I'm not very good company the day we clean out Daddy's shed.  Mostly junk.  Really that's all it was. Just junk.  It was rusted and broken and shredded and wasted from neglected time but I can't laugh and make small talk while I throw out what was his.

We move through the dust and webs and sort into piles and the scene plays out before me like a movie when someone dies and their stuff is here but they are not.

But I don't think I was really there.  I was in a hospital room saying good-bye.  I was at the doctor's office that very morning listening to her tell me my mama really needs to be hospitalized.  I was in the back yard thirty-five years ago watching the pecan tree be planted or a light filled sunny day walking in his steps or catching crickets behind his mower.

I was anywhere but there.

And I just couldn't make small talk that day or really talk at all.  Tears sitting on the verge.

I've been difficult to get along with lately.

I have people.

And I want them to love me through this difficult time and forgive me and cry with me and make me laugh and just stick by me.

Really - just stick by me.

when you feel yourself slipping

Her name was Patty and she was my best friend. 

She had a kind of clown trailer in her backyard that her daddy rode on for parades, and when she and I pleaded hard enough he let us play in it.  He wore a funny hat with tassels hanging and did charity work and Patty won beauty pageants and wore white go-go boots. 

 

She had hair one would describe as raven black.  She could twirl a baton and dance and had cases of trophies and tiaras and wore real diamond earrings and won a car before she could drive. 

 

Her teeth were perfect and she never wore braces.  

 

Her bedroom furniture was a matching suite and her room was pink with a double canopy bed and ruffled everywhere.  A large pink stuffed snake she had won wrapped itself around the post of her bed and I thought she was the luckiest girl in the world. 

 

She was kind and shy and didn't sit with the popular girls. 

I had mousy brown hair that hung straight and limp and a huge gap between my front teeth.  I wore glasses and Steve Finnegan always called me four eyes.  I wore whatever shoes Howards had the cheapest and one day when I was at school my mama covered the walls of my bedroom in green ships.

 

 I never owned a pair of boots until I was grown. I've still never owned a pair of white go-go boots-

 

But there's always tomorrow.

Patty and I were a pair.  Someone should have written a book about us.

And when we were nine years old she accepted Christ as her Savior and Lord.  It was bible school 1974 and she whispered in my ear that she was scared and took my hand and we walked that long aisle together, holding hands.  I did what she did.  I prayed after Brother Benton and answered the questions right and we were baptized together one right after the other in the same water.  She went first.

Watching her life it seems and always seemed obvious she knew what she was doing that summer of '74.  But I was just there to hold her hand.

And I never seemed to know what I was doing.  I rarely did the right thing because I never searched to do the right thing.  I just acted on feelings.  I followed desires instead of a heart that was flooded with the love of Jesus.

And it wasn't until thirteen years later that I surrendered a lost life to a One and Only Savior.

And I don't want to be a mere believer of Christ, as if I'm believing in a fairy tale or myth of old.  Showing no more proof of my love and loyalty than a babe nursing.  A babe who would take of any substance offered to remove pangs of hunger or fear or death.

 

I don't want to walk everyday surrounded by barren land while I live under the guise of grace.  For God has poured His salvation onto my life and I have lived in the sheer goodness of God.  Forgiving.  Saving me from judgment of death.  Eternal hell.  Loving me for who I am.  Not who I was or can be.  But for who I am now.
 

And does my life show proof of fruit sprouting up from life watered with the Word?  For my Heavenly Father does not miss anything and knows if I'm staying the course or if I'm spending each day with back turned to Him.  If I'm just living on His promises with no work in the field. 

 

And a life walking away from my Father instead of toward Him is a life of crucifying Him again and again and bringing shame to the only One that gives me life.  My life eternal.  My hope and my peace. The One who loves me with an uncomprehendable love. 

 

Do I think of these things each day?  Am I drowning in an ocean of selfishness? 

Don't let me slip into a world that is bored with you, Father.

Do I remember that Christ won't allow Himself to be crucified again and again by the ones who have seen and felt and tasted and know the truth?

Do I remember fields with nothing to harvest will be burned?

Father, don't let me be content in talking about what team won the game or new recipes or my problems or the world's problems.  Let me long for you and your Word.  Don't let me move or even drift. Take away my contentment and confidence and replace it with urgency of judgment and fear of you for myself and an unsaved world. Let me remember each day how much you love me.

Soften my heart.  Don't let me neglect.  Don't let me rest.
Amen.

sharing with http://jenniferdukeslee.com/tellhisstory-what-you-need-to-know-about-yourself-when-you-think-youre-a-loser/

When you accidentally on purpose read

I'm probably gonna get in trouble for blogging about this.  There's really no probably about it.

Isabela is taking a literature co-op class that Shelby took years ago.  She didn't want to take it.  Izzy doesn't like to write.  She doesn't think she is good at it.  But Shelby took this same class from Jennifer years ago and the progress she made in writing was encouraging.  So when we were given the blessed opportunity for Izzy to take it I didn't hesitate.

I'm not supposed to read what she writes.
 I'm not to correct it or hint suggestions or just look at her the wrong way so she knows to fix something.  And for me, if you know me, that is a hard one.

I sit down at computer to check bank (yep, still doing that.  Won't it be nice when the day comes that I don't have to check in everyday to be sure there's enough to make it through that day?  I have a feeling I'll be living a heavenly life before that happens.  And that's okay.) 

And there is her writing.  She didn't click off or exit out or whatever.  And I look at it.  But I don't read.  And there it is.  That ever knawing gut feeling that I get when I'm about to do something I'm not supposed to do.

Ever get that?  Sure you don't.  Can anyone say I'm a mama?

I swivel in the chair and look the other way.  I ponder.  I swivel back and the other way and ponder some more.  I minimize it.

I ponder.

What will it hurt to read it?  It's not her journal writing.  It's just a writing on a children's book she read.  Just for practice.  It's not private.  And Jennifer is my secret twin and she would read it if in the same boat and she is the teacher so after a short time of rationalizing I click on and read. 

She writes this book she reads reminds her if she is ever some place she doesn't like she can simply turn her head and walk the other way.  She writes the book makes her feel good and as if she can accomplish anything.  That the book reminds her she'll struggle and fall and that friends will come and go and that one day she might end up alone.  She says she knows there will be bumps in her life she has to crawl over and that life is going to be harder than she expects and that there will be smaller bumps on the big bumps but there will always be a way to make it through. 

And I'm looking at the grammer and how she quotes the book and wondering if I should tell her I accidentally read it so I can help her make corrections. 

But then I read the last paragraph.

And I forget to breathe for a moment.  Because this is being written by the girl everyone thinks has it all together.  But she doesn't.  Who does?  And she lives every day with the knowledge that some people choose to not like her.  That some of the people she is to respect have chosen to put her in a neat little box they think she belongs in because they have put other girls in it.  And she doesn't belong there.  And she knows it.  And I know it.  And it can be hard.  And it hurts her.  But she is learning to live with it because that is what people do and this is what one does when they do. 

And I read her last words.  That it is important to her to keep her head on straight.  That she never wants to forget who she is.  That she doesn't want to look toward something that appears grand and wonderful to discover she should have turned away from it. 

And then in this little paper I wasn't supposed to read, this little paper that is just what a children's book makes her feel like, she writes that she wants to be guided by the One that created her and everything around her. 

Isabela's not perfect.  Who is?  She puts toothpaste on her pimples at night and longs to have a mole she thinks is ugly removed and hasn't memorized all her time tables and can't keep her room clean.  She knows what it is to be selfish and all-consuming when she should be aware.  But who doesn't?  Certainly her mama does.

But children's books make her think of her future and her future includes God by her own choosing. 

So to my darlin' sack of baby bones - yep, this world can be hard and there are huge bumps on top of the hugest bumps but you will be just fine.  And you will never, ever end up alone.  That is a pinkie promise.

when i don't need a picture to remember the best of all

Do only people a little off take pictures at funerals?

 

He's too good to me gave me a you're strange look when I told him to take pictures at my daddy's funeral.

 

But I wanted them.  I want to remember.

This is my daddy. And here.

 

I want to remember that no one does funeral sprays on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day so flowers are small on the casket.  Just the way Daddy would have liked them. 

 

 

 

I want to remember and smile at the mismatched group of pallbearers that carried my daddy.  Young grandsons just beginning to shave and boys that look like they are from the mountains because they are.  Borrowed coats and jackets and my daddy would have liked that.  He never saw much need in clothes. 

 

 

 

That I forgot Max was an honorary pallbearer and didn't dress him right and he took off running to catch up in his khakis and furry hood.

 

That it was Mr. Charles that honored my daddy with the words simple, honorable, godly.

 

 

 

Remember how my uncle held tight to my mama.  Holding her up while knowing in two days he'd bury his daughter - right there in that red dirt next to daddy.  How did he hold up?  He'd just said goodbye the morning before. 

 

 

 

I want to remember that it was so cold my hands were going numb.  Gloves were in my pocket but I forgot to use them.

 

I want to look back and see how we all look just alike.  Daddy's look-alike younger brother and aunts I could belong to and the cousin that could have been the fifth one of us girls.  Remember how one red-headed new son carried my daddy tenderly and the other delivered the flag and words of respect to my mama's waiting hands.

 

 

 

I will need to rehear the shofar blow from little Gideon's hands and see that his heart was broken as he cried on his daddy.  That my girls were surrounded by love while we sang Victory in Jesus.  Remember how my daddy liked to hear David play.

 

 

 

 

I need to remember that we got lost on the way to the cemetery that holds the bodies of my daddy's parents.  That I took a rose from daddy's flowers and laid it at Ma's grave.  I will need to laugh when I remember Aunt Sue told me to

 

tell Mama to go fishing with Pee while she waits on the rest of us.  The rest of us ain't coming anytime soon.

 

And I told her.

 

 

 

But no one will ever need to remind me that what we laid to rest that cold day after Christmas Day was just a tired body that had stopped breathing. 

 

That it was just a way to honor Daddy and remember that he was the oldest and wisest of us all.  A way to publically say good-bye for now to a husband, father, brother, grandfather, uncle, and friend. 

 

My daddy wasn't watching us from heaven.  Not flying or sitting on a cloud or even fishing a heavenly pond. 

 

My daddy is falling down at the feet of Jesus.  Not still in awe but forever in awe.

 

And I will see him again. 

when you don't know how to bury the man that gave you life

I look around my house and it is a mess.  The wedding boxes are all out and at their correct locations but the very small Christmas we had is scattered.  Laundry is spilling over.  The sink is full of dishes.  The counter is full of papers.  Trash and mess are on things under things and around things.

 

I don't care.

 

One of my first blog posts was an attempt at humor and what I would do if something tragic happened and my house was a mess.

 

And it has.

 

And I don't care.

 

My daddy's gone. 

 

The day before he died he told my sister he'd been dreading this day for so long.  Leaving Mama.  Dying hard.  He told her where the money was to buy the gun he wanted to give his grandsons.  He shook their hands and mumbled words full of love.

 

He high-fived our baby Beau. 

 

He told my girls to take care of their mama.  He told me Max was smart and not to let him waste it.

 

He listened with closed eyes as we told him we loved him.  We told him we adored him and were proud to be his daughters.  We told him he was the best daddy there ever was.

 

He waited on the daughter not there.  Her and her's.  His first-born trying to wrap up things that needed to be done while she hoped and prayed she'd see her daddy again.  He listened to her words over the phone and held on until Mama told him not to any longer.

 

My mama lay by my Daddy's side and whispered words we could not hear.  Sweet nothins' he'd probably call them.  Love words.  Good-bye words. But only for a little while words.

 

The strawberry shake he wanted sat melting until my sister picked it up, drank, and passed it around.  We all shared that shake as we sat by his side and touched whatever part of his body we could reach.

 

When I got in trouble at school about the Indian chief named Bowels he laughed. He had snakes in his belly button and warned me not to swallow watermelon seeds and pushed the mower up the hills I couldn't. 

 

When I cried about the orange house paint that wasn't and never would be he told me people don't always say what they mean and never mean everything they say.

 

I can't go to bed.  If I do I'll have to get up and go bury the man who gave life to me when he held my mama and loved her the way a man was made to love a woman. 

 

I just care about figuring out how to bury my daddy tomorrow.  How to hold up my mama when all I want to do is fall.  How to get my bluebird through her wedding day without her Pete-pa.

 

How to understand God's timing.  How to thank God enough for allowing my Daddy to go easily and quickly.  How to understand not understanding it all.

 

I thought I'd care if my house was a mess and people stopped by.

 

But I don't.

 

I really don't.

 

 

when there is so much more to celebrate than just years

Mama stood Daddy up on their first date.  She didn't want to, but they had no phones so she couldn't contact him that she'd be going home for the weekend.

But on their next date they drove from Carthage to Kosciusko to get a Coke.

Then there was a ring in tiny box under car seat and my daddy said to my mama -

 

If I bought you a ring would you wear it?

That was over fifty years ago.

To be quite honest, I've been praying my daddy would live to see this 50th anniversary celebration my sisters and I had to keep secret because they didn't want a fuss.

That he would live to see fifty years with his Tot. 

And God is good.

It could only stay a secret for so long - 'cause Mama would have been angry with us if she had not been given an opportunity to have her hair done.

So we celebrated my mama and my daddy.

We celebrated obstacles and hurts and happiness and crazy life and near death and years of barely getting by that they conquered to stand aged and worn and tired and beautiful together. 

To my darlins and lovely nieces and nephews -

Grandma and Petepa have not always had an easy time of it - as most couples can say after fifty years - life has given them some hard blows and challenging times.  But they are together now to see and hear the beautiful and hilarious HeeHaw tribute from all of you because they never gave up on each other and their love.  They fought to obey God's word and stay together. 

And their prayer for each of you is that you find the same happiness and have the same strength to bear life with only one person by your side.

Our family is on a near impossible streak, and to be honest again it would be a miracle for all thirteen of you to not have one broken marriage that cannot be humanly repaired. 

But miracles happen every day. 

Giving your grandparents up one day will be hard for each of you.  But on the day that you gave them the beautiful gift of laughter and honor -

you can know that each of you have made them proud and created for them a legacy of love.

All of you have made the long drive from Carthage to Kosciusko to get a Coke so much more than just worthwhile. 

Happy Anniversary Mama and Daddy, James and Martha, Pete and Tee-Texas-Tot.

 

I love you.

 

We all love you.

 

when i fell off the pedestal i've always teetered on in the first place

Last night I said words to my children I never thought I'd say.  And I think, in the process, I fell off my pedestal.

Years ago, in a way-too-common scenario for this world, I lost my beloved church.  My home church.  A new pastor, new staff, and disagreements that couldn't, or wouldn't, be fixed drove my family and dozens more away. 

I loved the church, I loved the people, and almost everything I did in my life was for, or because of, that church. 

I grieved for a very long time.  Few deaths could have been worse than the loss I felt then. 

I think I did okay in how I managed to compose myself and keep my mouth shut.  I did say some things my children should not have heard and contributed to the pain of others in ways I shouldn't have, but for the most part I managed to be good and remembered to love.  I don't think they were ashamed.

Just a few years before that I lost my best friend.  She and I were inseparable, you could compare us to giddy schoolgirls.  But she divorced and went through terrible pain at the same time I was going through the physical illness of a difficult pregnancy and then she fell in love and was missing in action.  She needed me and I wasn't there.  I needed her and she wasn't there.  It's strange.  We had shared so much pain together but could not manage to survive this.  She moved only half an hour away and all those years ended - just like that.  Really, it was like the blink of an eye.

There were no harsh words and I still feel only the greatest of love for her, but I did go through pain and a feeling of abandonment.  And since then my children have seen me shy away from close friendships and harbor the knowledge that women hurt women.  But you do what you do and just keep putting one foot in front of the other and move on.

So, in my life when I've gone through pain, I have tried to let my children see good in me.  I've tried to say and do the right thing and recognize the teachable moments that come from suffering and hardship.  And I fail often, because they know me well, very well.  But I do try. 

One of the advantages of homeschooling is that you know your children.  They can't manage to hide much.  But on the flipside they know you.  I can't manage to hide much.  But usually I'm okay with what I say and do, and with age it gets easier to look for the reasons behind people's actions - and easier to forgive.

But now there was last night.  And a pain from months ago that has not gone away struck hard and  I broke and shattered and fell hard and told my children that I did not care about doing the right thing.  I said I did not care about the hurt anyone else was going through.  I said I only cared about myself and how I felt.  I said I was helpless to make this situation better and I was finished trying.  I told my children that it was time that I and all the people that love me think about me and only me.  I do not care to think about what is kind or what is right.  I only care to think about the hurt I have felt and what I have loss due to it.  I cried until my face was swollen and shouted until my throat was sore and my head hurt. 

I received a text from my child gratefully missing all this and read the problem she was having away at camp and I texted back exactly the opposite of what I would have told her to do just earlier in the same day.

I said and did those things.  I really did.

And I fell off the pedestal that I've always teetered on but managed to stay on.

So I lie in bed last night and wonder if one can destroy in one night all they have tried to be and teach for decades?   Can a moment of pain that causes utter selfishness break a person?  And I didn't even pray to feel better this morning.

And I don't - feel better.  I feel tired.  And a little lost.

And grace falls like rain.

God has blessed me way beyond my worth and given me a best friend again.  And I have done to her what I have done way too many times to her in the past - talked too much and listened too little.

So even while losing my battle last night I still managed to remember that my baby girl is in a bad spot and struggling with loyalty and my friend needs me right now - not the other way around - and I recognized old friends inside myself - concern, empathy, love.

And I like that Rie better than I like this one.  This one today that feels beat up from a lost battle.


And to my darlins' I would say this - I'm sorry you saw the ugly person your mama can be.  What was there before Jesus got ahold of me and somehow always finds its way back out when I forget or don't care about the greatest commandment of all. Thanks for treating me with love and grace.

Don't be a doormat.  Stand up for yourself and stand your ground.  But don't forget to love - especially your enemies.  And when you do forget or just plain choose hate, because you will, do whatever you have to do to find your way back.  Fight and claw the old and get back to the new creation. 

It's really the only good place to be.  Love, Mama

When Nothing Is Better For The Sake Of Your Child Than Prayer

Mama, it's not supposed to get bad tonight, is it?

She calls me from the hall into her room.  I tell her daddy's watching the weather and if he thinks it will be bad he'll sleep in the living room.

I tell her to go to sleep.

You're safe, baby.

I want to say I've got you but I know it's not me that does.

She turned fourteen days ago.  Two years ago a series of events left her in so much fear that my child seemed gone.  It's hard to explain how afraid she was.  Post traumatic stress syndrome, the doctors said.  She slept with us, she lost weight, she cried, she shook. You could see her heart beating through her clothes. She thought she was dying.

It took medicine.  I had hoped it wouldn't.  We prayed and read the Word and we put signs by her bed

and she wrote in the journal the doctor gave and I thought nothing was working.  I wanted to help her.  I had to fix it.  I had to do something. 

But it was God's good time. Because when I doubted, or maybe just scared of the plan? and thought nothing was working He was - with plan huge.  Because prayer and His plans always work.  Amen. 

And what better could I have done than go to the Father for the sake of my child?

And now she's back.  She's weaned off the medicine and she looks healthy and strong and she laughs and joy pours out of her pores.

My child wasn't gone.  She was just held down under a crushing weight. And only in God's time and through the knowledge and ability he grants others did she come forth and survive. 
It's raining now, thunder and lightening outside my window.  She's in my bed.  She didn't ask.  I did.  Cause sometimes I just miss her there. 

When You Pick Taters With Your Pa

There are some things you'd fight a fire for. 

 And this is one of 'em.

When Another Birthday Comes Much Too Quickly

Darlin' Izzy B,

Why do you feel you have to remind me of your birthday coming so soon? 

Is it because  I forgot Bluebird's?  Is it because you think if we cut my brain open it would be a tangled mess of everything but the most important? 

Or, is it, deep down in the deeper, that you are still the silly little girl full of excitement that climbed the doors like coconut trees?  That feated up when you were hot and touched my cheek when you told stories?

Or, maybe, deep down in the deepest, you are growing up quickly right before my eyes and can't wait to get there?  Yes.

It was the day before you were to be born.  She walked into the largest of the baby suites - the one they had set me up in because I was to be there so long, the one big enough for your sisters to bring sleeping bags and stay with me at night, the one you would be born in - and she looked at my iv. 

It needs changing again.  There's no place left to put it but your neck or foot. 

I probably cried.  I was tired.  I could not wait for you to get here.  Could this pregnancy get much worse?  It all began the day I passed out in the dressing room of Limited Too and your Uncle Markie scooped me up and carried me to the waiting ambulance. 

When a tear was found in my gallbladder and there was nothing they could do but wait for you to come.  When every bite made me sick and I slept with a bowl by my bed just in case I couldn't make the bathroom.  When your big sister was so afraid she slept right at my side. 

She held off on the iv change and less than 24 hours later they made me so comfortable I never felt a moment's pain and you brought more than just a new baby girl into our lives.  You brought joy and happiness matched only by the two before you and you were mothered by three and they were bigger mama lions than I was.

To know you is to love you.  And I'm so glad you are back.  Back from that dark place that held you in fright - but could not keep you because of our God bigger than dark or fright or uncertainty. 

You work hard and do everything I ask - as long as we leave your bedroom out of the picture.  You change diapers and wash dishes and fold clothes and cook supper and dig clothes from behind the dryer and climb the cabinets I can't reach and text all my words and never ask for anything in return. 

You put the music in your ears and help your daddy and can I tell you there aren't many out there who would do it with such a sweet and understanding attitude?

You don't complain and only occasionally pout and my only complaint is how long it takes you to get ready and that you've got me obsessed with Downton Abbey.

So, my little sack of baby bones, I haven't forgotten your birthday and there is more than a tangled mess in my brain and you are not a silly little girl but a beautiful young woman and people have much worse pregnancies and even though they don't always show it the two joys before you still ache to rock you and would plant a sleeping bag next to you at any moment you needed them. 

And fourteen years later I have never felt a moment's pain from you and when I do - because it will come - never forget that to know you is to love you. 

And I love you the most. 

Mama

Because God Does Whatever He Pleases

continued from yesterday

I saw her shoes first.  She was walking towards me as I was looking down at my belly button swelling thru my shirt. 

Is Gregg with you?  She wants to see you both together.  How quickly can he get here?

The space between the skull and the developing brain is too large is about all I remember.  She spoke maybe centimeters?  and how many times they had measured and  tried to explain to me what I really wasn't even listening to. Was she trying to tell me that my baby's brain had stopped developing? 

It was Friday afternoon and we'd have to wait until Monday morning to see a specialist. There wasn't anything that could be done and we would just have to wait.

There wasn't anything that could be done.

I don't remember much about the weekend.  I remember we told everyone and asked begged for prayer.

I'm sure I cried and watched the clock and most certainly questioned.

And I'm sure I agreed to try to accept God's will within the very moments I was pleading for my baby.

But there is something I do remember.  I remember bargaining.  As if the almighty omnipotent God of all would need anything from me.  What did I have to give that would be worth His miracle of healing my baby? 

There is no bargaining with God.  For we don't have to.  We do not have to convince God that if He does for us we will do for Him.  The parameters have already been set - and not by you or me.  In His covenants God told us what He would do for us and then told us what we would do for Him.

Because by no comparison He is the greater of the two and His love is the stronger of the two.  All comes from the Father above. And the strength and power that we have been given has been granted unto us for the reason of love.

He loves us.

And within that love lies mercy. 

But I still remember bargaining.  And I remember exactly what I promised God for the healing of my son.

Make him whole, Lord.  Make him whole and I promise...

I don't know if within His great unlimited mercy and grace God changed His mind about Max but I do know God performed a miracle on my son.   When new tests were taken Monday morning the measurements were perfect.  His brain was exactly as it should be.  To be honest I'm not even exactly sure what happened, those days were an emotional fog.  But we left the doctor's office on Monday morning with all assurance that our baby was healthy and strong. 

For a very long time I chose to believe that Max was healed.  And I still do.  Miracle.  For without a doubt our God cannot be controlled or manipulated or even convinced,  but I do believe His heart is tender toward us. 

But it doesn't even really matter.  God placed before us the situation in such a way as though it would happen.  What was important was how we responded.  We prayed and the situation changed.  But none of God's plans changed.  If by our prayer God showed mercy and granted this blessing unto us all we did was catch up to His future.

That was not the only time we have been given what seems like more than we can bear to overcome. Within the last two weeks I found myself begging and asking for acceptance and even bargaining again for my oldest daughter. And we had to wait the weekend again, and then another week. And there seemed very little doubt what we would be told.

And once again mercy was granted and I choose to believe the gift of healing.  We believe we dodge bullets when we are really showered by grace.

Thank you, God, for your unchanging steadfastness and your love and mercy.  Thank you, God, for healing and for sickness and pain.  Grant to me the wisdom to recognize the power of you in all that is.
   

I'm not going to write here what I promised God on that weekend in the fall of 2006.  But I think of it often and try to act on it. 

Is it necessary?  No.  

But do I want to do it?  Yes.

Max's life had been planned. God knew we would pray and He would bless us for that prayer.

Our God is in heaven; he does whatever pleases him.  Psalm 115:3

When I'm Given So Much More Grace Than I Deserve

It was late summer early fall 2006 and some of the happiest days of my life.  I was carrying a son, a dream I had given up on years earlier when I thought we'd never be brave enough to try for another child.

We were blessed beyond any form of our worth with three beautiful girls and my years were over forty and much time had passed since we made the unspoken bond of no more children by not speaking of it any longer.

There are some things that are very hard to explain.  And the fear is if you try you might sound somewhat extravagant.  Or like a dreamer.  Or just plain foolish. 

But on a night earlier we were side by side when I laughed loud and told him we just made a baby.  I knew it.  I felt it.  I can't explain it.  I said it but how does a woman know such a thing at such a time?

But I did.

And I was right.

And weeks passed and he came home as I walked out of the laundry room and right into his arms and cried and there were only three words -

You're pregnant?

Yes.

And I said words that were too honest when I wondered aloud why would God give us another child?  I didn't want another baby or need another baby and why would I be pregnant unless He was giving us a son?  Why would I be pregnant if it were a girl?

Some things will shame us till the day we die.

And I didn't realize how badly I wanted a boy until the thought that I might not have one. 

But I was afraid to say the words too loudly or too often.

And on a table too short in cold dark room I held his hand and watched only him.  And there it was.  Wand moved and fingers touched keys and I saw it on his face before she spoke the words. 

It's a boy.

But I already knew for his smile started slowly and he saw and looked at me in a way he had never looked at me before.

And there was little morning sickness and few headaches and he was much easier to carry than my loves before him.

She explained all the complications and risks and I prayed a promise that it wouldn't matter because it wouldn't and I passed all the tests.

 And life was really good and I felt strong.

And on most days he went with me because he liked the dark room where he sat holding my hand month after month watching his son grow.

But on this day I was alone when she stroked too many keys and moved wand too much and didn't speak at all.  And she left the room and came back with another who sat at machine and pressed buttons.  And it was colder than usual.

And I said it again because maybe she didn't hear me -

Is something wrong?

I'm just getting some numbers . . .

When Two are Better Faster Stronger Than One

It was on the church bus.

 

They saw each other for the first time.

 

I'm sure for a moment she may have been a little taken back.

 

This freckled face boy with hair long color of yazoo clay and waved like the water that brought him here.

 Brought here for her?

 

And it's in the moments of complete horror and sadness that only our Father can produce joy.

She was always silly.  Never shy or hesitant to make others laugh. 

 

So we weren't sure what was wrong with her on this night. 

 

Her braces had just come off days before and she was excited to turn fifteen.

 

I can imagine Mom shopping and finding that shiny blue wig - no doubt in her mind Shelby would get a kick out of it - no doubt in any of our minds.

 But she didn't.  We all thought it was a game when she wouldn't put it on. 

But it wasn't.  Tears flowed in the back room and nothing - nothing could convince her to give us just one more hat photo to join the collection since she was old enough to know what one was.

 

But then he quietly found her and they whispered in the corner and I remember thinking that my silly bluebird just wanted him to see her as a young woman instead of a little girl.  I remember thinking that night my girl might be in love.

 

And only one - only one person - convinced her. 
 

And that's the moment I fell for him.

 

And they both grew up on the ice and hockey players and figure skaters clash - just a little. And the day came they sought out to prove who was better who was faster who was stronger. 

And she walked through the door after she went down face sliding on ice.

And there was the break-up.

 

And the make-up.

And the break apart.

 

And time.  And the struggle to stay friends.

 

The summer apart.

 

And she didn't know what to do. 

 

And he wanted her back and she wavered scared and only wanted to make this life decision once. 

 

And she was afraid.

 

But I knew she missed the boy.  And on this night sitting and laughing she posted status Will you be my . . .

 

and she waited.  And we laughed and imagined what he was thinking and when she couldn't wait any longer she finished the question and

 

they found their way back.

 

She was barely four when she went on her first trip for Jesus.  I packed her bag and told her we were trippin' for Jesus.  She didn't get it.

 

Her's not white her's not black me don't know what her is.

 

And there, with Native Americans, she began trippin' for Jesus.

 

So when years later took her to Hondurus and she fell grown deeper in love with Jesus and then Tennessee sealed her desire for Him with questions and confusion she came home trying to find her steps and couldn't figure out how to split her heart between the two.

 

Mama, I only want to be in love with Jesus. I don't know how to have room in my heart for more.

 

And then the break.

 

And his heart was broken and he was angry and didn't understand. 

 

And Jesus gently rocked her and led her back.

 

Then hard days came and she hurt and slept. 

I watched him. Wondered what he was thinking.  I'm thinking the time away from her had been a blessing. And while she had been struggling with more love than she knew what to do with he was realizing that no matter what life would be - he wanted it to be with her.

 

She cried.  I don't want Joe to have to spend his life with someone that feels bad so much. 

 

Do you remember when Joe was concerned about you being without him?  You know his concern about dying young, like his dad, and leaving you and children alone?   

 

You thought that was sweet ridiculous.  Even if you knew your time with him would end tomorrow you wouldn't give him up.  You're not giving him and his love for you enough credit.

 

Stop thinking so much, and just love.

 

 

 

And she did.  Because from that moment on the bus there really was never another option, was there, my bluebird love?