Repost from 2/29/12 and why are there days like this?

It was ten o'clock on the night before the cake was due. Six hours had passed. Only another half hour to go. Finishing touches and placing the dump truck on top.

This story has to be told. Not for what happened, but for how it ended. 

He only wanted to watch. Some kids, most probably, would have to stay away. They might put their fingers in the mix, or the icing. But he doesn't really like cake. And he is a good boy.

So he's standing up on a chair by the cake.

She only turned away for a second.

But in that second he could only just look at the button no longer. He had to know what that pretty purple button did.

I heard the fall and the scream at the same instant.

I turned from where I sat, less than an arms length from where the cake had been.

I moved to the floor beside her, taking her bone tired body, working in the bakery since 6:00 that morning to come home and bake again, in my arms and said words that comfort failed.

That face I love. The one with eyebrows and eyelashes like mine. The narrow one with the high cheekbones and small mouth. I take that face into my hands and promised words I can't even remember.

It wasn't just any cake. It was to celebrate a year that eleven months ago we weren't sure baby nephew would ever see.

When the fear was that this day, which should bring first birthday joy, would only open wound that never heals. A fear now only a memory.

And here it was, one year later, joy indescribable. Thankfulness unending.

Happy birthday, sweet Crosby.

The list was made and her daddy was on his way to the store before I went into the back room.

Where I took his whole little boy body of my son into my arms. This little body choking out I so so sorry in sobs. This little body I womb grew and protected and cried forth.

I held on and fought the tears that I couldn't let come.

This is when a mama has to shine. When a mama must be unconditional.

When hand needs to be gentle and pain already felt in little heart is all the pain body needs. When gentleness must be chosen over harshness.

When she must be comfort and lighthouse and haven. When she must, without fail, show son more important than cake.

When she must fulfill a promise made when only hand touched and rested through flutters and then kicks and stomach large and I whispered the first I love you.

All while my other love was trying to push back pain and hurt and do what adults with responsibilities do. What cousins who love great and celebrate life do.

Keep going. Start over. Forgive.

Why are there days like this?

She only cried when she went to the front porch and called that young man she loves. The one with the red hair and gentle blue eyes and slight Cajun accent. The one Katrina brought us. The one who doesn't eat cake but loves a girl who lives cakes.

The one who has taken our place in so many ways, and that's how it should be.

He rushes over and his presence brings comfort and laughter. The only one who could have done that on that night.

So all who love her start over with her while this little one . . .

heart broken moments before when sister went to him and held him and loved him and promised him all was forgiven and good, finally slept in what was comfort love peace - and safety.

And when all was quiet and the clock showed 3:00 am and light shown on just the two of us . . .

Mama, go to bed. I've got it. I won't be long.

I'll go to bed when you go to bed.

When you can do nothing but love - isn't love what you do?

Love and watch and stand guard over heart that once beat in rhythm with yours - and always will.

This is why there are days like this. So love can show off.

When your imagination runs wild

Remember the day we trespassed and snuck around the old yellow house?  I had to talk him into it.  I had powers of persuasion he couldn't resist in my younger finer days. 

It was deserted.  Neglected.  Dreamy.

My fascination with old homes must have begun -

I'm not sure.  In the womb?  When I was knitted together by a God who singled me out to be a one and only.  As did He to you.

In the tenth grade Mrs. Neely asked us to curl our tongues.  I couldn't.  I still can't.  She said it was genetics.  Mendelian inheritance.  Now they say not so much.  Environment plays a part.  Go figure.  What'd we know thirty-five years ago?  Not much, apparently.

Attached ear lobes?  Detached?  Genetics.  Recessive inheritance. 

Dimples?  Dominant genes.

Right handed?  Left handed?  Genetics.

Clasp your hands.  Left thumb on top?  Or right thumb?  Genetics?  Jury's still out on that one.

Love of deserted buildings?  Must be genetics.

She found a mystery buried in the barn.  It was a tale no one tells.  The young girl married and then - not?  No one knows the whole story.  Or at least no one's talking about it in this one red light mountain town.  It's been a shush tale for a half century.

An old ring box.  An old photo. Who is the mystery man and who is he?

And then there's always the time spent in Paris.

A pretty raunchy novel buried in the hay.

Oh her imagination was running wild.  That great big beautiful smile and spilling ideas and webs of deceit and . . .  maybe murder?

Aren't we incredibly made?  Knitted together by God who created this, the Gerenuk-

and this, the Amazonian Royal Flycatcher-

and this, the Sunda Colugo-

So there's a little imagination running wild on a beautiful lazy mountain afternoon?

No harm?  No foul - play . . . baby bones?

Repost from May 29, 2012 - Louisiana's Best Kept Secret

At first we really didn't think anything about it. All children love animals, do they not?

It's been since she was very young, but I'm not exactly sure how old she was when I first realized how deeply her heart is connected to God's fifth and sixth day creatures.

 It was after the love of rocks.  There were buckets of them spilling over, weighing heavy and always on the floor.  Patience wore thin the day I put handfuls in the garbage.  She was barely four.  She'd never know.

And then she began to look for her rocks.  The rock that looked like the fish was missing.

Mommy, 'ou see me ittle wock that ooks ike . . .

and then another . . .

and then another. 

Big round innocent trusting eyes holding up chubby fingers to show me size.

I swallowed hard each time and gave her my sympathy and helped her look and

lied.

It was after her love of pink and all things pink.  After the Polly Pockets had been packed up and the stuffed animals began to stay on their shelves.

After Jay Jay the Jet Plane and Bibleman and Squinkies.

But I knew before the day the small dog wandered into our yard and she convinced me to keep him for a few days.  Signs were put up and no one claimed him.  He was healthy and well cared for and I made the mistake of convincing her to let him go. 

He'll find his way home, Izzy.  If not, he'll come back here and we'll do something else.

He ran straight out of her arms and into the street.  Right in front of a car.  I heard the scream and wiped tears for what seemed liked forever and I thought of the rocks I had thrown away and wondered if she would think I had thrown this dog away.

She doesn't.

Over the last couple of years it has become apparent that it is more than a passing phase.

Her brain reads like an encyclopedia of animal knowledge.

And her heart . . .

is like shelter.

It makes room and houses and cares and is safe refuge for all animals big and small.

We knew we were going the night before, but waited until morning to share - just the trip, not the location.

Surprises are as fun on the giving end as the receiving end -

don't you think?

It's Louisiana's best kept secret.  An hour east of Baton Rouge and an hour north of New Orleans.  Ten curving miles out in the boondocks down Highway 445 to 40 East.  Past old barns.  Past century old homes falling down around their stories of love and laughter.  He thinks they need to be torn down.  I know they just need life breathed back into them.

Then there it is, one and a half miles on the left.  Right before the sign telling you children are welcome at the Ole Post Office Pizza and Daiquiri.

It hides in the middle of nowhere.

They look like they are coming, two by two. 

 And then some.

And they are everywhere.

She didn't speak at first.  I thought maybe I was wrong and this was not such a big deal.

It's not Africa, baby.  Maybe not a real safari.  But we can pretend, can't we?

She didn't say a word.  We drove down the curving dirt path to our waiting jeep.  (The private jeep is the way to go.  Trust me.)

Then she rolled down her window and breathed deep and there it was.  That big beautiful smile.

Daddy, I didn't know there was a place like this here.

Yeah - he always gets the credit.  He doesn't throw away rocks or kill dogs.

Some surprises are better on the giving end,

don't you think?

I confessed a couple of years ago about the rocks. 

Thought she'd think it was funny.

She didn't.

when I'm gonna be a grandma

So, there was the option of a dewy eyed sentimental post about becoming a grandmother.  With pictures such as this

that would make my heart flutter with the idea of my baby having a baby.

But I decided to go with this instead.  It was a coin flip.  Tails won. 

Dear newly pregnant Delia,

I'm still getting accustomed to the idea of being a grandmother.  There are babies, children, teenagers, young adults, parents ...

grandparents.

I have mixed feelings about this.

In one corner I cannot wait to hold your baby just so I can give it back when it starts screaming or projects stinky formula across the room (you were too young to remember). But in the other corner, with the much larger more buffed opponent, I'm not very enthusiastic about becoming officially old. Because, as everyone knows, if you are a grandparent you are, officially, an old person.

So here is a list of a few things - some words of wisdom you should commit to memory and some demands, um, requests.

Bear with me.

Demands Requests:

I am in the process of creating a list of pleasantries for your child to call me.  Nana is taken, so is Grandma (thanks be), which wouldn't be in the running anyway (refer back to the dirty word old) because it just sounds so ... OLD.  Granna, which is absolutely adorable, is taken because apparently Tammy has put more thought into this than I have. 

I like the following options.  Please let me know which one you and Ruben like, although at my age I've earned the right to not select it.

1.  Mamie (long a sound)
2.  Mamsie (long a sound)
3.  Zsa Zsa (might be the closest to glamorous I'll ever be)
3.  Auntie  (which I guess is out of the question)
4.  Deary
5.  Slim (which is currently my favorite)
6.  Grand

And finally, simply put, never tell me I cannot say or give something to your child.  It's a losing battle. Just ask Nana and Grandma. And soon to be Granna and Slim. 

Now the advice, which has been earned the hard way, and is golden.

Turn up all the TV's, radios, and CD players in the house to full volume.  Train your baby to sleep through anything.  At first it may seem heavenly to have total quiet, but eventually nothing is worse than having to tip-toe during nap time, in fear that your angel will wake up the dreaded TOO EARLY.

Don't worry if you don't breast feed.  Have no guilt my darlin'.  To be honest, being the only one who can feed the baby is not all it's cracked up to be.  But think carefully about this. You can always pump breast milk so Ruben can feed and bond with baby. You get to do this alone in a quiet room.  Let's face it, no one wants to be in a room with a breast pumping hormonal mommy.  And it could become your only down time.  Think even more carefully,  I did not breast feed. Refer back to my breasts in above cartoon. 

Projectile spit-up cleans up easily with a magic eraser.

People who publish books about child rearing have probably broken their own rules often.  Don't buy these books.  Ask Granna or Slim.

Toys are nice.  But nothing beats a good 'ole pot and spoon.  Clean out at least one lower cabinet. Your baby will spend hours in there during which time you can pretend you are back in your newlywed days.

But don't ever sit down, because as soon as you do ....  Never mind this one, I think I'll let you learn it the hard way.

Pacifiers are like crack to a baby.  And you can find a dealer on every street corner, but you must buy up stock in the one your baby loves.  He/she will want one in the mouth and one in each hand. And if the apple doesn't fall far from the tree, one stashed in the diaper.   Take it from your daddy and me,  finding a new one at three in the morning because just one has disappeared or baby has sucked a hole in a favorite is nearly impossible.  Okay, it is completely impossible. The thumb is always an option, and according to the Jones' next door your child will need braces.  So, go with the thumb.  Trust me, go with the thumb.

Sleep is overrated.  Sleep is overrated.  Sleep is overrated.  Say it often.  You may begin to believe it. Or maybe not.  But it doesn't hurt to try.

XOXO's are never optional.

And finally, and most importantly, cherish your tush the way it is now. Admire it often in the mirror. It will probably be a lot lower for the rest of your life.

And welcome, my beautiful Delia, to the world of stretch pants.

Love,
Grand

And just for the fun of it -

when you are doing fine, my child

And sometimes dissatisfaction in your life is overwhelming.  Wondering if you are walking closely enough, doing enough, being enough.   Many of these feelings are truths of the Holy Spirit leading you to be the man Christ wants you to be.  Which is the man you are searching to be? Yes.

Which is why you confide in me that you are not feeling worthy, not feeling enough.

You've been a Christian for years now.  You may not remember it but when you were ten you marched yourself right up to me in Vacation Bible School and proclaimed you were born saved.  You had a huge grin on your little face.  You were proud, yes you were.

I prayed for you then.  I prayed your joy in Christ would not be lost as you grew.  I prayed it wouldn't take you long to realize no one is born saved.

And I don't think it did.

But what about that hot topic - joy and contentment?  You don't want these thoughts to steal your joy but what if they are meant to steal your contentment?

Because, my sweet, we can get too content.

Contentment can be a lovely place to be.  Books have always been written teaching us to be thankful in all circumstances and to be grateful even for our difficulties.

God's word breathes often of contentment.  Paul declared -

For I have learned in whatever situation I am to be content.  I know how to be brought low, and I know how to abound.  In any and every circumstance, I have learned the secret of facing plenty and hunger, abundance and need.  

Philippians 4:11-12

to the Thessalonians he urged -

give thanks in all circumstances, for this is God's will for you in Christ Jesus. 

1 Thessalonians 5:18

to the Philippians -

Rejoice in the Lord always.
 Philippians 4:4

But should we always be content as if it's a life rope thrown to a dying Christian?  I don't think so. All situations we find ourselves in are not of God's will.  Some are due to a sinful, fallen world.  But just as Christ looked into history and saw your face as He was being crucified proclaiming he's mine He gave Paul the powerful words to teach us to be peaceful in times of suffering and discontent.

But often discontent is a life-force given from God to reveal to us we need to make a change.

That we are falling short of our potential. We have gotten comfortable in shoes instead of bared our feet to be washed by the hands of Christ.  We are living this world instead of dying to Christ.

Thomas Edison said discontent is the first necessity of progress.  

And discontentment can be redemptive.

God never intended for the Israelites to be content in Egypt.

Men have pieced  together the writings of Paul's prison epistles and it is known he spent two years in Caesarea confined to Herod's palace.  Imprisoned there and unable to leave he appealed his case over and over to Caesar.

While there his joy in Christ led him to write the words Rejoice in the Lord always but he was not content to be undone and his work stalled in that place.

So you are feeling a little undone.  Hang onto your joy but ask for guidance and cry Help me, Lord more often than not.  

And again, if you could visually see Christ or audibly hear His voice He might just say to you - you are doing fine, my child. 

But not because you are walking closely enough, doing enough, or being enough.

Only because of  love.  

Because we will never be worthy.  But never stop trying.

Because feeling undone in this world is to see the face of Christ.

So be peaceful. 

But never be satisfied. 

when it's a bad day

It was a bad day yesterday, wasn't it darlin'?

For me, too.

I spent my day anxious, worried, concern - how many adjectives are there for a lack of faith?  Too many.

I went from the hours of a morning we will remember the rest of our lives into an afternoon that found me falling and failing.  Found me allowing hurt to seep in from someone's unkind words.   When I should have walked away found me lashing back. 

Found me judging, criticizing.  Found me breaking the golden rule. 

That simple little rule we learned in grammar school so we wouldn't steal pencils or break in line or tease the ones with glasses or gaps in their teeth or hair or skin the wrong color. 

The ones we think are less that make us feel more. Shamefully more.

Yeah, it was a bad day baby girl.

And now in the early morning hours of a new day I sit here and write, wondering how you are.

I've written my apology email to one I made feel unwanted and unwelcome and checked my phone to see if there was one for me.  I wonder why women hurt women.  I wonder why I play the game.

And I wonder how to help you.  You my sweet girl, still so young and unknowing.  You taking a giant step into the unknown and me still fledging stumbling around in it all these years later.

It's grace.  It's a prayer of mercy.  I'm praying God give you mercy and grant you all you need in strength and wisdom to not stumble but finish this race that is won with a lowly crawl.

Because that's where you find the answer sweet girl.  Low.  Face down arms outstretched at the foot of the cross.

Always low at the foot of the cross.

You are never "alone as a solitary bird on a roof."

                                                                 Psalm 102:7

 

 

   

love huge

When I held you in my arms twenty-three years and one day ago it was an impossible thing for me to imagine twenty-three years later.  You were the kind of labor nurses made you walk the hospital halls through. Slow.  Not far enough along.  Slow.  Tearing.  Stitches.

The kind of labor most young women today do not go through unless they choose to.   Even eight years ago baby Max was a walk in the park compared to the walk in those halls.  Modern medicine has made having a baby much easier today than then.  And much easier then compared to a century ago.  My, my.  Time.  What it does.

What time does rears itself to me much lately.  It took that baby face, perfectly round like treasured gold piece, and created a woman.  First steps and double digits and driving and falling in love and marriage and now the desire that won't let go for a perfect baby face of your own.  It's time you say, to start your family. 

A woman with dreams bigger than time can conquer because they take time to conquer.

Plans that sometimes start small and grow big and bigger and then one long day from now there's a sign on a door that says Open.  And smells of sweetness delight the nose and then the mouth. 

But time, my darlin', is a gift.  Because one day you will see that a long day from now seems like only yesterday. 

Remember this . . .

When the dreams of what you have now seemed like a lifetime away. 

My sweet Blubird, time brings sweet things.  And it brings choices.  And letting go and living small to live huge.  Because you brought love huge and Daddy and I never would have chosen a perfect moment because there isn't one to bring that perfect love that you breathe hard through.

And life is full of choices.  And all things good do come.  And all choices, if you let them, bring happiness.  If you let them. 

Happy Birthday.  Love, Mamie