So You Think You Have "Fallen in Love"

I've lived a lot of years. A lot! 😉 I have learned some things. I have still yet to learn other things. But, I have come to the conclusion that we don't "fall in love", but that we CHOOSE to love. We choose to love in spite of others actions, or the lack of their actions. We choose to love, because we were first loved by the Father. And He showed us what real love is.

Sound miserable? It's not. Oh, some days I would dispute that. But reality causes me to take a deep breath and look a little closer at what love really is. I do know that beautiful word is used waaaayyyy too many times to describe sexual feelings, comfort feelings, getting what I want feelings, and the all-around-feel-good feelings. The sun is shining, feelings. We're going to the beach (or mountains) awesome feelings.

But, what happens when life throws you a curve? What happens to "love" when trustworthy suddenly becomes irresponsible? What happens to "love" when there is no beach trip because there is no money to fund it? What happens to "love" when the one you "love" has a different point of view and expresses it with a raised voice? Do we still "love"? Or in that moment, do we decide the "love of our life" is not who we want to be with any longer? Oops! Love leaked out somehow. Love has been replaced with anger. Love has been replaced with the pain of harsh words. I just can't believe there to be any long-term relationship without differences that hurt on occasion. Love is a CHOICE!

Just to help us out a bit, Scripture defines love for us. This is how one measures love. We don't "fall in love". If you can go through this list and say with an honest heart, that you pass the love test, then you are indeed a very special person. Almost perfect, ready to be reunited with your Maker, and collect your just reward. Love is a choice, simply because life is unpredictable. For me, the first two out of the gate keeps me grounded, and aware of just how much I still fall short. Patient & kind. At all times.


I Corinthians 13: 4-8a

v.4. Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud.
v.5. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs.
v.6. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth.
v.7. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.
v8a. Love never fails

The road less traveled is the one that is narrow, with hardship, and must be lived by faith in the One Jesus Christ, who sacrificed everything so we might have an eternity with our Creator, all the while having an understanding of the way of peace and true love, while on this planet. Why is that? Because few will give up the right to control what comes in to their life, and what don't. Many try to enter the love gate by allowing for human effort and all other of the world's religions. It's non-exclusive. These are those who don't believe that Jesus is the only way to the Father of all life. Ah...the truth in the lie of tolerance. Jesus died for ALL, but all don't choose Him.

There is only one way to know what love truly is. And it isn't easy. Love takes denying yourself. And that's a tough one.

As always, here you'll find me...in Mary's World. (It really belongs to God, but he's loaned a portion of it to me). 😉

Crazy Lady on Warren Avenue

I was so glad to spot this sign in a local consignment shop, yesterday. That sign swept all my fears right out the door as it said, "Welcome, crazy lady Mary! Sit a spell and have a glass of sweat tea."

There have been a few instances (okay...more than a few), that a North Carolinian could have sized me up and declared me to be a little lop-sided in the belfry. Oklahomans already knew this, since I had been around for, let's see...39 plus years, and they had grown to love me. The understanding ones (those with similar issues), anyway.

I'll just throw a couple of questionable instances out here, and you can let me know if I'm Southerner enough to parade my crazy. And while you read, don't forget the declaration of the aforementioned sign...

Instance #1. It was somewhere around July 9th, or 10th, of this year. My husband had made a trip back West, leaving me to fend for myself. That's not always a good thing. I take things to bed with me. For protection. Like my very sharp letter opener.

On this particular evening, my psyche had already been put on high alert from an event that took place moments after going to bed. Something (or someone), pounded the outside of the house just about 3 feet from where my bed was. It wasn't just a little scrape, or thump. We're talking, "let's knock a hole in this wall", thump. As my eyes stretched wide with terror, I stealthily moved quietly out of bed, grabbed my dagger and iPhone light, ready to make anyone that might be trying to enter crazy Mary's house wish they had not. And of course, I found no one around. Completely invisible to me, maybe they had decided to hide in the dark recesses beneath the screened in porch...also a short distance away from my bedroom. Geez, who beats on the side of ANYONE's house after 11pm? Someone with a death wish, evidently.

I finally told myself it must have been a blind deer trying to find new growth from any of the bushes they missed the previous night, thinking my bedroom wall was foliage. Hey. Ya gotta do what ya gotta do to assure yourself you will be alive come morning. We do have motion sensor lights on the outside of our house (somewhat comforting), and one of them was glaring into the night's darkness. Just as I suspected they would. I knew by that, SOMETHING triggered it!!! I decided to leave those lights on, and return to bed.

Once there, I found that sleep wasn't easy to find, either. When at last I dozed off, a gentle "beep" went off in the hallway that is adjacent to our bedroom. What???!!! Okay, as my heart muscle began placing my chest in a choke hold, I knew that someone who had been dishonorably discharged from the military was now in my house, and had some sort of explosive that was about to go off. Thus the beeping noise. I really didn't know what to do. I waited (without breathing). 5-10 seconds later, there was another soft "beep". So, what is this guy doing? Just STANDING in my hall???

I knew I had to face the music. With my trusty letter opener gripped tightly in my right fist, again, I was ready to leave my mark on whoever had been bold enough to cross my threshold. The hall was empty. Surprise, surprise. "beep-beep-beep". WHERE is that coming from?! Then all went silent. At that moment, I realized it was the carbon monoxide detector. What should I do? Am I being gassed as I stare at it? Will I be able to get out in time since it is an odorless gas, I really can't tell how long I might have. Wait! This is too easy for Dennis. His wishes could not be allowed to come true. I should call the FIRE DEPARTMENT! They will rescue me! They're up all night anyway, and it's only 1 am. Okay, Google, find the number for me.

The fire chief told me in his very professional voice, to "leave the premises now." Now??? Ummm...I'm not clothed properly. So, being the bright young lady that I am, I said, "Do I have time to put some clothes on?" Please. Do not ask what was going on in my crazy head. I HAVE NO IDEA!!! I can only imagine the laughter, the jokes, the innuendoes, happening after I closed that conversation out.

A huge fire truck arrived within a few minutes. They had even prepared a second one that had began it's journey to Warren Avenue, as well. Three firemen got out of the first unit and made their way to our house, preparing for the worst, I'm sure. I was just leaving the house, when they pulled up. Yes, it took me awhile to find proper clothing in the middle of the chaotic stressors of the night hours. Good thing I was still in the house. Someone had to unlock the door for them, since I missed that memo. I think it quite possible, as I now reflect on this event, that my brain took a vacation without inviting my body. An empty shell remained to figure out something an alone person should never have to.

I'm going to cut this story short, even though there is a lot more to share about it. The beeping was not coming from a carbon monoxide detector. We don't have one, the fire chief tells me. It was the fire alarm. The fire alarm that was 18 years old and the battery was going belly up, but wanted to alert me first. Whew. I may not die after all. At least not from being gassed. Embarrassment, maybe. But not from carbon monoxide poisoning. Not tonight...

Instance #2. See the picture to the right? What do you think THAT is? If you guessed a bone, you would be correct! Hanging on my backyard swing. Yep. This happened just a couple of evenings ago. It was a beautiful evening, with a cool breeze blowing, so I decided to sit a spell (minus the sweet tea), out on the backyard swing. I always look the swing over, before sitting down. Simply because it's back is up against a wooded area and I don't relish the idea of a snake just dropping down for a visit. I don't like the shape of their tongues. It makes conversation double sided, if you know what I mean...

When I spotted this bone, I immediately took a picture and sent it via text message to my husband. My, in the house, relaxing, husband. He had mowed the yard the evening before, so I wondered what he was thinking by placing a bone on my swing. He claims he didn't do it. Right. I figured he was trying (again) to make me think I was going mental. But when he came out to take a look, I knew he was telling me the truth. He didn't do it. Okay. Where did it come from? He said it "probably dropped out of the tree." What??? Look how big that thing is! It dropped out of a tree. Yeah. I'd hate to come face to face with whatever drug that thing up the tree. Ya know, the tree that is in my backyard. Yeah, THAT tree!

So, who put the bone on my swing? And why were they in my back yard? And why did they choose to hang it from my swing? Why not throw it into the wooded area? And, why were they in MY back yard??? Had they been swinging? WHY were they in my back yard?!

As the evening drew to a close, I couldn't get this partial, dehydrated, strangely odd bone, out of my head. I googled the human humerus. Bingo! We had part of a skeleton's arm hanging from our swing. And from the length of it, it appeared to be the bone from a small child. Maybe an 8-10 year old. My next move was to text my reality-check daughter. She never pulls any punches, just tells it like it is. And it's mostly, "Mom. You're over-thinking this," daughter. "Maybe you should call the police and let them decide," she surprisingly said. Even she agreed the two looked similar. Similar enough to have it checked out.

Now my mind began forming all kinds of scenarios. 'Cause, like I said. This girl never sugar coats anything. Straight up truth. AND, I had always thought the dip in our backyard was because people were buried there. Granted, my mind may be a little over-active at times. A client suggested the dip in our yard was most likely a previous garden spot. Whatever... ;-)

So....the nice policeman arrives, and I show him my pictures before going out to where my husband had thrown the bone. This was like at 9:30 pm, and it was very dark out. That's significant. I'm not sure why, it just is. Plus, I was pretty sure my name had popped up in the system before the guy came out. Remember the fire alarm thingy? I'm probably marked by the City of Cary as being an unbalanced person, so there's that.

The evening came, and went, just as fast as that bone flew through the air on it's way to another adventure. The officer declared it to be an old animal bone. Good enough. But still...HOW did it get on my swing, and WHY was it there? According to the nice man, "a kid probably found it, and while walking through your private yard to get to his house, across the street and a half mile behind your house, through brush that needed a machete blade placed against it in order to pass through, probably just decided that was a good place to hang it. You know, up high, instead of conveniently placing it on the lower support bar. Cause kids are like that. They take the hard way, instead of the easy."  Ummmmm...right! *eye roll

Now, it's your turn. Do I fit into the North Carolinian atmosphere? And would you offer me a sweet tea if I came to sit a spell?

I am optimistically awaiting your response...here, in Mary's World.

It's Amazing What A Curtain Can Teach You

I've been wanting to blog for a very long time, now. Since mid February, to be exact. Nope. I'm not a procrastinator. Life just has turned out a lot of brain fog that likes to travel in circles, while it navigates my new normal. You'd think 5 years would be sufficient to adjust, right? I'm gettin' there. I'm gettin' there....

I was going to post about Walking a Narrow Line, or Keeping One's Balance, or Placing One Foot in Front of the Other, or Walking the Fence, or Why Rubber Pads Are Bad Support Bases While Standing on A Ladder. But then I tried to access my blog site...

My heart is JUST NOW starting to beat in a regular rhythm, after about 30 minutes of head banging. Crazy stuff happens in cyberspace, especially for the tech challenged. The blog I had never had trouble accessing since 2010, now would not allow me to post. And just why not??? Could it be that since it had been a full 7 months since my last visit, big brother thought I had died? Could it be because some weirdo had accessed my blog and stole all my really great posts, and there was now nothing to show? Could it be that my website had connected to the blog (after all, it WAS showing my business email address...weird), and erased everything not pertaining to the beauty industry? Yeah. I know. That one was a little bit of a stretch.

So...very looooonnnnngggg story, short. I was logged into my business account instead of my personal account. Since I have not yet created a blog driven by Google, for that site, it's no wonder it was saying I did not have a blog yet. Good grief! I'm really not sure why that made my heart pump a gazillion times a minute, nor why I thought you'd want to know that. I guess it was the thought of losing all my posts and that all of you would cry. I was frantic inside, while trying to be nice (my husband demands it), to the fella on the other end of my conversation piece that was telling me there was no technical help for the blogger. Breathe out, Mary. Breathe out...

So...I recently changed out the sheer curtains that allowed a lot of light to filter in through the blinds, as they hung in the spare room where Reagan takes her naps, when she is lighting up Grams life. I replaced them with black-out curtains, thinking she might rest better in a pitch black room. I knew she wasn't going to like that. Nor was I. Not sure why I thought it a good idea, other than the fact she is used to sleeping in the dark when she's home, and I think also, at her daddy's.

Every time I walked by the room, all I could see was darkness. Maybe a bit of light was peeking around the edges of a couple of curtains, but mostly, it felt foreboding. The removed sheers had provided Reagan a place to hide from Grams, and she'd never had trouble sleeping before. But these heavy, thick, black, monsters were just too dense. She couldn't see Grams trying to find her. Nor could she shake her head no, when Grams asked if she was behind the curtains. When she woke from her naps, Grams now had to walk into a dungeon to get her and couldn't see that beautiful smile she always had, upon first awaking. Nor could Reagan see Barley, Bunny, Spice, Bear, Willie, Tommy, or Cuddle Bear because it was so crazy dark! She couldn't even be sure she was even sitting up. Too dark to tell. Bad call...

Today, the sheers go back up.

The moral of this story? Never block out the light. Functionality goes down the tubes in dark places (hiding really means hiding when in the dark). Laughter is minimized. Since one can't see their hand in front of their face, one can't know that anyone is listening to their laughter that is meant to be shared. A sense of aloneness develops (can't find our friends), and the room gets really cold. The good news? We can always choose light, if we'll but remove what is creating the darkness. Never block the light.

Until next time, you'll find me letting the light shine in, right here...in Mary's World.

Why I Chose to be Called Grams

"What's in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet." ~William Shakespeare

I think it matters not so much, as to what we call our grandmotherly selves, we'll still smell the same. That could be a good thing, or a not-so-good thing. Ha!

Not that many months ago, possibly 9 or 10, I was asked what I'd like to be called by our first grandchild. I really had no preference. All I cared about was that MY baby, was going to have a baby, causing my status to change just a bit and inevitably be reminded that years were flying by way too fast. All I could think of was that I seriously hoped God would bestow more years than I expected, so that the little person about to enter our realm of existence would know and love her grandma.

Creativity in choosing a name outside of my original name, is not a strong point I possess. As I began filtering the over-used Grandma, Granny, Gran, and Nana titles, I decided none of those really fit my personality anyway. Why I thought about our girls, and what they are generally called by their friends, I really couldn't say. But I did. Lindsey is called "Linds". Meghan is known as "Megs". I figured Lindsey's name was just shortened, but when I asked her (some years ago) why she called her sister "Megs" instead of "Meg", her answer was so interesting to me that it pushed the creative mind to the forefront. At least I thought so. I really did love it, even though I don't call her "Megs"...she's always been Meghan to me. Or Meg.

ANYWAY...that is how I decided on Grams. Not Gram. Grams. Yes, I am aware that I'm not more than one person and I do realize the use of an "s" means I must be talking about something Gram owns, or there is at least two of me. But, come now. This is the 21st century and many words in the English language mean something totally different than when I was growing up, somewhere way back in the 20th century. Right? Everything is acceptable, or if it isn't, we don't care. Truth be told, I was almost afraid to talk when I first moved to North Carolina (total culture shock compared to where I came from) for fear of saying some embarrassing thing without realizing it. But, Grams is a pretty safe word. As far as I know.

Now...when Reagan begins real talk, who knows what she'll call me. It may be something I, nor anyone else, would have thought of in a million years. But seeing as how incredibly smart that girl is, she may blurt it right out and surprise the socks off us all (I may expect a little too much). One thing is for sure. I will love whatever she chooses to call me, because it will set me apart. Special person that I am. Grams is just a starting point for her to consider.

Now you know. And until Reagan begins speaking English, here you'll find me, known as Grams (with an s), in Mary's World.