What is revival?
That word is heard in churches; it is pleaded for in prayer groups.
Webster’s Dictionary defines revival as: an improvement in the condition or strength of something; an instance of something becoming popular, active, or important again; a reawakening of religious fervor.

The words in the definition are clear.
However, as I pondered revival, I came to another conclusion.
Revival simply means saying YES.

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My mother was a simple woman, practical, frugal, but generous.
My aunt, her youngest sister, was a career woman.
Dressed impeccably, shopped at expensive stores, yet generous with what she had.
Both women, along with another sister, were children during the Depression.

Frugality was necessary.
Hand me down clothes were the norm.
I often wondered if that was why my aunt loved to shop.
As the youngest of three girls, clothes were extremely used by the time they reached her.

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I heard the familiar sound coming from the next aisle.
I smiled because it took me back twenty-seven years.
When I rounded the corner with my shopping cart, I saw them.
A mother and daughter were grocery shopping.

You still call it grocery shopping when the child is only eighteen-months old.
You still call it helping when they hold paper towels bigger than they are.
You still call it efficient when you forget most of the items on your list.

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Any student in middle school has probably made one.
Any parent of those children probably has one on display.
I have quite a few, in various colors and various shapes.
Ceramic gifts, handmade with love.

My ceramic pieces include votive candle holders and decorative clay pots.
They are very special to me because they have the character of the child that made it.
Some of my pots are lopsided with obvious thumbprints.
Some of my pots wobble when placed on a table.

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When I was a little girl, I was afraid of thunderstorms.
Rain, by itself was fine; almost soothing.
Rain with wind, lightning, and loud thunder made me terribly afraid.

I learned all the tricks.
Count the number of seconds between the time you see the lightning and hear the thunder.
If the number increases each time you count, the storm is moving away from you.
If the number decreases each time, the storm is getting closer.

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My son has a hat.
A special hat he got when he studied at the Contemporary Music Center in Nashville.
It is a baseball hat with the student-designed logo on the front.
He and his special hat were inseparable that semester.
They still are.

I looked at that hat recently, when he was home, and it is showing wear.
The brim is dirty; the inside needs a good washing.
When I suggested as much, the idea was dismissed.
I don’t want anything to happen to it, Mom.

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You don’t realize until you go away on vacation, how tired you really are.
Maybe it is the change of scenery, or the absence of routine, but rest is the order of the day.
On any ordinary day, the other fifty-one weeks of the year, you keep going.
There are things that must get done.

You don’t listen to your body when it tells you to rest.
You ignore it.
You continue to function.

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They were known as exercise sandals.
A wooden base with a simple leather strap across the top.
The wood base had strategically placed bumps for your toes; indentations for your heels.

Walk in these shoes and you were sure to have toned legs.
The commercials always had leggy models walking happily down the street.
I wanted a red pair.
I saved my babysitting money and bought them.
They were horribly uncomfortable and I was extremely sorry I wasted my money.

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(originally published March 6, 2012)

If you asked my children to recall a game we played in the grocery store when they were young, they may not all remember. It was not intentional. It just happened.

There we were…one mother, five children, two shopping carts, many questions, many helpers. That weekly shopping trip was an event…a teaching tool really. It was a time to learn how to budget, how to use coupons, how to plan a week’s worth of menus, how to choose healthy foods…how to behave in a store. Little did we all realize that a far more important lesson was being learned.

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(originally published on March 6, 2012)

The house where I grew up had a road in the front and a road in the back. Our back porch, with its wrought iron furniture and glass top table, was the place to be. Not having air conditioning, it was the coolest part of the house.

I sat there many afternoons with my mother talking about everything, and nothing, yet still feeling as if all the things I had to say were terribly important to her. She was a wonderful listener. She had the gift of making even the most mundane thing an event. When I met my soon to be…many years later…husband…in high school, I would come home and tell her every detail: how I dropped my book (on purpose, I admit !!!) and he picked it up, how I did not understand math very well but he was so smart and understood it all, how I wish we could go to a dance together…

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