Lallie

Our dear friend Lallie died Wednesday. Her services were yesterday. And I am still in the unbelieving stage of grief. She just can't possibly be gone, so vibrant and active a woman, in love with life and all its fascinating facets. Just - gone. Not possible. A brilliant comet streaked across the sky,lighting our lives, and we are still staring at the sky, wishing it back.
She was only ill about a month. She was only sixty-eight. She was only in the middle of moving from North Carolina to Huntsville, her husband retiring from teaching at a university there, one son's family in Huntsville, the other nearby in Birmingham. A little over a year ago, our son got a Facebook message from her, asking if he was the same Mack Allison who had lived in Birmingham many years ago. Our son replied that it was his father she'd be looking for.
Mack had met Lallie in the fall of 1967, just two months after he had met me. He worked with her at a branch library in the Five Points area of Birmingham. She was a married twenty-five year old mother of two children, working on her Master's degree in math. She was tall, with glossy, black, always-touseled hair. She had an exotic look, big heavy-lidded eyes and a mouth and nose that reminded me of Cher - or a giraffe, in a lovely way.
We'd go over to her house and there was always something going on. She had a huge black dog named Zephyr with a coffee-table-sweeping tail, and later smokey grey cats with Egyptian names. Her decor was exotic in an older house with "character", as they say.
But it was the conversation that kept us coming back. Lallie was interested in everything and knowledgeable about many things. She didn't treat us like kids; she listened and sparred with us verbally, challenging us to think, but never treating us as though we were callow.
When we eloped to the courthouse at 20 and 22, Lallie was happy for us,(my parents weren't, hence the elopement) and as we left her house, she threw rice over our heads. If rice is a symbol of good luck, it worked - we have been married thirty-eight years.
We lost touch with her not long after we married. We moved to Huntsville and withing a year joined the Army together. When I retired in '96,(he'd gotten out much earlier), we had lived at Fort Campbell, Ky, twice, Germany three times for a total of ten years, Fort Dix once and finally landed back in Huntsville at Redstone Arsenal. Meanwhile Lallie had divorced her first husband, Bob Lott, raised her boys, worked in computers and math, and had married Bill Campbell, moving to North Carolina with him where he taught math.
When she found us, we were delighted that she and Bill were moving to Huntsville. There followed wonderful dinners at their house or ours, trips to bead shops for her and I, soaks in their hot tub, and hours of conversation. We seemed to take up where we had left off decades ago. Except, of course, that we all had grey hair and grown children and grandchildren. Even so, I really thought we had a good decade or so to look forward to.
When she became ill, she fussed with the doctors in her characteristic way, and we thought it was a temporary setback. She had allergies and had had a stroke before, and was taking Coumadin and a few other things. But the energy of the woman was amazing. She was making a quilt, researching her genealogy, doing some beading, decorating their house, designing the garden and planting it, fixing her computer, and - well, probably a few dozen other things that I didn't know about.
Gradually it dawned on me that things were not getting better for her. Still not wishing to believe it, I began to pray for a miracle for her healing, and wrote this poem. It became a poem of any woman to her dear friend. Here it is:

No

You can't die today
The sky is too blue.
Sun slants in to warm your bed,
Fiery leaves brush your window -
You cannot grow cold.
You can't die tomorrow, either.
It's Halloween, your granddaughter
Wears the princess gown you made, you
Have to see that.
You can't die the next day -
All Saints' Day? I think not!
You can't die the day after that,
We have the craft show, you and I.
And you can't die next week,
You have got to finish that quilt.
You can't die next month,
With Thanksgiving and all that baking.
December is out of the question, of course.
Christmas triumphs over death.
So you see, my oldest and dearest friend -
You simply cannot die.


But by the time I finished it, she could not hear it.
She left us too soon, or perhaps right on time. She would not have wanted to linger in pain.
We who remember her fondly told Lallie stories at her service, and gathered for dinner and got to know one another. She would have loved the gathering. I met two of her closest friends, and we are keeping in touch. Even in death, Lallie brought people together.
I'd say rest in peace, Lallie, but I can't imagine you that still.
I'll see you again, my friend.

There is Nothing Like It

My son is in love. I have never seen him this happy.

At twenty-two, he has had several girlfriends, and we have been happy for him. We have done our best to learn to love each one, advised him as best we could, and been there with comforting words when they broke up. It's been hard on us as his parents to see him hurt. He has wanted to be part of a loving couple but just had not found the one.

This time he has found a young woman with whom he can be himself. She laughs genuinely with him, wades fearlessly into discussions on subjects that fascinate him, and deepens his thoughts.

They fell in love on the Internet, talking and sharing writing. Through the wonders of Skype, they could gaze into each other's eyes from two thousand miles away. She lives in Nova Scotia; he lives in Alabama. Though the dangers of meeting an online friend have been documented, they have done it right. She came for a visit today. And I do not think there is much difference between this and the long time practice of traveling to the next village to find your love. The technology is new and the distance is greater, but the idea is the same.

To find another person who loves you as deeply as you love them is a wondrous thing.Someone who accepts you, warts and all, and helps you grow into the best you that you can be. The exhilaration of this new love shines from his face and has put a spring in his step, the like of which I had never seen with other girls. And there is nothing like watching your child's face light up when he speaks of her. All a mother wants is for someone to love her son or daughter as much as she loves them. Hard as it may be to let them go from your protective embrace out into the world, it is bearable and even heartwarming to see them embraced by their new love.

I am getting to know her. I like what I see so far, very much. May they always make each other's eyes light up.

Poem for Valentine's Day - for all my Trucker Team Friends

This Must Be Love




As the rig pulls in, she is already gathering the shower bags.

He finishes his log page and the last sip of the coffee she made for him miles ago.

She makes the bed, a habit she just can’t quit.

He asks her if the pay paperwork is done and she says of course it is the packets are ready to drop in, I have them right here.

She tells him not to forget his reading glasses this time.

He asks her to hand him his current book and she passes it to him without a word, not even losing his place.

She bundles up the trash bag so the dog won’t make a glorious mess.

The dog is leashed and taken to the small grassy spot,

And encouraged to make a mess of a different kind.

She puts the dog up, and gets the bags down.

He shoulders his bag, and as they walk toward the truck stop,

They reach for each other’s calloused hand.


Rebecca Burke Allison
2007

Terry said, "I love you!"

My grandson is three and a half. We all talk a lot in both families, and so of course we have encouraged his learning to talk. It was only fair to him!
The first really coherent sentence I heard him say, was, "Get down now!" He said this to me on his second birthday as he struggled to get down from my lap and go play. I was impressed - both by his using a whole sentence at two and by his independence. I let him down!
Since then, we cherish every word we get from him, especially since we don't get to see him but every six months or so, since we live in Alabama and he in North Carolina.
He was talking a lot when we visited last June. He had turned three at the end of April. I sat in the back seat with him, and the conversation went like this:
Terry: "Thassa red light. That means we stop."
Gramma (me): "I see!"
Terry: "Thassa green light. That means we can go."
Gramma: "Uh-HUH! What does a yellow light mean?"
Terry, pausing to think: "Slow DOWN!"
He commented on school buses, flags, and told me all about Thomas the Tank Engine, his current favorite thing.
But he endeared himself to me forever with this exchange, which took place as I leaned over to hug him bye-bye. He was sitting in his car seat and got this funny little almost sly look on his face.
Terry: "That was me."
Gramma: What was you, honey?"
Terry: "I haf a cow in my pants!"
Turns out he had just farted, and his Mom said that yesterday he had broken wind and she had remarked that it sounded like' "Moooo!"
Quite creative to decide there was a cow in his pants!
We have talked to him over the phone since then, and it has been fun, but not terribly clear what he is saying, not being able to look at his face.
But on the night of December first, 2009, albeit at his mother's prompting, my grandson said, "I love you!" Clear as day.
It adds a wonderful new dimension to the love between us.
I love you too, Terry.

Messages

I have become a Lay Speaker for the Methodist church. This is both terrifying and exhilarating. I am now certified to be able to give messages to groups of people on matters of faith and Scripture. I have spoken to groups of nursing home residents and once to members of my own church, at the Sunday afternoon service.

I say messages, because it seems presumptuous to say sermons. I have not been to seminary. But the Lord in His wisdom seems to think that since I love to write and talk, He can use me for good. At least that's how I choose to look at it. I can't see being all proud of myself and boasting that I know so much. That would be, as one of my favorite authors, Judy Connor, says in her book, Southern Fried Divorce, "biggetyspeckled". You just know what that word means.

Along with giving messages, I am trying to listen and watch for them as well. I finally concluded that God reaches us in as many different ways as He made different people. Since He made us, He knows each of us intimately. He knows how we learn, how we "get it".

My degree is in Occupational Education, and I had to take quite a few classes on how people learn. Some are auditory learners, and get it when they hear the teacher say it. Others are visual - they'd better write it down or draw themselves a picture or a map. Still others learn by kinesthetics - by the feeling, hands-on doing of a task.

I used to read about some people's experiences with God. Some said they heard the voice of God. Some had beautiful visions, angel visitations. Some had awful accidents and woke up in a hospital with a realization about God. I was envious. (Well, not of the accident victim...) God had revealed himself to these folks in an unmistakable way. After that, they had no doubt He existed.

How neat, I thought. I wanted my very own vision, voice of God experience. Having grown up in the Presbyterian Church, I never heard of anyone I actually knew that had had that "born again" type experience.

In high school, I talked with a girl who was of a more fundamental faith. I told her, when she asked if I was saved, that I really wasn't sure. I asked her how to get saved. I wanted that rock-bound certainty about God. She gave me the basic formula. "Get down on your knees and ask Jesus Christ to come into your life and be your personal Savior."

I couldn't wait to get home and lock myself into my room and do this.

I prayed to be saved. I didn't feel anything right away, so I prayed harder. Still no feeling, no voice, no hand patting my shoulder, no certainty. After a while, I had tears streaming down my face and I was begging. Still. No. Feeling.

I finally had to get up and go to supper. The next day I found the girl I had talked to and told her I wasn't sure it had worked, I didn't FEEL saved. Without missing a beat, she looked at me and said, "You must not have been sincere enough."

Well. I left her, feeling very upset and more confused than ever. I was sure I had been sincere. Why had I not gotten the certainty of salvation, the feeling I wanted so badly. After a while, a thought occurred to me. It was, "She's only sixteen, too - what did she know?"

Gradually over the years of my life, I have come to realize that God knew me very well, and knew that had I gotten a huge feeling, I probably would have thought I was losing my mind. He knew that was not the way I understood.

Instead, He has reached me through experiences with people and things I read. He has put people in my life to help me understand; He has shown me things to read that further my understanding. I talk, I read - and I have learned to listen for God.

God loves me. He knows me. He does speak to me. In His own way and in mine.

I think that is why He allows all the different faiths. So that maybe, if we listen, we can all "get God".

My prayer for you is that you will get Him, too.

Pastor John's Journal: God Loves Even the Wicked

Pastor John's Journal: God Loves Even the Wicked

I like this. God wants us all to come to Him. He is a most loving and gracious Father. And when we finally realize just how much we are loved by our Creator, it is so much easier to love our brothers and sisters. Grace and compassion, not judgment and disapproval.

Busted

Ok, Jules, you busted me! It has been way too long since I posted - I evidently immediately forgot my resolve to post at least once a week, which is what happens when I try to discipline myself. Stubborn as I am, I don't even like ME telling me what to do.

So - new tactic is to write first, play later. Before I get on the "Innertubes" as my son calls it, I go immediately to my novel that I am writing. Once I start writing or revising, I am hooked. It's the getting started that I have problems with.

A wise woman with a very happy husband once told me, " I used to never want to have sex with my darling husband because I was tired, thinking about the kids, interested in something I was reading, etcetera. But I noticed that once he convinced me to turn everything off and go to bed with him, I had a wonderful time. It was just getting started that did not seem to appeal to me. So I very wisely told him to just start with me and I'd catch up!"

Writing seems to work that way. Just start and your Muse will run to catch up.