Raising Magnolias

The Littlest of These

(Disclaimer: I was raised never to talk about money; either how much you make or how much something costs. My apologies  in advance for doing both).

Last week, dust and dirt and corn seeds flying all around like some sort of Nebraska farmland-tornado, I sat watching my favorite little leaguer. We were in the middle of a cornfield and I couldn’t help but think of that Robert Redford movie.

Or was it Kevin Costner? 

Anyway.

Coulter’s friend’s Dad (y’all remember him) shows up with his son to watch Coulter play. I texted a friend sitting two seats over before her imagination ran wild.

He is here for Coulter. (And he was).

Really.

She says, “I don’t know, (sing-songy voice) he’s pretty cute!”

“Oh yeah. He’s cute, but he’s way too poor for me.”

This is my second go-round. I’m not marrying  a poor teacher.

I’m not marrying anyone, actually.

And she looks at me and maybe we’re not quite yet close enough for her to know that I’m totally joking.

Only I’m not really joking.

I mean yes, of course I’m joking.

And her husband is a teacher.

And I’m a teacher. And being a teacher is a calling.

And I refuse to use the word poor, but with a currently salary of about $10, 000 a year, I’m pretty sure I qualify.

Or maybe it’s less. I don’t really know.

Anyway. My calling.

When my husband and I were first married, I followed.

Him.

To Minnesota. And just in case you’re wondering, that’s like next to Canada.

Wait. Actually, we weren’t married.

And I lived in a convent for a year. Literally.

In a convent.

I interviewed and was offered a job. On the first day of the job, I was told that I shouldn’t were red anymore.

Uhm, yeah.

And I wouldn’t of cared so much, but like red is one of my colors.

Right? I mean, it’s in the same family as pink.

And I’ve forgotten, but I’m thinking their colors were orange. And I knew that day it wouldn’t last.

Seriously. Do y’all know how bad I look in orange?

Anyway.

I loved my boss. I did not love my job.

8 to 5 is not really my thing.

Then we moved. I followed.

Again.

And I decided to build a teaching studio.

Because what I learned about myself  during that brief, “you can’t wear red” period, is that I’m not really a team player.

I’m a classical pianist.

A soloist.

I never marched in the band.

Or played team sports.

I did cheer for a season, but I was a terrible dancer (surprising, I know) and we had to dance to “Girl, I Want Your Body” (and I think you’re sexy). Like I could probably sing the whole song right this minute.

But I won’t. And it was. 

Well.

Ya know. Not good.

Not good at all.

And occasionally, I still have nightmares about that dance. And usually I forget to wear a shirt or something equally horrific. (In my dream. In real life I remember to wear clothes).

Anyway, not really a team-sport kind of person but I am good with people.

You know, so long as I’m in charge.

So long as I’m the soloist.

So long as I’m teaching.

And it’s all the same.

Teaching music.

Teaching fitness.

And I love what I’m doing and  I’m humbled and grateful and so full of joy for all the shut doors, and slammed doors and the just really, really icky doors that I’ve had to walk through and I see the Lord’s protection in all of the no’s but it occurs to me lately that missing from my little HALE YEAH empire are little ones.

10 years of twirling and playing and dancing and singing and I miss them.

 The littlest of these.

And since I’m still married I’m thinking it will be just a little while before I can have more babies.

Sorry, Mom. That was a joke. 

Pick yourself up.

Breathe.

Into the paper bag.

Whatever. Since I’m still married and almost 41, my opportunities for more babies have probably passed, but over the weekend the Lord placed into my hands chubby cheeks and giggly gurgles and we dug in the sand and we ate sand and we tried to drink the lake water.

And the next day I scooped up still more little ones and we twirled and we dunked and we escaped the dangers that lurked below.

Alligators in the club pool.

And on my heart all night long—

Were little ones. And music. And hello songs. And jumping and drumming and giggling and singing and—

And teaching.

Music.

So I asked.

And within about 30 seconds of asking, I was offered a place to teach.

Within about 30 seconds of putting a voice to my heart’s desires,

The Lord.

Said.

Yes.

I’m so used to people saying no, that sometimes I just forget to ask.

I forget to anticipate.

A yes.

Which for some reason reminds me—-

Someone who likes to say no recently called me lazy.

Ok, it wasn’t just someone. It was someone’s attorney.

And you can call me a lot of things.

I’m unorganized and often store important documents in my Bible.

I’m emotional and have been known to cry and laugh at the same time.

(And for the record, being emotional is WAY different that being moody.)

I am so not moody.

And usually I would just leave it at that. I would leave you with emotional, unorganized duck trying to be a chick-girl, but not today—

Today you don’t get to call me lazy.

“Do not despise these small beginnings for the Lord rejoices to see the work begin.”

And I am working.

My beginnings are small, but today they grew.

And the way I see it, it’s time we bring in da music to Fremont.

(And I so wanted to say bring in da funk.)

But we all know I can’t pull off the f-word. Any of them.

Fremonters: Please help me recruit families! Family Music Time for newborns to age 5. Thursday evenings, 6:00-6:45 at Grace Church starting this Fall! Woot!

Sarah Cooper from Hooper

A few weeks ago, a man that I thought I knew (of) was leaving the gym. As we bumped into each other, I thought it would be a good opportunity to introduce myself.

I said, “Hi! Are you Jeff?”

“Yes.”

“Yes! Hi! I think you’re neighbors with my friend Sarah.”

He acts as if he has no idea what I’m talking about, but I DO know what I’m talking about.

Awkard silence.

“Sarah Cooper?” He asks.

“Yes! Sarah Cooper.”

“Sarah Cooper from Hooper?”

“I don’t know.” I turn to Mike. “Is Sarah Cooper from Hooper?”

Mike looks at me and laughs.

“I don’t know Sarah Cooper from Hooper.”

Social cues are not Mike’s strength but even he was able to recognize the bad Dr. Seuss book in all of this and he looks at me as if to say, “what are you doing?”

Quit.

Talking.

Now.

And the punch line of this story is that Jeff is not Sarah Cooper from Hooper’s neighbor and I’m pretty sure he has changed his workout schedule.

You know, to avoid—

Me.

And I have no idea if this story makes sense on paper. You also need to know how to pronounce Hooper. For my Arkansas friends, it’s a Dierks (Derks, Der-ricks) kinda thing.

Later that week, a friend is working in the Y parking lot. He’s a police officer, so it makes more sense than it sounds.

I have a HALE YEAH shirt for him, so I stop.

Friendly conversation ensues. There is no mention of Sarah Cooper from Hooper. Probably because this is a different person, but, you know, I’m just pointing out that it wasn’t a totally uncomfortable conversation.

As I pulled away, I heard a thump-up sound.

I know he’s seen me run over something, but I think it best to pretend it never happend and continue with my departure.

That is until I see that the thump-up sound was my shoe.

My shoe from the night we had dinner and there was a band and it may or may not have been a party, but on the way home I got tired of wearing my shoes and yes-

Well—

It was that shoe.

I pull back in.

I pick up the shoe.

I fake a confident wave as if to say, I run over shoes all the time.

———————————————————————————————————

A friend recently commented on one of my blogs that I’m like a baby chick breaking out of her shell and I loved that thought and I loved her sincerity and I love that she knows me only through my blog and through the connection of social media and yet somehow she knows me.

And there are days that I feel like the baby chick breaking free and then there are days that I feel like a duck.

Trying to be a chick. And this doesn’t sound related but it is….

A few weeks ago, several friends got together to celebrate a birthday.

Pizza.

Laughs.

And a movie.

An R-rated movie with a bunch of 40 something Moms.

Except only 2 of us are 40. I try to block it out, but I think the rest of my friends are like 28.

Pluggedin.com warned of like 826 uses of the F-word. But it had Sandra Bullock in it. And I love Sandra Bullock and I thought, good grief! How bad could it be?

Bad.

Just, really, really bad.

And hysterical.

They used the f-word so many times that I barely spoke the next day. I was fearful that something terribly inappropriate was gonna fly right out.

Seriously! Strong Mike. Get back on the f-ing treadmill.

What? Of course I didn’t say that.

I tried to look up my favorite quote. It was about a bobby pin. A f-ing bobby pin.

Sandra Bullock’s character wears a little bobby pin off to one side. Very much like the one I wear when I can’t find a matching headband. I have them everywhere.

I forgot where I was going with that except to say that this awkard, uptight, uncomfortable around men, uncomfortable in her own skin agent wore a bobby pin. And cool, awesome chick, save for the continual use of the f-word, calls her out on it.

And I’m sitting there, in the dark, surrounded with friends, laughing until we’re crying and it dawns on me.

I’m her.

She’s me.

And I want to be the cool chick, you know, the baby chick breaking free, so I reach up and pull it out.

And then I immediately put it back in.

Fly away bangs drive me crazy.

At the end of the movie Sandra’s lying on a gurney in the hospital. Cool chick sees a man coming down the hallway and she quickly fluffs Sandra’s hair and props up her elbow.

What’s that called when designers come in to stage a home before selling?

That’s what I’m going to need. Someone to “stage me”. Prop up my elbows.

Fluff up my hair.

And rid me of the f—

Wait. I don’t use that word. This is why we shouldn’t go to R-rated movies.

And rid me of my cute little bobby pin.

Wait! It is cute, right?!

For more years than I care to admit, I pretended to be happy in my marriage.

And I’m not sure what’s worse. Pretending to be happy.

Or pretending to be a chick.

When you’re really a duck.

Wait. Let’s go with Mother Hen.

Tonight I got to be both, because this mother hen was one cool chick (at least in the eyes of a 4 1/2 year old.)  Emma Claire made a brilliant connection between books and I called her a smarty.

And then I used the other f-word that my children have never heard me say.

“Emma Claire! You are such a smarty!”

We looked at each other and you know we love to rhyme and I could see it in her eyes.

She knew.

“Smarty-McFarty!”

And never in her almost 5 years have I heard such uncontrollable laughter.

Who knew the f- word could be so funny.

#gigglinginbed #blessedmomma #notacoolchick #andthat’sok

15 Years Ago This Week

OK, so.

Y’all know that I love dates. I love to say things like, “One year ago this week.”

Two years ago this week.

Wait.

15 years ago this week.

We said, “I do.”

And our marriage was crumbling at 13. (And 10 and 11 and 12)

And our marriage was over at 14.

And I was OK.

But there is something about 15.

15 years.

Invested.

And I met my husband when I was 22. So if you’re one for math, that’s 18 years.

My entire adult life.

And again, if you’re one for numbers, I’m 40.

With 2 children.

And starting over.

After 18 years.

And I’m scared. And excited. And super sad.

And I’m blessed. And mad. And forever grateful.

And I.

Am.

Ready.

No I’m not.

Yes I am.

It depends on the day.

It depends on the hour.

So I dug through some boxes and I found my wedding dress. I had a beautiful wedding dress.

And ring. Like, seriously. I loved my ring. I may start wearing it again.

Just because it’s beautiful.

And it sparkles.

And I love to sparkle.

Coulter had to help, but we got it zipped and my eyes, damp and weary, told the truth.

That this is all I have to celebrate.

A wedding dress that still fits. (And HALE YEAH, it fits!) 🙂

A princess dress with a princess bride who promised I do and I will and I can but he didn’t and I won’t and I can’t and

Praise Jesus.

His mercies are new.

Every morning.

New!

I didn’t but He will.

I couldn’t but He can.

Redeem.

And make all things new.

Last night I was putting Emma Claire to bed.

She rubbed and scrubbed  and I thought her eyes would just pop right out and I wondered at what age do children stop rubbing their eyes and in an instant  it’s over and in a blink they’re gone and I lay (lie?) there holding and singing and praying and she turns to me and she says—

“Mom. You are perfect for me.”

“And you, Emma Claire, are perfect for me.”

And what I heard next sounded scary and future-y and very much like a 16 year-old-valley girl.

“Cause, like yeah. Like, if it weren’t for you I wouldn’t have been born. And if it weren’t for me, you wouldn’t have been born.

And we need to work out the kinks in that last part but, yes!

If it weren’t for you.

If it weren’t for I do’s.

If it weren’t for grace.

Raining  freely each day.

If it weren’t for a God.

Who makes all things new.

Beauty from ashes.

If it weren’t for You.

______________________________________________________________________

Thursday,  Emma Claire will play dress up and Coulter will roll eyes and we will dance in the tulle and remember the day.

And celebrate.

Not 15 years.

But 15 years ago this week.

Not 15 years.

But 2, like, seriously remarkable children and the miraculous and redeeming work of a Holy God.

And His steadfast love which, like, ya know, endures forever.

Maybe it sounds better when Emma Claire does the valley thing?

It’s hard to celebrate and the joy gets hidden and I struggle to choose it and claim it and take it  because this is just not what happily every after was supposed to look like.

 But Emma Claire, child of mercy and light sparkling bright says,

“Mom! Don’t forget!”

I was made for you.

You are perfect for me.

And when He chose you for me.

And when He chose me for you. He knew.

Just.

Exactly.

Where you would be.

15 years after 15 years ago this week.

He knew and He knows and He says.

Just this:

“I will repay you for the years that the locust have eaten….you will praise the name of the Lord your God who has worked wonders for You.” Joel 2:25-27

Dancing on the Page

Recently, a friend invited me to a party.

Actually, I may have invited myself.

Small technicality.

And well, I think it was a party.

There was a band. So that it makes it a party, right?

And my college friends are laughing as they read this because they know I don’t go to parties.

actually, even my grown-up friends are laughing because they know I don’t go to parties.

Well, I mean, except for birthday parties. I do go to birthday parties.

Party day came, and I wanted to back out. Whenever I try for  fun that doesn’t include children; that doesn’t revolve around being a mom, I end up crying.

Remember my dress? That I couldn’t zip?

Or unzip?

And I wasn’t even wearing a dress. I was wearing white pants that needed the loving touch of my Mother’s iron, but my babies were out of town and my mom was out of town, ya know, since she lives in Arkansas and a night of staying home feeling sorry for myself seemed like a much better idea.

But my friend. Let’s see. How did she put it?

Oh yes. “I’m picking you up at 7:15.”

And I love my friend who invites and pulls and whose cup just always seems full.

So at 40, this chick-a-dee has started going to parties.

OK. One.  Whatever.

I’ve been to one party.

And I notice a friend playing bongos. And she’s like this really cute, precious girlie that you kinda want to hate because you’re pretty sure that she’s cute and precious without having to work for it and she has this delicate little voice and I could listen to her talk for hours and she runs over to me and she says—

“Ooooooh! I just luuuuuve reading your blaaahhhhg.” And she teases. “Are you going to write about the girl playing bongos?”

And I’m starting to think that people are scared to be my friend. You know, because of all the truth-telling, but I think we’ve covered this. So long as you are nice to me, I won’t call you out in my book.

Bu-ut.

If you’re not…

Just kidding.

Sorta.

Well, for most of you, I’m kidding.

Anyway, I wasn’t entirely sure how the bongo playing girl would fit into my blog, but the truth is every time I sit down to write, I think about her.

And the bongos.

And I’m trying to think of a better word than jealous. Or covet. And it’s not coming. But it’s sort of like I want to be her when I grow up.  She moves around the room, easy and breezy and free and that’s so not me.  I sit there. 

Landlocked to the table. Even the bathroom seems too scary of a path to walk alone.

And I’m in the 8th grade. And I hated the 8th grade.

And she’s playing the bongos and she makes everything seem like a dance.

She dances brave.

And I saw her again last night. And there was another band. So maybe I’ve been to two parties.

I’m not really sure. It started with dinner.

I’m not sure steak and shrimp kabobs count as a party.

And I met her husband. And she tells her husband about my blog and they go back and forth and back and forth and she says, I will read it to you, but I read at night and he responds, I will read it in the morning and they sounded like a Dr. Seuss book.

I will read it in the morning.

I will read it  in the evening.

I will read it with green eggs and ham. 

I got so tickled and I don’t know them well enough to know if alcohol played any role in the morning/night conversation but  I listened to the sweet little couple play off each other and then her lyrical voice stopped me in my tracks.

She said. To her husband.

“Her words dance on the page.”

Wha-what?

For some reason I’m obsessed with that song.  You know, the wha-what song.

Anyway.

My words dance? Stiff, uptight,can’t go to the bathroom alone, landlocked me?

Have words that dance?

And she’s the second person this week to remind me that words have power.

Her words.

Of encouragement.

I am a mother. Without question, it’s what I do best and it’s what I want to do most.

And I’m a homebody. The three of us in our own little corner, in our own little world and for a time, saying “no” was easier.

And better.

And then a friend started talking to me about living in community. It was a phrase I had never heard before.

I didn’t want to be part of a community.

I didn’t want to be part of this community. (Not new information. Please don’t get mad at me. It’s not you. It’s me. Yada. Yada.)

I’m trying.

And I’m learning that sharing  those days when your heart breaks open, sharing fears and sorrows— and tears and tomorrows—is what living in community means. 

And I’m learning that it means saying “yes’ more than saying  “no.” God calls us to be in the world but not of it. I have failed over and over because I would rather just stay home.

If I can’t be of it, then I don’t want to be in it.

Living in community means learning that I can’t just write about life, but I have to leave comfortable places and easy spaces and I must live life as well.

I’m most likely never gonna be  bongo girl who dances with grace, easy smile on her face, and if I find my way to a 3rd party I will probably shadow my friends and need someone to hold my hand on the way to the bathroom, but I rest in the truth that God has placed me.

For now.

Here.

To live in community.

In this community.

To encourage and to be encouraged; to share and to sit and to listen.

To be still.

And know that He is God.

And to dance.

On the page.

In the rain.

Because, let’s see. What did I just read on pinterest? Oh yes.

“It’s not about waiting for the storm to pass, it’s learning how to dance in the rain.”

I’m learing.

And I’d like to think that I’m getting close.

Ya know, to dancin’ in the sun.

Fighting for Joy.

My Papaw died when I was 14. He was 74.

Looking back—

Pretty darn young.

But grandparents die. At 14 I remember being sad. I remember sneaking into the back of the De Queen hospital so that we could visit him and thinking we were total rebels.

I remember his color.

I loved my Papaw.

I loved the way he put his cornbread in his milk.

I loved the way he turned his biscuits upside down before he poured KARO syrup on the top.

I loved the way he would holler for the mamma cows. Suk, Suk, Suk.

And I was sad, but I don’t remember being sad for others.

I don’t remember recognizing my Mamaw’s loss.

I don’t remember recognizing my Daddy’s loss. He was 41 and they had worked side by side, every day, for almost all of those 41.

It never occurred to my 14-year-0ld senses that my Mamaw would live for the next 25 years.

Alone.

Or my dad, Fatherless at 40.

Or my mom, Fatherless, twenty years earlier.

And we buried my Grandmother.

And we buried aunts and uncles.

And Aunt Ida Margaret who, if she were still living, would so so so much love that song about girls, we run the world.

Because Aunt Ida, from her little corner in SWArkansas? She totally ran the world.

Growing up, my mom modeled what it meant to act out God’s word.

We are to care for the widows and the orphans.

And we did. And she still does.

I visit Merrick Manor twice a week and we sing and we exercise and I physcially touch them and hold them and the close their eyes and they are the widows.

And orphans.

But I get paid and so it’s less “hands and feet” and more, you know, paycheck.

Mostly it’s women, but this week? Men! Lots of them.

And let me just tell you—-

Old men love me.

Not so much with men my own age. But the old guys?

A few weeks ago I was walking into the country club and I held the door for an older gentleman.

He smiles big, “I’ve been waiting all day for a beautiful woman to open the door for me.”

And I’m quick, “Well, I’ve been waiting all day for someone to call me a beautiful woman.”

And we laughed. And it was sweet. But only because he was old.

If the guy had been my age, he wouldn’t have called me beautiful.

And I wouldn’t have spoken.

And I probably would’ve been annoyed that he hadn’t opened the door for me.

Back to the Manor. 

Jim calls me over.

“You are so cute. Really. I just think you are so cute. I like that skirt.”

And he’s holding me a little too tight.

And it’s bordering on inappropriate.

But he’s old.

And he’s alone.

And I think about my Mamaw. And the men that pursued her. One dude even offered to bring over a squirrel.

And cook it.

She politely declined.

She and Papaw? A love story.

And 25 years she’s been alone.

And then I think back several months ago when a dying man, last days on hospice looked straight into me and said,

“You have a nice chest.”

And I laughed long and loud.

Because I have no chest.

And we are called to care for the widows and the orphans and we are called to be the hands and the feet.

And widows are not always old and orphans are not always young—

And sometimes it’s not even death that brings you to that place—

There are other ways of becoming a widow.

Of becoming an oprhan.

And this is something I know.

My generation. My friends.

On the cusp (over slightly over it!) of 40.

“We are getting so old!!!”

But there’s my friend. My new friend and my fast friend and I’m not super comfortable with people I don’t know, which is another reason moving to the little railroad town in Nebraska was so super fun,  but I see my soon-to-be friend sitting alone and the Lord nudges me and I’m like, “Jesus, are you crazy?”

I don’t know her! And she’s like awesome cool. And the Lord nudges me again.

And I say again, “Jesus, are you crazy?!”

She has a world of friends. And family. And she doesn’t need me. And I can’t talk to her because she’s not old.

She is so, so, so.

Not old.

But stupid ugly death came and made her a widow.

And Jesus is driving me ever-living-crazy so I leave my comfy group of girls and I stumble and I stutter and I introduce and she is crazy sweet (and still crazy cool) but I’m grateful that I sometime listen to Jesus.

And she says, in repsonse to the almost 40 crowd.

We.

Are not old.

And there was something in hearing her say that. Something in being reminded of our youth and the gift of today and something about the cloud of grief that still sits heavy over Fremont and something about seeing death in an uglier and darker way over the past weeks and months and these are not Papaws.

These are babies. Sons. Husbands. Fathers.

And yes, there is life in death.

And yes, there is a way back to the joy.

And yes, yes, yes! We have to fight hard.

For the joy.

Choosing joy.

For our children.

For ourselves.

For those who are gone.

And I’m trying to say it right, and I’m scared I’ll mess it up, but there is something that has happened.

To me.

I’m not angry anymore.

I mean there are days, like today, with my kiddos gone—too far away—and for far too long—and I  miss them and I ache for them and I don’t sleep and I stay up crazy late hours so that when my head hits the pillow, sleep will come more quickly,

But I am not angry.

And I’m fighting hard for the joy.

And I went to an R-rated movie last night.

And I laughed.

And I remember my Papaw’s laugh.

And I am grateful to have remembered my own.

A Summer of Yes

I’m sitting, face to the sun and taking in the breeze coming off  from the lake.

I love the water.

I love the sun.

And I love, love, love the generosity of  close friends.

(Read: So totally excited that my friends have a lake house and so totally grateful that they share!)

Anyway.

Back to the sitting.

I look down.

At my toes.

And I need a pedicure, but I can’t get a pedicure because Emma Claire’s out of town.

With her brother.

And her dad.

For ten days. And I’m too sad to write about that.

So I won’t.

The last time I tried to get a pedicure without Emma Claire, I had all the little women totally confused.

(Best Vietnamese accent)

“Wha-at? You no bring Emma Claire? Why you no bring her? We lo-0ve Emma Claire. She so preeety. She love the design on her toes. She no understand that it cost Momma more (insert giggles). I can’t believe you no bring her.”

So, basically this 40 year-old single mom of two who’s trying to rebuild her life and rebuild a career and who needs a pedicure is too scared of the little ladies—

To go alone.

So, I’m looking at my toes and dipping them in the sand. Burying my feet, like I would do to my kiddos if they were here and toes covered, I notice two tiny scars right at my ankles.

Right on top.

And I remember.

And if you’ve been reading for long, you’ll remember too.

Running.

In the rain.

High heels.

Falling up the concrete stairs.

Blood trickling down.

It was an interview. I’m not sure if I wrote about that part. I was interviewing for a job and I ignored the pain and I ignored the blood and when I need to, I’m pretty good at pretending—

To be OK.

And the guy says to me, “Can I please get you a bandaid.”

And it was embarrassing and how fun that I have scars to remember it by. I was actually offered that job. A really cool job.

With, you know, like benefits.

And a salary.

But while they didn’t say no, others said no—

And so—

It was a no.

Remembering yesterday’s blog about my running girls and looking at my scars and feeling the sun shine hot, I started to list in my head all of the no’s.

And while listing in my head, I moved past my ankles and up my legs and counted the bruises and scrapes and even more scars and I look over at my friend Jenny’s legs and they are perfect.

And it’s like she never falls down.

And I don’t just mean while running.

I see the scars forming from my spill on Military Road (you know, where I heard the voice of the Lord).

Twice.

And I see the bruise from running into the trailer hitch on some dude’s truck in the Y parking lot—

And I see the bruise (and a teeny bit of swelling) from turning too quickly and running knee-first in the basketball goal—

And my fingernail is black from slamming it in the door over two months ago—

And I list.

And I list.

And I list.

The no’s.

And the no’s became a part of me and a part of my journey and I sat there, toes still covered, buried in sand and I thought—

Divorce is verb.

And, OK, while that’s probably not gonna show up on pinterest anytime soon, it’s true.

It’s something you do and go through and it changes.

You.

But as I sat there, surrounded by my covenant family and water rippling up onto the beach, it was easy to see that with every no, there was a better yes.

“No” to the 8-5?

“Yes” to Emma Claire.

And “Yes” to Coulter.

And “Yes” to stroller walks with Bitty Baby

And “Yes” to rope swings.

And “Yes” to art time.

And road trips.

And “Yes” to being a mom first. With a job she love’s y’all, but that will always come a distant second to this—to these—

I look again at my scars and I remember  a book I just read on grieving. The author likens the scars from his grief to the scars that Jesus bore after being crucified at the cross. After His resurection, He says, see? Look. Here. Touch my scars.

The author learns to live with his grief. He finds joy, but on the course of a new journey, he acknowledges that the scars have become a part of him. They do not go away.

I have a lot of scars. Some come from hits and knocks and pricks. Some come from falls and trips and mis-steps.

And there is a way back to joy, but the scars will always be there. Look. Here. See my scars.

A little tougher. A little stronger.

A little braver.

And little softer.

And ever so grateful for all good gifts that a good God gives.

Just Believe

5 months ago I was being told no.

Over and over and over again.

And then I hit a new low and I began selling pens.

You’ve heard that part of the story.

So I sat across from my friend.  And I told her about the pens. And I told her the way people look at you when you walk down the hall, in their office, to their desk.

They look away.

And, confidence level not in peak condition, I told her I need a job where people love me.

Or at least like me.

I cannot handle any more rejection.

Even if it is from the overweight-smoked for too many years-used to be a car salesman-but now’s in charge of buying pens-guy.

I even need that guy to like me.

And he didn’t.

And I felt like the Lord had forgotten about me.

And I felt like He had gotten it all wrong.

And I felt and still struggle with feeling abandoned.

Here.

In this place.

Where the Lord forgot—

About me.

So first, my friend laughed about the pens.

She prayed for me.

She prayed with me.

She believed for me.

She believed in me.

And I left that coffee shop with a new plan.

HALE YEAH, I did.

We met with her husband. There were charts and ipads and drop box things and numbers and hours and he said “the plan” a lot.

A whole lot.

So much, in fact, that I kept thinking what a fun drinking game this would be!

And for the record, I’ve never played a drinking game. I’m  just saying in theory, it sounded fun.

The plan.

And in brainstorming the plan, she came up with the idea of a girls’ running group.

And her girls are runners

And her son was a runner.

And her son was taken. Shaken off the mountain.

And today, we celebrated 12 weeks of her idea; of girls runnning strong. And we missed her girls and I missed my friend, the brainstormin’ momma, but today was a reminder that even in divorce and even in loss and yes, even or perhaps most epecially in death, there is life—

And it marches.

And Ann says, we have to fight hard for the joy or it’s our children who suffer.

So we fight.

And we march.

And today, we ran.

Timothy Keller said, “Worrying is believing that God won’t get it right and bitterness is believing that God got it wrong.”

And I have both.

And I can be a stupid aetheist.

But today, I did not worry.

Today, I am not bitter.

Today.

I’m grateful for friendship. My friend who created ideas. Created plans.

And my faithful friends who signed up their daughters and said.

Yes!

SO—-

12 weeks of learning about each other.

And team work.

And serving.

And the whole big journey was a complete surprise.

I fell in love with these girls.

But I will make this confession.

I didn’t fully believe.

Today I planned a route where they could stop.

After one lap.

Two laps.

And I would’ve been just as proud. Really.

But their belief was greater than mine.

And no-one quit.

And they, each and everyone,  finished.

Because they had mommas and daddies and mentors running along side of them.

They finished.

Just Because.

They believed.

————————————————————————————————————————

She ran with her momma. Precious and little and I have carried her on my back and skipped along sidewalks and she crossed the finish and her mom fell into me with a hug that was big.

And real.

And y’all know how I love hugs.

And she cried.

And she said thank you.

And the journey to here?

Devastating.

Hard.

And really, really sad.

But in that moment, I thought Yes, Lord!

I believe.

In your goodness.

I believe.

That Your ways are higher and that your plans are greater.

And building into people?

So much better than pushing into pens.

And besides, these little people are a HALE of a lot cuter than the rude, fat, car-guy in charge of buying pens. 🙂

And I think they like me a little more, too. 🙂

Hackers

My kiddos are in Arkansas. This feels right. Lonely, but right. Emma Claire calls and she talks to me like she’s 16 and if I close my eyes for a second too long—

She will be.

But I miss them and tonight I can’t help but wonder.

What the HALE was I thinking?

Why did I not go? Why am I here.

Alone.

I didn’t go because grandparents deserve time alone with grandchildren.

I didn’t go because I have a committment to my growing (albeit ever so slowly) team.

I didn’t go because I was afraid Strong Mike would freak out about a change in schedule and he would and he did and I’m only telling you that because he would tell you the same.

I didn’t go because I was afraid they would call me lazy.

And I’m not lazy. And I work hard. But it’s never enough.

For them.

And so.

That’s why I didn’t go.

But if you see Mike,  please say it was because of him.

Anyway.

I’ve been reading a book. A short book. A horrible book. A look-at-death book and I can say with a great amount of confidence, it was the worst.

book.

ever.

And yet.

Full of hope.

The only book that made me cry harder was a book written by Karen Kingsbury called “Let me Hold You Longer” about how we remember to cherish all the “firsts” but we never recognize or know or understand or see how can it be—

“The last.”

One of my dearest friends gave that book to me on Mother’s Day.

She no longer speaks to me. And the last time we spoke? Well, how was I to know it would be the last?

And tonight I’m thinking of her. She makes wonderful chocolate chip cookies.

And salads.

And I don’t remember the last time—

Anyway, in Lament of a Son, this horrible, hopeful book, a father talks about losing his son in a mountain climbing accident. He says:

“My son did not slip. God shook the mountain.”

Yesterday my bed started shaking. Early. Buzzing.

And at first I panic. Someone else has died.

Who died? Who needs me? What did I miss? Why am I not a better friend?

And then I see an email. “I think you’ve been hacked.”

And the hackers come.

And the hackers came.

All.

Day.

Long.

“You are not good enough.”

“Or smart enough.”

“Or trying ever-so hard enough.”

It’s not enough.

And in the not enough, it becomes too much.

And it’s never enough.

Till fill the hole. To make you whole.

Dang hackers. Hacking. And for those of us who don’t put up the brick and mortar?

There’s no place to hide.

Uncovered.

Transparent.

I open my email. Line after line. From the hackers.

Failure notice.

OK, yahoo. I get it!

Till death do us part?

Failure notice!

In good times and bad?

Failure notice!

So I read my emails and I read my book and I visit my friend whose son was taken and I think, God why do You shake the mountains?

And he says, “Be still and know that I am God.”

But how can we be still when you are shaking the mountains? Shaking the very foundation from our feet? And I want to cry back, “OK, Lord, well YOU be still. And show us that You are God.”

And I sound like Coulter trying to think of a cool comeback for ugly friends.

Yeah. So. You know. Come on, Lord. How ’bout that?

And  in my prayers I can be a total child.

And He loves me anyway.

Because that is grace.

Later in the day, I try to clean up the mess. I need to change my password which seriously complicates my life so while most days I think about the looming realities of being a single mom, a working mom, a be-in-the-moment-for-each-of-these-moments-mom; yes while most days I’m focused on children and work and insurance and car payments and breathing, tonight I’m thinking about this dang password. Do I change one? Do I change them all? Do I come up with another favorite word and another favorite number and I can’t decide so I don’t do anything. I just start deleting.

Delete.

Delete.

De-

And then I see a real email. You know, one that doesn’t announce to all my friends that I’m taking raspberry energy drops and that I’ve lost 25lbs in the past 9 days.

And I’m surprised. And I love surprises.

And that is a hint for anyone who would like to surprise me. Maybe, say, a trip to the beach?

Or a surprise coffee? (Remember, I like the fake kind with lots of chocolate).

Or even a text. Unexpected.

And kind.

How are you?

How’s your day?

Which totally makes me think of Joey. How YOU doin’?

And it’s possible that in my loneliness, I’ve been watching too many Friends reruns.

Anyway. The email.

It said.

I see you.

It said.

Thank you.

I read it again.

And again.

And there is joy in the surprise.

And in the shaking and the taking—

There is still joy.

And hope.

And some days those hopes are big and bright and they fill the sky and some days those hopes are small and light and not nearly as high. But it is there.

Today Coulter sent me an email from Arkansas. He caught a fish. A fish so small that I struggled to see it.  He’s not a dude of many words and he says simply,

“Look at this!”

Yes. Look at this! And in his face and in his eyes and in her voice and the southern-sized joy that spills over phone lines, I look.

And I can see it.

And hear it.

And the hackers can’t take it. And there’s no way to fake it.

Hope.

It really does float.

“Dancing with Jesus”

I’m not sure how to write.

Being funny or sarcastic or sad about stupid stuff, just seems.

Well,

Kinda stupid.

A week ago today. I sat across from her. 453 questions in, she asks.

“You write a blog?”

(And it’s so super annoying when people ask questions that they already know the answer to, but so it goes with divorce).

Yes. I write a blog.

And it’s public?  And you are planning to write a book?

And. And. And.

And, yes.

Someday. One day.

Maybe.

My bucket list.

And what is your book about?

And I’m writing, pencil to paper. It calms me to scribble and write “the sky is blue. the sky is blue. the sky is blue.”

I’m suprised I don’t accidentally answer out loud, “The sky is blue.”

I mean, it usually is, but if I had blurted that out, it would’ve been a little weird.

But I circle and I write and I answer, honestly.

I don’t know. God hasn’t told me yet.

And your blog? What’s it about it?

Hmmm….thinking you’ve read it, but OK, I’ll play along.

It’s my journey of faith.

My story.

And this week, writing is hard, because my story is your story and their story and we have been in this story–-a super hard—wake up from the bad dream—story, together.

(For my out of town readers, the little town of Fremont has been shaken to the core after a car crash took the lives of 3 young boys). I only knew one. Most knew all.

But this is not the story of Fremont. Or these boys. Or their fanilies.

As I told her. Omaha-lady-lawyer with 453 questions. I only blog my story.

My journey of faith.

And this week.

My journey got sadder.

And my faith stronger.

And Higher.

And

Set.

On.

Fire.

I woke up to middle of the night texts. Missed in my sleep. Which I find amazing since I rarely sleep. I scroll top to bottom and bottom to top and there.

It.

Is.

My friend.

Her son.

16.

The kids are sleeping with me and they stir. I panicked. I had to get there. I had to see her and hold her and, yes the kids stir and I blurt it—

Right out, no filter.

Jackson has gone to be with Jesus!!!  He is with Jesus!! Mommy has to go.

And my neighbor came and my neighbors always come and I make a mental note to pick up the pieces of such a poor parenting moment.

Later.

I have to get there.

To my friend.

My friend who has faithfully walked on this journey through divorce. She, the first to hear my news. My news that felt like a death.

Until there was actually a death.

She  listened and offered grace and in her home and on her couch and across from countless coffee cups, she offered me a place.  

Although she drinks real coffee.

And I drink sugar. With a little chocolate. Heated up.

But whatever, I usually say, “Hold the whip cream.”

No I don’t. It’s dairy. Calcium, vitamin D? Why would anyone hold the whip cream?

My friend who has hidden the Word in her heart and it’s on her tongue and she does her part.

Her part.

In the body of Christ.

Arms that hold.

She listens and prays and lets me talk  for days.

About ridiculous things and about ridiculous people and stupid things—

And stupid people. 🙂

And one day I told her this story. A mortifingly (is that a word)and embarrasing and humbling story, but one that wouldl make you laugh.

Out.

Loud.

And we did laugh. A lot.

And she has sown in tears.

And joy.

And my friend got to hear that story. The one you will have to read in my book.

The one I haven’t written, am not currently writing and will not be about you.

Unless you’re part of my story. 🙂

My friend.

She k nows my story. She knows.

My.

Heart.

And she has been my friend when being my friend wasn’t easy.

Being my Fremont friend, was not.

Is not.

Easy.

But she stayed. And now I will stay.

And her part? Her part in the body? Just this.

As her friend, I am useless and helpless and when I walk away from our time together, I realize, still, that I’m an utter failure, for once again, it’s she that has just comforted me. She, in her loss, in her faithfulness, in her steadfast belief that God is good.

In her steadfast belief in His faithfulness, she shines a light—

And He is glorified.

And we are comforted.

And only He knew that the friend she was teaching me to be—

Would, in His goodness—

Be the friend that she now needs.

But I need help.

As my dear friend Ann would say (you know the Ann that I don’t actually know, but I’m so totally sure that we would be BFF’s along with my Fremont friend), yes as Ann would say.

“I’ve never been here before.”

We.

Have never been here before.

God in heaven! Help us to be the friend that she has been to us; the friend that she now needs.

So you might already know this. Emma Claire talks a lot.

Like, really alot. Alot.

And she asks about the sadness; the fallen faces and the quiet voices.

Answering is hard, but I choose the joy.

I say, “Emma Claire! It’s amazing. Jackson got to see Jesus today! Jackson is in glory dancing with Jesus!”

She replied simply, “You don’t know that.” (With a fair amount of attitude that makes me want to get on my knees this very instant in preparation for the teen years).

And stooping to the behavior of a 4 year old, offended at her comment and with the best amount of  my own little “attitude” said, “Well, I know that he’s with Jesus.”

“Yeah. But you don’t know he’s dancing.”

I said, “You’re right, Emma Claire (remembering that perhaps my theology was a little off about the dancing), but I bet he’s running.”

And drumming.

And I hear the pit pit patter of the drums. The ones from the start of  the service. And I hear the drum beat, still. The rhythm of our hearts.

The rhythm of of our days.

Numbered.

And counted.

And in glory.

Marching on.

Happy Momr’s Day.

Sitting on my counter is a card that says, “Happy Momr’s Day.”  And I would make a joke here, but I’d be sure to offend most of my Fremont friends and family, so I’ll pass, and instead focus on the correct phonetics.

And the joy.

Of being a Mom.

And receiving a card that says Momr.

And there are drawings on the card. 

A tea bag. A Hershey’s bar. Two children. Two dogs. And the word Razorbacks.

He knows me well. Gotta say, I’m somewhat humbled that there’s nothing in there say, you know, about Jesus.

Or vegetables.

And it was.

8 years ago today.

Memorial Day. 2005

Unless you are an official from the Nighthawks baseball league, then for sure this all happened on May 1st, 2005.

Just randomly putting that out there.

My mid-wife (who, through infertility and later three pregnancies became my friend,) was scheduled to be on call Memorial Day Weekend. More than a week before my due date.

No-one goes early, they said.

It’s your first baby, they said.

Pie in the sky thinking, they said.

And I do love pie.

But for weeks and months even, I told everyone that we were going to deliver on Memorial Day.

And we did. Some 30 hours after my water broke.

In the driver’s seat of my husband’s car.

And I love that part of the story. 🙂

(Just to be clear, Coulter was not born in my husband’s car.)

And I love the part of the story where I chose to deliver without drugs and I love the part of the story where after 3 miserable hours of pushing (sorry Dad for the visual), Coulter was born. And I love the part of the story where I held him and fed him and sent my husband to find a diet coke.

A diet coke. In a can. That I hadn’t had in two years.

Do not judge me. I was really, really thirsty.

But then, they whisked him away.

Coulter.

A few hours later, a doctor who learned his beside manner—

From.

A.

Rock.

Said.

Your son is sick. Well he might be sick. We don’t know. But by the time we do know, he could die.

And then he will be, you know—

Dead.

I hadn’t slept in 48 hours. All the blood vessels in my face broke during labor so I looked like I had the measles and strangely enough—

I still looked pregnant.

And I’m not just saying that. On the long trek from our room (down the elevator, across a bridge type thing and basically into another building) to feed Coulter in the NICU, a women oooed and aaahhed over me. Oh! Looks like someone’s getting ready to have a baby.

And I wanted to hit her.

Because someone.

Had already had a baby.

I loved being pregnant (mostly). I loved looking pregnant (mostly). I loved that God chose this body, my body to knit together a miracle.

Oh, and I loved that my breast looked like they had been bought and paid for but now—

Now they are gone.

Just kidding.

Wait. I’m not really kidding that they are gone…they are, sadly,  gone— but that wasn’t really where I was going with the “but now”.

But Now.

All I wanted was to hold my baby. And I wanted everyone and everything (including my still pregnant belly)—

To.

Go.

A.

Way.

But no-one was leaving. Nurses in and out and Doctor-Personality-of-a-Rock was in and out and before I could even speak or ask or breathe they had taken him again.

There were needles.

In his hands.

In his feet.

In his head.

There were MRI’s.

And a spinal tap.

And he’s not eating enough.

And he’s yellow.

And you can’t go home.

And their dad said “This isn’t about you (our family). It’s about us.”

So we sent our families away.

And when we came home.

We were alone.

And I knew. Day one of coming home as a family.

I knew. The breaking.

Piece by piece.

Coulter turns 8 this week.

He works hard, plays hard, tries hard.

And each day, the spirit of joy rises up in him and he is the gift.

The redemption of a life gone wrong.

WAIT! No! Not a life, a marriage.

A marriage gone wrong.

And His mercies are new every morning and those who reap in tears will sow in joy and in this short life, Coulter knows words like separated and divorced and parenting time and words that I never meant for him to understand but glories of glories, this is know:

Above all and in all and besides all, he knows that he is loved.

Beauty.

From ashes.

Yesterday Coulter was drinking cranapple juice in front of the t.v., and we all know that cranapple juice is not really juice, but my parents are in town so, there you go.

Cranapple juice in front of the t.v.

And he spilled.

And cranberries are red.

And I said, “Coulter! Dude! Please be more careful.”

He looked up, didn’t miss a beat and said.

“I know, Mom. But the good thing is at least the carpet will smell good.”

But the good thing is.

A heart full of joy.

Full of hope.

And the good thing is that there is always the good thing.

And when I forget, he is the reminder.

A walking, talking, running, tumbling, hold-able, hug-able reminder of the everlasting faithfulness of God.

#beautyfromashes #birthdayblessings #healthychildren #joy