoner, she was just fine with him. But how he’d get her to help if she’d been overdosed, he didn’t know.

He did fancy her in an impersonal kind of way, with her shiny dark hair & large green eyes. Well, so far he’d only seen her eyes in photos. He’d researched her; he found her bio page at the College website and he’d pored over the blog where she documented her restoration plans. She’d feel less than charitable toward him, though. Obviously. “Okay, I must stop this train of thought,” he told himself.

He stopped himself from crouching down beside her to check her breathing. He was supposed to be acting like a kidnapper, here. Aware of electronic eyes on him, he prodded the woman with his foot.

When her eyelids started to flutter, Jeremy felt relief wash through his chest. He was a respected antiquities expert, not a thug. This was not the type of thing he was at all comfortable with. How he got himself into this situation…well…no use re-hashing it when there was a job to be done. He prepared himself to be as intimidating as possible.

He stated his case succinctly. The less he said, the better. You’ve been kidnapped. Tell us where the Planter’s Chest is, et cetera.

Don’t laugh, don’t smile, don’t look at her too much, don’t tell her ANYTHING. Remember the giant man outside with his plate-sized hands and the tiny camera that’s watching you. And now she’s stalling, so get her to talk…

“Now then,” he began again, “We know you have the item in question…”

Laundry’s initial paralyzing fear was rapidly warming into genuine anger. This was beyond unacceptable. One did not get kidnapped in broad daylight while eating lunch on a bench at The Battery. It was ridiculous.

“First of all,” she said, “Who in the world do you think you are? What is it is y’all think I have, anyway? And if it’s mine, why should I give it to the likes of YOU anyway?”

She’d stumbled to her feet and now advanced on him throughout this brave speech, backing him closer & closer to the painted cinderblock of the wall. She punctuated her final word with a sharp poke of her forefinger to the middle of his tie, then crossed her arms, giving every evidence of expecting a prompt answer.

But inside, Landry’s mind was also whirling. How could anyone know about the chest? She felt a wave of genuine panic at the thought of anything happening to it – it could be priceless. She hadn’t told anyone about finding it. She hadn’t even been sure it was the real thing. She’d only asked the resident furniture expert at Charleston College a few vague questions about how to identify Thomas Elfe’s work. But now she guessed she could assume it was really was a Planter’s Chest. Probably the last one in existence.

The Englishman looked pointedly at Landry’s forefinger which still poked at his tie. She jerked her hand away and hid it behind her like a guilty child. He smoothed the wrinkles from his tie while he considered what to do next.

Jeremy wasn’t, by nature, a violent man. Some men were, regardless of their education & polish. He personally felt he was incapable of hurting this, or any, woman. But he’d been instructed to intimidate her, frighten her into telling him where the Elfe Planter’s Chest was. And oh, how he wanted to get his hands on it. The money he could make with it was staggering. Enough to get him out of the trouble he was in and then some, if he got out of this alive. He’d square his shoulders and do what he had to, then.

“Right,” he said, “you don’t ask questions. I ask the questions.” She looked at him, eyebrows raised, waiting for said forthcoming question.

“The question I ALREADY asked you, Ms Harris,” he said, getting exasperated. “Where…is…the Elfe? We know you’ve found it.” He’d examined the chest himself. He could still feel the grain of the wood under his fingertips. Even in its current filthy state it was lovely and elegant, the original hardware intact and the joinery still immaculate. There were a few signs of warping, but that was to be expected.

Getting into her tumbledown wreck of a house on Church Street had been simple, even for a novice such as himself. He’d been close to getting it out of the house unnoticed, but he’d heard voices approaching and lost his nerve. The next time he’d slipped back, again feeling ridiculous in all black and a ski mask, he found that she’d moved it. The empty house didn’t take long for him to search. The chest was nowhere to be found.

Yes, she’d gone and recognized the small box as something special. Good on her for that, he secretly thought. A late-in-life, first year grad student recognizing the chest for the treasure it was – that was impressive. Anyone else would have tossed it into the demolition dumpster with the rest of the accumulated trash that had gathered in the house over the years.

“So,” he said, as firmly as he could manage. “Where have you hidden it? Trust me, my employers can be very unpleasant. The sooner you turn it over to them, the sooner you’ll be released.”

She came immediately awake. This was no gentle drift toward the surface of a cozy sleep. There was just a sharp jab in her left side and a voice from high above that said, “That’s it. Open your eyes. We need to talk.”

She was face-down on a hard floor. Concrete. She could smell it. A cigarette had just been lit somewhere close by. She opened her eyes and they focused on…shoes. Men’s, dark brown & well polished, possibly European, lace-ups not loafers. She dazedly watched the right shoe tap three times. There was the sound of a deep drag and then the shoes spoke again.

“Ms. Harris, I’m speaking to you. I’m afraid I have rather bad news. You’ve been kidnapped.”

The right shoe made to poke her again in the ribs. Landry rolled quickly away and onto her back. She didn’t seem to be physically damaged, but her mind felt heavy and slow. It took much longer than it really should to observe that the room was small and dim with an oppressively low ceiling. And he was an Englishman. Tall (from her current perspective anyway) and narrowly built, he was dressed in a dark suit, light shirt, and some kind of striped tie. His long, slender hand worried the cigarette he held as he looked at her with a mixture of regret and discomfort.

“I know you’re having trouble focusing. But we really must speak about the terms of your release,” he said, as he casually flicked ash onto the floor near Landry’s head.

She tried to speak. Rusty with disuse, nothing emerged from her mouth but a squawk. How long had she been out? Was she even still in Charleston? She’d clearly been drugged; she could tell by the way her head felt as light as cotton candy. Landry cleared her throat and tried again.

“I’m kidnapped? What do you mean, terms of my release?”

She had no concept of time. There were no windows in the small room, and no doors that she could see. Landry struggled to sit up & straighten her clothes. Surely if she was kidnapped her hands and feet would be tied. So she couldn’t be kidnapped.

“Who even kidnaps people anymore,” she thought to herself as she swayed but managed to stay upright.
She must’ve spoken aloud, because the Englishman chuckled and answered her.

“I agree, it’s an old fashioned modus operandi. But my employer is an old fashioned…individual and wished it to be so. Do you feel clear headed enough now to speak to me about the planter’s chest? That’s all we require. You tell us where to find the chest, and you’ll be free to go.”

He made an elegant gesture that was probably meant to reassure her. But Landry was still struggling to take it all in. Reassured she was not.

The planter’s chest? No one could possibly know about that.

Several years ago my social networking queen Sister convinced me to join Twitter.

I’ve never looked back.

Among other things, Twitter is a way to see what’s going on in the world. You can watch breaking news happen. You can see what people are doing, what they’re watching on television, what music they’re listening to, what charities they’re supporting, et cetera.

There’s a lot more to Twitter, but that’s for another post. This story is about me and The Doctor.

Anyway, in trolling around on Twitter I saw people talking about *new* episodes of Doctor Who. I’ve heard of that show, right? Everyone said it was fantastic & that i HAD to watch it.

I asked around and found out that the BBC had revived the series around 2005. A little more research and I found all of the episodes streaming on Netflix. #WIN

Flashback to 1980

I’m about 7 years old. Every Saturday my Granddaddy would watch this crazy British TV show. Because I loved my Granddaddy I wanted to watch it with him.

Now, this was in the days of aerial antennas. Do you remember those? Our antenna was on top of one of the telephone poles that made up our clothes line in the backyard. Every once in a while Daddy would get really annoyed with the TV reception and would decide to go “turn the antenna.” He’d get up on the ladder and we’d form a bucket brigade…

Daddy (yelling from atop the ladder): Is that better?
Mom (in the backyard, yelling): Roonie, is that better? (Roonie was my sister’s nickname)
Sister (in the kitchen, yelling): Sissy, is that better? (Sissy is my nickname)
Me (standing beside the TV, yelling): No, that’s worse!

In St. Joe Beach we mostly had three TV channels to choose from. Two were networks out of Panama City. The other network was out of Dothan, AL and it was always fuzzy, no matter which way you turned the antenna. But there was also a PBS station out of Tallahassee which of course I LOVED because of Sesame Street and The Electric Company. If the weather was good and the antenna was turned the right way, you could watch PBS.

Now, my grandparents must’ve had a better antenna, because all the channels came in a little better at their house. Usually my sister and I could watch whatever we wanted at my grandparents’ house. Well, unless Lawrence Welk was on. Or unless we were there on a weekday and my mom wanted to watch her stories (that’s what we call soap operas in The South). And of course, except for those Saturdays when Granddaddy’s program was on.

My grandfather, Joe Hardin, was the kindest, gentlest man. He was very quiet and introverted, but he did everything with love for his family. He was also one of the most intelligent people I’ve ever known. He was a true Renaissance Man. He was an electrical engineer who worked on the country’s first nuclear projects. He loved music and cooking and the arts. He dabbled in playing the cello & the guitar, oil painting, photography, playing chess, wine making, and French cookery. He was an original early adopter. He had one of the first word processors that hit the shelves so that he could more easily translate the Bible from the original Greek into English. And he loved science fiction.

He had this easy chair…it was a wide, low rocker with wooden arms. It squeaked with every movement, so if you wanted to hear the TV you had to be still. It had tufted cushions for the back and the seat and there was a pleated skirt around the bottom. I loved rocking in that chair. I remember Saturday evenings sitting on the blue shag carpet next to Granddaddy in his chair, watching his program with him.

Sometimes the picture was so fuzzy you could barely make it out. I’d scoot closer to the TV, thinking it would help me see better. But it was like an impressionist painting – the closer you got the less sense it made. But back off and you could make out what was happening.

In Granddaddy’s program there was a guy with an English accent and big crazy curly hair. He had this ridiculously long striped scarf. I always wondered why it was so long because it seemed to get in his way. There was this big blue wooden box that looked like a telephone booth. It would somehow go to these different places and when it landed all these people would come out. How could they all fit in there? Well, it’s bigger on the inside, don’t you know?

There was a girl who was always with the curly haired guy. She was small and pretty and I liked her smooth hair (at that time I had short wavy hair that would never lay down). Sometimes there was another guy but I don’t remember much about him. There were always things CHASING these folks. I didn’t really grasp the time travel part, but I got the part about the monsters.

I don’t know where Mom and Sister and Grammy were…they might have been right there. But I just remember sitting next to Granddaddy and trying to figure this show out…

Fast Forward to the Present

Everyone I talk to loves it, so I’m watching the first episode of Doctor Who…Oh, I like Christopher Eccleston – he’s been in a lot of period dramas that I’ve seen. Ok, there are mannequins chasing some kid named Rose and The Doctor saves her. Now she’s going to go travel with him in the TARDIS, which is this blue wooden spaceship/time travel box that’s bigger on the inside…there’s something familiar about this?

I’m hooked after episode two and watch watch watch…I love The Doctor! And Rose is brilliant! They’re always running from aliens and saving the world! Oh, and now there’s Captain Jack Harkness. I like him fine too.

But now, after only a few shows, The Doctor turns into some skinny dude? I don’t like the skinny dude, I like Christopher Eccleston. He’s funny. I like his Northern accent. Why’d he have to regenerate? This is stupid. I’m not watching this anymore.

But of course I do. And I grow to like the tenth Doctor, who is called David Tennant in real life.
So I keep watching. And then one day…I watch this episode called “School Reunion.” The Doctor is posing as a physics teacher in a school where weird things are happening. Rose is a lunchroom lady and not very happy about it (and who can blame her?). And here comes this reporter who is asking questions. The Doctor sees her…he recognizes her…

*I* recognize her! It’s Sarah Jane! Small, pretty, smooth haired Sarah Jane!

And it all comes back to me.

It seems I’ve known The Doctor all my life, I just didn’t know that I knew him.

#######

(NOTE: I’ve still never gotten over David Tennant leaving Doctor Who. I cried like I lost my best friend when he regenerated. I keep trying to like Matt Smith but I don’t seem to be able to. But I’m going to keep watching. It’s a family tradition, after all.)

It’s difficult to ask for help sometimes.

“Will you hand me that stapler?” – that’s easy. It doesn’t put anyone out. It’s a task that can be accomplished in a couple of seconds.

Asking for real help, assistance that causes people to spend time and effort on your behalf, that’s hard.

Is it just me?

I’m a single woman. I’ve had periods of serious relationship where I could lean on my “significant other,” but for most of my adult life it’s just been me.

For instance, I don’t buy anything that’s too heavy for me to lift by myself. Things don’t get fixed around my house unless I can A) Figure out how to do it myself or B) Afford to pay someone else to do it. When I’m sick or hurt, I tough it out and get myself to the doctor or the drugstore OR I make do with whatever food and medicines I have at home.

But there are times in life that you just need someone’s help. There’s no way I could have had this surgery without real, physical help from many people. It didn’t make me happy to need help. In fact, it had me in tears more than once. But having WLS was something that I wanted enough to push me out of my “never ask for help” zone.

And you know what I found? People don’t really mind helping, if they’re able to. When I said something about hating to ask for help, my wise friend Jeanna made a great point when she said, “Well, think of how you feel when YOU can help someone.”

And that’s such a great point because I DO love to help people. It doesn’t make me feel put upon or annoyed. So why do I expect others to feel that way? I’m really not sure, I just know that’s how I am.

Scripture clearly instructs us to “carry each other’s burdens” (Galations 6:2a). The second part of that verse says “and in this way you will fulfill the law of Christ.” What’s the law of Christ? Well, in doing some research, I found this verse:

“A new command I give you: love one another. As I have loved you, so you must love one another.” John 13:34

There it is, straight up – the words of Jesus himself. If he loved me so much that he’d die for me, can’t I muster up enough love for the people in my life to carry their burdens? To pray for their concerns, be kind and understanding, and to offer help when I see that they need it? To not do that is very obviously against the law of Christ.

So when I flip that around, it seems to me that when I try to avoid receiving help, I’m not allowing the law of Christ to be lived out in my life -OR- in the life of the person endeavoring to help me. That scripture clearly means that we should help each other whenever we can. And it seems to me that it’s meant to be a two-way street of giving and receiving assistance.

By that I mean that today I need some of my burdens borne, as much as I dislike it. But tomorrow you may have a burden that’s the perfect size for me to carry. So let’s allow the law of Christ to be lived out in BOTH of our lives. I’m chalking this one up under Lessons Learned.