Hey Everybody,

It’s Thursday morning in North Carolina, where we awoke to a light dusting of snow. While I am a lover of winter (and spring, summer, and fall), I am ready for it to be over. I have begun buying summer clothes, hoping to spur Mother Nature along. At the least, they make my closet seem warmer.

John is in Tucson with a Boeing 777. He will not be home until after Valentine’s Day. According to the Female Demerit System, that means that I will get a REALLY nice gift when he returns. Delayed holiday celebrations accrue exorbitant interest, according to the the FDS.

Before John and I married, we read John’s Gray’s book, Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus. He explained the vastly different methods employed by men and women to ’score’ their spouse’s behavior. The big takeaway for John was that if he did something I liked, he would probably add only one ‘point’; if he did something I did not like, he was capable of losing five or ten ‘points’. I had no problem with the scoring system, as men usually credit or debit a single point, no matter how momentous. Men like to keep things simple, I guess.

So this week, a dear friend of more than 25 years sent me this synopsis of the Female Demerit System, which I am happy to share with you all.

FEMALE DEMERIT SYSTEM*
In the world of romance, one single rule applies: Make the woman happy. Do something she likes and you get points. Do something she dislikes and points are subtracted. You don’t get any points for doing something she expects.

Here is a man’s guide to the point system:

You make the bed (+1)
You make the bed, but forget the decorative pillows (0)

You check out a suspicious noise at night (+1)
You check out a suspicious noise at night and it is nothing (0)
You check out a suspicious noise at night and it is something (+5)
You pummel it with an iron rod (+10)
It’s her pet (-20)

When she wants to talk, you listen, displaying a concerned expression (0)
You listen for more than 30 minutes (+50)
You listen for more than 30 minutes without looking at the tv (+500)
She realizes this is because you have fallen asleep (-4000)

You develop a noticeable potbelly (-15)
You exercise to get rid of it (+10)
You say, “It doesn’t matter, you have one, too.” (-8000)

She asks, “Do I look fat?” (-5) (You lose points no matter what)
You hesitate in responding (-10)
You reply, “Where?” (-35)
Any other response (-20)

When John and I first married, one of our favorite things to do was yardwork. We planted a lot of trees, then proceeded to name and converse with them (okay, that was mostly me). One afternoon I pulled from the ground a spindly sycamore trunk and tossed it into a nearby ditch. John suggested we plant it, as we had nothing to lose. He became Moe, the Survivor, and a mascot for two people who were adjusting to co-habitating after living alone for a lot of years. Moe was a constant reminder of what can happen when you make up your mind to commit to something – or when you place a stick in the ground.

I hope that Monday is your best Valentine’s Day ever. I hope you will grant your spouse a bonus point or two and I hope that if your relationship is in need of nurturing, you’ll dig a little deeper, mix in some nutrients, and watch it grow. You may be pleasantly surprised!

Love,
Janet

My great-grandmother was one of those people who jumped into life with both feet and without reservation. She would meet you at the door of her tiny home, take your arm, and escort you to the kitchen. This was her domain. This was what she knew; what she loved. She would automatically begin preparing you something to eat and drink. (She could not imagine that you would not be hungry when you came.) That done, she would converse with you in a humble, sweet, inquisitive manner, and she never ran out of something to say. Ever.

Her life’s philosophy was that you should only consume or engage in things that you love. She would ask if you loved chicken soup, or apple pie, or coffee. She wanted you to take a walk in the garden if you would love to. She would give you almost any possession she had if you really loved it. Not a bad life’s philosophy, really.

One thing which I have loved all of my life is a good book. As such, some people have suggested that I write an autobiography of my life and career. (Okay, only a couple and one of them was my mom.) I usually respond that, besides the fact that it would be incredibly boring, I simply did not see any reason for it. Perhaps this offering will be a biography, of sorts, from the perspective of the books that have been meaningful to me. One warning, however: Do not drive or operate heavy machinery during this reading, as it could prove hazardous or even fatal.

My first book came from my grandmother and I read it over and over until it literally came apart in my hands. It was a collection of fairy tales, complete with colorful illustrations and a shiny cover. I just loved it.

When I was a young girl in high school, I discovered Grace Livingston Hill, and was captivated by her stories of innocence and goodness. I read Margaret Mitchell’s Gone With The Wind tucked away in a window seat of the school bus. My Literature teacher was Mr. Loflin, a wheelchair bound, tough taskmaster. He not only taught us to read Shakespeare, but he helped us to “get” it. Even now (lo, these many years later) I still remember passages verbatim.

When I began traveling with the LeFevres (who became the Nelons) I discovered Eugenia Price’s The Burden Is Light, which led to her groundbreaking radio show. I pictured with clarity the budding tree outside her window which she was convinced God had orchestrated to be there precisely when she was.

While traveling with the Jimmy Swaggart crusades, we often spent extended periods overseas. I learned to pack a dozen Agatha Christie murder mysteries knowing that, amidst the poverty and the crude living situations, they would transport me to a totally different place. In no time at all, I could be sorting out suspicious behaviors on the Orient Express or savoring the indulgences of a lovely country estate where the rich and beautiful had gathered for a weekend of murder and mayhem.

When my heart was broken, I found solace in Chuck Swindoll’s Three Steps Forward, Two Steps Back and Improving Your Serve. One of the books that helped me gain perspective on knowing Christ was The Making Of A Man Of God by Alan Redpath. When I could not reconcile some of life’s twists and outcomes, I discovered David Wilkerson’s Have You Felt Like Giving Up Lately? All of these books I still read with some regularity.

When I signed with Word Records and began my solo career, I discovered Ann Kiemel, and a tiny book titled, Yes! Her candace and her simplicity impacted my writing perhaps more than anything.

When I read Frederic Buechner’s Now And Then, I immediately purchased everything he’d ever written. I read each book slowly, deliberately, purposefully absorbing not only his story, but the way he told it. He fed us small portions, each building onto the next event until they all suddenly intersected and made sense. His grasp of the language left me repeatedly uttering my favored, ‘Uhhhhm.’ Even today I keep multiple copies of his biographies, The Sacred Journey and Now And Then, just so that I can give them to people who come to our home.
My best friend suggested I try Cold Sassy Tree by Olive Ann Burns and it, too, has become a staple. In my opinion, this book, more than any other, epitomizes the joy of reading.

I discovered Theodore Dreiser courtesy of a matronly librarian in Smyrna, Georgia. His classic, An American Tragedy, became another that I would read multiple times and recommend to friends. While his stories seem to come from a place of sadness or tragedy, they are classic fictional tales that haunt me still.

One of my personal favorites is Rick Bragg – a southern boy who wanted to make his mama proud, and whose biographical All Over But the Shoutin’ made me feel two extremes. First of all, I felt that the writer in me had happened upon Christmas morning when the gifts are so good that you cannot absorb the joy in one sitting. Secondly, it made the writer in me consider a career as a Wal-Mart greeter. I still read the book about every two years (as well as his other titles) and I still shake my head at his descriptive phrases and perfect analogies. And the payoff at the end is simply icing on the cake. When I met him at a bookstore in Nashville I could only babble. I am an outright, unapologetic fan.

When I read for pleasure these days, I enjoy Pat Conroy, John Lescroart, Steve Martini, Ridley Pearson and Sue Grafton. When I’m feeling rusty at what I do, I reread Lilly Walters’ What To Say When You’re Dying On The Platform, Ken Blanchard’s One Minute Manager and Steven Covey’s The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People.

My faith was shaped by Catherine Marshall’s lovely take on her living, breathing, day-to-day relationship with Christ. I was called to account by CS Lewis Screwtape Letters (I still have to read that in small doses) and Phillip Yancey’s Disappointment With God, in addition to Phillip Yancey’s anything.

My recounting of the books which have affected me deeply, personally, is limited by the space on this page. But this is a good start.

So, for those of you who are still awake, that’s the story of my life, as told by the silent friends who occupy the shelves in our family room. They are consistent and enduring. And my great-grandmother would be pleased to know that I truly love them.

Happy reading!

Love,
Janet

Hey Everybody,

Even in the midst of the wonderful Christmas season, our hearts are saddened by the loss of one of our own, Elizabeth Edwards.

Elizabeth discovered her breast cancer at about the same time that I discovered mine. She began treatment in late 2004 and I waited until January 2005. My sister, Kay, was diagnosed two years after that; one week later her lifelong friend, Judy, was diagnosed. We lost Judy this year, too.

Kay and I do not understand why we are still here and they are not. But we are grateful.

Every day is a reason for celebration, whether we hang lights and trim trees or revisit the ordinary, the familiar. Nothing brings that message home quite like following signs to oncology.

Life is not always perfect, but it is always more good than bad.

Enjoy this wonderful holiday season. Every minute of it.

We hope to see you soon.

Love,
Janet

There is an old Chinese proverb which says, “Distance lends enchantment to the view.” I think that’s probably true, but, still, there are days I’d love to go back – back to childhood summers, dinner around our family table, and Sunday mornings at our house. I honestly think they were as great as I recall.

Our summers at home were fun: Kay, indoors, practicing her homemaking skills and I, outdoors, locating the perfect tree to climb. We had a real playhouse, a swingset and a bicycle, not to mention a forest of Carolina black pines behind our backyard.

One of our favorite indoor pasttimes was constructing a tent in the kitchen (a quilt pulled tight over chair backs and held by heavy books.) We’d take pimento cheese sandwiches inside and watch “I Love Lucy” on the 19″ black and white tv my dad won at the local car dealership. Pimento cheese never tasted as good, or Lucy’s antics seem as comical.

Because we had a very strict upbringing and were not exposed to the worldly vices of that day, one summer afternoon Kay and I decided to take matters into our own hands. We agreed to say all of the bad words we knew. We walked outdoors to our dad’s workshed, went inside, closed and locked the door, and proceeded to say the bad words. There were two. It was so strange hearing them in our voices. A few minutes later, we repented fervently and left the shed. Our conscience plagued us for a long time over that one.

My mom cooked dinner every night (and breakfast every morning.) We all sat at the table, together, at the same time and everyone shared what had happened at work or school. Kay always told her stories so well (aiding and abetting where necessary) that I usually deferred to her. Even as a child I remember looking forward to supper because that’s when everyone just talked together. That is still one of my favorite things.

Sunday mornings were extremely predictable. My dad sang hymns along with the television singers, Kay dressed early and practiced her piano, and my mom took a few extra moments to dress. Each week she looked more beautiful. We’d load into the car, Kay and I in patent leather shoes (she with matching purse,) and head for my grandpa’s church. My grandmother taught our Sunday School class for several years and we loved that. At one point, they purchased an easel board complete with individual Bible characters made of felt that stuck onto the board, allowing the teacher to illustrate stories and people more colorfully. We thought we’d moved into the ranks of the high church.

At the bell we’d run – ah, walk – to the sanctuary for the worship service. In my mind’s eye I can see every detail: Mrs. Payne sitting at the piano with her pocketbook at her feet, my grandmother sitting on the inside row, second pew, and my grandfather making sure he shook every hand in the congregation before he mounted the pulpit. Following announcements and prayer requests we’d grab a hymnal from the pew in front of us and turn the worn pages to the familiar pieces we sang over and over. After identifying the song, some of us would smugly close the book again just to emphasize the fact that we knew the words. Oh, the crazy things we did….

As a child, I did not realize that the hymns we sang found lodging deep inside the core of who I am. I did not realize that the theology contained in the great songs of the church would strengthen and uphold me years later when, as Job, the thing I most feared came upon me. I did not know that the poetry and rhyme of the ancient writers would help shape the person I am or who I will yet become.

Now, when I hear an old familiar lyric, it is almost like riding up the road, over the railroad tracks, past the small white mission, and left at the country store. The driveway goes uphill – to the big oak tree where Larry Perkins used to tease me and say that he was my boyfriend – to the little church that was air-conditioned before any of our homes or cars – to the graveyard where my grandfather waits for his bright tomorrow.

While the hymns can’t transport me back to those days, their rhythmic words on a page help define my faith. They ignite my memory. They lend perspective to grim days. They woo me back to my first love.

So, on a given day, I’d go back if I could; not to change anything much, but just to live it all again. It was so simple and so pure. Well, except for that shed thing.

Have a blessed November…Janet