Raising Magnolias

Run, Momma, Run

I skipped church. I turned on Pandora and sang.

You know, with the hairbrush mic.

I folded and hung and boxed-away the heavy; they dreary and the weary of winter and with just a touch of hope, I brought out spring.

White pants.

There is just something really happy about white pants.

And it’s ridiculous that I would wear them, because I’m not the kind of mom-chick who can pull off white pants. Emma Claire will have a spoonful of nutella on them before we even make it out the door and if by chance we are spared the nutella, Coulter will call out an impromptu game of tackle football and I’ll be on the ground, dirt smeared into the crisp white.

But right now, just hanging in my newly sorted closet (and by sorted, I just mean that for today everything’s on a hanger. There are no promises for tomorrow), but they call out for spring; they whisper hope that winter has passed.

They’re also whispering that they aren’t really mine and that I’d better hope my sister doesn’t remember that I have them.

Anyway.

Boxes put away, I lace up my shoes.

Pavement praying. Outdoor church.

As I head out the door, there’s a handyman working and he stops me.

“Oh! That’s too bad about the divorce.” And I think he might be smiling.

Like, you know, he doesn’t think it’s “too bad” after all. And I think this is such a weird town.

With weird people.

And I run and I walk and I circle this town. And I am draped with this overwhelming sense that I am a stranger. People don’t know me and I don’t know them and—

Here. In this town where I have lived for two years.

I am a stranger.

And it serves no greater good; no greater purpose but I allow myself to play the game of why and what ifs and what abouts and what the HALEs and maybe.

Just maybe.

God.

You got it wrong.

This time. You got it wrong.

Why not Sioux Falls? 10 years of friendships, of knowing my heart. Why here? Fremont, where, ironically, there is no freedom.

At least I think that’s ironic. Y’all know I’m always a little iffy on some of the big literary words.

Why here where chaos ensued from the beginning and people didn’t know, couldn’t know and how could I show?

The before “me”.

So I literally say out loud, “Why? God! Why here?”

And y’all know I’m a little partial to freakin’ and it rolls off so easily and I think freakin’ Fremont!

Really, Lord?!?!

Why did you bring us and drop us and leave us and as I’m asking, the answer comes and I’ve never heard talking bushes or heavenly voices, but I recognize the small, still spirit within me and I’m expecting something great.

Something profound.

Something that the Lord seriously needs to apologize for, but instead.

I get this.

‘Cause you didn’t do it in Sioux Falls.

Oh. Alright, then. Yes, there’s that.

You waited. You thought you knew better and could do better and that by the sheer will of determination thought that everything would be better and—

And I don’t use this word and I especially wouldn’t think it’s appropriate while talking to God, but I kinda thought, deep in the dark chambers of my heart,

OK, Lord, you don’t have to be a smart-you-know-what about it.

I know it took me a while.

To hear. To follow. To do.

Several blogs back, I write about a moment when I was driving down Military Ave. and again, the still small voice.

“When are you going to do the hard thing that I’ve call you to do.”

And I remembering this and I’m playing my what-if game and I come to the very.

Same.

Place.

Military and Bell.

And this time the voice is not still.

Not small.

As a matter of fact, it comes through a loud-speaker. And this is what I hear.

“Run, MOMMA, run!”

Uhm, yeah. I’m not kidding.

And did I mention the weird people? I mean, like who has a loud-speaker?

On their truck?

And seriously?

How do they know I’m a mom? (Which I get, is really beside the point).

And I know this seems like a stretch and I get that it was probably just a redneck dude with loud-speaker on his truck but I have an amazing ability to turn pretty much anything around so for me.

For today.

I’m gonna listen.

And obey.

And one step in front of the other, this momma’s going to do her best to run with endurance the race that is set before me,  looking unto Jesus, the author and finisher of our faith. (Hebrews 12:1)

Even if that race is in Fremont.

And if I could look back and go back and un-do and re-do.

I wouldn’t.

Because even though I feel like a stranger in a strange (and weird!) land and even though the nice but totally weird handyman next door is seriously not feeling “too bad” about my divorce and even though–

They didn’t see our start or even now, know my heart.

I wouldn’t.

Because in this place. I have friends who are running this race.

With me. Friends whom I’ve fallen quite in love with and friends who know I’m just a little bit weird, myself.

Weird (or, maybe we should go with faithful) enough to believe the Lord speaks to me at Military and Bell.

Sometimes in a still small voice.

Sometimes over a loud-speaker.

Run, Momma, Run!