So it has been a while since my fingers have tickled the plastic on my keyboard. To the few who have actually read my blog in the past, please forgive my negligence. 2007 has been a very interesting year thus far. I’m currently sitting in Waffle House waiting on my eggs and grits. While I wait I’ll regale you with a brief summary of the year so far.
Let me begin with the conclusion of 2006, namely, Christmas Day. Mom, Dad, Sarah and I loaded up Beatrice, my 1990 Buick LeSabre, early in the morning and headed up to Blue Ridge, GA to spend the day with my Granny and family. I honestly wasn’t looking forward to the trip. My Dad’s side of the family leans more towards the back woods, country Mountain Baptist side of the cultural spectrum. Largely uneducated and proud of it. The newest uproar amongst them is how the ‘govment’ is trying to take Christ out of Christmas, something I’ve known about for years (spring time, when the annual reunion rolls around and is held at the Patterson family farm, is my least favorite time of year). Anyway, we reached Granny’s around 10:30 and were the first ones there, per usual. Granny was in her usual spot of the sofa puffin’ on oxygen and Earnest, my step-Grandpa but the only one I’ve ever known, was in his recliner watching TBN, which was running a marathon of clay-mation Christmas programs. I’ve never prayed for the rapture so hard in my life. Time ached by but Jesus didn’t come, not yet anyway. The rest of the family arrived, which included too many of my Dad’s sisters to count, one of his brothers, and the only family member I actually choose to claim, my cousin Alicia and her fiancé (who I’m not related to, I hope). An hour into our lackluster celebration of our Lord and Savior’s birth my Aunt Karen arrives on the verge of tears. To make a very long and complicated story short, she just divorced her husband and is having parental problems with her fifteen year old daughter. Earlier that morning my rebellious cousin took a butter knife to my aunt’s neck and basically threatened her life. Merry Christmas Mommy. Karen is the youngest of my aunts and has an especially close bond with my father. When she came in he hugged her for a very long time and tried to console her. She quietly slipped into my Granny’s bedroom to try and pull her self together when the other sisters stepped in to intervene. What resulted can only be called a Holy Ghost visitation. Before I knew it the whole family was in the living room holding hands and crying out to Jesus for grace and forgiveness. And when Mountain Baptist folks get to prayin’, it isn’t a sight for the leery. Howls were let out that would put a hound to flight. I though for sure a demon had done manifested. Martha, the hippy aunt, is crying a river. Aunt Dorothy is pleading with the Lord. Poor Aunt Karen is wailing at the top of her lungs. My Mom’s in silent tears and Dad is completely beside himself. I just soaked it all in. My sister looked at me, scared for her life. To me this was just another Saturday night at First Love Ministries. Then a funny thing happened. Granny broke out in tongues. Now I’ve always known that Granny had the goods. I remember being a little kid and getting growing pains. She’d lay hands on my legs and they’d instantly feel better. Stomach aches were her moments to shine and when I was sixteen, the day before I was diagnosed with diabetes she called my Dad and informed him of my medical condition. So I shouldn’t have been surprised with she popped into her personal prayer language with God, and I wasn’t. Here’s the funny thing though. Granny is on oxygen. She breaths it in the O2 mist through a long inhaler. So periodically throughout her pray she would pause to take a puff of oxygen. So her prayer with something like this. Heshelabat heshadoniah (pause for puff) acodonishetahay creaynashadalayta (pause for puff). It was almost more than I could handle. It was all I could do to keep a straight face and if the moment had not been so God induced I would have killed over laughing. To top it off, Earnest broke out in the prophetic with a “thus sayith the Lord.”
One holy anointed prayer cloth from Robert Tilton: a love offering of $19.99
One portrait of a starving, dying African child from the pink haired lady on TBN: $24.99
One Christmas Day with the Pattersons: priceless
I’ll never look at family reunions the same again.
New Years Eve was quite uneventful. As a matter of fact, I can’t even remember what I did New Years Eve. New Years Day, on the other hand, is quite a different story. I was working at the Galleria Mall when around lunch time Mall Security and a Centerville Police officer walked into GNC and asked it I drove a maroon colored Buick. “Why yes I do officer. Why do you ask?” “Well, a vehicle of that description was just reported stolen. Would you mind coming with us to verify if it was your vehicle?” We booked it to the employee parking lot and sure enough, the spot where I had part Beatrice that morning was empty, a pile of glass rather than my precious Buick. Happy New Year to me. I filled a report with little hope of recovering my car. A week later I called the police department to see what they were doing about finding my vehicle, “Well, sir. We have it listed in the National Registry of Stolen Vehicles.” Hell-of-a-lot-a good that does me. Honestly though, I was more upset about the loss of all my CD’s rather than the car itself. Some people have a habit of smoking cigarettes. I have a habit of listening to music. And I had a lot of it. Over $600 worth in that car I’m sure. Plus some books, including my Bible. But instead of getting overly upset about the whole situation, I just counted my losses and moved on. God had a plan I was sure.
That weekend I went on a retreat with First Love Ministries to St. Simon’s Island. We stayed at this Methodist camp called Epworth By The Sea. We go down there every summer for a weekend, but decided to go down this winter also. It was one of the most enjoyable weekends I’ve had in a while. The weather was beautiful and it was a smaller, more intimate group than usual. The meetings were very inspired and the presence of God’s spirit was sweet and strong. Saturday night was especially powerful to me. Towards the end of the worship session a very quiet lady in the ministry who I’ve known for about 6 years and said about as many words to walked up front and began to dance. Now I’m not a fan of anything hokey and I sure as heck have no patience for much of the nonsense I see in worship sessions today, but this pure and honest act of worship by this shy child of God so deeply moved me that before she had finished I was on the ground in heaving sobs before the Lord. The whole service I had been asking God to show me His love for His children in hopes that if I could see how much He cherishes them, I could love them the same way. This woman’s dance washed the scales from my eyes. Her heart was ablaze with her love for Him and His heart for her was too much for me to bear. I later found out that many others had experiences similar to mine. A canon could have blown through my heart, but her affects much longer last.
That same weekend I received a check covering the remaining payment I owed on my car (which only had liability insurance) and then some.
God does work in mysterious ways.
I spent the ride home Sunday afternoon in awe of God and how he defies even simple expectations.
Monday, the very next day, I was working again. This time here in Perry. Around lunch time I got a call from the woman who sold me Beatrice, my Buick.
“Matt! They found your car!”
“What?!”
“It’s in the Wal-Green’s parking lot in Warner Robins.”
“What?!”
Her friend had driven past it and recognized the car. Immediately the police had been called and the car recovered. A $65 towing fee and she was mine again. Besides a broken window and a busted steering column, everything was okay.
Oh, and my CD’s, books and Bible were all where I had left them. Every single one.
My waitress just brought my food. It has taken a little while, but I don’t mind. My eggs look a bit runny and there is a foreign black something in my grits. “Ma’m,” I call to the waitress. She finishes her flurting with the toothless fellow behind me and comes to my aide.
“There’s a fly in my grits.”
“Really? Where?”
“That’s what that black thing is.”“Sure it ain’t burnt grits?”
“Yep.”“You want some fresh grits?”
“Yep.”
“Okay. It’ll be a few minutes. I just put an order in.”
“That’s fine.”
She goes back to the toothless guy and I eat my eggs, runny side up.
The following Wednesday morning I took a trip down to Andersonville with my friend Karen who was visiting from Connecticut with her boyfriend. Andersonville is a National Historic site from the Civil War. It was a Confederate Prison Camp that saw the deaths of thousands of Union POWs due to poor living conditions and lack of nutrition. We watched a mildly informative documentary, one of those with the cheesy reenactment monologues of letters from long dead soldiers, in a make shift bookstore (the museum was closed from improvements). The site itself is a very hallowing place that always stirs something deep within me. It’s a place I feel a strong connection with though I don’t know why. And every time I leave there I can’t help but be moved by the sheer awesomeness of its history. We walked to grounds reading monuments and markers. My favorite spot is a spring that supposedly sprung from a bolt of lightning back when Union soldiers were in dire need of fresh water and had cried out to God for His providence. It is now enclosed in a beautiful memorial and flows down through a few reflecting pools before feeding into the creek the soldiers used for water. It is on the grassy banks of this little stream that I am most profoundly impacted by the magnitude of what happened in this place. The death, the disease, and the suffering become real to me and the dead cry out to me from their grave. The blood on the earth lets their suffering linger.
On the way home I got a call from my mother. My granddad in New Jersey had suffered another heart attach, his seventh, and wasn’t expected to make it. My mother flew up that night, thanks to the help of my Church and pastor, to be with him and my Nanny. Until now, the joke the family had been that he was just too stubborn to die, or to weak. One or the other. He is eighty three years old and has also had two strokes. His heart works at 10% and kept alive basically by a pace maker, which he was due to have surgery to replace the battery later that same week. I didn’t sleep well that night. The house was empty, and lonely. My Dad was out on the road and my sister was staying with a friend. I called my mom first thing that morning and, to my amazement, my granddad was doing fine. At the last minute he had made a turn around and looking to make a recovery. Go figure, he just won’t die. They kept him a few more nights, even did the surgery for the pace maker, and sent him home. My mom is coming home tomorrow.
My fresh grits are here, but I’m not very hungry. I’ve been staring at the fly this whole time. Plus it is almost two o’clock in the morning. They are already fishing in Japan. Fish. I think I’m going to be sick.
The next few weeks are going to be busy. Between work and school I’m not going to have a free day for three weeks, including weekends. I’m supposed to be in my church’s Easter play. I got the role of Judas, surprise. I get to wear leather pants and play a guitar, but I don’t know if I’m going to be able to make the practices.
I miss writing though. Whether or not I’m good at it, and whether or not anyone reads what I have to say, I think I’m going to try and stay regular with it. It’s therapeutic, for me anyway. Good night.
I had to pay for two things of grits…
