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“The only reason for time is so everything doesn’t happen at once.”
-Albert Einstein

Albert was a smart guy, but he was admittedly a little strange so we can’t believe everything he said. Either he was wrong or I defy all odds. There are stretches of time it seems like everything does happen at once. I’m sure a survey would show I’m not the only one who feels this way.

Some days I dash out of bed like someone set a timer to see how fast I can move. I’m sure it’s a sight to behold because I feel like a person wandering in the dark even though the lights are on. I operate on auto pilot for the first hour I’m awake. That started when the kids were little as a survival behavior.

I know for sure no one gets extra time in their day; we all get the same 24 hours. Why can some people accomplish so much more? Either they have hired help, they aren’t creative so their minds don’t wander, or maybe they’re on strong medication. It’s so frustrating to watch them handle everything with ease while I go from one thing straight to another trying to remember what’s next. Wouldn’t it be fun to hide their planners?

I’ve tried all the suggestions the leadership courses offer. You know, the big rocks first, then fill in with the pebbles and everything fits. Great theory, but some days everything is a big rock. So often I feel like one of those Jedi warriors zipping through the forest praying I don’t smack a tree.

I think I’ve finally come to this conclusion. Every day is a gift not to be taken casually. Be kind, extend a lot of grace, and if everything seems to happens at once, focus on one thing and tell the rest of it to take a number and have a seat.

“…And what does the Lord require of you? Act justly, love mercy and walk humbly with your God.” Micah 6:8

When Jim and I were planning our wedding and the near future, I hoped kids would be in our middle future, but I didn’t think once about grandkids in the distant future. Now here we are in the distant future and grandkids keep coming! I just recently realized the odds are, the more kids you have, the more grandkids you’ll likely have. That never crossed my mind in the middle future.

We all wonder who has more fun, Jim or the grandkids. I shouldn’t be surprised. Years ago neighborhood kids would knock on our door and ask if the boys could come out. That meant Jason, Travis and Jim. He was the requested pitcher for all the ball games in our front yard because he kept it fair and as exciting as a whiffle ball state championship.

Right after Jill and David got married Jason and Alison announced we were going to be grandparents and then four months later Kari and Travis did the same. That was just the beginning. Jim was thrilled. He never said anything, but I think secretly it concerned him a little he’d be waking up with a grandmother in bed with him the rest of his life. I’m telling you those are things you just don’t consider in your 20s.

The other day I saw a grandparents name book like a baby name book. People really need to understand the first grandchild has the naming privilege. Some of my friends are Grammy, Gramps, Go Go, Bodie, Mammy, Ray Ray, Champ, and Pops. My friend Gary was Crapaw for a while. That was fun at the mall.

Our kids thought Jim should be Big Daddy. Our neighbors had a Grandmasue, pronounced as one word, kind of like tiramisu. Try to get a baby to say that. Jackson and Jameson shortened Jim’s name to Big and mine to Sue Sue. Those are so much better than Crapaw.

Being a grandparent keeps me somewhere between staying current with what’s new in the world and totally confused. I am quite honored to have Wii players named Sue Sue even though the six-year-olds have to show me each time how it works. Jameson even explained something on the DVD player I never knew existed. I just had to get over being embarrassed about how little I know.

We have a whole set of rules at our house that don’t look anything like the parents’ rules. That’s the best part about being Big and Sue Sue. Flips off the love seat onto the bed, tossing water balloons off the back porch, body rolling down the hill and throwing rocks in the lake head up the activities list. The old Tom and Jerry cartoon is the top DVD. And … we’re almost certain white powder sugar doughnuts are somewhere in one of the five food groups. Hey, they drink milk with them. That has to count for something.

Every Wednesday the mail box is crammed with flyers; all those colorful ads announcing specials at the grocery and big box stores for the coming week. I think bargain hunting and snagging the steal is part of my genetic makeup. My mom had a nose for a sweet deal and so does Jill. It’s an ongoing personal challenge to not pay full price for anything.

My friend Roxie, (the one I told you about last month who can eat a full meal without disturbing her lipstick) is always looking for a good buy too. She asked her husband, Jack, to pick up a chicken on his way home from work one day. He bought some kind of special organic chicken on sale at the local grocery. I’m not real sure what organic chicken means or if it’s any different from free range. I think they must eat pesticide-free bugs and do yoga.

Roxie said it was the best chicken she had ever eaten. When she called the store phone number on the receipt, the butcher explained the sale ran two more days and assured her there were plenty.

The next day her last stop on the list of errands was to pick up several chickens. She looked everywhere in the poultry department, but there were no plump organic chickens, just skinny, sad looking ones. She rang the buzzer for the butcher. When he came through the swinging metal door Roxie started in on him. “You told me when I called yesterday there were plenty of organic chickens. I don’t see a single one. The chickens out here are pitiful and you assured me you had dozens but nope … zero chickens.”

The butcher looked a little puzzled and apologized over and over offering a rain check. She took the voucher and sulked out of the store feeling a little silly for getting in such a tizzy over raw poultry.

That night she replayed her frustration when she told Jack about the empty chicken display. “That happened at the Country Mart down at the interchange”, he asked surprised.

“Yeah, and that’s not like them, is it?” she answered.

“Roxie, I got the chicken over at the Country Mart on Highway 248,” he grinned.

Oh, I wish I could say I’ve never done anything like that, but it would be a lie. We all do it; make assumptions on one small piece of information. Then we make felony-like accusations over misplaced items and misunderstood conversations. Tempers flare, feelings are hurt, relationships are damaged.

Emotions fluctuate faster and more often than airfares. It seems both are running high these days. Saying exactly what you’re thinking is like eating too many Oreos dunked in milk; it feels good until you realize what you’ve done.

Next time an overreaction is coming on, stop, take a deep breath, and think about a flock of organic chickens.

I don’t remember life without a dog, until now. Our 15-year-old Lab died a few years ago and we haven’t tried to replace her. I heard once you aren’t a real empty nester until all the kids are gone and the dog dies. I guess I’m now official.

The first dog I remember was Emma, a Rat Terrier mixed breed named after my grandmother. One summer she found herself in an unplanned pregnancy and we were blessed with four puppies. We learned a lot about life and responsibility from Emma and her babies.

One Sunday afternoon when the pups were still tiny, we went to see my grandmother Emma who lived about an hour away. Coming home we ran into a torrential rainstorm. For good reason Mom was instantly concerned about the puppies. To escape the August heat, Emma had dug a little cave under the concrete air conditioner base to give birth. Mom knew they were in danger of drowning if Emma couldn’t get them out.

When we finally pulled into the garage we ran to the back yard hoping for the best, but dreading what we might find. I’ll never forget Mom in the pouring rain down on her knees in the mud with a flashlight. What we saw was something I will always remember.

Water was quickly filling up Emma’s birthing room. However, we were fascinated to see the rearranging she had done. This loving momma had taken her babies and lined them up in a row facing her. She would start at one end of the row and with her nose lift each of the tiny noses up out of the water 1, 2, 3, 4 … then start over 1, 2, 3, 4. This little white dog instinctively knew if she took one pup to safety, while she was gone the others would drown.

We could almost feel Emma’s relief when she saw Mom peeking in behind the flashlight. If dogs talked she surely said, “Wow, am I glad to see you. Can you please help me and take over here? I am worn out!” Mom pulled all the helpless babies to safety and Emma was one grateful dog.

In my adult life I have felt like Emma so many times. If I don’t keep my responsibilities above water, something is going to drown. My kids, my husband, my house, my friends, my work, my extended family … one, two, three, four. Is everyone happy? Is everything taken care of? Have I forgotten anything? If I don’t keep moving something disastrous will happen.

When I finally step back and realize I can only do so much, I relax believing I’m doing the best I can. No one is going to drown and, one more time, I resign from the position of master controller of the universe.

You can learn a lot on National Public Radio and yesterday I picked up some fascinating information. Flittering, flirting over Twitter, is the newest way to possibly meet “the one”. Honestly? At a flitter party each person attending is assigned a number. If someone is interested, a tweet is sent. So now dumb pick up lines are electronic?

Not long ago people met for coffee or lunch to see if they really wanted to commit to a date. Now do you flitter to see if you might even want to have a face to face conversation? I think it’s little weird. I guess it would be like a sneak peek to a blind date.

Scary blind date stories will stop even the bravest from going out with someone’s friend or third cousin. It took some fast talking for me to agree to go on one in college, but I did? I was so nervous you would have thought I had committed to bungee jump off the Royal Gorge bridge. I jumped all right. I married him 18 months later. He’s still my favorite person to hang out with.

Besides the big obvious things like common goals and faith, there are little things that have worked like glue in our marriage. Just like everything else in life we tend to get so deep, complicated and theological we forget the simple elements. This, of course, is my opinion not university research done by those with several letters behind their names.

Jim and I understood from the beginning, regardless how angry and frustrated we might get, we wouldn’t abandon each other. We’re on the same team and if a team doesn’t work together it loses. It’s hard to fight when we’re laughing so we laugh a lot. And, he travels and I travel so we get short breaks from each other. I’m being honest here.

Recently I was gone for 12 days. I’m good without him for five days but that’s it. I start feeling a little lost after that. About day eight of my trip I got an email: “Sorry, I broke the handle to the Swiffer Sweeper.” Now how do you get upset with a guy who is swiffering?

The next day another email came: “I forgot to tell you … I broke the lamp when I was swiffering.” Wow! I was wondering if it was a secret plot to get me to ban him from cleaning.

The day before I came home he sent a text similar to a flitter declaring how desperately he needed me: “This morning I accidentally bleached one of your new green towels. You’d better get home before I burn the place down!”

Obviously he doesn’t do well without me after five days either.

Late last summer the three Brawner brothers and wives went on a dream trip, a cruise to Alaska. It was the first time ever all three couples traveled together. Jim’s older brother Joe was just regaining his strength from a heavy round of chemo. His wife Karen was exhausted and each of the rest of us were dealing with wearing life issues. The timing for a break couldn’t have been orchestrated any better.

For me, half the fun of a trip is the planning. Jim’s younger brother, Jerry, and I were turned loose to make all the decisions and arrangements. I felt like a day trader finding specials, piecing together flights, and transferring and buying frequent flyer miles. It was a three week hobby of sorts.

The ship was fabulous, the company was unbeatable, and there was enough food to feed a small country. All that, with the peaceful massiveness of the landscape, was almost too much to process at once. If you are ever in doubt God exists, visit Alaska. You will fully understand the Be still and know that I am God scripture.

I stayed lost most of the time. That’s not too surprising since I can get turned around in Walmart. My true north for the week was the Lido deck where the pool and endless food stations were located. That’s where we spent hours relaxing and laughing with all the life clutter left in the Seattle bay.

As we pulled back in to port, there sat the real world on the dock waiting for us. I deeply wished we could stay on the ship, turn around and head back out to sea. However, if we didn’t go ashore how could we fully appreciate the Lido deck?

In that week I became more aware of the value of family, the vulnerability of life, and the importance of stepping away for a break, regaining strength to push on. Most of the time I feel I don’t have the time to stop, but now I’m positive it’s essential for survival.

Recently the Jerry Brawner branch of the family tree has been thrown some hard, fast, curve balls. It’s times like this I’m temped to ask that question about bad things happening to good people. It just doesn’t seem fair. But life doesn’t always act the way I want it to. This is where the trust part of faith fits in, I suppose.

A couple of weeks ago I sent Jerry’s wife, Rayanna, a text of emotional support. I didn’t hear from her until the next day. When I did this is what the text said: “Sorry I took so long to respond. I was on the Lido deck.”

Every February when the sunscreen display shows up in the center aisle at Walmart, I grin. The smell of Coppertone takes me on a memory chase of long days at the pool, then by the Blue Moon popsicles, past hamburgers on the grill, and ends up with my Dad mowing the lawn. How can an $8.00 bottle of lotion cause an instant replay of childhood summers?

Memories are powerful and stir up strong emotions that have settled like sediment in the bottom of the lake. Some memories are best left undisturbed because they’re like snakes under a rock. Others are so wonderful they’re medicine for the soul. Your memory bank may have deposits of wonderful or less than stellar experiences. If the not-so-good out number the good, think of the hundreds of new memories waiting to be made.

We all know those who live reminiscing the accomplishments of the past. But who really cares about the game winning free throw 20 years ago? Marinating in good times is so comfortable people seem to get stuck. I always want to ask, “That’s awesome, but what have you done lately?” I’ve never actually had the courage to do that, yet.

What is it you’ve always wanted to do? Big things like starting your own business, learning to paint, going back to school or simpler things like challenging yourself to read good books, memorize scripture, or simply to share random acts of kindness every day? While we’re off slaying the dragons of daily life we forget about our dreams.

God has gifted each of us with strengths and abilities we’ve never tapped in to or, for whatever reason, we’ve shoved into a corner. There they sit patiently waiting to be uncovered. I read once “All of us are gifted. It just takes some longer than others to unwrap their gifts.” Sadly I’ve heard so many people say, “I really feel like I should fill in the blank with a dream, but … fill in the blank with an excuse.”

If instead of wasting energy making excuses we took action, we would amaze ourselves. Years ago my friend Bob Luke said, “Sometimes you just have to stand at the back of the high dive, take a deep breath, run and jump off and don’t look back.”

So many times we climb the ladder, walk to the end of the board, hold our noses and talk ourselves out of jumping. What if I fail? I’m not smart enough. What will everyone think? I’m too scared.

What’s holding you at the back of the diving board by the ladder? Erma Bombeck once said, “When I stand before God at the end of my life, I hope that I will not have a single bit of talent left and can say, ‘I used everything You gave me’.”

Don’t let your memories be bigger than your dreams.

It’s hard to find a more diverse place than junior high. All shapes and sizes and levels of social awkwardness shuffle through the halls trying to be cool. Because they’re all in such a season of change the scenery can be different every week. The transformation between September and May rivals Ripley’s Believe Or Not. It’s like watching a gaggle of moths wriggling out of their cocoons.

The two big challenges junior highers face aren’t Science and English. Nothing makes a 7th grader’s heart race like the P.E. locker room and the cafeteria, the most odorous places on the campus.

An invitation to sit with the popular kids at noon is almost as important as air. And if you do land a seat nothing could ruin it faster than your mom packing something dumb in your lunch like a meatloaf sandwich. It’s advisable to open the brown bag slowly to see if anything is tradable before unloading it all on the table.

When I was in junior high it was tempting to hold on to the empty lunch sack in case I started to hyperventilate in the P.E. locker room. Trying to cover up in the shower with a towel the size of a Kleenex was almost acrobatic. Everyone could plainly see what you were and what you weren’t. But no one ever considered what you might become.

Another metamorphosis takes place after birthing babies. And by the time your babies have babies self confidence in the locker room has run full circle and is back to where it was in 7th grade. So when I went to a spa not long ago I almost drown in the flood of uneasy memories as the attendant ushered me to the locker room. However, the towels were huge and plush, big robes were provided, and the showers were private. Obviously, the spa owners didn’t like the junior high locker room either.

Long after junior high we fear people seeing who we are and who we aren’t, never considering who we are becoming. It’s best to just get over it. At any age we are in a transition of some sort. Where we are right now is getting us ready for what is coming next.

Relax and enjoy the ride. Scenery changes all the time. The windshield is much bigger than the rear view mirror. I will admit, though, I smile because junior high is in my rear view mirror.

The dusty, late afternoon heat wasn’t a deterrent for us taking the kids to their first rural county fair. None of us really knew what to expect. The electric co-op had a booth demonstrating how to lower bills, banks handed out coin purses and balloons, three water filtration companies were busy trying to convince people their well water was not good enough and candidates running for every office in the county, city, and state were shaking hands and grinning. And the competition! Ribbons could be won for everything from top heifer to best pickles. It was like discovering a whole new culture I had no idea existed.

Our kids ran from the displays to the livestock, to the tractor pull, to the midway full of rides, taking it all in. One thing Travis insisted on trying was the greased pig chase. Piglets covered in Crisco were turned loose in a dirt arena to be run down and captured by age groups of kids. If you caught one you took home a $10.00 bill, but more coveted, the bragging rights for capturing one of the slippery little things. How hard could it be?

I’ve never heard a noise quite like that before or since. Piglets squealing, kids screaming and crying, parents cheering. At first I wondered if PETA was aware of this event, but soon realized the pigs were not hurt, just loud. This was serious competition, only a little more intense than the pickle canning.

The first pig Travis caught slid right through his arms. The expression on his face was like someone who had eaten raw oysters for the first time. The slickness is a bit startling. Each pig he grabbed squirted right out of his grip. Red faced and dripping, after eight or so tackles all he finished with was a mouth full of dirt. The city boy didn’t have the technique…yet.

He was disappointed, but determined. He all but interviewed the kids who did catch a pig to find out how it was done. He learned all he could about how to handle a pig. When August rolled around the next year he was the first to claim a $10.00 bill. It was like his own personal conquest. Giving up was never an option.

Everything has become so microwaveable and tweetish. If we have to wait on something or get frustrated with it we tend to toss it. Where is the commitment, perseverance, tenacity and resolve? Have those become outdated words? Don’t give up on yourself and don’t give up on others. Don’t let the pigs get you down!

The motto of the French Foreign Legion is good to remember when you’re temped to throw in the towel. “If I falter push me on. If I stumble, pick me up. If I retreat, shoot me.”

“…Run in such a way as to get the prize.”
1 Corinthians 9:24

A few years ago we visited a restaurant in Los Angeles where not much has changed since it opened in April 1947. Of course the orchards and farmland surrounding the white, one story, house-like building have been replaced by a mall, huge office complexes and buzzing LA streets, but that’s about it. The guys wearing little white paper server hats taking orders have worked there at least 40 years. Even if you are too young to be nostalgic, you just might feel like you once owned a ’57 Chevy when you’re at The Apple Pan.

Just inside the double screen doors is a U shaped bar lined with red swivel stools. The waiting area is a lean on the wall where you will likely join students as well as high powered entertainment moguls. It’s probably one of the few places in the country seating is run strictly on the honor system and no one dares to sit down out of turn.

Burgers that would tempt the most devout vegetarian, egg salad sandwiches, fries and pies words can’t even describe are the bulk of the uncomplicated menu. We left smelling like the grill whining we would never eat agin. The food was a culinary delight, the company was fascinating, and the restaurant itself was like visiting a living museum.

When I see success I always wonder what’s at the bottom of it. While I was leaning in the waiting area at The Apple Pan I noticed a sign on the wall past the massive hamburger grill that explains theirs. It read, “Doing simple things exceedingly well.” There you have it. The Apple Pan family has done simple things with excellence for 60 years in the same building while countless businesses have started and failed all around them.

I think success lies in the pursuit of excellence. Some days my excellence is less than other days if I’m tired or sick or just having an off day. That’s when that mean voice in my head questions if I can do anything even halfway. But then I have to remember this: if I’m doing the best I can, with what I have, at the time, I’m doing simple things exceedingly well.