Lynna Clark

By Lynna Clark

A group of older ladies were clucking along in their sewing circle complaining of their aches and pains. Each of them was dealing with something different. There was a pause and one of the ladies wisely commented. “I like being old. Everybody gets to be young. But not everyone gets to be old.”

I’ve been thinking on that with David’s birthday coming up. Even though he was 69 when he passed last summer just before his July birthday, he never really acted old. His skin was smooth [he got that from his mom]. He still had good hair [he got that from his dad] until the very end. I always loved his hair. But his quick dry wit was the best sign of his young heart. I loved how funny he could be. He used to say that sarcasm was his spiritual gift. But he never made a joke at the expense of others. His wit was always kind.

I told him once that I wanted a sign for our yard for the many people using our road as a shortcut. They fly past our house through our neighborhood like a bunch of NASCAR wannabees. The sign would say, “Drive Like YOUR Grandkids Play Here!” He shook his head.. “No. We are not going to be those people.” Since I was not used to hearing the word no from him, I was truly surprised. He followed up by saying, “And we are not going to be those grumpy old people who shout at little kids in church, ‘Stop running!’ We will be the ones that hand out candy with noisy wrappers.”

He also told me one time that when he died he wanted to be cremated, mixed in with black paint and sprayed onto his motorcycle. That way he could keep on riding. So to the guy who bought his bike, stop by the houses sometime. I’ve got something special for you.

Happy Birthday in Heaven my Beloved. Though I’m glad you aged well, I’m even more thankful that now you are forever young.

By Lynna Clark

Today marks one year since losing my beloved David. God gave us two years of dating and fifty one years of marriage. Or actually it was more like fifty three years of hanging out as best friends. My heart still cracks wide open with the grief of missing him. Knowing he is with the Lord softens the pain, as in I do not sorrow as those who have no hope. And yet I sorrow. Deeply. I guess I always will. Someone wisely told me that this grief is the price of great love. So yes. I will pay that price gladly in exchange for the life we shared.

Beloved David. Oh how I miss you.

You can tell how much he loved me by the size of that corsage.

By Lynna Clark

Wouldn’t it be cool if there were loudspeakers announcing across every country, every nation, every village the wonderful message of God’s love? What if airplanes flew low and dropped leaflets in the language of each person? Maybe a parade could march through every town, playing music which pointed folks to their Creator. In the biggest cities giant billboards would broadcast digital images drawing citizens to God.

I think that’s a great idea. We could saturate the whole world with displays of God’s great power and love. But where could we get the money for such an undertaking?

We could have a yard sale.

Hmmm…

Good thing God didn’t wait for me to implement the plan. It’s already done.

“The heavens proclaim the glory of God.

The skies display His craftsmanship.

Day after day they continue to speak;

Night after night they make Him known.

They speak without a sound or word;

Their voice is never heard.

Yet their message has gone throughout the earth,

And their words to all the world.”

This beautiful plan to draw mankind to Himself through creation has been in place from the beginning. Even for us who know the Lord well and are used to His kindness, it’s amazing to watch a mama bird caring for her little ones. A star filled night reminds me of how small I am and what an awesome God we serve.

It causes me to understand better why Satan would make such an effort to quiet creation’s testimony. The evolution theory did not originate with scientists. How funny to “reason” that all this just happened because conditions were right.

The Lord of the universe is drawing all to Himself through creation. Let’s be faithful in showing them the rest of the story as given in His Word.

“The instructions of the LORD are perfect, reviving the soul.

The decrees of the LORD are trustworthy, making wise the simple.

 The commandments of the LORD are right, bringing joy to the heart.

The commands of the LORD are clear, giving insight for living.”*

The testimony of Creation and the Word will not be silenced.

May we be just as faithful!

See Psalm 19*

Photo by my sweet daddy, Seabert Pittman

By Lynna Clark

We filled a row of rockers on the huge porch. For over twenty years while mama was alive we rented a place at the beach for the extended family. I’m sure locals scattered to the four winds the first week in June each summer just to avoid our chaos.

Thanks to mama it was an organized chaos. Each family was responsible for certain things on the master list she kept year after year. Seldom did we have to make a grocery run while vacationing. Ice cream sundae night was the one exception. We looked forward to it all week. Mama taught us the value of organizing our chaos. Daddy however, has wisdom of a different sort.

One night while rocking and sipping coffee on the aforementioned porch, he noticed his rocker was not performing to his satisfaction. Being a man who repairs everything the moment there’s a need, he commented with disdain. “For want of a nail, the house was lost.”

Handing me his coffee, he fetched his tool box and fixed the rocker. “Anybody else settin’ in a wobbly rocker?” he asked while walking down the line of chairs. I know what you’re thinking. What kind of person takes a tool box on vacation? The same kind that packs his weed-eater so he can clear the public walkway. Yep. That’s my dad.

Sure I’m a little partial. But I declare, I think my daddy can fix just about anything. I may have told you this before. But he built and hung the rafters over his lake deck so he could turn it into a screened in porch. I asked him who helped get those heavy things hoisted.

“I built a jig,” he answered like it was nothing. For those of you who still have no idea how he did it, don’t confuse jig with a little dance one does to express joy. No, daddy’s jig was a homemade tool he built to prop one end of a rafter while he climbed a ladder and hung the other end. I wasn’t there so I can’t imagine it either. It’s just another one of those things daddy knows how to do. The old adage “Necessity is the mother of invention,” is very true. The problem is that there’s not a lot of necessity in our culture anymore. My daddy has lived that particular kind of wisdom all his life. When you don’t have exactly what you need, you make do with what you have. Wise indeed.

I heard that during the early years of space exploration the American government spent millions trying to figure out how to make an ink pen write where there was no gravity. Our solution to every problem is to pour money on it. The Russians beat us at that game. They just used a pencil. Though daddy’s no Russian, that’s his kind of common sense. Even now I can still hear his reprimand when I did something less than brilliant.

“Ain’t ya got no common?”

Sometimes I worry that I’ve missed out on that old fashioned practical kind of wisdom. My phone has a calculator so my memory of the multiplication tables is fading fast. It also has folks’ names so I don’t have to memorize anyone’s phone number. BUT! I can still count out change when paying with real money. On days when I’m feeling especially mischievous, I hand the baby-faced cashier a twenty dollar bill plus whatever change it takes to pay so she can hand me back an even ten. Watching her eyes glaze over is weirdly satisfying. However, I try not to gloat too much as I will surely be asking someone her age for technology advice before the day is over. Too bad there’s not a jig for that. I could call my daddy.

Daddy’s Festive Jig

By Lynna Clark

Poor Kevin. He is not well. See him leaning over on the bird bath? He’s been a little droopy lately, so I stood him back up. While he nodded his head in approval, a wasp popped me on the leg. That’s okay. It was a small price to pay to help a friend.

Hannah and I walked by Kevin a few days later and he had fallen all the way over. Bless his heart. Those dang squirrels must’ve knocked him on his face again. Hannah reached down to lift him back up when a whole swarm of wasps flew out. They popped her good! Turns out Kevin had a secret.

Deep inside his coconut heart was a large wasp nest. Kevin was full of trouble.

Quite a few years back I tried to help a lady who was going through a terrible time. She lashed out so hatefully that I had to wonder what brought on her wrath. The pastor where I worked observed the ruckus and said these wise words:

“Hurting people often hurt others.”

It didn’t make me feel any better. Crazy woman, now we both hurt. What’s up with your bad self? But I started noticing a pattern.

My pastor friend was right. Those who hurt others are usually hiding a great deal of pain themselves.

But I’ve also found the opposite to be true. Some of the sweetest comfort I’ve ever received has been from those who’ve experienced great pain or loss.

Maybe it’s about how we process our suffering.

An old saying that bears repeating is this.

“Trials will either make us bitter or better.”

You’ll be happy to know that Kevin is better. His demons were exorcised with a large can of wasp spray. Thanks David.

Now Kevin is back to nodding his head and happily making those who pass his way smile again.

By Lynna Clark

I finally shared with my husband a terrible thing that happened nearly thirty years ago. I was traveling home with three little girls in tow when I had a flat tire. I limped it into a service station where a nice young mechanic came out of the garage area wiping the grease from his hands. “What can I do for you ma’am?” he kindly asked.

“I’ve got a flat.” I showed him the back left tire as I got out of the car. “Could you fix it for me?”

“Sure thing ma’am!” he was all over it lickety split. Three little girls watched from inside as he made quick work of something that would’ve taken me all morning to figure out… if I could’ve done it at all. I asked sheepishly if he’d take a check as I had zero cash in my purse.

“No problem! That’ll be five bucks for the use of the wrench,” he kindly replied.

“Are you kidding? Let me pay you more than that…” I protested. When he shook his head no and repeated, “Five bucks.” I asked “Would you like an apple pie?”

I had a yard full of apple trees at the time and had learned to make homemade pies. That would be the least I could do. He suddenly got his back up and replied in a tone I will never forget.

“My WIFE would not be happy! I try to stay away from things like that!”

“Things like what?” I wondered though I never asked. I have no idea what the man thought I was offering, but believe me, it was PIE.

I was so embarrassed.

Look at me man! Of course I’m terribly attractive here in my pleated mom jeans, blinding white tennis shoes and big eighties hair. It’s surely hard to resist a woman with three kids in a hatchback who has to write a check for five dollars. But c’mon man! Pie is not CODE for anything.

I only told one person what happened in case she knew something about offering pie that I did not. She was hip like that. I knew I could trust my friend Ann not to tell anyone. She didn’t. But every once in a while something would come up and she’d ask, “So did you pay with ‘pie’?” …wink wink

Even now as I confess this indiscretion to you, my neck turns red with embarrassment. It took me thirty years to tell my husband who loves me with all his heart. Why?

It’s hard being misunderstood… maybe because we feel the shame of what others assume about us.

But I’m telling you… it was PIE for crying out loud.

Big 80’s hair with my man rockin’ the stache

PS- Happy Anniversary beloved David; the first one I will spend without you. Praise God for the 51 years of wedded bliss He gave us which included lots of …. cake.

By Lynna Clark

There she was again. I kept running into this woman I was acquainted with long ago, usually in the parking lot of some store. As she walked away I commented to Hannah, “What is up with that mullet? She’s kept her hair like that forever. Who would do that?”

I did not even bless her heart.

The following week David and I went out to eat for our anniversary. My friend Melanie and her hubba Dennis sat across from us. I kept admiring Melanie’s bangs. She is just so pretty. At the end of our dinner, she took a picture of me and David. As I looked at our anniversary picture, I really hated my very high forehead.  Then it happened. Suddenly I had bang envy.

You need to know this about me.

I have cut my own hair for years.

I know. It’s similar to the man who is his own attorney and therefore has a fool for a client.

But in my defense, every time, and I mean EVERY TIME I get a professional cut, they forget to allow for my extreme natural curl. At the end of the shearing, they whip me around in the chair to view my loveliness in the massive mirror. And EVERY TIME I wish I had spent my money on therapy instead… or perhaps a hat.

Good grief.

Then I leave them a nice tip, and vow NEVER to step into another hair salon as long as we both shall live… me and my hair.

So annyyywayyy…

I cut me some bangs.

But I forgot to allow for my extreme natural curl. Since I didn’t cut the back, just my bangs, suddenly I had a mullet.

I do not even deserve a “bless your heart.” That’s what I get for being critical.

A mullet.

No doubt it was punishment for my haughty words. I wore it like that for two whole days. Factor in the humidity and it fast became a fuzzy mullet. David never said a word. That is why we have remained married for forty years. The man knows when to keep silent.

One morning I decided that everyone around me had suffered enough. With scissors in hand, I determined to correct the situation.

I asked God for help. Deep in my soul I heard, “It is hard for thee to kick against the pricks.” So I quit trying to straighten my bangs and allowed them to curl all willy nilly the way God made them.

Apparently my transgression was worse than a two day penance. For now I am sporting a much shorter curly doo. Even my 21 month old grandson, who says very little, pointed at my fuzzy head and commented a long slow, “UH-oh…”

I imagine that I will bump into my mullet friend again soon. As she walks away she will probably shake her head and wonder, “What is up with her afro? She looks like Richard Simmons. Who would do that?”

I hope she will be kind enough to bless my heart.

By Lynna Clark

I take great pride in keeping my home neat. It’s not always clean, but it is tidy. There’s a bright tablecloth on our little kitchen table, with a fruit bowl or flowers. Dirty dishes are placed in the portable dishwasher as soon as they’re used. David and I are the only ones here and the house is so tiny that it only takes a minute to make it neat.

However, last Monday we finished a long day and crashed. The tablecloth was dirty so I tossed it on the floor toward the laundry room. The dishwasher was full and in front of the kitchen sink hooked up to run. David wasn’t feeling well so he grabbed an old sheet and quilt then hit the recliner sofa. The week before, he moved to a new office and had pulled books off our shelves, sorting stuff in piles on the floor. Our house was unusually trashed.

Books were not the only thing to hit the floor that night. About 2am, he got so violently ill that his blood pressure bottomed out. I found him passed out on the bathroom floor and had to call 911.

As I jerked on clothes, described his symptoms to the dispatcher, and prayed my sweetheart wouldn’t die, I ran to turn on the porch light and open the side door. Lickety-split my little upside down house was filled with firemen and paramedics who do not know what a respectable housekeeper I am. Wouldn’t you know it! The one time…

This is where the wise person would tell you that none of that matters now that I know David is okay.

While that is very true…

The next day I found myself cleaning the house top to bottom, rearranging the bookshelf, spreading out a clean table cloth, washing all the linens, disinfecting the floors, and thinking of a reason to invite the emergency guys back for a do-over.

Perhaps if I bake a cake to thank them for their great efficiency and kindness…

This time the 911 call would sound like this:

“911. What’s your emergency?”

“Oh… no emergency. Is the same crew working that worked Monday night?”

“Yes ma’am. Is this the lady with the messy house?”

“They TOLD you that?”

“Yes ma’am. They were appalled. Apparently there was a pink striped sheet on a red sofa. Sounds hideous!”

“Could you please send them back? I have cake!”

“No ma’am. They said if you ever called again to tell you they would not return to such a pigsty.”

“But… but I have cake.”

“No cake in the world would entice them back. They also told us about your bedhead. Said you looked like a woman in a bad wig wearing clothes with yesterday’s coffee stains.”

“Sigh… it’s true. It was bad. Sorry I called…um… have a good night.”

“You too ma’am… because they are not coming back.”

Mama always said to wear decent underpants in case there’s an emergency.

You know… they did not even check our underpants!

Thank the good Lord.

By Lynna Clark

Our hometown of Salisbury, NC is beautiful, especially Fulton Street. We drive that way often just to enjoy the view of homes and churches. As we circled a block so I could get a better picture of one of the homes, we passed this sign at a church.

Yep. That’s gonna cause a ruckus. Better get there early to beat the rush. But I guess just as I’m attracted to old homes with fern lined porches, others are drawn to the melodious sonnets of church organs. Different strokes I suppose.

On a different day, my husband passed this church sign and went back to take a picture.

Wow. Can’t you just feel the love?

This one conjures up images of ushers becoming bouncers as they toss visitors into the street for an inadvertent foot tapping.

“Hey buddy. God loves you, but don’t let that trickle down to your feet.”

It’s not just church signs that make me wonder. As we traveled south on I-85 David spotted an advertisement for a Jerky Outlet. It did NOT say “beef jerky.” I guess here in the south there’s apparently a large market for shrunken flesh of any kind, at least enough to fill an outlet store. Because you know… nobody wants to pay full price for jerky.

I think I have a solution to help these groups enjoy their diversity. Perhaps the folks with the new organ could invite the ones from the other church over for a time of fellowship. Organ music generally does not incite dancing. Even when played at a ballgame it only instigates the crowd to raucous singing and the buying of peanuts and crackerjacks. Perhaps the corruption could be kept to a minimum if folks from the Jerky Outlet would hand out samples at the gathering. With all the effort it takes to get jerky down, the service would be kept quiet and orderly… lots of chewing; no dancing. Friends would be made, bouncers could go back to being ushers, and the new organ would be thoroughly enjoyed by tons of well-fed visitors.

Of course the congregation would be reminded to keep their smacking and yummy noises low so as not to interrupt the melodious sonnets. If there were questions about the origin of the jerky, such as “Is this Turkey Jerky or Donkey?” ushers could field those questions as well, especially since their bouncer jobs have been taken away.

Yep. I think it could work! Now if we can just agree on a dress code…

Hmmm… that could be a deal breaker. I bet nobody’s gonna want to get dressed up to eat jerky.

By Lynna Clark

David opened the can and put it on the seat between us. His reward for going grocery shopping was a tiny splurge on cashews. We headed home when suddenly a little dog ran out into the road. David hit the brakes and screeched to a stop. Someone’s pet was spared that day, but the cashews slid forward and dumped head first, scattering across the floorboard. He looked at me and said, “Next time, the dog dies.”

It’s like dropping toast. It will always land butter side down. I heard that if one were to strap buttered bread to the back of a cat they would spin indefinitely because cats always land on their feet. Could this perhaps be a source of alternative energy?

Why not? Who would’ve thought we’d use corn for fuel? Maybe someone should try buttered cats.

My apologies to animal lovers everywhere. I’ve just confessed that my husband loves cashews more than dogs and I would butter a cat to propel an engine if it would save me a buck.

Sorry.

Have you noticed when watching a movie like Quigley Down Under [which is one of my favorites] that the disclaimer at the end says “No animals were harmed in the making of this movie.” Never mind the poor guy being dragged behind the horse… or the Aborigines being pushed off the cliff. But the horse is okay.

I may sound mean and uncaring about animals, but I’ve been known to set a dish of milk out for a stray kitty meowing at my back door.

I wonder if she’d like a piece of buttered toast to go with that.