Advent is Here

All Other Ground Is Sinking Sand

The Thanksgiving holidays began for me when I completed my very last Latin dance class with Jacquie at LA Fitness. So long, farewell, and adios my friend. It has been a great experience there that began in October of 2008. For starters, basketball players never know they really have hips anyway unless it is in the context of blocking out for a rebound and, frankly, point guards have bigger fish to fry than blocking out--like ball handling, assists, spurring on the rest of the team to victory!

That was me, until I met Jacquie. I knew about biceps and quadriceps. I had heard of obliques a time or two during abs, but I thought that hips were reserved for people like my sister Ava who grew up dancing. Little did I know that my friend Jacquie would bring out my innate ability to shake it, sh-shake it!!

So with the end of an era and one last LA Fitness workout together, I gave her a big hug and thanked her for everything--then hit the road to my home in Louisiana. I think another description of holidays could be this: Sitting idly by in a dimly lit room, catching up on the latest episode of the Biggest Loser while feeding your face with pie, sharing bathrooms, and sleeping on beds that are not your own.



When the sedentary life becomes more than I can bear, I decide to take matters into my own hands. "What did I used to do in Monroe to stay in shape?" I ask myself. Then I remember my old trainer for Miss Louisiana Sharon Turrentine. Neville High School. Stadiums. Every girl project of Sharon's has run the stadiums and those very steps have produced many swimsuit winners in years past. So for old times' sake, I lace up my shoes and head over to the garden district of Monroe, driving by the little cottage that was our first home there. I notice the trees I planted and how they've matured. Wow.



"Be proud but never satisfied" read the old words as you enter the stadium. I took it all in as I made my way up and down, up and down. The Neville Tigers practiced on the adjacent field and the smell of spray paint filled the air with my every breath as the field was manicured by a team of men while a couple of young boys tossed a ball nearby.



There's something so nostalgic about returning to the garden district. Other than Island Drive, I believe it to be one of the most beautiful regions of Monroe, my home of six years--the longest I've lived anywhere since leaving home at 17. I got to know my husband there at the Monroe Little Theatre in a production of Guys and Dolls and most importantly, I got acquainted with a little something called the Word of God and subsequently was dunked in the flowing waters of First Baptist Church West Monroe by Brother Dennis Swanberg in his big hip boots. He didn't hold me under until I bubbled and said "tithe" though; this, I appreciated.



So I ran, ran, ran until I couldn't run anymore. My head was clear, my heart pounding, knowing that when I return to the Metroplex my future is still just as uncertain as it was back in July--even more so.






As much as I hate to admit it, I think God may be stripping my gears again. Well, let's be honest, yep...I'm pretty sure. Inwardly, I know that if I weren't as stubborn as a mule that perhaps I could quickly understand what He wants me to know; however, that would be FAR too easy for a first born overachiever like myself. Why couldn't I have been second born and laid back? Or what about the spoiled rotten baby of the family? That would seem to be better than playing host to the first born inner drive that enjoys taking the bull by the horns. Ha. Why, I think I might enjoy some apathy from time to time. Yes.



For instance, my family in South Louisiana comes to mind. Their main concern on Thanksgiving: Is the pig done? The places on planet earth in which the main course for major holidays is so close to the ground are few and far between. Eating lunch is simply a by product of the merriment the holiday brings. It may or may not happen by 3 PM and for that matter, no one really cares! I am just happy that my brother-in-law JJ does indeed cook meat that might actually be sold in a market, whereas, some crazy Cajuns provide other alternatives for the extended family--and not for the shock value, but for the sheer delight of the delicacy in their own perspectives.

Here he is with cousin Robbie: Case in point.






So we make one last stop in Louisiana at Superior Grill in Shreveport and water the dog and ourselves. I think I've just about decided that my day can no longer begin until I have some tortilla soup. I'm hooked.





We make the journey home and listen to our friend Marty Magehee sing songs like The Voice of God, and Donny Osmond sing I Know the Truth from Aida. As usual, no trip would be complete without Allison Krauss, only this time the words of her music are haunting when she sings Every Time You Say Goodbye or How's the World Treating You as the yoke separates between us and the ones we have loved. It seems every song speaks directly to me...I'm blue. I think I understand the term bluegrass more and more in spite of the fact that there really are NO cool licks and this is generally the preferred music of hillbillies. Meet me, Brandi the hillbilly.

While on the journey home, I sang at the funeral of a very close family friend. I guess you could call my hymn medley of In The Garden and Sweet By and By a little reminiscent of Allison's style. But it was the right choice for that day when we laid to rest the woman who took care of me every day after school when I was about 13 years old. As I ministered to her family with my heartsong for the life of Helen Howard, I couldn't help but thinking of all the sinking sands of life. They are not to be grieved, but to be relinquished freely. My friend Gabe reminded me of the scripture that says to give thanks "in" all things, not necessarily "for" all things. This we must do. I thought about this all the way home.




After unpacking the Suburban and just before lighting our Christmas tree, I sat down with my last little taste of my earthly home for the time being...my Granny's world famous pecan pie. It is like a Power Bar before there were Power Bars. Forget the Karo syrup, this pie is so dense with Granny's hand-ground pecans that were harvested out of the soil of my own pastures that you don't even need a fork. Just pick it up and eat a strip.

I always love bringing something special from home cooked with love just for me and mine. It helps me to recalibrate and move forward in these changing times. I remember that I am a product of God's mercy, and His mercy is all-encompassing and freely given. I am reminded by the words penned by George Matheson in 1882 that Jesus has a love for me that will not let me go.

O Love that wilt not let me go,
I rest my weary soul in thee;
I give thee back the life I owe,
that in thine ocean depths its flow
may richer, fuller be.

O Light that followest all my way,
I yield my flickering torch to thee;
my heart restores its borrowed ray,
that in thy sunshine's blaze its day
may brighter, fairer be.

O Joy that seekest me through pain,
I cannot close my heart to thee;
I trace the rainbow through the rain,
and feel the promise is not vain,
that morn shall tearless be.

O Cross that liftest up my head,
I dare not ask to fly from thee;
I lay in dust life's glory dead,
and from the ground there blossoms red
life that shall endless be.

Oh, no, Jesus will never let you go. In every high or even in every low. As I walk through the valley, my husband reminds me that He is still the lifter of my head. Oh that I may fully know this love again! This is my prayer. Let the name of the Lord be praised.

Stitch on Tour

We ARE the Griswolds...

Roadside Stop

Seeing Nannie Tanner at LSUA.

Seeing the Swamp in a Whole New Light

Traveling to the Cajun Crossroads, I know I'm home when I get to Goudeau, the soil where my lifeless body will be laid to rest. My pictures may be fuzzy, but the memories never fade.




This week we began talking at the dinner table about where we all want to be buried when our time comes. "Over my dead body." These were the words that sparked laughter when my little Roman Catholic Mama kindly reminds me of how meaningful it would be for me to be buried in the Catholic cemetery.

"Mom, what difference does it really make?...You can bury me anywhere you'd like because I'm gonna be gone from here."

Catholics are very tied to their traditions, if you haven't noticed. Like on November 1, All Saints Day, when all the graves are bedecked with flowers as a sign of remembrance-- a family obligation to the third generation I am told by my Mom "Sister Debbie".

And there is flower and grave etiquette like no other in the Catholic church. For instance, there was not much appreciation for the someone who carelessly left behind mums just a little too near to my grandfather Tim's tombstone in Evergreen, LA a couple of weeks ago. This was unacceptable behavior I am told.

The only mums that should be on his grave are the ones placed by the family, the smaller sized ones in the granite vases that adorn his headstone. What was even worse is when my Mom showed up to Mass and spotted the very same small mums she bought up on the altar!!! Someone had swiped them right out of the vase and used them for Mass. This became a real hindrance to worship!

We are a peculiar people in our ways down in South LA. We can have hours of discussion over the correct pronunciation of French words, such as the word "trois" which is the number three en Francais or "Mercredi", French for Wednesday. This can provide endless hours of family entertainment and laughter that involves calling of relatives and spurs discussion about the differences between French diction as it pertains to either Cajun or parisienne French. My grandmother Tootsie "Little Bernice" calls my French "Yankee French" since I was formally educated in the parisienne way.

I find it interesting that my Great Great Grandparents were married for life, yet John McDonald spoke not a word of French. His wife Zoe spoke not a word of English. As a result, they had 22 children. So I guess they did figure out a universal language. I do know this: their 22 children and all the descendants made it difficult to find a date in Avoyelles Parish that was not my cousin.

Yes, we are funny people there. Living like paupers, yet big on saving money. I am reminded of the time my Great Grandmother Francis went into the nursing home and we found $25,000 sewn into her coat just before it was placed in a garbage bag for goodwill. She was notorious for keeping green money in between her china plates.



It is a very simple life back home. There is no pretense about the people and they truly know the joie de vivre. Most home life is centered around the stove! I always enjoy getting home to reconnect with my relatives, especially my new precious niece Annie who is the center of our collective universe right now. During this last trip home, I saw the swamp in a whole new light--a pathway to those who know my heart best.

When The Kingdoms Fall

The Peter Piper Ninety Minutes of Magic has been reduced to nothingness here in Dallas as five more of my worlds have vanished over the last week. The devastation was too much to bear as I hugged my friends for one last time before we all parted ways.

A very special friend of mine, Neybia, was responsible for the back of the house prep in the Frisco location. We always communicated through my broken espanol and her broken ingles whenever her husband Efren was not around to translate. But Tuesday there were no words that could fill the void as we hugged one final time and I used all the Spanish words I knew to communicate that she was especial and I would never forget her.


It was just last Tuesday that we held our ribbon cutting for the Frisco restaurant and I spoke before the Prosper Chamber of Commerce, issuing two awards for the goals achieved by both our Frisco and McKinney location. And just a week before that I was at the Stars Game, pumped up about the ad space I negotiated for Peter Piper--this just before Morris checked the glass and knocked over my catfish basket and drink right onto the program.








In the midst of this current tragic ending here in DFW, the need arises to flee home to Louisiana to be with my family there.
Sometimes perspectives come into focus when you get back to where you started from, I have found.




The first thing that happened upon my arrival after my Champion Labrador Retriever Stitch the 17th relieved himself on the BVM (my Mom's statue of the Blessed Virgin Mary), the shrimp truck pulls up and my Mom buys 35 lbs. of fresh gulf shrimp. This is the equivalent of the fatted calf in Avoyelles Parish.



While we peeled the shrimp, I noticed the many throw pillows I had sewn for my Mom over the years and I thought that the last thing on my mind right now is sewing a throw pillow.


I don't think that picking up a needle has actually been a thought of mine since 2003 when I was a contented and settled housewife in Baton Rouge, save for that one time I decided to crochet an afghan. By the time I was done it looked like a straight jacket made of purple yarn because I was too stubborn and prideful to use a pattern. "I can do this myself," I remember saying.

I can't think of an attitude that leads to a path of destruction more than that one, honestly. Sometimes when you think you've got it on your own, you really don't. Sometimes when you think you need a buddy, you look around and you've got buddies all around you. Then you thank God again for the simple things and start all over again.



Because of the LORD's great love
we are not consumed,
for his compassions never fail.

They are new every morning;
great is your faithfulness.

I say to myself,
"The LORD is my portion;
therefore I will wait for him."


And as I wait....I will dance.

Peter Piper Pizza Closes All Dallas Locations

Sad...here I sit in my booth And finalize some loose ends to the
marketing work I've contributed to Peter Piper Pizza. Bummer. I really
liked this place. Many memories, my son's make your own pizza party,
and lots of good times with close friends. Lots of grief here in this
town today, followed by smiles knowing that God is still calling me to
be his alone....when will I ever get it. ? Think, Brandi, think!