Are we gonna stand out here looking like an ass, or are we going to go in?

Entertaining the Angels | Charlestongrit.com | Bold. Smart. Local. Now. | Charleston, SC

Entertaining the Angels | Charlestongrit.com | Bold. Smart. Local. Now. | Charleston, SC

Entertaining Angels ~R. Brabham

It's 6:00 p.m at the café‘. We are starting to get things in order to close down shop. This bent over old little lady comes in. She's mincing steps traversing slowly on a pink walking cane. She's carrying a shoulder bag bigger than her. I guess her to be about early 80's. She drops everything at the first table she comes to and starts mumbling with her face down. I am headed to kitchen with some items to be washed. She mumbles louder with just a slight turn in her head towards me with a clear bright blue eye piercing me. I figure she is in distress of some kind and put the items down and head her way. I ask if I can help her and she replies "I don't know, can you?" "Is this a damn restaurant or a cafeteria?" "Neither" I tell her. “It's a café." She lifts her head a little higher and starts peeling off her pink raincoat.” Well...where the hell is the food?" Ok, the “despicable” me kicks in and decides that she is either (1) a loon or (2) drunk. I am going to get out of this ladies hair really quick. I tell her we have coffee and Danishes. The coffee is self serve so I determined from the length of time it took her to get in the door and to the table, she would still be working her way to the self serve coffee pot by closing time. So, I offer to get it for her. While I am making the coffee she starts telling me about her trip in the pouring rain to see her doctor who moved into our office buildings. "The damn roads were soaked, I skidded once and I passed the exit 3 times going both ways. A multi-million dollar hospital and the damn politicians put up signs bigger than that little thing out there." I ask who her doctor is and she tells me his name. She says he probably moved here to be closer to a golf course. You know how those devils are, she says. I tell her that she seems to have a good doctor. She asks "And how would you know that?" Because he smiles when you make his coffee?" LOL...I bust out laughing. "No” I answer. “Because he has a good following of patients that have come over here with him, they speak kindly of him." I think to myself, this lady is a trip. I decide to give her a few more minutes even though I am going to be in the weeds with my closing routine. "Well, I don't trust him. Too damn quiet, you can't read them quiet ones...I couldn't be married to a quiet one like that. Not that I want to be married again anyway, I've already killed, I mean buried two." She starts drinking her coffee and I lean against the coffee kiosk, wiping it here and there. She squints and tries to read my hospital ID. She can't make it out and gives up. I start to offer my name to her, but I figured the same as her, we are just two ships passing in the night. No use trying to remember another name. She re-positions herself in her seat. Some obvious discomfort. Possibly arthritis, "Screw the powers that be!" she says. "Just look at me! I can't walk, can't remember stuff, pain all the time." And don't you go talking to me about Jesus!" I put my hands in the air in surrender, she laughs. "There's a purpose for everything" I tell her. She replies "If there were a God why would he let me just exist like this? Why would I be here? Out in the middle of the evening in a pouring down rain to see a doctor. What is the purpose of that?" I think (stupidly) that this is a cry for help and I try to reach out, "Well, maybe that purpose is to be here talking to me." She squints and tries to focus in on me, "Why?, Are you thinking of committing suicide?" she ask. So much for talking someone down from the ledge. I am cracking up at her again. She continues on "You know what? You go through life, don't kill anyone (except those two husbands she told me about) you try to be good and you end up like this. And then some low life who has robbed and stolen from his family all his life, is in perfect health living a life of luxury. What is fair about that? I reply, "I don't remember that I was promised life would be fair anywhere." I silently summon Jesus. No answer. No smart scriptures are floating through my head. And even if they were. This lady has spent a lifetime batting them down. I would have taken on a teenager after you've just told him he was grounded in place of this tough cookie. The pharmacist comes in for a cup of hot chocolate. He is working late. Maxine (as I have just named her) latches on to him. So, what are you doing here at this time of the evening? Some doctor got you deciphering and cleaning up his messes this late? He chuckles and I take the opportunity to get some things put up. I feel a little guilty leaving the pharmacist on his own with her. Short lived anyway. Maxine starts choking. I mean really choking. The pharmacist, we'll call Lee and I are headed her way and then I think to get her some water. Lee is asking if she needs water as I am going. She is saying something, doesn't sound like water. She finally gets a breath in and request what sounded like "Vodka". Lee gives her the cup of water and says it's the best he could do. She finally gets it together and she tells Lee that she thought she was going to have the honor of him performing the ~Heimlich~ maneuver on her. He laughs and heads out the door. Another doctor walks in for his last minute snack of the night. Maxine starts up a conversation with him too. I am listening in and realize this little chic is much smarter than she lets on. She's not drunk, not a loon, maybe she is dealing with reality in a non-fairy tale kind of way. Maybe she is a little bitter, maybe she wants a present that is unwrapped already. Too tired of this world to deal with the niceties of the wrapping. The doctor has gone now and she proceeds to tell me more about him than I knew and he comes in two or three times a week. He's Slovakian, came to America 20 years ago. He thanked her for the compliments on his use of English grammar. She looks at me more intently, like she knows our time together is almost over. "So why do you believe in this God? she ask. Now, the important part. I NEVER told her I believe in God. "Was it because you were one of the lucky ones who was raised hearing about him? Because some preacher told you if were a good girl you would go to heaven?" I think again. Nope, nothing there. No clever words of encouragement, absolutely nothing. I just take a breath with a lightning fast prayer. Lord, don't let me screw this up. "No, I think I knew about God before anyone told me there was one. I think we all know there is a higher power. I think we choose what we want to believe. And I believe there are consequences in an afterlife depending on those choices." I heard a comrade co-worker calling me from the kiosk. She’s asking about ringing something up. Maxine gets up and puts her pink coat on and comes up to me. "Ok girlie, I am out of here. I am going to come back in a couple of months. You keep trying to figure out this damn universe till I get back." She grins and walks off. I am left scratching my head. I feel like the tables were turned on me somehow, like she was testing me. I told her that I feel like there is a purpose for every moment. I have been trying to think of what that purpose was. Sometimes I think that the earth may have a down moment or two in demon slaying for the angels. I think they might come to us even in the form of bitter little old ladies, to test us. I know I flunked. But maybe I entertained a few Angels.

Next Food Exit 20 Miles

My four girls, three grandchildren and a friend, throw backpacks into the truck bed. They are heading back to NC after a week with us. Their requested breakfast that morning was cake and ice cream. I obliged. Hey, that's what grandmas do. One hour later they wanted to know what was for lunch. Much to their chagrin I pulled out the Chicken Pasta Salad I made that morning. I'm sure I just shot down sugar plum dreams of the mainstay kitchens of their hearts; Mc'D's, Chick Filet, Taco Bell. They hadn't eaten any fast food in six days. Once one of my granddaughter's asked the proverbial "What's for dinner?" question. I answered "Chicken." Without pause she asked "What are my two sides?" I have to admit that I can't compete with fast food. However, I gave it my best shot and got all thumbs up around the table when I made my ~Shut the front door~ chicken strips. Even then their glee may have been because I told them that the recipe was a copy cat for a popular closed on Sunday fast food place. I realized the allure of fast and furious eating as we headed down the interstate. They called out restaurant plaques located on the exit number signs like my brother, sister and I did with license plates as a kid. I finally fell prey to a 120 foot golden arch sign. 5 Happy meals and a floorboard of discarded junk toys later, we are all happy. I must admit that was a good little mystery meat burger. I haven't had one in so long. I now believe they were jonesing. We had cooked our meals all week. They thoroughly enjoy cooking and even made a large family meal one night, but the fact remains six days with no fast food. We have all had our fix now and continued on our journey. We turned down the country road to my parents home in Dorchester for a short visit. I slid out of the truck seat to let my 15 year old granddaughter practice driving. The other three girls said a prayer before we took off. The hurriedness of the morning subsided with the slow passing of country miles. No signs beckoning or proclaiming their millions sold, just pastures, fields of soy beans dotted with remnants of last year's cotton crop, pine trees and massive oaks. I glanced down at phone and she's a goner. Zero bars. All the phones are silent. No notifications. The next couple of hours were spent outside promenading the sandy gravel road on a golf cart and Gator.The front porch offered shade, breezes and the melody of Mom's wind chimes. With moisture sweating cups of lemonade in hand, the girls connected with their great grandma and gr-granddaddy. And then we are back on the interstate. Two girls succumbed to the ride. The two left awake kept me company with stories and singing. I called my daughter to see where she was at on her journey to meet me halfway. We decide to meet in the parking lot of Hardee's off of I-77 exit 179. Where else?

Running Away From Goodness & Mercy

Acts 20 vs 35 ~In everything I did, I showed you that by this kind of hard work we must help the weak, remembering the words the Lord Jesus himself said: "It is more blessed to give than to receive.~ I have run with that verse like a freight train all of my life. And now, it is out of track. I take it literally, finding myself uncomfortable in situations where I can't be the giver. And darn near shameful to be the receiver.
The last several months have been a spiral of whammies. I felt like that ~Whack a Mole~ game at the county fair where the heads pop up out of the hole and you hit them before they go back down to score points. During these times I have been inundated with support and caregiving from so many wonderful people in my life.
That verse in Acts kept nagging me this morning after my bible study. When I think of pride, the words that come to mind are haughty and proud. Peeling the onion, I find that the layers of pride run deeper. There is pride also in not allowing ourselves to be on the receiving line of grace and mercy. We aren't just blessed by circumstances, we are blessed by people, his creation. He doesn't send down baskets of bread from the sky anymore or turn water to wine (although he can)  He aligns a giver, so that you can be the receiver. Pride in this circumstance would be running away from goodness and mercy.

Chicken Fricassee or Chicken Frisky? Renae Brabham

A friend and I were discussing family reunions recently when the conversation turned to food, as it should. We talked about how the various dishes were always home cooked and tasted better than any food we could remember to this day. That evening while preparing dinner I glanced over at my treasured cook books, a lot of them are older ones, my favorite is titled Virginia Housekeeping circa 1870. It dawned on me that the recipes I had made from this particular book would pale in comparison to the taste they had when prepared by the cooks of that era. They churned their own butter in their homes from cows grazing on grass in their fields. The fresh milk from these cows was stored in glass jars in ice boxes. Vegetables grew in their gardens without pesticides. Families and children pulled the worms and bugs off the leaves and stems of their fruits and veggies. The chicken in their frying pan had been eating corn and meal under the front stoop that morning for breakfast and probably had names like Brooster and Henpecked.
My friend and I had discussed chicken in particular that day. She said her grandmother raised chickens and she never understood why she couldn't get her chicken to taste like her grandmother's even though she used the same recipe. The answer is mass farming. Genetically altered chicken. David Kessler, author of The End of Overeating, said that antibiotics are used in chicken feed for three reasons: To treat disease, To prevent diseases and to increase the chicken’s growth rate. This last one is the biggest concern to Kessler, because using antibiotics to increase a chicken’s size is an abuse of antibiotics and can increase drug resistance. Back in the 1950′s, it took chickens 85 days to reach maturity, whereas now, chicken’s reach maturity in 47 days. The way corporate America looks at it, the bigger the chicken and the faster it can get to the large size, the more profits for them.
Now here's my theory about what goes at the grocery store. I can buy that six pound mass farmed bird all day long or it's parts for as low as 79 cents a pound. Or, I can go down the road a little piece and buy an organic, three pound, born free bird that cost $2.89 a pound. Then there's the more for your money scenario. I bought an ~All Natural~ chicken not long ago at the grocery store, I was going to be home alone for a few days. First, "All Natural", as opposed to "Not So Natural?" Well, I was hungry, that's a fight for another day. Ok, I get this bird home and let me tell you, there is nothing natural about getting 3 meals out of one chicken breast. When your chicken can pose as Chicken frisky instead of Chicken Fricassee, you may have a altered bird. I prefer my chicken to have the svelte legs and thighs of a bridge runner.
I have to say that after reading The Omnivore's Dilema by Michael Pollan, I have given my food considerably more thought. I am positively giddy in the early summer when the fresh fruits and vegetables hit the shelves. But my joy has been lackluster of late. I cringe when I see sixteen inch cucumbers and squash, two pound tomatoes and blueberries the size of nickels. I am disgusted at cucumbers so waxed that they stick to my hands when I pick them up like flypaper. I have to admit that I am a fruit aisle forager. I can zip the bag, fold it over and hide it under my bread from myself. But, by isle three I am pulling it out to taste the grapes, blueberries or cherries. Yes, I know that they aren't washed yet. I rub the heck out of them before I toss them in my mouth. It's not like I eat a pound of them before I hit the register. I just don't want to get home and throw a tasteless bag of grapes away.
Some of the labeling options we have to choose from these days are ridiculous. They tout the appealing and disguise the disturbing. Maybe the antonyms are not so alluring on the packaging? Free Range as opposed to caged up and never seen sunlight? Organic as to Un-organic? Natural as to un-natural? Minimally Processed as to overly processed? No growth hormones added as to growth hormones added? Injected with 20% solution as to non-invaded meat?
We shouldn't have to choose to go to a whole foods or natural food store. But what is more disturbing to me is the fact that what we can or cannot eat is directly related to our income. Can I afford the twelve dollar organic chicken from Whole Foods this week? Or do I get the Bi-Lo on sale for 79 cents per pound? I have been interested for years in eating healthier less processed and more natural foods, but it does bother me that what I purchase for my family is determined by my paycheck.

Nothin Could Be Finer~ Renae Brabham

I was flying out of the door with a backwards glance at the clock. Darn, forgot my "Go to heck hat." Oh well. Some things God is a stickler about and sunrise is one of them. Crossing the bridge to the Isle of Palms in haste, I looked out over the creeks and marshes red with the glow from the sun that hadn't peeked over the sea yet. I almost punched the gas but realized that I would be miss the subtle pink and blue hues that bring on the brilliance of that big orange ball in the sky.

I made it a full minute ahead of the peekaboo line of fire inching it's way over the dark depths of the Atlantic. Seconds ticked by as it tocked above the starting line. Dark bulky shadows on the beach now reveal themselves as couples sitting side by side in the sand. Dogs sit loyally by their master's, anxiously awaiting the moment their owner picks up the Frisbee or ball. Seagulls and Crows patter nervously back and forth, hovering near the bubbling caves in the sand, anticipating their morning meal of hermit crabs. Heron and geese flew over. Waves paid the sunrise no attention whatsoever.
I was now able to see where to walk across the expansive water pressed sand. Dead low tide made it a nice long walk to the shore line. My feet crunch the backwash of the sea. Thousands of tiny shells are crackling beneath my feet. I realize for the thousandth time in my life that I have issues. Who feels sorry for the tiny seashells? Me. I blame it on my Field Guide to Shells of North America. I never thought of shells as having lips and eyeballs. Most do. I almost tripped over a pile of sandy,wet clothes and tennis shoes. The surf consumed them sometime during the night,they were iced in heavy wet sand. The owner naked and shoeless somewhere. A fisherman in a beach chair, gave the appropriate respect to the glory of sunrise,then purposely walked into the surf to cast his line as the first fisherman of the day. The same fisherman walked back within minutes to get more bait, the fish wins. First to eat breakfast.
I stood in awe of the beautiful sunrise and thanked my maker. Turning to walk back to the boardwalk, a pile of Conkle Shells beckoned me. And there it was! One year and one month of walking the beach here and I finally found my first whole Sand Dollar! My bowl of shells at home contains the Sand Quarters I had previously found. I look back at the horizon a few times from the boardwalk, not really wanting to leave, but the day presses on.
I pass a glass storefront window on the boardwalk and was horrified at my reflection. I tried to beat the Kramer-like pile of fuzz on my head down. I pulled out of the beach parking area and behind an old truck onto the IOP connector. The man driving slows to look out over the inlets as we cross the bridge. There is a messy red head sitting beside him in the passenger seat. I am relieved a little that I'm not the only one with a brillo pad for hair this morning. A mile or two up, the road splits into two lanes, the truck goes into the left lane at the stop light. I stay in the right. I look over and what I thought was a messy headed red-headed woman, is a beach soaked Red Retriever! I am sure I looked like a idiot, a laughing frizzy headed mess at that light. What a wonderful morning!!