Life is Like a Cracked Windshield

I was in the car and returning home after taking our “granddog” to the vet.  As I passed a lawn service mowing the median between the lanes I heard a loud CRACK!  I silently hoped that a rock did not damage the body of the car.  The rock didn’t chip the paint instead; the rock hit the windshield causing a fissure across the top of the glass.

Oh, no!  Now I have to deal with my husband’s twenty question interrogation process.  He will want to know all the details of the incident to find out why I would let such a disaster occur; and it won’t help to say that I was just minding my own business driving down the road and the lawn service was just doing their business cutting the grass because he will want to know why flying rocks happen, why it hit our car and why I didn’t avoid it.

After three decades of wedded bliss I know my husband likes to know details.  One such event occurred when I went to get the oil changed in my car.  I don’t like car maintenance and usually avoid it, but the small store front seemed so welcoming that I decided to drive through one of its wide open doors.  I was adjusting the car around this little rack thing when a young man came running toward me, waving his arms, and yelling at me to stop!  I told my friend I would call her back later because the oil changing guy was going berserk and needed my attention.

I rolled down the window and the man seemed truly agitated and a bit frightened.  He asked me to get out of the car while explaining that my car was teetering on the edge of the pit and that I would need to call a towing service to get me out of the hole.  I never saw a hole in the floor and he explained the opening was under some metal device that was shoved aside when I pulled in the garage. 

Okay, so I called my husband to solicit his advice on the best procedure to extract me from the contrivance without too much damage or expense.  Well, you would have thought my car was already at the bottom of that hole the way he carried on!  He gasped and then started asking me how in the world did I get into such a predicament?  Let me tell you, he acted astonished that I didn’t wait for the service man to wave me into the bay area and he continued to quiz me by asking about the location of the pit, and he just went on and on about all the things he thought I should know about dingy old auto shops.

I had enough scrutiny about my actions and told him that I would handle it myself.  I got back in my car and asked the young man to direct me out of the garage.  He reluctantly stood in front of the car and waved to the right and left as I maneuvered the tires away from the pit.  My husband arrived at the shop just as I pulled safely out of the garage. He quietly shook his head in commiseration for the young man when I asked to be redirected into the bay area so I could get the oil changed in my car.

Whether in ignorance or by accident we know bad things happen and misery is as common to man as breathing.  However, I learn from my mistakes – from now on my husband can take the car to the shop for oil changes and windshield repairs!

Sweatin' to the Oldies

We joined the recreation center – again!  However, this time is different than previous associations because we are old enough to be members of the Senior Recreation Center.  It was so refreshing to have the center’s supervisor ask me how old I am to assure we could qualify for membership.  Yep, I am old enough to participate but still a spring chicken amongst the seventy and eighty year old crowd. 

My father-in-law is a member of the same center and I told my son we were looking forward to the time he and our BDIL could join our senior club.  He just laughed.  Thirty years from now is a lifetime away and I know how he feels.  I never thought about aging when I was in my twenties.  Time has a way of truly flying by even when measuring it one year at a time.

We stay active at home and on vacations.  A few years ago we were with our friends in Colorado and decided to white water raft in the Royal Gorge.  Our friends are experienced rafters and said it was an adventure of a lifetime.  Well, wearing a wetsuit certainly was a “trip”.  I asked for the oxymoron size, it’s the petite-extra large, and then pulled the fitted outfit over my swim suit.  The wetsuit and the life vest smelled of mildew.

We boarded the van and headed to the river.  Our young guide assisted us into the wobbly rubber raft and as we settled in he begin a safety overview which included statements such as if you should bounce out of the boat or hit rocks, etc.  We sat listening to our college guide in stunned silence as he became more animated describing the dangers of white water rafting.  He paused, looked at his passengers and pumped us for enthusiasm.  I spoke up and told him that when someone talks to our age group about the thrill of dying then we have to wonder if our kids know where the Will is filed.

The river was exciting as our guide navigated through the rough water.  We experienced holes, eddies, pillows, and waves along the bubbly aquatic path.  My girlfriend popped out of the boat and was rescued by the guide, and our husbands were finally able to master paddling in sync. It wasn’t all rough water at the beginning so there was plenty of time just to enjoy the beautiful scenery.

However, I was getting hot and tired after three hours and happy to see the shore where lunch was waiting for us.  My rubber suit was uncomfortable and I was looking forward to removing it and calling it a day.  Imagine my surprise when I was informed we had signed up for the all day tour!  Another three hours on the water and the guide promised even more turbulence to come.  Oh, great.

We made it without mishap and really had a great time “risking” our lives.  Now it was time to return to the tour office and collect our personal items.  I handed the wetsuit to one of the employees and he tossed it into a barrel which prompted me to ask how they laundered the suits and vests.  He said they just swished the items around in the barrel and hung them to dry.  I suggested they add some bleach to the water to freshen the process along with some additional agitation to thoroughly clean the suits.  I saw the boy look over my head to my husband and my husband gave him the same sympathetic shoulder shrug that I have seen him use when I am helping my son understand something.

We are going to our new fitness club this evening.  I plan to contact the center’s certified personal trainer to get some additional support with my workouts.  They told me the trainer is an eighty-year-old man with a body of a thirty-something.  Good, sounds like he is up to a challenge and can help me take off a few pounds before my next vacation.   Let’s see, we have already climbed Mount Rushmore and gone white water rafting so I guess we can try scuba diving next but – only if they bleach the wetsuits!

FRUIT OF THE SPIRIT

The iris plants are blooming, the bluebird is nesting, and my husband is taking pictures of bluebonnets – spring has sprung!  It is the time of year when nature rejoices with its Creator recognizing that everything under the sun has a season and God is ever faithful year after year to bless us with His care and direction.  “Also, the sun rises and the sun sets; and hastening to its place it rises there again.” 

It was 8:00 on a Saturday morning and three generations of Campbell men were on the road making their way to east Texas.  The property is about a three hour drive from the house so they planned to spend the night in the trailer and return on Sunday.  It was a “working” trip which meant there were chores to do when they arrived at their destination.

They were planting fruit trees this time and hauling a small orchard in the bed of the truck.  It was their intentions to strategically place the apple, pear and peach trees along the fence line with expectations of enjoying fresh produce in a few years. My father-in-law is in his eighties, my husband is fifty-something and our son is mid-twenties.  It seemed only right to commemorate their heritage this spring by planting trees to mark each man’s place on the land.  Their toil and sweat testified of the tradition passed from father to son to work the land and thank God for the increase.

It was the youngest member of the Campbell team that decided to plant trees.  Our son has been interested in sustainable farming and looking for opportunities to invest in items that produce less dependency on the truck to grocery store living.  He is energetic about the future prospects of the property and smart enough to encourage his Dad and Grandfather to combine their efforts and cultivate the land.

My husband and I, our son and BDIL, took classes in beekeeping and raising chickens last fall.  It was fascinating to see how a few investments in nature can help balance our environment and thrilling to see my son so receptive to the idea of planting, sowing and reaping.  Understandably, we will have to move to the farm before we can totally fulfill our “green acres” dream.  To quote an old television song “Green acres is the place to be.  Farm living is life for me!”  Although, we might be similar to the green acres couple and find living on the farm to be much more difficult than we imagined!

However for now, we substantiate our dreams with a few trees to refresh us with shade and fruit, but more importantly the trees represent one generation passing the baton to the next generation.  We rejoice in knowing – “There is an appointed time for everything.  And there is a time for every event under heaven.”

A BIRD IN HAND

I returned home from a visit with my son and BDIL (beautiful daughter-in-law) and before unlocking the front door I could hear chirping inside the house.  The noise continued after entering the house and I followed the sound of the “cheep, cheep, cheep” into the kitchen.  Looking around I saw a wren caught between the blinds and the window; pitifully crying its heart out.  I gently lifted the blinds to release him and the little guy stumbled into a clumsy run while attempting to jump start into flight.

The kitchen flight path was too short so he scurried around the house quicker than I could catch him. It became a comedy of errors as I swung a broom around the room while chasing the bird toward the open patio door.  He hid under the dining table, the coffee table, and the sofa.  He teased me to come get him from the perch at the top of the ceiling fan.  He hopped and skipped across the floor before bounding with a flying leap to the window and then quickly jumped away again.

Finally, I couldn’t see him and the only available clue was a faint peep to reveal his hiding place.  “Tweet, tweet”, he beckoned me ever so softly to come find him.  Twenty minutes later I found the bird tucked under a pillow on the sofa, which when discovered he greeted me with a chirpy hello until he realized the game was over and began squawking for dear life.

The bird quieted as I scooped him up in my hand.  Here was a helpless animal looking at me with the same innocence that is in the eyes of all God’s creatures.  It is not the same depth of revelation that is in a baby’s eyes, but there is a softness of hopeful acceptance in the eyes of created beings that do not have words to express their feelings.

I carefully cradle the little ball of feathers to the open door.  Outside I gently place the bird on the launch pad of the patio.  He tweets good-bye as he takes off toward the nearest tree.  I sigh in relief.  Surprisingly, it is the same contentment I have felt before when acknowledging that all is right in my world.

The tranquility did not stay with me when I stepped back inside the house because I could see the room was in a jumble from our hide and seek game!  Upon further investigation I begin to realize that minimum damage had occurred during the “struggle” to free the bird.  Although, I feel I have a better understanding of the nature of things as I am up righting overturned items and cleaning the bird’s white splatters of digested material off of the windowsill.  I realize the bird will probably only remember the trauma of the experience rather than feeling grateful for releasing him from “window jail” to fly away home.  My reward is a simple revelation – a bird in hand is worth more than a bird loose in my house!