Raising Magnolias

Stupid Pigeon (re-post from theselittlelights

I am mad. Hot, sweaty, salty-tears mad. And sad. Hiccuping, gasping and that weird sound you make when you can’t catch your breath, sad.

I am mad and sad. And I’m rhyming like a Dr. Seuss book. Good grief.

Yesterday I met with a personal training client (who, as a side note trains dogs for a living, and I think it’s safe to assume she wasn’t impressed with Tiger. Or me. It’s possible she noticed all the bits of chewed plastic from toys gone by and the half-eaten $40 flip flops that my Mother simply had to buy Emma Claire for Easter, because looking around with wide and horrified eyes, she politely suggested that I buy some more dog-appropriate toys. And, thank you very much, I did. I spent $7 on a bone that he promptly buried in the backyard. I should’ve just given him $7 to chew. That would’ve at least saved me the trip to Wal-Mart).

Anyway, my client. She wants to be healthy. She wants to be strong. And she has about 100 extra lbs standing in her way. She’s a mom and a wife. We’ve all seen Oprah. We know the story: she forgot to take care of herself. Her battle is mental. She has to believe that she’s worth more and until she does, nothing will change. Our first session was scheduled for tomorrow. She just called to cancel. She doesn’t believe.

It’s easy to give advice. She deserves more.

And since everything, including dogs and bones and overweight clients, seem to point me back to the drama that is my life, it hits me. He doesn’t think I deserve “more”. I’m not hot, sweaty, salty-tears mad because we are divorcing; I’m not gasping for air, sad because I’m going to be 40 and single (well, maybe a little bit sad); I’m mad because I spent 14 plus years loving and trusting and giving and trying and now I see. I’m sad because we’re “that” family…sitting in two different sections at the swim meet; sitting alone in church because the “kids are with their dad.”

Seriously, how did we become “that” family?

I’m mad because I didn’t see. How did I not see before? How do eyes get so clouded?

Fuzzy and wet from tears?

He didn’t think I deserved more. He doesn’t think I deserve more. Me, the mother of his children so little in his eyes. And what you do to me, you do to them. Standing in line tonight at Jimmy John’s (I really know how to rock a Friday night) I noticed several wall plaques just bursting full with sub-sandwich wisdom. One read, “Not every day is going to be sunny; some days you’re the pigeon and some days you’re the statue.”

Stupid pigeon.

He may not believe, but I do. Or at least I’m starting to. We deserve better. I mean, yes, without Jesus, we deserve, death, so Praise God for Jesus, but I was created in the image of the most high God and  while I can’t find it directly in scripture, I’m pretty sure that means I was NOT created to be the statue.

Captivated (re-post from theselittlelights)

This guy had the brightest smile that I had ever seen. And the whitest teeth. And somehow as he preached you could see them. All of them. His smile was that big. He had this way of looking right at you as if you were the only person in the room. I was fascinated by this man. I was captivated.

And, as it turns out, that’s what he wanted. He was preaching from the book of Mark about the friends who brought the paralytic through the roof to see Jesus. He challenged us. Are we still captivated by the stories of Jesus or have we forgotten that it’s kind of a big deal to make the lame walk and the blind to see. Come on! He calmed a storm. He walked on water. He freakin’ rose from the dead and this preacher is right. Am I still captivated by Jesus?

Or am I just held captive by circumstances and people and thoughts and fear?

And my children? Am I captivated by them? I love them; adore them; cherish them, but am I captivated?

After reading Good Night Moon 2,354 times over the past 7 years, I gotta say, I don’t get it. Is it a poem? It’s lost its magic. And The Three Bears? She ate the porridge, already. Let’s move on. And I seriously can’t explain how hard it is to feign interest in a star wars/ninja lego battle.

“Yes, that is wonderful, with the sword, oh it’s not a sword? Well, with the saber and, what his head came off? And they all died? You’re kidding. That’s wonderful, dear.”

In those brief moments, those gory, blood-filled, dead lego-men moments that string together to make a life, am I still captivated?

Some nights, I find myself, all snuggled together with little blond ones hanging on my arms trying to hold a book and scratch two itchy backs at the same time and, yes, I find myself or rather catch myself reading the words on the page while at the very same time reading the worries of my life. “Jack and Annie returned to the Magic Tree House and to their very great surprise, (how am I going to pay for health care in November? Where are we going to live in November?) there was a Dinasoaur waiting at the end of the path, (and how am I going to provide for my children?) but the Dinasoaur was a plant eater so Annie became his friend, (and how could their mom have been such an idiot?) and the Dinasours didn’t eat them and they all lived happily ever after.”

I read, but I am not captivated. I am lost. My thoughts wander. And am I equally disturbed and amazed at my ability to do this.

But then we had a play date. A new friend. She hadn’t been in the car 30 seconds when she started talking.“Those are our neighbors. She’s my friend. Sometimes I go play with them, but only when my mom says it’s okay. One day I went over there by myself, but my Dad said, “where in the world did that little girl go?’ And then they came to get me. My room is pink. I love pink. Pink is my favorite color. Is pink your favorite color? Wow. Look at that. That machine is pink. Emma Claire, do you like pink? What’s your address? Mine is 1234 Maple road. Is this your house, Emma Claire? I like your house. Is your room pink? Let’s make cupcakes. Can I take one for my mom? Oh and my dad, too? He is at his work.”

She was captivating.

All morning she and Emma Claire played house and dress-up and they held hands and they hugged and we were blessed and there was joy in this house and I was captivated.Captivated by two little girls whose smiles, much like that pastor, just radiated and whose giggles echoed though out the house.

“I tell you the truth, unless you change and become like little children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven.” (Matt.18:3 NIV)

I’ve always thought this verse meant that to enter the kingdom of heaven we needed to trust the way a child trusts. I don’t know, maybe I was taught that or maybe, in all of my theological wisdom, I just made it up. But after hearing smiley-man’s sermon, I now wonder if Jesus is talking about being captivated. Being in awe of Jesus the same way that our special friend was in awe of that pink machine. To be captivated by our children and their books and their toys and, oh my gosh, even the lego battles and the great big room with the red balloon.

And I’m starting to feel it. I will not be held captive. Not by him; not by my thoughts. I will be captivated. By Jesus; by my children; by this blessed life. I will be captivated and I will smile like preacher-man.

But first, I will go to Sephora. Because while I can’t find the exact verse, I’m sure that even Jesus knows a pretty smile; a captivating smile, needs new lipstick. And yes, pink is my favorite color, too.

Life is Messy. Clean it Up. (re-post from theselittlelights.blogpost.com)

11:30 p.m. I can’t sleep and we’re driving to Arkansas tomorrow. Scratch that. I am driving to Arkansas.

12:30 a.m. I’m thinking about my soon-to-be former husband. My stomach churns. I am nauseous. I have to go to sleep.

 1:30 a.m. I’m thinking about my future husband. You know, the one who loves me and adores me; who loves Jesus and dotes on my children; who will rub my feet and kiss me goodnight.

 2:30 a.m. Sigh. If I’m going to be awake, I might as well be driving.

 2:50 a.m. Kids are loaded and the journey begins.

 The first 3 hours, silence. I am amazed that other people drive at this time of night. I start to worry. Maybe they’re all drunk, just coming home from the bars. I mean who in their right mind would be driving at 3 o’clock in the morning. Oh wait. Never mind.

Tiger starts to whimper. Loudly. I start praying. Literally praying because hunger and poverty and world peace can wait, but right now I need a quiet dog and sleeping children. And God hears. He always does.

But then, I accidentally bump my keys. The children are awake. First question? How much further?

They eat. I eat again. Calories consumed between 3 and 6 a.m. do not count.

4 hours logged and we make our first stop. “No, you may not have a slushie. It’s 7:00 in the morning.”

Back in the car, Tiger is out of his kennel and in Coulter’s lap. They’re watching a movie on their dual-screen portable DVD player that cost $85. Who said money couldn’t buy happiness? But then Coulter starts FREAKING out! “Mom! He’s puking! He’s, uh, He’s, MOM! He’s doing it again! STOP THE CAR!” I pull off at the next exit and, yep, that’s doggy-puke all right. I open the door and Coulter bolts out. Sympathy vomit? Seriously? I look around. A 12 hour road trip and no paper towels. There is a cooler of diet coke and Gatorade, there are chips and cookies and chocolate and cheese sticks; there is white bread and wheat bread and two boxes of ZONE bars; there are movies and colors and dry erase boards and baby dolls but there is not one.single.paper.towel.

I look at the seat. At Coulter. At the seat belt. And I can only laugh. Once upon time, we had towels that covered the seats. Nice gray ones that matched the interior of my van. But I didn’t like the towels. They made me feel like the family whose couch is covered in plastic. Welcome to my home. Crunch.

So, out with the husband and out with the towels. And now there’s doggy puke on my non-leather seats. And while we don’t smile much together anymore, I can’t help but think this would make him smile. At the very least, an “I told you so” smile.

The movie’s over and the kids are playing. I am lost in my own random thoughts from the night before. Wait, this is the same day. Coulter, another one for random thoughts, breaks in and says:

“Mom? Do you remember when we were fighting for Texas?”

“What?” Is he talking about football?

“You know! When George Washington was the ruler and we were fighting for Texas?”

OK, sure, I mean, maybe. I wanted to elaborate about how my American Government teacher was a football coach and that’s the reason I can’t currently remember who the ruler, I mean president, was, but then I remembered that we probably covered the Texas thing during American History and I actually had a real teacher for that, so moving on…

“Well, man I am SO glad we won. I mean if we had lost, Logan and Micah would live in Mexico!” Logan and Micah are his cousins. They live in Texas. And boy are we glad they don’t live in Mexico.

The time passes. Emma Claire fusses. Her tummy hurts. Her back hurts. Her head hurts. She begins to cry and then, “Mom! She’s puking! She’s, uh, she’s, MOM! She’s doing it again! STOP THE CAR!”

And this is the moment. The moment when grace is all you need and it’s always enough. She’s sobbing. She doesn’t remember ever being sick like this. There are no words. I gently pull her clothes off and take out the car seat. I wrap her up and lay her back down. I kiss her. I cuddle her and these are the moments Mothers were made for. We drive to Walmart and buy a new seat. It’s not pink and it’s not pretty and it came in three parts and the Walmart lady kept saying that my credit card wasn’t working and I calmly looked at her and stood firm and try though she may, I did not back down. And I didn’t really care if my credit card worked or not. As we say in these parts, come hell or high water, I was leavin’ Walmart with a car seat.

And I did and then we made it. Home. I wanted to do a little happy dance right there in the driveway. I’m a single mom; I parent alone (well, except for the massive amounts of help from my parents); I sleep alone (ok, given the two children and dog, I guess that’s not true either), but, whatever, I can drive alone and I can clean up kid puke and doggy puke with beach towels. Alone.

Life is messy. Kids puke and dogs get car sick and marriages fail and you forget the paper towels but His grace is enough and when life gets messy, you clean it up. And what happens when the towel is too gross to clean? When the mess is too big? You toss it (and I’ll leave it to you, my faithful readers to decide on your own if I’m still talking about towels.)

His grace is enough. I don’t need him because I have Him.

Being an Atheist

My alarm rang loud at 3:45 this morning. I jumped with a start. I was surprised to have slept.

I moved quickly, only changing my shirt. I slept in my pants. Not a minute can be wasted on travel day. My hair is, well, let’s just say that I miss my pony. There’s not a lot you can do to hide the mess that is my hair, but seriously, what does it matter? It’s not like there’s someone at home waiting for me who actually cares about my hair.

Well, that’s not true. Coulter cares. He literally cried when I cut it.  “Coulter what’s wrong?” I pleaded? “I thought you said you liked it?” Tears rolling, he continued, “I did, but I was just trying to not hurt your feelings.”

Oh ok, well, at least you didn’t hurt my feelings.

I brush my teeth and catch a quick glance at myself in the mirror. Note to self for travel day: no more looking the mirror unless it’s the rearview kind. Kids are wrapped, pulled from their comfy beds and snug-tucked into their seats; puppy on his pillow; mom with steaming hot tea and tears running down.

We wave good bye. Little ones’ eyes close back shut. It’s 4:00 a.m. We are off. Again.

We will be back.

I drove in silence for almost 4 hours. I watched the sun rise over Old Main and remembered sisters and friends and roommates and dreams and hearts breaking young. I drove through mountains; hills and valleys. I drove past cows grazing and corn growing. I drove and I drove and I drove.

I prayed. I gave thanks.  I cried.

In God’s grace and mercy, we arrive back to Nebraska safely and without any good stories for my blog. No arguing; no puking; no nothing….we only needed one napkin for the entire trip and that was because Coulter wouldn’t let Emma Claire use his underwear as an eraser for the wipe board. I actually thought it was a good idea. The ink was black; the undies were black. Coulter felt differently.

 It was good. It was grace.

Stiff and tired and road-weary, we make our way slowly into the house. The house that seems so empty and less of a home than the one we just left.  My mail was on the counter. I open it.

A check from Momaha. $100

A check from AJ Manor. $140

A rejection letter from the latest interview. Sorry, you are good, but not quite good enough.

Wait. Are they talking about me the potential employee or me the wife?

You were good; just not quite good enough.

I can’t breathe. I open one last letter. It’s a calendar. Remember November? November that just weeks ago seemed so far off; too far off; November that felt a lifetime away? So far off that I cried out to my attorney as if to say, are you freakin’ kidding me?

Yes, that November.

It’s three months away. From tomorrow.

And I can’t breathe.

But then I remember. Ann Voskamp says that worrying is a form of atheism. I catch my breath. I speak to my fear and to my worry.

Tonight I’m gonna sleep. Tonight I’m going to rest in Him. (And I’m actually going to wear pj’s instead of, you know, my travel pants), because I know that He never sleeps and He never slumbers and I can cast all my cares on Him and I can lay my burden at His feet and I say to the fear, “you may go now, thank you very much” because here’s the thing.

I am no atheist.

“I did not go pee-pee in my swimsuit!”

I’m not sure if its a Southern thing or if it’s a Cindy (as in my mom) thing, but I grew up believing…I grew up knowing that it wasn’t enough just to do the right thing. People also had to think or to know that you were doing the right thing. Maybe it makes more sense to say it the opposite way. It wasn’t enough that you weren’t doing something wrong, you also had to make sure it didn’t look like you were doing something wrong. I had a serious fear of this when I was I younger. Well, and by younger I mean even now. Still. Today.

It’s not enough that I haven’t done anything wrong. I need you to know that I haven’t done anything wrong.

I remember driving around with a friend of mine one night in high school (seriously, why did we do that? Is that just a small-town thing because there’s no-where actually to go?) Anyway, we were driving and he starts toward “the line.” If you were a good girl, you never went to the line. Not only did you not go to the line, but you didn’t want people to even think you knew what the line was. And “the line” for those of you who don’t know, refers to the border between the God-fearing tee-totalers of southwest Arkansas (dry county) and the,well, less than god-fearing beer drinkers of Eagletown, Oklahoma. Anything could happen at the line and I knew the minute I crossed it that there would be a murder and I would be a witness and my name would be in the paper and the whole town would see in big black and white print “HALE girl eye-witness to murder at THE LINE.” It wouldn’t matter that I hadn’t done anything wrong; it wouldn’t matter that I was just along for the ride, all that would matter is what people would think.

And maybe it’s not just me. Yesterday, Emma Claire was stepping out of the pool, the warm water dripping off her hello kitty  ruffles and she looks at me, eyes wide and sincere; pleading, and she says, “Mom, I’m not going pee-pee in my swimsuit…that’s just from the swimming pool.”

Joy. Total joy.  I laugh loud and long and then I see. She is me. It’s not enough that she knows. She needs me to know, too. 

I need people to know.  

For the past ten months I’ve been walking around with water dripping off my suit, gushing to the point that I feel as though I may drown and I get these emails and people are praying for me and praying that I will change my mind and people that I hardly know tell me they “are concerned for me and my children because I am breaking God’s law” and people that I know very well and have loved and trusted for my entire adult life send me notes talking about losing respect and having no class and they think they know, but they don’t know and I want to get a microphone or a t-shirt or a freekin’ billboard and I want to scream, “It’s WATER, people. I’ts ONLY water.”

I want the judgers and the haters and the friends who actually know nothing about true friendship; I want them to know that I tried to clean it up. Towel after towel, prayer after prayer, I tried to stop the drip.

And you know it’s true. Some people really do go potty in the pool.  And they don’t care. And they are not sorry. And there are not enough towels.

Lost time. Wasted energy. Wrecked emotions. Worrying, wondering, wanting people to know that it’s only water. And I’m done. God, in your grace and mercy help me to be done. Judgers, friends who don’t love, I have two amazing children to raise and I don’t have time care what you think. Today it’s not about how it looks….it’s not about looking like I’ve done the right thing. For the sake of my chidlren, it’s about just doing the right thing. 

And I have.

And I am.

Raising Magnolias

Welcome to Raising Magnolias!

Magnolias, a symbol of the south where I grew up, are associated with beauty, perserverance, dignity, nobility, purity, innonence and joy. Created by God, and for His Glory, they are a breathtaking reminder that the dark and dreary days of winter never last. Spring always comes. (Although when you live in a place like Nebraska, it sometimes comes a little late).

I’m the mom of two seriously precious children. Coulter (7) and Emma Claire (3 1/2 ). They are beautiful and funny and smart and so totally full of joy. They are kind and well mannered (except for the fact that “toots” are hysterical and must always be announced). And as for the table….well, we are still working on that. Napkins sometimes become puppets and hotdogs make a perfect sword (not that I would ever feed them a hotdog!) They are strong spirited (read: stubborn) and they do. not. give. up. They are competitive and sometimes fight like the two guys from “Grumpy Old Men”  (even though one of them is a 3 year old girl). They make me laugh and think and cry and silently scream (opera style) and they inspire me to try harder and work harder and love better and grow stronger. Every day. They inspire me.

I am in the process of divorcing my husband of 14 years (Oh, wait, he filed, so I guess I should say I’m in the process of being divorced by my husband). I love Jesus and I already know that God hates divorce, so please don’t feel the need to enlighten me. If there had been the “Most likely to stay married forever; least likely to ever get divorced” category in our highschool’s Who’s Who, I can assure you, I would’ve won. I am humbled and stunned and saddened and angry and did I mention humbled to be in this place. But, here I am (single and approaching the big 4-0) and raising my sweet magnolias. I am writing this blog primarily as a form of free therapy (well, technically the .com cost me $18) but also to hopefully show my journey of faith as I lean hard (and I’m talking h.a.r.d) on our loving Father; my journey of forgiveness (for those who neither deserve or seem to desire my forgiveness and by those I mean “him”)  and my hope that tomorrow will be better (and tomorrow WILL be better). Sometimes I forget to filter; sometimes I forget to proof, but I always tell the truth. Sometimes I’m funny, but it’s not on purpose. I just like to laugh and I kinda have a funny life.  I mean, you don’t have to be a comdian to tell the story of how everyone (including the dog) got sick on our last car trip (that’s two kid-pukes and one doggy-puke in case you’re counting) or that I just this minute overheard my Mother  telling Emma Claire that we shouldn’t put glue in our ears. These are things that just happen to me. I am sometimes angry and I’m often times sarcastic. If you think I’m being arrogant then please refer back to sarcasm. I also tend to be a little self-deprecating, and again that’s nothing that I have to work toward. I don’t like to cook, but I’m a mom so I do. Some days, though peanut butter and jelly on  whole wheat bread is a perfectly well-rounded meal.  I’m terrible at house work and I see no reason to put away the playdough. I spend time with my kids; not with my broom.  Also along the journey it’s entirely possible that you  may find a few jabs directed at my soon to be ex-husband, but again, I promise to always tell the truth and be respectful of the fact that he is the father of my children, although I NEVER want to talk about how that happened. And one day friends, Lord willing,  there’s going to be a book, (HALE YEAH, there is!) so yall might as well start reading now so that we can go on this journey together!