Music and Art Day at Christmas Time, 2012

So many projects and activities to choose from, so little time.  We had Allie and Maggie with us yesterday from about 9:00 a.m. to 5:30 p.m. -- much longer than usual.  But, at Christmas time, we just couldn't seem to make ourselves stop.  What we did yesterday would have been very difficult to do in a regular classroom because of time and money constraints, so we "used Granddaddy's money," :) forgot about the clock, and dove right in.
After consuming a few cinnamon rolls (their favorites) to get our creative juices flowing, we needed to make the sugar cookie dough and put it in the refrigerator to chill.  Mess #1 coming right up.

Then we started a multi-step process of making the stained-glass (tissue paper) trees.  Thank you, Pinterest.  The girls painted a watercolor background and set it aside to dry.  Then, they cut out hundreds of pieces of colored tissue paper and glued them on to a separate sheet of paper.  We diluted the glue and used brushes to make it smoother and easier.  Mess #2 in full swing.

While both of those parts were drying, we did our music activities for the day.  We began by having a violin concert from both girls.  Steve and I were the audience, since I have NO background in strings.  They are both taking private lessons in Huntsville, and Allie also participates in group classes through the Huntsville Youth Orchestra.  Lucky girl!  Then, we played some fun games with Christmas carols, using melodic recognition and the words.  I was amazed at how many they knew!   Ahhhh, music is SO mercifully unmessy.

One of our favorite parts of Music and Art Day is lunchtime.  After all, these girls are kin to me, aren't they?  :)  Sometimes, we just go to the closest place -- Geezburger.  Other times, we flip a coin to choose a restaurant in nearby Rogersville.  Yesterday, the Mexican place was the winner.  It was nearly 1:00 p.m. by the time we got there, and we were starving after a morning of hard work.

Our lunch times are always filled with conversation -- the Pearson way of doing things, you understand.  Just in the normal course of asking about what they've been doing, thinking, etc. Steve and I learn a lot of things that we can use as teachable moments.  For instance, Allie told us that she had been awake until midnight the night before thinking it was the end of the Mayan calendar so she just wanted to "see what was going to happen."  Of course, we told her that the next day was actually the correct date for that, but then, since Allie has already been saved and baptized, we were able to remind her of all the assurances and promises she has as a result.  Maggie was more interested in speculating about upcoming Christmas gifts and mentioning the ones from her sisters that she had accidentally seen before they were wrapped but planned to have forgotten all about so she would be surprised.  Ha!  In the car, on the way there and back, we would turn off the radio for a few minutes, each person would guess what Christmas song they thought would be playing, then we'd turn it back on to see who was right.  Somehow, in Maggie's ears, "Feliz Navidad" was "Feliz Mommy-dot."  Go figure.
We arrived back home with three major projects to finish:  the cookies, the stained-glass trees, and some ornament wreaths.  (It goes without saying that Christmas music was continuously playing in the background, so that we were likely to burst into song at the most random times).  We assigned Granddaddy the task of using the hot glue gun to secure the ornaments tops.  I'm sure no one questions the wisdom of that.

For the stained glass trees, we had to cut triangles and trunk shapes, arrange and glue them in place, add details with a black Sharpie, then paint in some snow.  These were very labor-intensive, but they turned out great.  Don't you think?

Next we rolled out our sugar cookie dough, used the Christmas tree cookie-cutters, and put those in to bake.  We spread a thin, green-tinted glaze to the tops and decorated with sprinkles -- lots and LOTS of sprinkles.  Mega-Mess #3.

Their parents and siblings were very happy recipients of these efforts.
Finally, we made ornament wreaths by stringing round ornaments onto a coat-hanger wire and topping it with a pretty bow.  And this caused the glitter explosion -- Mess #4.

As we were loading everything up for the ride home, sweet Allie said, "Oh Grandmomma, we should have planned to spend the night.  Then I could help you clean up all this mess."  I love her heart.
I think I'll spend the next 10 days or so concentrating on all of the other grandchildren and their parents, then it will be time to start planning for our next Music and Art Day.

Journey of a Pianist . . . Thus Far

The events of last weekend when I had the opportunity to participate in "An Athens Christmas" by playing on a 9-ft. Steinway concert grand with three other pianists, also playing beautiful Steinways, has caused me to reflect on my journey as a pianist to this point in my life.  Perhaps this will only matter to me, but then again it might make a difference to some budding piano student somewhere or maybe even to one or two of my former students who wondered how they wound up in my living room counting out quarter notes and half notes and learning their lines and spaces.

My mom called Mrs. Ben Peck in Athens, AL when I was seven years old to sign me up for lessons.  Mom came from a very musical family.  Every one of "the Roses" sang or played instruments.  She certainly wasn't going to let me break that tradition.  So, there I began with the red John Thompson "Teaching Little Fingers to Play" book and was soon participating in group recitals at Christmas time (complete with cookies and punch) and public recitals at Athens College in the spring (complete with a formal dress and corsage).  Something clicked for me.  I somehow understood this new language, and I loved the sounds that resulted.  Did I always want to practice the prescribed amount of time?  Of course not!   Before I could even tell time properly, mom would put a clock on the piano and say, "You can't get up until the big hand reaches this number."  Later, I got out of many dishwashing sessions when mom would say, "I'll clean up the kitchen while you practice."  In those days -- the mid '50's -- you made a commitment and stuck with it -- at least in my house.

In 1960, my family and I moved to Troy, AL, where I was promptly enrolled for lessons with Mrs. Violet Irvin, a member of the Troy State music faculty.  She was probably already in her 70's when I met her, an eccentric lady with a mischievous glint in her eye.  She was very mysterious to me with her wind chimes and incense, and she taught by sitting across the room from the piano and yelling "Murder!" whenever I missed a note.  How in the world did she know from way over there??? Occasionally, I also took organ lessons from Mrs. Irvin, and it was a nice diversion, but the organ was never my heart language -- even though I have been called on to play it many times through my life.

Between the years of 1960 and 1968, my family and I lived for twenty months in Huntsville, AL (a story for another day).  There I studied piano with Mr. Max Camp, a stern taskmaster with a very strict reputation.  Although I often dreaded going to my lessons (mostly because of insufficient practice), Mr. Camp was very good for me musically.  He helped me develop my technique and did much to show me how to get music off the page, not just correct notes and rhythm.  He learned that my dream was to go to Samford University when I graduated from high school and immediately told me that I should plan to study with Mrs. Betty Sue Shepherd, the very best in his opinion.  From that moment on, that became my goal.

We went back to Troy after that brief time in Huntsville, and my parents decided to contact Mr. Gene Jarvis, a music faculty member at Huntingdon College, to continue my music education.  That meant that every Saturday morning my mom and I would drive to Montgomery, AL for my lessons.  Yes, mom enjoyed shopping at the Montgomery Mall while we were there, but are you picking up on a theme here?  The commitment and the sacrifices of my parents to my study of the piano.  Wherever we were, they sought out the very best teachers for me.  They faithfully got me to the lessons, they saw to it that I practiced, and they paid the price financially as well.  Funny how I didn't always realize that back then.

Mr. Jarvis did a masterful job of preparing me for my auditions for the music school at Samford in the spring of 1968 and even required me to prepare a solo recital at the end of my senior year in high school.  Thank you, Mr. Jarvis!!

I was accepted both to Samford AND to the School of Music AND I received a scholarship!!  Yippee skippee!!!  My college career began on June 10, 1968, only two weeks after high school graduation.  I couldn't wait to get started.

Unfortunately, Mrs. Shepherd wasn't teaching during the summer term, so I ENDURED two other teachers during those weeks.  When fall semester began, I finally got to meet Mrs. Shepherd, and we bonded immediately.  I absolutely adored her.  She was a teacher with unbelievable pianistic skills.  She challenged me, corrected me, encouraged me, laughed with me, kept up with me, reprimanded me, all of the things that I needed the most at just the right time.  She referred to me as "one of her majors" (meaning that I was majoring in piano), and I beamed.  A goal she had for me was to enter and win a coveted spot in the annual Concerto-Aria Auditions, where piano and voice majors could solo with members of the Birmingham Symphony Orchestra.  My freshman year I worked hard but wasn't chosen, but my sophomore year, I made it!!!  The picture below was taken by my brother (the family photographer, then very much an amateur) from the balcony while I was playing the 1st movement of Concerto No. 2, Op. 102 by Dmitri Shostakovich.

My years at Samford were outstanding, but lurking in the wings was a veterinary student at Auburn with the world's best smile.  Yes, maybe we should have waited until he got out of vet school and I finished my degree at Samford, but that's not the choice we made.  We were in love and wanted to get married, so off to Auburn I went with my new husband, a U-Haul full of wedding presents, a student loan, and a job playing the organ for the First Independent Methodist Church, making $15 a week.

I still had a senior recital to present and three quarters worth of credits to earn.  The teacher to whom I was assigned was a chain-smoker who couldn't utter a sentence without a curse word.  A culture shock that must have registered on the Richter Scale.  I just kept working hard, practicing like crazy (on a donated upright piano in our 10' by 50' trailer on Wire Road), and keeping my eyes on the date of my recital and graduation.
I graduated in December of 1971 (the same day as Pat Sullivan), and Steve followed 2 quarters later.

We spent a year in Huntsville where Steve completed his preceptorship, then made our way to Hartselle where we lived for thirty years.  As soon as we could afford someone besides me as the receptionist at Pearson Animal Hospital, I hung out my shingle as a piano teacher and began accepting students.

When we joined First Baptist Church of Hartselle, Miss Evelyn Howell was the pianist and did an excellent job.  However, she came down with an illness from which she did not recover, and I was asked to take her place.  I stayed on that bench until 1988.  We left First Baptist for awhile -- another story for another day - and when we came back, there was a new pastor and his wife was the pianist.  Lo and behold, she was a product of the Samford School of Music, too, so I could just sit back and enjoy . . . but not for long.

Ron Rainer, a fellow music student from Samford days, was at Central Baptist in Decatur, and their organist needed to take a leave of absence.  He called to see if I could help, so I agreed to fill in for awhile.  She decided not to come back, and I ended up staying on that bench until 2002.

Let me just fast-forward through a few things.  I taught private piano in Hartselle for 13 years, then I went to UAH and got my music education degree.  I taught public school music at Hartselle Junior High and Burleson Elementary for 8 years and another 5 years at Danville-Neel Elementary, before Steve and I moved to Ecuador.  When we came back, I taught music and art at Priceville Elementary for 4 years before retiring in 2010.

We currently are members at First Baptist Church in Athens -- the same church where I was saved and baptized as an 8-year-old.  Greg Glaze is the pianist-extraordinaire, and I get to be his substitute.  Hopefully, a win-win for Greg, for me, and for Ryan Leffel, our minister of music.  :)

That brings me to last weekend.  Here, Greg and I are joined by Jane Barnett and Paul Hammond playing some wonderful multi-piano arrangements of several Christmas songs.

The same brother who made that picture back at Samford 40+ years ago was there to record our music.  Here are a couple of YouTube links that you might enjoy.
http://youtu.be/cElUxO68ias
http://youtu.be/dnHV4Dd7oHU

Because of my mother's phone call to Mrs. Peck in 1957 and the music that God gave me the ability to understand and interpret, I have been blessed to interact with so many unforgettable people -- fellow choir members and instrumentalists, students, music ministers, etc. etc.  Thank you, generous, loving Heavenly Father.

What a Great Run!

When my dear Silver Fox walks in the back door tonight, he will join the ranks of retirees everywhere.  I think it's safe to say that he has "gotten the good out of his education."  40 and 1/2 years of taking care of animals of every shape and size and the people who care about them -- also of every shape and size.  :)

I joined him on this journey during his last year of veterinary school at Auburn University when we married in March of '71 and moved into a 10' by 50' trailer on Wire Road.  The following March we moved to Huntsville for Steve's preceptorship, and he ended up working at Bentley Animal Hospital for a year.  Steve had told me before we married that one day he'd like to open a practice in either Hartselle or Australia.  Ha!  Even though I was perfectly willing to go with him to Australia, it was God's plan for us to go to Hartselle.

The day we opened Pearson Animal Hospital was also the day we found out that I was pregnant with our first child.  We had borrowed the down payment on a house, furnished our little 3-room rented office space with garage sale treasures, and literally didn't have two quarters to rub together.  We both believed if he could ever make $100 a day, we would be successful.  I was the receptionist in those first months because I was all we could afford -- me with my bright shiny music degree (very unhelpful in a vet office) and squeamish stomach for blood, guts or "earthy odors."  We will ALWAYS be grateful to brave Mrs. Reed who brought her dog "Inky" through our front door, giving the new vet in town a try and becoming our first client.  As a wonderful symbolic gesture, about 30 years later she was also Steve's LAST client before selling that practice and moving to Ecuador.

The people of Hartselle were so very good to us.  Somehow, they trusted Steve and embraced us both from those very first days.  He couldn't have found a better clientele, and it was the perfect place to rear our children.  He has YEARS of stories to tell, so expect a blog from him soon with the probable title of "Doc's Ology."  He plans to explore the 5 most important F's in his life -- Faith, Family, Finances, Fishing, and Furry Friends (and sometimes Football).  I'll let you know when he launches it.

In 2002, God opened the doors -- very obviously and literally -- for us to go to Ecuador as Southern Baptist missionaries.  Steve's title was Veterinarian/Church Planter, and our assignment was to the Quichua people in the Andes Mountains, people who were very dependent on their animals.  During those years, he did more teaching that actual practicing, but he was still using his veterinary skills on a regular basis.

When it was clear that God wanted us back in the States, we had a real dilemma on our hands.  How would we go about starting over?  We had sold his practice and our home.  Where would we live?  How would we support ourselves?  A friend of a friend of a friend -- you know how that goes -- knew someone who needed a relief veterinarian while she was on maternity leave.  That got us through the first months.  Then, Target and PetSmart started building their new stores in Decatur, Al, and Banfield Pet Hospital was going to be located in the back of PetSmart.  Steve worked at an existing hospital in Huntsville during the construction in Decatur.  Once again, God had it all worked out for Steve to be the Chief of Staff at the Decatur location.

The children and I could write our own book about the memories we have as the family of a veterinarian, but all of that can wait for another day.  Today I just want to tell the world how proud I am of Steve.  His career has been characterized by consistency, dedication, and excellence but most of all, by integrity.  He has focused much of his energy and expertise on the Animal Kingdom and their owners.  Now, he truly wants to focus on furthering the Kingdom of God in the years that God has left for him on earth.  It's been a great run, hon.  I'm so glad I've been a part of this journey with you, and I'm confident that our best years are straight ahead.

My Granddaddy Rose Sang in the Choir

Last night as I was getting ready to go to choir practice, the face of my Granddaddy Rose came vividly to my mind, and it occurred to me in a fresh way that he had been a member of the very same choir where I am now.  Of course, it was called the Adult Choir back then, and today it is known as the Celebration Choir, but it is in the same church and is a part of the very same music ministry (evolved, yes, but much the same).

I can still picture him standing in the tenor section with his silvery, wavy hair.  Granddaddy was short, but I always knew just where to look to find him in the group.  A particular Call to Worship that the choir sang still rings in my memory.  "The Lord is In His Holy Temple.  The Lord is In His Holy Temple.  Let All the Earth Keep Silence Before Him."  Then the basses would sing in deeper and deeper voices with notes descending lower and lower -- "Keep silence.  Keep silence. Before Him."  I was in awe of that music and those words.

Granddaddy's first "song leader" (as we called the Minister of Music back then) was Melvin Hyatt, and his wife was the organist.  Then, we had Brother Rucker.  I don't remember his first name, but he was from Bogalusa, LA (as a child, I thought that sounded so exotic), and he had a daughter named Melanie who was my friend.  They didn't stay very long, but then came Ken Jacobs, and he stayed for a VERY long time.  I'm sure he was still the Music Minister when my Granddaddy finally got to the point where he couldn't participate anymore.

Granddaddy wasn't "the star of the show," by any means.  Oh sure, he sang in a couple of quartets from time to time, but he was better known for the fact that he "begat" some very musical children, six to be exact, several of whom sang in that same choir or in the choirs of the churches where they were members.

When I walked in the back door of the church last night, I saw James Agee coming toward me.  James and I go WAY back.  I'll always remember that he brought Teddy Bears back from the Smokies for me and my Aunt June (only six months younger that I) when I was only seven or eight years old.  Now, he's the Head Usher, and I get to see him practically every Sunday.  I told James that I had been thinking about my Granddaddy, and he helped me tell another young man who was standing nearby some things that HE remembered.

Granddaddy was born in 1900 and never owned a car.  He lived on East Washington Street here in Athens from the mid-1950's until he had to move to a nursing home in his last years.  Six days a week he woke up early, got dressed, and starting walking down his street to the town square where he worked as a barber -- meaning that he was on his feet ALL DAY LONG.  Then, he would walk back home at night.  On Sunday, the scenario was the same, except on that day he was walking to church rather than to the barbershop.  Often, people who were accustomed to seeing him on the road stopped to give him a lift.  They knew him, and they knew where he was headed.  But, if no one stopped on a particular day, he kept right on walking.  James recalled a Sunday morning when there was a good bit of snow on the ground, and he looked out to see Granddaddy (Mr. Clarence) walking up the sidewalk to the front door of the church.  With all of that walking and standing  he did, it wasn't too surprising that when he DID manage to sit still for awhile, he often dozed or "rested his eyes."  I still smile to myself thinking of him asleep in the choir loft during many a sermon.  :)

For a few years, my family and I lived next door to Granddaddy and Grandmomma (who was homebound all her life because of severe motion sickness and a heart condition), and we, of course, gave Granddaddy a ride to church during that time.  We moved away from Athens in 1960, when I was ten years old.  Some people would call it a "twist of fate," but I see it as the direction of God that Steve and I moved back to Athens in 2010 -- fifty years later -- and we decided to join the church where I had been on the Cradle Roll, a member of Sunbeams, where I marched in for Vacation Bible School and saluted the flags and the Bible, where I felt the presence of the Holy Spirit drawing me to accept Christ as my Savior and was saved and baptized, and where I participated in the Junior Memory drill and some of the very first Children's Choirs.

Granddaddy didn't sing in the choir to make a lasting impression on ME.  He sang because he loved music, and he loved worshiping God and using his talents in that way.

Now, I am the grandparent (gulp!)  Several times some of MY grandchildren have been sitting in the congregation when I have walked out in my choir robe.  It thrills me to hear them whisper loudly, "Look!  There's Grandmomma!" And, I give them a big smile from the choir loft when I see their little hands frantically trying to get my attention.  But, like my Granddaddy Rose, I don't sing in the choir in order to make an impression on them.  I sing because I love music, and I am so happy to be able to express my worship through this ministry.  Just maybe, though, fifty years or so from now, my grandchildren will remember seeing me in the choir, and it will matter to them like it matters to me to think of my dear Granddaddy Rose.

Psalm 100 --"Make a joyful shout to the Lord, all you lands!  Serve the Lord with gladness; Come before His presence with singing.  Know that the Lord, He is God; It is He who has made us, and not we ourselves; We are His people and the sheep of His pasture.  Enter into His gates with thanksgiving, And into His courts with praise.  Be thankful to Him, and bless His name.  For the Lord is good, His mercy is everlasting, and His truth endures to all generations."

The Country Music was Off, but God was On

I surprised even myself by heading to the pool on this chilly September morning.  I knew that water was going to be cold, but the cloudless, sunny day made the lure of my favorite exercise irresistible.  As soon as I got inside the gate, I reached for the volume knob on the sound system, but, alas, someone had turned the radio completely off, and none of the usual country music came out.  I was going to have to find my own beat for aqua-jogging this morning.  Maybe it was a good thing that the water was cold.  I was most certainly motivated to keep moving.

Just as I had hoped, I had the pool all to myself.  Once I finally got my whole body submerged and started churning that water, my senses were bombarded with nature.  I was in a great man-made facility, but I was surrounded by a display only God could have created.  The air was crisp.  A gentle breeze was blowing.  A wasp stopped by for a quick drink.  Two plump fox squirrels sneaked between the bars of the gate, nervously searching for tasty morsels left behind from a recent neighborhood supper.  And, at least a dozen different birds were singing and chattering at the top of their little lungs.  One was a melodic songbird that made me think of several sopranos in our choir.  Others sounded more like a group of ladies getting together for a long-overdue lunch or some men enjoying the Senior Breakfast at Hardee's.  They were having such a good time.  I tried to imagine some of the possible "conversations."

"Hey Hilda, have you started packing for your migration trip?"
"No, Myrtle, I just thought I'd carry the clothes on my back, but I do have an appointment at 10:00 to have my feathers fluffed."

"Horace, when are you and the Missus leaving for Florida?"
"Well, Edgar, we usually leave by the end of September, but we're heading down a little early this year and stopping off at Sipsey Wilderness to visit some of Madge's cousins.  Maybe they'll put us up for the night.  That usual migratory route just gets so boring.  We thought we'd mix it up a little this year.  We're not gettin' any younger, you know."

Of course, I don't speak Bird, but I could tell they were happy.  They were doing exactly what God created them to do and were communicating the way He designed them.

What a meaningful backdrop for my prayer time this morning!  With evidences of God's presence everywhere, it was EASY to believe that He heard my praises and petitions and that He cared about everyone and everything that I cared about.  A song I learned as a child came rushing to my mind.

This Is My Father's World

This is my Father's world, and to my list'ning ears, 

All nature sings, and round me rings the music of the spheres.

This is my Father's world, I rest me in the thought

Of rocks and trees, of skies and seas; His hand the wonders wrought.

This is my Father's world, the birds their carols raise;

The morning light, the lily white declare their Maker's praise.

This is my Father's world, He shines in all that's fair;

In the rustling grass I hear him pass.  He speaks to me ev'rywhere.

This is my Father's world. O let me ne'er forget

That though the wrong seems oft so strong, God is the Ruler yet.

This is my Father's world, the battle is not done;

Jesus who died shall be satisfied, and earth and heaven be one.

Words by Maltbie D. Babcock, 1901.

What IS it about a fresh haircut?

What IS it about a fresh haircut that always makes me feel so good?  So much more confident and attractive?  So ready to go out for lunch and "be seen?" So convinced that I am now a better version of myself than when I got up this morning?

Today I walked into a great salon in our former hometown and made myself comfortable in the chair of my favorite stylist.  Kim has magic fingers.  On the visits when I just get a haircut, she treats me to a delectable, peppermint-infused scalp massage.  If only McDonald's included that on their Dollar Menu.  Sigh.  Then, I would surely be as addicted to scalp massages as I am to their large sweet tea.  :)

Kim is a former junior high chorus student.  She and her family went to church with our family for those all-important teenage years, and Kim was/is a good friend of my daughter Laura.  She is highly-skilled in what she does, and I trust her implicitly.  Plus, there's always the added benefit of getting caught up on news from her family and sharing the happenings of ours. 

Early this morning I walked in looking droopy and unkempt.  An hour later I walked out with my head held high, eager to face the day.  What made the difference?  Kim had used her training and instincts to cut away what was unruly and unnecessary in my hair.  The hair that remained was healthier and in a better condition to grow and be styled in the five or six weeks before another haircut will be needed.

When I drove back in the driveway at home, I noticed the new crepe myrtles that we planted a few months ago and saw that they, too, would soon need to be trimmed . . . or PRUNED.  Ahhhhh.  My lesson/reminder from God for today.  Pruning/trimming/cutting away the "bad" is a good thing.  That process makes a tree or a vine or a hairstyle BETTER and stronger than it would be if it were to be left untended.  I went straight in the back door and turned in my Bible to John 15:1-5.  Here it is:

(Jesus said) "I am the true vine, and My Father is the vinedresser.  Every branch in Me that does not bear fruit He takes away, and every branch that bears fruit He prunes, that I may bear more fruit.  You are already clean because of the word which I have spoken to you.  Abide in Me, and I in you.  As the branch cannot bear fruit of itself, unless it abides in the vine, neither can you, unless you abide in Me.  I am the vine, you are the branches.  He who abides in Me, and I in him, bears much fruit, for without Me you can do nothing." 

I know that when the weather gets cooler those crepe myrtles will need to be trimmed.  Those trees don't get to decide.  We do. And I already have my next appointment for another haircut.  A choice I made happily and expectantly.  The deeper question for me today is what kind of pruning needs to be done in my spiritual life so that I can produce the maximum amount of fruit for the Kingdom of God?  Am I willing to submit myself to God's pruning, even if it is painful?  Am I consciously and deliberately "abiding in Him and allowing Him to abide in me?"  That's what I'm pondering right now.  What about you?

When My Man is the Patient

After two weeks in a row of cataract surgeries for me and Steve being the sympathetic caregiver and designated driver, the tables were turned yesterday when he had oral surgery, complete with general anesthesia and the need for gentle care and attention.  Today he's still on soft foods and is feeling below par.

My Man is usually in high gear.  He works long hours at the veterinary clinic.  He spends his days off doing yardwork and outdoor maintenance.  And, on Sundays, he's up early putting the last touches on the Sunday School lesson he teaches to young married couples at church.  In addition to all of that, he's the "go-to guy" in our family for advice, wisdom, guidance, comfort, kindness, and love.  There are many people who need him -- among whom I am the first in line.  It is unnerving when he's not going at his usual fast pace and when he shows any signs of weakness.

We have dodged some big bullets in the last few years.  While we were in Ecuador, he started having  suspiciously high PSA results and endured a couple of biopsies done on his prostate.  But, it wasn't until we'd been back in the States for a year, that a cancer diagnosis was confirmed.  He was able to go to one of the top Urology Centers in the US and had surgery in the fall of 2007.  All of his PSA tests since then have come back showing no signs of a recurrence.  Praise the Lord.  If there is such a thing as a "good kind of cancer," then that is what Steve had.  My dear friends Martine, Talitha, and Thalia were not so fortunate.  Their husbands of many years got the bad cancers and diagnoses and died.  Steve and I could have so easily been in that group.

Two summers ago, about a month before we moved into our new house, Steve rapidly and alarmingly developed a double strangulated hernia and had to have emergency surgery early on a Sunday morning while everyone else was at church.  We were so grateful that our long-time friend and one of Steve's former fellow deacons was the surgeon on call.  The Hand of God was all over that crisis.

This week has given me yet another reminder of what a treasure Steve is in my life and of how much I cherish him.  We've been doing a lot of thinking and planning, as he approaches retirement, about what we want this stage of our lives to be like.  We've spent years making careful financial provisions and plans, knowing that we aren't guaranteed even another twenty-four hours, much less the longevity and good health of my great uncle who lived to be 99.  (Uncle Bonnie is a story for another day, but just for a teaser:  He drove himself back and forth from his home in Michigan to Alabama a couple of times a year until he was in his late 90's.  He stayed active in his church and community and even had "a lady friend" during his last years.  He was the quintessential positive person and a joy to be around).

Steve and I want to enjoy each other, still exploring new places and always learning.  We want to savor moments with our children and grandchildren.  We want to laugh and listen to good friends.  We want to invest time in endeavors and activities that have eternal significance.  We want to do everything under our control to stay healthy and to dispel negativity in our thoughts. 

Proverbs 5 is a chapter devoted to instructions and warnings from a father to his son.  This father was particularly focused on getting his son to stay away from sexual temptations that would cause him to be unfaithful to his wife.  Read all of it when you have time.  For now, look with me at verses 15-18.

"Drink water from your own cistern, and fresh water from your own well.  Should your springs be dispersed abroad, streams of water in the streets? Let them be yours alone and not for strangers with you.  Let your fountain be blessed and rejoice in the wife of your youth."

While I am preparing some tasty soft foods for Steve today and making sure he takes his medicines on time, I am sure that God is reminding me to "enjoy the HUSBAND of my youth," to make the most of everyday, to remember what a privilege it is to have him alive, grateful that he'll be back up to his usual top speed very soon.

If you want to be inspired, touched, and encouraged, go to www.youtube.com/watch?v=f6pX1phIqug   and see a wonderful testimony by Robert McQuilkin about his thoughts on caring for his wife.  Have a Kleenex handy.