Expecting...

I’m pregnant. With excitement. Yes, I’m expecting...and the due date is March 25th. We’ve already learned it’s a knee and I’ve named him Nehemiah.

About 36 hours from the time I’m writing to you, I’ll be in surgery for knee replacement. I’ve never been excited about surgery before. This is one I’m excited about. I’ve been ready for two years! But that’s not the subject for this blog.

In preparation for some down time, I’ve completed my spring cleaning rituals except for washing the windows inside and out. Allergy season is here and I have to avoid pollen as much as possible, especially right now. Our house looks pretty good. We’ll see how long that lasts with Joe here alone for a number of days. But that’s not the subject for this blog either.

In these few years that my right knee has worsened, I’ve favored it to the point that I resorted to using a cane. And because of that favoring and limping I’ve done up to now, my left hip feels horrible. Getting old is not for sissies. And that, also, is not the subject of this blog.

I decided that I needed to empty the refrigerator before being away for about ten days (hospital, then rehab). Therefore I’ve been eating odd combinations of foods this week to accomplish my goal. You don’t want to know what I ate. Trust me. Let's just say pickled beets should never be an option first thing in the morning.

Joe and I are planning to stay overnight close to the hospital where I’ll report at 5:30, Tuesday morning. I have lots to do between now and then. I’ve packed up a Snack Bag filled with hard candies, some meringue cookies, crackers, and little candy bars. Why? Because every time I’ve ever stayed in a hospital, caring for a loved one...I’ve had a snack drawer to share with visitors. Hospital machines are expensive.

All the Green family knew if they were hungry while staying at the nursing home with Joe’s mother, that Beth had a Snack Drawer filled with all sorts of things. Peanut butter crackers, candy, Spaghettios. (I think I’m the only one who ate the Spaghettios, which props up my theory if one is hungry enough, one will eat anything!)

When my mother was in her last months, I’d drive from Tennessee to Ohio as often as possible to share the caregiving time with my sister by staying right there with Mother 24/7.

Vangie always made sure Mother had a dozen fresh roses in her room. Yes, Vangie took care of roses and I was in charge of keeping my homemade fudge along with other snacks in the top drawer of Mother’s dresser. Our mother loved fudge! And so did our brothers who were there as much as their jobs would allow.

Mother was diabetic, and was good to not eat those sugary treats to which her youngest daughter continues to be addicted. But in those last weeks, with the doctor's permission, our family decided that it would be okay for Mother to enjoy some of her favorites as long as they didn’t put her in danger. She seemed to appreciate that decision. So I’d make Peanut Butter Fudge and Chocolate Fudge for the snack drawer...for Mother, of course...and to share with visitors. The family, as well as the nurses and CNAs knew where to find the treats.

I doubt that I’ll get to make fudge for my hospital stay because I’m running out of time...but, cleaning out the refrigerator gave me the idea to use all the eggs and buttermilk, along with the over-ripe bananas on the counter by making Banana Bread. The wonderful aroma of that bread is in my nostrils at this moment! When it’s cooled, I’ll package up the slices in little snack bags. And, while Joe is waiting for me to come out of surgery on Tuesday morning, he can be the thoughtful host who offers homemade Banana Bread to folks in the surgical waiting room! No one there needs to know that I was cleaning out my fridge when the bread idea came to mind!

Now to review my list…
My house is clean. The clothes are washed. The fridge is cleared of dated items. The Snack Bag is nearly packed...and I’d better remember to pack napkins! Hope I haven’t forgotten anything! Oh yeah, my suitcase! I'll need clothes in rehab!!!

Probably the next time I write for you, I’ll be used to the hardware in my right leg. Joe’s already bought little magnets to leave notes on my new knee. He's cute that way.



Never forget this...
If you have a pulse, then you have a purpose. Make your life count!

Way to go, Belk! (I speak fluent sarcasm.)

The scripture in Psalm 139:14 reads: “I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful, I know that full well.” (NIV)

Okay. I believe that I am fearfully and wonderfully made, because God’s Word tells me so. I also believe that over the years, I’ve altered God’s creation a great deal. No tattoos. No piercings, except for 1972 when my then-boyfriend pierced my ears at a kitchen table with alcohol, a large needle and a piece of styrofoam. (We didn’t have a potato to use, and when that styrofoam crunched, I nearly passed out!) In 1987, I had second holes pierced in my lobes, so my 2 year-old daughter could see what the ladies were going to do when she had her lobes pierced. (I dressed that kid in pink from head-to-toe, but her barely-there-hair had people mistaking her for a boy...hence the pierced ears.)

In the last several years I have discovered a new avenue in my life. I’ve been doing stand-up comedy in many venues...singing and sharing humor...and my body has become the brunt of many of my jokes. I do routines for mixed company; for women only; for senior adults; and whomever hires me for a laugh. Don’t get me wrong. My body is no laughing matter. But when I can joke about it and make tears run down somebody’s legs...it’s a pretty good day!

For instance...
My body is a Temple of the Holy Spirit, but I’ve added on a Fellowship Hall. When I was pregnant, it was a Family Life Center. Now that I’m 60, things have begun to shift and I think I’ve become a Multi-Purpose Room!

How about these?
I’m on a 30-day diet. So far I’ve lost 10 days.
Actually, I’m on several diets at once because I couldn’t get enough to eat on just one.
I didn’t make it to the gym today. That makes three years in a row.

But today, I didn’t think it was so funny when I went to the Belk store at West Town Mall, shopping for a specific pant I’d seen advertised. I looked all over the store and finally asked a sales person where the plus-sizes were located. I was informed that all the plus-sized clothing was sold in a different building with mens wear, children’s clothing, appliances and home goods.

Same store. Belk. Different building. I felt kind of odd about that.

It was as if we plus-sized shoppers were relegated to the ‘back room’ where we wouldn’t be seen. It was kind of like, Cinderella being locked in the attic when Prince Charming came by with the other glass slipper...so she wouldn’t be seen while the step-sisters attempted to squeeze into that tiny shoe.

The plus-sized collection was not nearly as big as I’d imagined since it was placed in a different building. That was disappointing. I found the pant I was looking for, but decided that today I wouldn’t give Belk my business. I’m sure I’ll break down and shop there again someday because I’ve always liked their store. But today, I didn’t like Belk. And I plan to write to management to voice my complaint.

Maybe these feelings are from some deep-seeded problem I don’t know I have. Maybe something happened to me when I was a kid that made me react the way I did today. Or maybe the feelings are because I know I need to lose weight. (Which I am, by the way.) But I felt a bit like a second-class citizen because of the location of what they call “Today’s Woman” clothing. Today’s Woman, my foot.

Tonight, I’m not a happy camper. Can you tell?

Usually I can find something funny in a situation. But not this time. Belk at West Town Mall in Knoxville, Tennessee...you are on my list. (Actually I don’t have a list, but if I ever do, you’ll be on it!)





Even though I’m disgruntled tonight...just as I always do, I will still close with this reminder:
If you have a pulse, then you have a purpose. Make your life count!

What's in a name?

“Mary Elizabeth Miller!”

Whenever I heard my full name rolling from Mother’s lips, I knew it meant trouble. For me.

Mother always called me “Mary.” And I wasn’t in trouble as long as it was just my first name. But add the middle name, and it usually meant a discovery of some sort had been made and my name was the first to pop into Mother’s head. And if the last name was added...well, let’s just say that she didn’t bother with the phrase, “Wait till your father gets home!!!”

She was always diplomatic and gave me an opportunity to explain my part in whatever happened. But when I was 5 years old, I no longer dutifully went out to the Weeping Willow tree to get a switch for my punishment to be delivered. I’d finally figured out if I would pull off the switch and lay it on the back stoop, then disappear...I might not suffer the consequences for the error of my ways.

Somehow, though, my mother would find me and I would receive proper punishment. Sometimes it was having my mouth washed out with soap. I learned that Dove Soap tasted terrible whenever I made the mistake of opening my mouth and allowing something to escape that I knew better of. Mother’s hearing was extremely good, much to my dismay. And her eyes could get very big while she’d inflate her nostrils at the same time!!! Yes, Mother had a way...

When Mother would just say, “Mary” it usually came in a sweet, kind voice. She was quite soft-spoken. (I know. It makes you wonder what happened to me!) And she had a precious disposition. That’s how I knew when I was really in trouble. Her face and voice changed immediately! 

As I said, Mother called me “Mary.” Daddy called me “Beth” or “Bess” or “Little Bit.” My oldest brother calls me “Betsy” now and again. My next brother calls me “Mary Beth” as did my cousins, aunts and uncles. My sister called me “Sissy” or “Bess” and when she passed away last year, the second brother began to call me “Sissy” which I love!

When I was a kid, though, Mother even had my daddy invoking the full-name confrontational tone! 
One Sunday night when he was preaching at our little country church, I was sitting on the front row with a friend. An 8-year old girl can usually be depended upon to behave during church...especially when her daddy is standing at the pulpit directly in front of her. But not always.

I had a broken wrist cradled in a splint with an ACE bandage wrapped around it. During that particular Sunday evening, I thought it would be fun to stick things down inside my splint, then pull them out and force my friend to smell them! Pencils and pens worked well. An offering envelope could be folded to just the right width and shoved in between my splint and my skin. My friend would dutifully smell each item I pulled from the magical, smelly splint. Then she’d cringe and make a terrible face, which would cause me to giggle and try to find something else to shove under her nose! It was quite entertaining until my father had enough. 

I had often wished parents had a warning light that would flash rapidly whenever the parent was getting close enough to having ‘enough!‘ 

I was completely oblivious until I heard Daddy’s commanding voice saying, “Mary Elizabeth, I believe it’s time you sat with your mother!”

Did he really just say that?!?

I slinked down in my seat, then stooped low and dutifully went back to sit with my mother. I never raised up during the rest of the service. Just wanting to melt into the pew and not be noticed, I kept my head in her lap. 

When service was over, I still laid low. Mother allowed me to keep my head down in the pew while she stood to greet the church members, just as she usually did. Then it happened.

A lady named Mary Elizabeth Greer was sitting in the pew behind us. She leaned over the pew and said in a loud voice, “Well, Mary Elizabeth...when I heard your daddy say it was time to go sit with your mother, I thought to myself...Pastor, I’m already sitting with my mother!” Mrs. Greer thought that was so funny and even repeated it to others nearby. My head still down in the pew, I wanted to become invisible. She laughed and tried to tease me out of my embarrassment. It didn’t work.


Fast forward from 1961 to 1974. I was a new bride. My husband served churches very near where my father had served when I was a girl. I went with him on hospital visits quite often and during one of those visits, I saw Mrs. Greer. She was easily recognizable. I was a grown, married woman by now...and cordially introduced myself to her at the hospital information desk. All those years had passed, but what do you think she said after she inquired of my parents’ health, etc.? Yes. She remembered that Sunday night so many years before. And her laugh hadn’t changed. She thought it was hilarious then and still did that day.

Here I was, all grown up…yet still the embarrassment crept back into my face as it turned red. I hope I didn’t give myself away, but time had NOT changed what I’d felt that Sunday night. I was just as embarrassed as I was then! I laughed nervously, bid her goodbye, then stepped away from the desk so she, as the Pink Lady, could aid other visitors at the hospital.

Isn’t it silly that I felt that all over again? Yes, I suppose so. But from that day on, I’ve tried to be very careful of what I say to children who are experiencing embarrassment in my presence. Mrs. Greer meant well, but that was so etched in my mind, the old feelings came back. I do not want to be that person for another child. I hope I’ve been able to fulfill the promise I made to myself that day. That was 40 years ago!

But I always seem to find something about myself that I can make joke about. It’s okay if I’m the one doing it! 

And now, I make jokes about all the silly and ridiculous things that happen to me on a regular basis! Performing my Stand-Up Comedy has turned out to be so much fun, I can’t believe I get paid to do it!!! All those stories over the years have been great fodder for my act. 

My motto: If you can’t make something fun...then make it funny! 




And now, just as I always do...I like to close with this reminder:
If you have a pulse, then you have a purpose. Make your life count!

Hiding the Gifts

Reading Facebook earlier today, one friend posted that she’d hidden a Christmas gift so well that even SHE couldn’t find it! I’ve done that. Have you?

When the pole in the master bedroom closet gave way at a parsonage we were living in, I realized two things. One...we must have had too many clothes. Two...the way it ripped away drywall where the shelving was mounted was going to make it pretty hard for me to repair.

You see, I’m the fixer-upper around our house. Shadowing my daddy for so many years gave me some knowledge of tools and minor repairs, so when something needs fixing...I’m your girl! Plumbing under the sink clogged up? I can fix that. Shelves need to be mounted? I can do that. Re-wiring a lamp? Yes. Wallpaper? Be glad to!

I couldn’t help but get a little tickled recently when my hubby noticed that our mailbox door wouldn’t close and asked, “Do you think you can fix that?” And so I fixed it. It isn’t that he doesn’t know how to do things like that...it’s just that he has so many things to do in ministry (and I love to do small repairs)...it’s a no-brainer. I’m the handy-man at our house! 

My sister, Vangie, would save little things for me to do for her on my many visits. Her husband was handy, but there were some things she decided she wanted me to do for her. She’s been in Heaven for almost a year and I miss hearing her call me “Butch” whenever she had a job for me to do!

But I digress...
Getting back to the closet mess: I did what any good pastor’s wife would do. I called the head of the Parsonage Committee who quickly dispatched one of the church trustees to come take a look at the problem.

Before the trustee arrived, I dutifully picked up all the clothes that were on the closet floor and cleared out all the shoes we had in there, when I noticed a big bag from K-Mart. Not thinking it was anything I shouldn’t look at, I opened the bag and found a pancake griddle! I got so excited because I needed a new one. Then I realized I’d just found my Christmas present from my husband. It was October, and he’s pretty good about shopping early.

I’d ruined his surprise.

What should I do? Open it on Christmas morning and tell him how surprised I was to get a griddle? Confess to him that I found it and then have breakfast for dinner?

I called him at his office and told him I’d found the gift.



Joe: What gift?

Me: You know...my Christmas gift.

Joe: Your Christmas gift?

Me: Yes, the pancake griddle. I’m so sorry. I was emptying the closet floor and saw the bag, opened it, and realized I was messing up your surprise.


Joe: Pancake griddle? Pancake griddle. Pancake griddle. Hmmm...

Me: (waiting during a long pause)


Joe: Oh yeah, I remember now! The pancake griddle! But it isn’t your Christmas gift. It was your Mother’s Day gift. I forgot to give it to you!!!

We had breakfast for supper that night. Happy Mother’s Day to me!



“If you have a pulse, then you have a purpose. Make your life count!”

Beth's French Toast

I'm not an expert in the kitchen, but there are a few things that are specialties for me…and French Toast is one of them. I've served this on Christmas Eve morning for many years and I hope you'll enjoy this recipe.


Beth’s French Toast

I use Texas Toast from the bread aisle...not too fresh though, so it holds up. For every cup of eggnog (I use Mayfield) I add two eggs; then I add a ½ teaspoon of vanilla, 1 teaspoon of cinnamon, a dash of salt, a dash of nutmeg and 1/2 to 1 Tablespoon of oil. (It all mixes up really well if you'll drizzle in the oil slowly as you beat the mixture.)

Pour the mixture in a bowl and start dropping in one slice of Texas Toast at a time so it's wet on both sides, and then transfer to a hot griddle. It’s also HEAVENLY done with day or two old croissants.

I’ve tried adapting it to baking it in a casserole dish, which is great for a crowd.



Remember, if you have a pulse…you have a purpose. Make your life count!

Taking two shots...

All I did was take a bite of salad one night and the next two weeks were miserable!

Hubby and I were enjoying a few days away in the Smoky Mountains...staying at the home a friend loaned us...shopping at the outlet malls...eating delicious food. Something we’d been looking forward to that came at a really good time in Joe’s busy fall schedule. He was able to keep those days open for ‘just us’ and we enjoyed every moment.

Until I ate that salad.

Let me back up. I’m a grinder. For some reason, I have been grinding my teeth in my sleep for a very long time. I’ve worn one of those night-guards to prevent it, but haven’t used it in a long while. It doesn’t fit anymore (unlike my clothes, which don’t fit because for other reasons) due to new crowns, bridge-work, etc. I’m such a grinder that I’ve worked my way through two crowns on the same tooth.

The day of the salad incident, I’d just had the second crown re-attached until I could have a new one made. Instructed by my dentist not to eat anything on that side of my mouth for an hour, I was obedient and waited four hours or more. That evening, as we sat in a restaurant overlooking our beloved Smokies, I took a bite that sent horrible pain shooting in my mouth. Joe said that my face went completely white and he thought I was going to pass out. My eyes filled with tears. I have a high pain tolerance, but THIS pain was nearly intolerable! No Advil, no Aleve...no pain reliever of any kind was in my purse, so Joe went to find someone who might have something I could take. When he returned with four Advil, his food had arrived. (I’d had the waitress box mine up earlier.) I insisted that he go ahead and eat his meal while I excused myself from the table.

This wasn’t my first time to order a drink at a bar. (Thanks be to God, I don’t need that anymore.) I think the last time was when I was a chaperone on a choir tour with my daughter’s elementary school. Her fourth grade teacher had ‘the crud’ and couldn’t enjoy her meal for all the coughing she was suffering. After the children went to their rehearsal and the adult chaperones were alone together in the restaurant, I took Teacher to the bar...ordered a straight shot of whiskey and had her sip it. Voila! Her cough let up! (Yes, I took my daughter's teacher to a bar...but for good reason!)

Don’t get judgmental about me using whiskey. Over-the-counter cough remedies contain alcohol. My mother may have once been president of the Women’s Christian Temperance Union, but momma never heard a cough like Teacher had!

In TV westerns, cowboys would be given whiskey to kill the pain before a bullet had to be removed. That logic came to mind when my tooth felt like a shot had gone through my whole body! I went to the bar and ordered a straight shot of whiskey. No water. No ice. Just whiskey. Telling the bartender what my problem was, he recommended I have something smooth, so poured me a shot of Crown Royal (not Royal Crown, ‘cause then I’d have needed a Moon Pie, and I wasn’t in the mood). I paid the barkeep, took that shot and let it roll around in my mouth a little bit to ‘medicate’ the tooth. Then I swallowed. It was smooth. $7.50 worth of smooth. 

I went back to the table and sat quietly while my sweetheart finished his meal. He felt bad eating in front of me, but I told him I was just happy he could chew! He paid our bill and we started out of the restaurant when I decided to buy one more shot. Joe probably thought I was going to the restroom when I told him I’d be in the car in a few moments.

The restroom was the furthest thing from my mind. I wanted to get back to the bar! This time, I told the bartender I didn’t want to pay for expensive, smooth whiskey. I just wanted cheap, straight whiskey to roll around in my mouth one more time for the pain. Yes. The pain. And that shot helped. A little.

Two weeks and many peanut-butter milkshakes later my dentist informed me the tooth under that hole-y crown was abscessed and needed to come out.

Fast-forward. The tooth is out. Stitches are in, and I’m feeling much better. And I may be sick of peanut-butter milkshakes for the first time in my life!

And I haven’t been back to the bar since then. Remember, don’t judge me.

Just because the preacher’s wife made two trips to a bar in less than twenty minutes isn’t that big of a deal. The fact that she was wearing her Asbury Theological Seminary sweatshirt representing the place where her hubby was trained to be a minister? Well, that kind of is...

just sayin’




“If you have a pulse, then you have a purpose. Make your life count!” 


The desire of my heart...

Psalm 37:4
"Take delight in the Lord,and he will give you the desires of your heart."

I always wanted to be a mother. When I found out I was pregnant again (after several miscarriages) I had little faith in this one succeeding. But my husband, who can’t help but believe God’s promises, had enough faith for both of us. A total stranger who was praying for him at a retreat in Atlanta told him that “...the Lord says you’re going to have the desire of your hearts. You’ll have a child of your own.” Joe kept this to himself and waited on God. It wasn’t until that night in the ER that he shared this ‘word’ with me. My gynecologist had just come in to tell me I was pregnant again, but we’d found out early enough that he might be able to help me carry this one to term. With injections of HCG, I might have a baby in September. Without the injections, he said he would keep me comfortable until the pregnancy ended itself...which was what was trying to happen at that moment. He left the room to let us decide what we wanted to do. That’s when Joe told me about the ‘word’ given to him in Atlanta five weeks before. After sharing it with me, he laid hands on me and prayed for our child...that it would stay in my womb until the time it was to come forth. The doctor returned and we told him to start the injections because we wanted to have this baby! Dr. Sherrill started them that very night on January 6, 1985. I was to take the shots until I was ten weeks’ pregnant and stay in bed through the first trimester. During that down-time, I never read so many magazines and books in my life! (I also started watching Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood and Sesame Street!)

Fast forward to the night of September 9, 1985:
I was in labor as Joe and I watched the Dodgers win on television. Then we had praise and worship music playing softly in the background. And then I got the epidural...something I didn’t want...but I had toxemia and my blood pressure had become so high, the doctor ordered it. Late the next morning the music was turned off and I was getting into some serious work! Joe was wonderful as he coached me through all those hours. He only left my side once and that was to get some fresh air and a Diet Coke. And that was when my sweet and dearest friend, Myra, was there to continue the LaMaze coaching.

When Joe stepped out, Myra came to my side and told me when to take a deep, cleansing breath, then find my focal point and breathe rhythmically. We did that together several times, then all of a sudden I became this desperate woman! I grabbed Myra’s shirt, yanked her down to my face and said, “I had to stay in bed to keep this baby and now I need blasting powder to get it out!!! You tell them to get this baby out of me NOW!” This is what our LaMaze coach called ‘transition‘ and I was IN TRANSITION!

In the delivery room, I pushed and pushed, and the baby crowned. But that’s as far as it went. The baby was stuck. Forceps were used. Still stuck. Pretty soon, the baby’s heart rate was getting irregular and obviously in distress. All of a sudden I was having a Caesarian delivery. When the doctor took her from my body at 2:04 p.m. she was hanging limply “...like a rag doll” Joe said.

No one was exclaiming “it’s a girl!!” No one was making a sound. Not even the baby. I kept asking the anesthesiologist about the gender and he quietly whispered that I had a little girl. Two student nurses were standing nearby and I saw tears in their eyes. The drape in front of me wouldn’t let me see much in front of me, but I saw my obstetrician’s face. He was working on me, then glancing over to the side of the room where our baby had been taken. Still no sound.

When I tell you that Joe believes God’s promises, I’m quite serious, because I heard him begin to pray. He got louder. Pretty soon the whole room heard him remind our Mighty God that “...You promised us this baby and I’m not gonna let go now! Satan, you can’t have this one!”

And that is the moment I heard Hannah’s first cry. The atmosphere in the whole room changed. There was rejoicing in that place! Our 8-pound, 6-ounce baby girl was fine! Joe held our miracle for the first time. I was still having surgery, but I got to touch her. She was squinting, pink, and beautiful. She didn’t look anything like Winston Churchill! (up till then, I thought ALL newborn babies looked like Winston Churchill!)

That night, I made a promise to God that whenever I had the chance I was going to tell people what a miraculous thing He did. So now, I’ve told you.

Today, September 10th, is that miracle baby’s 28th birthday. Hannah Elizabeth is in love and married to a wonderful man who loves her dearly. She is an artist, a graphic designer, an amazing woman, a pianist and a singer. She loves Jesus. And that’s the best part...she loves Jesus. I knew God gave us a special girl because there were so many things that might have taken her from us. But He protected her. She’s here. And she’s beautiful inside and out.

Whenever I think about what might have been, I’m thankful God had His hand on her. My daughter...Hannah Beth...is an answer to many, many prayers. And those prayers are still being spoken every day for her. I like to use Jeremiah 29:11-14 now and again as I pray for her. I insert her name. This is something you might want to do for your children, your grandchildren, or someone else you care about...

For I know the plans I have for Hannah,” declares the Lord, “plans to prosper her and not to harm her, plans to give her hope and a future. Then Hannah will call on me and come and pray to me, and I will listen to her. She will seek me and find me when she seeks me with all her heart. I will be found by Hannah,” declares the Lord...

Amen and amen.

“If you have a pulse, then you have a purpose. Make your life count!” The woman at the post office window probably has no idea, but she did that today.