Yesterday in church, we sang one of my favorite worship songs, Agnus Dei. [Which I just learned is Latin for "lamb of God". That rules.] Here’s a great video of Third Day and Michael W. Smith singing the song, if you don’t already know it.

[And I'm going to take this chance to totally point out my friend Aimee at the 2:01 mark. She and Stephanie are gonna kill me, but I can't help but wave at the screen when their pretty faces go by.]

Back to the story. As we sang, “Holy, holy, are You, Lord God Almighty” yesterday at Midtown, I saw about forty-five images flash before my eyes.

[Wait. I'm not about to tell you some freaky somethin' or another. Not literally forty-five, I'm an exaggerator. Obviously. But what I mean is that I had one of those moments when I thought about a lot of things at once. Know what I mean? Alright, as you were.]

My hands were both raised, and as I sang, I thought about how the Bible says that the angels are always saying the same thing- “Holy Holy Holy!” and I thought about heaven.

And then I thought about the fact that both my grandmothers are now in heaven.

And then I pictured myself standing before Jesus, hands in the air, and singing to Him, “Worthy is the Lamb!” and in my mind’s eye, I pictured my grandmothers on either side of me, worshiping right along with me.

Not hunched over. Not full of pain. Not even really old. Just Kath to my left and Ma to my right.

And then I thought about this scripture:

Hebrews 12:1

“Therefore, since we are surrounded by such a great cloud of witnesses, let us throw off everything that hinders and the sin that so easily entangles, and let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us.”

It makes the issues of the day, the hurts of yesterday, the fears of tomorrow, seem smaller. Less significant. Less powerful.

When you know that your great cloud of witnesses includes some of the finest ladies you’ve ever known, it makes this race just a little bit easier.

Not because I’m really holy.

But because of the absolutely disgusting experience I had when I got home from Mocha Club yesterday.

Let me back up a bit.

Wednesday, I thawed a bag of frozen chicken. FOR SIX HOURS. Whoops. So those eight chicken breasts [read: $7.99 of my precious income] got thrown away. Because there are a lot of good jokes I want to play on my friends, but giving them salmonella is pretty far down the list.

So those 3.5 chickens, plus some other foodie trash, was bagged and put in our outside trash can.

Thursday, we awoke to the trash attack of the year. I mean, this one was pretty severe too. But that was 2008.

Running out of time, I just thought I’d deal with it when I got home.

And boy oh boy was that a poor choice.

Because you know who else loves raw chicken and trash besides the overnight attacker?

Fuh-lies. FLIES.

[And let me warn you. This story gets a little barf-a-rific. So prepare yourself. Emotionally.]

So I grab a few trash bags and head out to the nightmare of raw foods that was strewn across my driveway. I just couldn’t take any pictures for you. I’m sorry. But I actually kept my eyes closed most of the time.

[Which leads to this question: If we can close our eyes, WHY CAN'T WE CLOSE OUR NOSE? I would have given anything for a pair of nose lids in that moment.]

I’m just going to give you the facts: there were over 50 flies, only 2 pieces of raw chicken left, and 12 audible gags.

But in the end, I came out victorious. I bagged the trash, put the lid on the can, and then placed a cinder block on top with hopes of said block of cement:

a) weighing down the trashcan, thus stopping the rodent from attacking two nights in a row OR

b) landing directly on the rodent’s head when he tips over the trash can.

Really, either is fine with me.

And afterwards, thanks to a complete lack of appetite, I took the opportunity to fast and pray.

Because I am nothing if not deeply disciplined and spiritual.

Have a great weekend.

It’s an interesting story, really.

My roommate’s TV has a DVD player attached. Very fancy.

And we watch movies on it all the time.

And lucky for me, my friend Betsy has a Netflix membership. So on rare occasions, I ask to borrow one of her movies.

In fact, I’m pretty sure this is the first time I’ve ever done it.

[Which merely enhances the "only you, Annie, this would only happen to you" factor.]

So Betsy let’s me borrow This American Life: Season 1. I’m blooming an addiction to This American Life, via podcast and video. Not that that fact has anything to do with anything, but it is still true.

So I watch the DVD, laugh, think, tear up, etc. And I’m ready to take it out and mail it back.

But the DVD won’t come out.

At all.

In fact, when I push “open”, it doesn’t even make any type of whirring sound. It is flagrantly ignoring my request.

Rude.

After a few days of punching the TV, using other DVDs to attempt to lure the renegade out, and repeated pleas to the heavens, I gave up.

I called Magnovox help line and they really, were no help. It was like, “Uh, unplug it and try again. Nope? Ok, uh, push the eject button. Not yet? Um…. unplug again.”

I saw myself stuck in a vicious cycle of mediocre customer service.

I hung up and called a repair guy.

Just to bring the TV through the door is SIXTY DOLLARS IN US CURRENCY.

I think I laughed out loud.

I hung up and called Betsy.

3 minutes later, I’ve logged onto Betsy’s Netflix account and after a small $14 donation for their kind services, I’m now the proud owner of This American Life: Season 1.

If we return it within a year, Betsy gets my $14 back.

So you guys have got 360-ish days to help me get this blasted thing out of the DVD player.

Any tips?

I couldn’t speak at the funeral. I’m just not that strong and I don’t prefer blubbering in public. So instead, in true Annie fashion, I wrote my eulogy to my grandmother. Probably more for my own sake than for your’s, I’m posting it today.

__________

Ma and Colonel didn’t know what they were signing up for, having three granddaughters living across the driveway. We constantly invaded their home to play games, help Ma with a puzzle, or use her salon-style hair dryer to be an astronaut. As we passed their home each morning headed towards the bus stop, Ma would often meet us at the end of her sidewalk in her housecoat with a sausage biscuit. And after school, Ma would sit with her legs crossed and watch silently and intently as I did ballet moves to the old Disney song “Lavender Blue.” I guess we always considered their house merely an extension of our own.

In the 7^th grade, I temporarily emancipated myself and moved out. A woman of 12, I was ready to be on my own. So I packed my belongings in a wagon and made Sally pull it across the driveway. Ma helped me concoct the emancipation plan and when I arrived, she received me with open arms and escorted me to my new room upstairs. It was a short-lived change of address, merely two days, but it is one of those memories that solidified Ma as the coolest grandmother on the Earth.

I loved talking to Ma because no matter what was going on, she was either HIGHLY excited with you or DEEPLY disappointed with you. Whatever emotion I was feeling in the story, she was feeling it too. Whether at home or in the nursing home, she wanted us to sit down and tell her all about our day, including the minute details. Even the mundane was important to her because we were important. I would bore myself long before I bored her.

For two years, I had the privilege of living across the road from Ma while she was in the nursing home. On one of my last visits, Ma took the opportunity to remind me to flour a pan before I baked a cake and to make sure I watered my plants in the morning and evening, NOT the afternoon. And she also asked would I please to be sure to bring her two cookies next time (not only one, but not three- she didn’t want to get fat). She also told me to make sure when I planted tulip bulbs in the fall that I planted some red ones because they are “beautiful beautiful beautiful”.

Of all the conversations I had with Ma over the years, the most effective are the ones I never heard. The conversations Ma had that changed things were with the Lord. If there is one thing I will remember her for, it will be her praying heart and her heart for God. I could tell you many heartwarming stories of the nice things she did or the kind things she said, but when you remember her, I want you to remember that she knew God- she studied His Word with passion and she prayed with equal passion.

I remember a time, maybe a year ago, when I asked Ma how she knew what to pray. And with full clarity she told me that “you ask God for His heart then you just pray. Trust that He knows.”  Ma loved to pray. And she loved to pray because she loved God. I can only imagine the unparalleled conversations she is having today in Heaven. I’m jealous, to be honest. What we call praying is foreign to her now; she is now having a face-to-face conversation with a God who has known her voice for a long time. And I would bet it’s pretty easy for her to recognize His voice as well. She always was a good listener.

I learned a lot from Ma, from how to be a good Southern lady to how to cross-stitch Christmas ornaments. (Tatum is the one who learned the secret Thanksgiving dressing recipe. I insist she share.) And I think that, though the list goes on and on of things I gained from Ma, this is what I will always remember – a woman of prayer makes a difference in the lives around her. And I want to be like her- on my knees in the garden, and on my knees in prayer.

This fall, when I plant the red tulips, I will not only be reminded of a loving grandmother, I will be reminded of our loving God- who hears us when we pray and loves us with an everlasting love.

__________

Sorry for the length, but thank you for understanding my desire to post this.

Also, today, my dear friend Sarah starts a series on her blog that is amazing. Prepare your heart, then go read.

My grandmother died today.

We’ve known it would be soon for a few days. She’s been in a coma since Friday. In fact, she’s been sick for a few years. I’m so glad that she is seeing Jesus face to face. She has been a prayer warrior for our family and I can only imagine the beautiful crowns she has laid down. And the colors she can see! [I'm looking forward to the colors.] So I’m sure she is thrilled.

But we are still sad.

It has zapped my creativity. It has quieted my writing. It has silenced my emailing and blogging.

It makes me want to just read and read and read. Fiction. Tons of fiction. And the Psalms. And maybe do a puzzle. Ma loved puzzles.

So forgive me while things go silent around here for a few days.

And thank you in advance for your prayers and thoughts for our family.

I’m blind as a bat without my contacts or glasses.

So. I wear my contacts all the time.

Like…. ALL. THE. TIME.

It’s bad. Real bad.

Sometimes I wake up in the morning, after having slept for WEEKS in the same pair of contacts, and my eyes will hardly open. They are sort of frozen closed and once I peel them open with my eye muscles, I can’t blink.

Yeah. Not good, y’all.

And for an undisclosed amount of time, I have been wearing the last pair of contacts I own. So yesterday, I made a big girl decision and decided to go to the eye doctor here in Nashville.

As I sat in the dark-ish room, waiting on Dr. James to enter, I mustered all my confessing courage. I had to tell her. The moment she walked in the door, I blurted out:

“Hi Dr. James I know we aren’t friends yet but I wear my contacts for too long and I’m afraid that my eyes are going to fall out of my head and I’m really sorry but please tell me that I haven’t caused permanently damaged…”

[gasp of air]

“…and please give me some rules and some contacts that I can’t sleep in because I’ve kept this secret and I need to learn to obey the eye doctor.”

And when I was finished with my filibuster, Dr. James introduced herself. And laughed at me.

It happens.

She was awesome. She showed me a DIS.GUST.ING picture of what could happen to my eyes if I continue to act in such a manner.

And then she kindly offered me contact lenses that will fight back a little bit. She gave me some “rules” to follow as well. [By the way, it is UBER impressive to be 29 years old and need the doctor to give you a list of rules.]

I’m not going to get all gushy about the doctor, though I think she earned a spot as a future bridesmaid someday, but I will say that I can see better right now than I have been able to see in YEARS. Trust me, I have read aloud every sign I have seen on the road. “Look, that says BROADWAY. Look, that says 1830. 4810.” My friend Lyndsay said, “She got new contacts and turned binary.”

That’s funny.

There’s some spiritual lesson in the idea of confessing your sins and then seeing clearly for the first time, but in all honesty, I’m outta time. I gotta go pack. I’m headed to Chicago for a fun weekend getaway with the lay-deez.

Y’all have a good weekend. And don’t sleep in your contacts too much.

[Seriously. I mean it. On both accounts.]