Raising Magnolias

I killed the Easter Bunny

I outed the Easter Bunny.

I felt pretty good about it on Sunday.

Confident, even.

Today I’m feeling less confident, super guilty and completely paranoid that I’ve crushed her imagination and stolen a little piece of her childhood.

I do the mother-guilt thing really, really well!

I should’ve been Catholic.

Anyway, as most of you know I love Santa Clause. I’m a staunch defender of the big guy and I think he has a valid role in the Christmas story.

I get that the flying reindeer is a bit of a stretch, but come on. It’s a real person.

He’s a man.

With a wife.

I love him so much that when Emma Claire “happened upon” ALL of her Santa presents (Santa doesn’t wrap. Good grief. Hale No, he doesn’t wrap,) so when she came across them, and when, bless her heart she told me that she had found all of her presents, I went to walmart in De Queen, flipping Arkansas on CHRISTMAS EVE to buy ALL new presents so as not to destroy her innocence and child-like faith in the unseen.

Yes. I love Santa.

But the Easter Bunny? Seriously? A Bunny that hops from home to home and lays eggs or hides the eggs or whatever it is that he does and I just don’t really get the whole bunny and egg thing and so this year I filled the eggs in front of my children.

It’s the night before the resurrection. Jesus is still in the grave  and I cannot think about bunnies.

Unless the bunny is dead.

And coming back to life. To save, you know, all of human-kind.

OK.

So.

Single parenting is hard. Single parenting during holidays is super-hard and I gotta tell you,  I’m a little tired of pretend characters stealing all of my thunder.

But I’m not an Easter grinch.

I filled baskets. Fun baskets. Emma Claire’s basket had beautiful rocks (because for some reason, rocks, and I quote “are very special to her” and I filled them with nerf guns and water guns and Emma Claire got her own because I know how upset she gets when she’s left out of “boy” games and there was candy and a really cool water bottle and she woke up Sunday morning, sprang out of bed and ran to find her basket.

And there was joy.

But after church. After “Up from the grave  He arose” and after “Christ the Lord has Risen today” and after Pastor spoke about Peter before and Peter after and how our lives are to be dramatically changed because of this day and yes, after all of this Emma Claire came home and complained that the Easter Bunny didn’t bring very much.

Coulter defended him, ‘OH, Emma Claire, yes he did. He brought a lot.” This is a little out of character for Coulter, which gives me the distinct impression he’s fully aware that a bunny did not hop into our home the night before.

I let it go.

Half and hour later, tears well up into her eyes and she says, “Mom. You forgot to give us anything for Easter.”

I learned recently to always respond “to emotion with emotion”. So, instead of giving her the whole, Easter is not about you getting gifts mom-answer, I pulled her onto my lap an I said—

“Emma Claire. Can I tell you a secret? The Easter Bunny did not leave this basket for you. Easter is about Jesus and the bunny is just a fun, silly way to celebrate spring. The Easter bunny doesn’t know that rocks are special to you.

Your mom knows.

And the Easter Bunny doesn’t know how you like to have your own nerf gun.

You mom knows.”

She looks up at me, two and two makes four, and says, “Oh.Well, is Santa Clause real?”

I answered honestly. Santa will still come. He will come because he brings gifts to celebrate Jesus’ birthday but Easter is nobody’s birthday.”

She hops off my lap.

“OK, mom, but I may want to talk about this again later.”

Sure thing, Emma Claire.

My lap is always open.

So, I don’t know. What I did was either completely selfish and self-serving or it was the right thing to do.

Or maybe both.

All I know is when she thought that I had forgotten her, I needed her to know that I hadn’t.

And I would never.

Forget her.

Well, except at church. I did forget her there.

But only once.

I thought she was with Jenny. But, ya know, she wasn’t.

She was alone. At the church.

And I was at Runza.

And I also forgot my friend’s daughter at school this week. There’s so many kids in my van sometimes, that I feel like that family from Home Alone. Remember when they count off before vacation, and the wrong head got counted and well, it’s sorta like that.

Except I didn’t fly to Paris.

Mostly because I can’t afford to fly to Paris.

And if I was going to forget a kid and fly somewhere it would definitely be to the beach.

But.

You know what I will never forget?

I will never forget the look on Emma Claire’s face when she realized it was her mom who had gotten her those special rocks.

And I will never forget her meticulously placing them, one-by-one into a vase for safe keeping.

And I will never forget Coulter coming upstairs with a Starwars lego-man hanging from a lego-cross with lego-chains and a spear at his side, “Because, do you remember mom? That’s how they checked to see if Jesus was really dead.”

Yes, Coulter. I remember.

 

 

 

 

I came across a letter that I received a while back from a woman who I do not know. She writes:

I have come to anticipate your blogs. I believe you’re someone I would enjoy and feel honored to call a friend. I read your blogs because you make me feel and laugh and, well sorry, but also as a cautionary tale and sometimes I am filled with dread.

Her marriage, no longer fulfilling. A life of pretending and sadness. She’s worried about “sharing her children” and wondering if she could bear having her “ex pick up the kids and drive to another house across the city.”

She asks.

How do you bear it?

Are you happy?

Will you be soon?

The past couple of years are in many ways a blur and while I remember receiving this note, I can’t remember if I responded.

I wonder how she’s doing. What she decided. What’s she’s having to bear.

I want her to know that I am happy. At least the world’s version of happy.

I smile a lot. I laugh more than I cry.

But happiness is fleeting and circumstantial and with divorce comes a permanence of events and arrangements and it makes for a hard-happy.

So maybe what I want her to know is that I have joy. The joy of the Lord is my strength an at the heart of my family, there is joy.

How do I bear it? Simply this:

I have no other choice.

And, I’m embarrassed to say, many days I don’t bear it at all. I crumble under the weight.

Do you have a different choice? Then make it.

Last week I rejoiced with my friends who are embarking on this journey. I rejoiced with friends who are not rejoicing themselves. But I only do so because for them, this is victory.

Freedom.

And there is no.

Other.

Choice.

Do you have a different choice? Then make it.

And if you don’t have a choice?

If you are being abused?

Emotionally.

Verbally.

Physically.

Neglected.

Have you been abandoned?

Then there is no choice. And you will bear it—

The hard-happy.

For that simple reason.

You got no other choice. (Add a little southern drawl with that.)

Last week, I worried that I came across as a cheerleader for divorce and I don’t want to be cheer for divorce. I want to cheer for women.

For my friends.

For my sisters in Christ.

Divorce is hard. And ugly and there are days that I still wonder—and dream—and play the what might have beens.

Ann Voskamp says we have to fight hard for the joy.

For our children.

For ourselves.

And I’ve fought hard and I’ve watched friends fight hard you never get “over” it and you never get “used” to it.

Whatever your “it” is.

It just becomes a part of you.

And who I am kidding? You don’t bear it because it’s unbearable.

But then there was Jesus. And Easter. And glories of glories, He bears it all.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Today I was praying about my book. Mostly, I was praying that I would have the discipline and the time and the opportunity and in my praying came this:

I want to write a book that points to Christ. I want to write a book whose pages are filled with hope and humor and that will ultimately lead the reader into their own journey of healing.

Currently, I’m working on the chapter outline. And I’d like your help. You know my story. You have walked this story and lived this story and yes, I need your help.

Name a chapter.

Think about my story. Think about the stories I’ve written and I’ve shared and name a chapter for me.

Maybe I’ll have contest or something. Oh yes! Bribery works! I’ll have a drawing and there will be a prize and I have no clue what that will be, but let’s pretend that the prize is going to be awesome!

But, in order to play along, you must give me a chapter idea.

How do I bear it? You.

Your prayers.

Your encouragement.

Your village-help.

You.

You’re already part of my story. Be a apart of my book.

Chapter #1.

Go!

(Please comment on Facebook, comment here or you can email me your ideas at myra.katherine@yahoo.com.)

Now, take  a look at some of these joy-filled smiles. (Yes. That’s a picture with me and a very handsome man and yes, those are happy smiles.) 🙂

 

Too Young To Understand

I was flipping.

Page after page.

Divorce.

Broken families.

Broken lives.

And I heard an author put it this way. When you get married and you say vows and you make promises and it is a covenant between you and God and your spouse and yes, when you get married, it is like super-glueing two pieces of paper together.

Now.

Just try tearing those papers apart.

The pieces. The mess.

And almost daily now, Emma Claire will ask me if I can marry her dad again.

And I want to take the two pieces of paper and I want her to see just how impossible it would be.

But I’m flipping and reading and I stop short.

There’s a picture of a boy. Six, maybe seven. Just the age Coulter was when his Dad and I separated and above his blond head (again, much like Coulter’s) there was the caption.

“All they’ll tell me is ‘You’re  too young to understand’.”

How many times?

Those.

Exact.

Words.

But it’s true, I think. How can I ever explain the glue and the paper and the vows and they are too young.

This boy is looking down and he is looking hopeless and I read statistic after statistic and I wonder all over again, how is it that this happened and how is that we’re here and I make a silent commitment to myself and ultimately to my children.

I will never.

Say that.

Again.

It’s lazy answer.

A cop-out.

And I’m done being lazy.

Arriving home from a weekend at their Dad’s, Coulter, Emma Claire and I were jumping on the trampoline. It’s hard work to jump with Coulter because he makes up these elaborate rules and you must follow them and I have to throw a ball, then catch it and then do a cannon ball and then re-throw it and I lost the game of course, probably because I never really understood how points were made but—

Anyway.

Emma Claire ran inside and I saw my chance.

“Coulter,” I said. “This is a little random, (and he looks at me like it’s not at all surprising that I would say something random) and I proceed to tell him that he can ask me anything he wants and I will never answer by telling him he’s too young to understand.

He is young.

And it is hard.

But so is math.

And so is reading

And so is the Creation Story.

And yet somehow we find a way to teach it.

Every year, my children hear the story of the virgin Mary and every year we talk about the birth of Jesus and here we are, less than a week out of celebrating with Palms the arrival of Jesus into the city and there are parades and celebrations and then beatings and crosses and, Coulter and Emma Claire I want you to know that we believe in Jesus as the son of God and yet fully God and oh, by the way he was nailed to a cross and they put him in a tomb and then he woke up and he rose up and he reigns and we can believe in His name and we can call on His name and we are living in a Good Friday world, waiting for our Easter Sunday and what a hypocrite!

I expect my children to understand this? All of this and yet somehow I can’t figure out a way to explain divorce?

I often hear how resilient kids are. They just need to know they are loved.

Really?

Is that all they need?

Or do they need shoes and books and soccer cleats and baseball pants?

Just love?

Or do they need to hear about the paper and the glue and the promises torn in two.

Coulter and Emma Claire were 3 and 6 when we first separated. 5 and 8 when final. Their first understanding of promises and broken ones at that came from the two people they trusted most.

How can they learn to trust in the promises of God if they can’t even trust in the promises of a parent.

So, I’m done.

I’m giving no more lazy answers.

I ripped the paper.

And I’m giving no more cowardly answers.

The super-glued paper.

I keep thinking of how the kids play Rock, Paper, Scissors and they argue and fuss because I can never remember what tops what except that I do know scissors cut paper and paper covers rock,maybe?

Rock, yes.Paper covers it. We are standing, resting, falling pieces of paper on the Rock.

How firm. How sure.

A foundation.

A friend reached out today to let me know that her husband was leaving her.

A friend reached out last week to let me know that she was leaving her husband.

A friend that I invited to lunch today but thought I invited her to lunch tomorrow came to lunch today and I wasn’t there (because ya know, I meant tomorrow) but whatever we talked on the phone instead and she wonders if this will end well and how can this end well and I stammer and I stutter because I have no good answer.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Today I met a friend. I met someone new that I  just know will become a friend.

And his wife. A friend.

And in re-telling my divorce story he says, “Oh, are you a new Christian?”

And I laughed. And I know what’s he thinking —-bad marriage, got divorced, found Jesus.

Nope.

Found Jesus. Had Jesus. Have known. Jesus.

Got divorced anyway.

And since he’s a new friend I decided to leave out the part where I heard the voice of the Lord on military and Bell asking me when I was going to do “the hard thing that He had called me to do.”

Most people don’t believe that the voice of the Lord will tell you to get divorced. 🙂

And to be sure, it’s a failure that I still feel deeply and yet with in light of the stories that have been shared with me, I’m going to say something that no Christian momma should ever say.

I rejoice.

I rejoice with them.

The husband who cheated and rejected and lied and defeated.

Her.

The husband who brought fear instead of faith and blamed and called names and how long are we called to live in a home that has become a cell; a living hell and yes! I rejoice with them because I know that there is refining and redeeming and renewal and that the Lord does not require us to stay when we have already been left. In word. In deed.

I rejoice because I know coming out of the fire there is joy.

Hard.

As.

Hale.

But, yes.

Joy.

Walk through the fire, my soon to be single mommas and lean hard, lean fully into the arms that do not fail and remember that God promises we will see the “goodness of the Lord in the land of the living.”

That’s today.

That’s now.

Coulter didn’t have any questions at the moment, so I’m off the hook for a while longer. Reading and snuggling later that night, though Emma Claire told me she was sad about the divorce. We talked about how God promises to work all things (even bad yucky things) together for our good and she tried to ponder that for a while. Finally she looked up at me and said, “Mom? You know how we give money to God? Can I make a cross on Sunday and put it in the plate so that when the money gets offered up, he will see my cross?”

Resilient?

Not so much.

Covered by His grace.

Hale Yeah!

All they need, is to know they are loved?

No.

They need Jesus.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Mamaw’s with Jesus. How can I be sad about that?

Last week I posted an article about highly sensitive people. I love that it didn’t say overly sensitive.

And I think there is a difference.

There was research and a name and what I feel and experience with noises and light and textures—well–it’s a real thing.

And reading about it reminded of  spending the night at my Mamaw and Papaw’s house during the hot, sticky Arkansas summers (that’s grandma and grandpa to all my Yankee friends) and my Mamaw would put a fan on us to help us stay cool in the un-airconditioned room.

But the air would hit the strands of my thin, straggly hair and it would tickle me.

So Mamaw would go and get bobby pins and one by one she would carefully tuck each piece back out of my face so that I could sleep.

Highly sensitive.

The only reason I even had time to read this article is because the kids and I were on vacation in Arkansas.

I have had the great privilege of spending hours upon hours with my Mamaw. If I hadn’t made it back to Arkansas, I would have no regrets. But words evade me—I am every grateful for this time together as her earthly life came to a close.

Our first morning in Arkansas, I had about 2 hours with just Mamaw. She was alert and energetic and she squeezed my hand the entire time and she just talked.

And talked.

And talked.

She told stories that I’ve heard dozens of times and she told stories that were completely new. She talked about the early days in her marriage and even in her tired 99-year old eyes, there was still a twinkle when she spoke of my Papaw.

Gone now, for 26 years.

She told one of my favorites. Finding out at age 30 that she was pregnant with my Dad. Ya know—at such an ancient age and all!!

She said, “I didn’t know what I was going to do with your Dad and now I don’t know what I’d do without him.”

“Or your mom.”

She asked about my children.

“Emma Claire is the most beautiful child I’ve ever seen. Now Ronald (my uncle), he says to me, ‘ Mother! You can’t say that.’ But I just told him I can say whatever I want because it’s the truth.”

But in the same breath she commented that all of her grands and great-grands were beautiful.

She told stories about how she used to sneak her car keys (into her 90’s) and drive down to the old chicken houses. She just wanted to make sure she could still drive. Or that the car still worked.

She was fiery and stubborn and spirited and determined and I absolutely cannot imagine Rock Hill or Arkansas without her.

My parents grew up together. They were grade-school sweethearts, high school sweat hearts, college sweethearts. So Mamaw wasn’t just a Revels or just a Hale. She was a Coulter, too. She was a Mamaw to many.

And again—I can’t imagine Christmas or summers or Thanksgivings or family gatherings of any sort.

Without her.

But, strangely, I’m not sad. Sad, yes. But, no—not sad.

The days passed while we were in Arkansas and she had good days and bad days. Emma Claire stroked her hand and sang “Oh, how I love Jesus,” and I know that she did love Jesus.

Watching my Mamaw smile at the sound of my daughter’s voice—in and out—but hearing and knowing—

How can I be sad about that?

She lived at home until she was 99 years old.

And had a grand ol party at age 95.

How can I be sad about that?

She lived to see marriages and divorces and grands and greats and —

She lived to see Ph.D.’s and world travelers and successful businessmen (and women!) and she saw grands become Moms;  her babies having babies and how?

How can I be sad about that?

This morning I sat the kids down to tell them that Mamaw had gone to be with Jesus and Emma Claire began to cry. Then she had a lot of questions about how a body just quits—ya know—

Working.

I said, “Emma Claire, her body is still in the hospital somewhere, but her spirit has left her body and it lives on with Jesus.”

I went on.

“Ya know, I don’t understand it all, but what I’m really curious about is this. I wonder if she’s seen Papaw yet.”

They looked at me kinda funny.

I said, ‘Y’all. Your Mamaw loved Papaw. It was a true love story and she has missed him for almost 30 years.”

Emma Claire looked up at me and said, “So what you’re saying is, that she’s probably pretty happy right now?”

“Yes, Emma Claire. I think she’s pretty happy right now.”

And how can I be sad about that?

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

OK, so a follow-up.

I’ve had the past two Easters with my children. This was supposed to be Greg’s year. But somehow I missed it.

Easter: Even Years: Mother.

And remember the mess? And remember the mean? Well, upon hearing that I actually had Easter my heart sank.

Don’t get me wrong. I love Easter.

But sank because also on the list—

Memorial Day: Even Years: Father.

Without Memorial Day, there would be no family vacation with Mom. So my rant? My rave? I asked if we could switch but his plans were already made.

How could I have been so stupid? How could I have gotten so confused?

My children will be with their dad all summer.

How can I not have May? How fair is that I don’t get to take my kiddos on a family vacation.

Is anything ever fair?

And then the rant in my head continued, “That’s the whole reason we went home in February. I can’t take them back in April. I’m too tired. It’s too much. It’s—-whatever.”

It’s divorce.

But then it came. It always comes.

“What you meant for evil, He meant for good.”

If I had known? If I hadn’t been so stupid? Well, I would’ve planned an Easter trip to Arkansas.

And guess what?

Easter would’ve been too late.

We make our plans but the Lord directs our steps?

No vacation in May? OK. Sure, Lord. I hear you.

Yes.

Washington D.C. can wait.

The beach can wait.

But my Mamaw had waited long enough and my children were given the gift of holding the hand of their Great-Grandmother on her death-bed and in their own special way helped usher her into the arms of Jesus..

And so I ask again, how can I be sad about that?

For Lent. For a lifetime.

I messed up today.

Praise God that He meets us in the mess.

Today was just one of many; one of every; where I’m reminded that my life is different.

Different than I planned.

And in the mess, I’m jealous.

And I’m tired. I should never respond to anything when I’m tired.

I saw a card on pinterest that said, “I’m sorry for everything I said when I was hungry.” I’m sorry for what I said when I was tired.

And here we are, day two of Lent. Messy. 

I’m kind of a rebel when it comes to Lent. Everyone’s giving up stuff and so I feel like in order to not be part of the crowd, I need to NOT give up something.

I can think of plenty of things to give up, but then I wonder how that is honoring to God? This is rhetorical question. I’m not really looking for answers.

If we are to give up something, than how do we FILL it? With more of Jesus?

If I don’t drink my diet coke tomorrow morning will I love the Lord more?

I don’t know. I’m actually planning to drink my diet coke, but I will commit to praying while I do so.

And I don’t understand the whole Fish on Friday thing.  I never knew any Catholics until I went to college. And now almost everyone I know is Catholic or they pretend to be during Lent.

Every Friday there are fish fry’s (fries?) all over the state. People stand in line for hours, drinking to stay warm and to help pass time and are rewarded for their patience with a fried fish feast.

I love fried fish. And I love hushpuppies. And I love God. I just don’t get what this all has to do with a risen Savior.

I don’t know. Maybe it’s just because I’m tired.

And a little cranky.

Maybe I’m just jealous because I’ve never been.

But today, the mess.

And I know I’m still a mess because before I can even tell you what happened, I’m going to shower you with my carefully considered and perfectly legit excuses .

Again, the aforementioned. I was tired. Very tired.

And emotional. Just having spent several  days with my 99 year old mamaw who was sick and then better then worse then near death and then better again and I was emotional.

And I was mad. And profoundly sad.

And embarrassed.

And lonely. Not lonely-lonely. Just a “I have no friends who have lived this particular fire” type lonely and so even though I’m surrounded by people, amazing people, who love me,  (and let’s face it, adore me)—ya know, humbly speaking :), the experience of my fire can be quite lonely.

And so I fired-off an email to my ex-husband.

With the intent to burn.

And as I wrote, there was a little—whatever—a loud voice in my head saying, “Don’t respond. Don’t respond. Don’t respond.”

But I responded anyway.

So last night as I lie awake (lay awake?), completely frustrated with myself, it comes to me.

Two things, actually.

I’m an emotional person.

I know, right? Totally surprising information. And I didn’t even have to pay a therapist to tell me that.

A few weeks ago, Coulter and I were finishing a three-book series on these kids who were stranded on a deserted island and they were finally found and their mom gets off the plane and my reading gets waver-y and the tears take over and  I can see this momma running to hold her kids and I feel her pain and I ache for these lost kids and Coulter looks up at me like I am stone-cold crazy and we just bust out laughing.

And we laugh and we laugh and we laugh.

Yes. I’m emotional. I won’t apologize for that.

But a bigger revelation, maybe not so much for those around me, but to myself is that I’m still—ya know—a little—

Mad. 

Like, there is some serious anger in my heart.

And I don’t want to be angry.  When I fire an email like that—when my first reaction is to sting and dig and when I take the bait and when I give into hate —

Everybody loses.

And I hate losing. Seriously, do you know how many times people tell pageant girls that everybody’s a winner?

Uhm, no they’re not.

And this isn’t a competition. It’s my life. It’s the lives of my children. It’s the lives of those I love and those I treasure and I don’t want to build a future with an angry heart.

And I learned once that all behavior is either fear-based or love-based so I have to ask. What am I afraid of?

*On a side and somewhat weird note, I had a dream last night that I was competing in the Miss America pageant again. But it wasn’t 15 (ughm) years ago. It was today. Like as a 41 year-old Mom. And I had forgotten to practice the piano and I couldn’t find my swimsuit and I kept telling everyone that “it’s OK if I don’t win.”  And they were like, “well that’s good because you’re not gonna” and I woke up (which was wonderful because as my mom would say, it was sign that I had actually slept) and yes, I woke up and I thought—

What the HALE was that?

And the Lord said to me. My beloved. My daughter. This is not a competition.

And you don’t need your swimsuit.

And you don’t need to practice your piano piece.

And you don’t have to answer anything with poise and professionalism.

You only need to rest in My Grace.

His love.

His faithfulness and the truth that God?

Well.

He never changes his mind.

About loving you.

About loving me.

And while this may not be a competition, I am winning.

And every day I see through eyes of Grace two bright lights whose determined-eyes  sparkle fierce and whose joyful-spirits sprinkle happiness like rain falling down and being a Mom should come with a crown and a sash (although ixnay on the swimsuit) because children, my children, remind me every day.

I am winning.

They are the jewels.

They are the crown.

All I have to do is look and name.

And see.

And give up—-for Lent and for a lifetime—-my fear of losing.

“Create in my a clean heart, O God and renew a right spirit within me.”

Christians? I thought we were Presbyterians.

OK, so I don’t usually write in the middle of the afternoon. My kids are home and they will be leaving soon with their dad.

But they have friends over, so—ya know—they don’t even know I’m here.

A  short blog about our drive home from school.

Sometimes you don’t need to weave a story. You only need to re-tell.

Coulter:  Mom! You know how the science-word for bottom is anus?

Mom: Yes.

Coulter: Well, today Mr. Hamilton said, “Uranus is not like other planets. It spins on its side.” Get it? Ur-anus?

And the car erupts in laughter.

We have extra kiddos.

Coulter: I’m glad my anus is not like other planets. Oh, and remember how yesterday he said blubber. Like the whale? Get it? Blubber!

Again with the laughter.

Then we took a short break to discuss the various misbehavior of the children who are not as perfect as mine. How many “clip-downs”; how many office referrals; how many parent phone calls.

We pull into the driveway.

I send the other children in the house. I wanted a few quiet minutes alone with Coulter.

In order to help another family, we had to change a few plans for the following week and I knew he would be disappointed.

“Coulter,” I said. And then I gave this long explanation about serving and sacrificing and loving and then I tried to wrap it up with a very generic,  “This is just what we do as Christians.”

To which he replied.

“I thought we were Presbyterian.”

I then began explaining different denominations which is super hard for me because I get seriously hung up on “why does it matter” and frustrated with what continually divides us (although I know there are important distinctions and I’m always learning) but throughout my Christian journey, I’ve attended the Methodist Church, the “other” Presbyterian Church, the Evangelical Free Church, Missionary Alliance, 1st Baptist, 2nd Baptist, a non-denominational Church and the Formerly Methodist, but started meeting in a park-church.

And now, I guess, as Coulter would say. We are Presbyterians. The second kind.

Coulter looked me square in the eyes and I thought this is it.

This is a moment I’m going to remember forever. We’re going to have a serious discussion about faith and Jesus and theology and this is it!

“Mom,” he starts “I didn’t eat my gushers today. I decided to save them instead. And by the way, you totally forgot to pack a spoon and I had to get a spoon from the kitchen and I’m pretty sure that they don’t clean the dishes in there. It was wet and gross and I’ve been in that place many times and I’ve never even seen a dishwasher. Uhm, yeah. So, can I go play now?”

#humbled #christians

Jesus-And

Last week a friend came to visit.

A covenant sister known only through social media until last Saturday.

She shared her heart and she shared her story and there was a time, searching for answers, that I had prayed fervently for God to reveal “all things hidden” and when I look into her eyes I see the face of a God who answers prayer and keeps His promises and God literally dropped her into my Facebook inbox and now here we sit.

Sharing.

In the course of the afternoon, there were  many take-a-ways but what truly resonated was this:

“I don’t want my children to know about God. I want them to know God.”

I’m teaching my children scripture and our home is filled with words of truth; I am teaching them to know about God, but what I am doing that they might know God?

Knowing Him by knowing me? Seeing Christ in me?

Do they see Christ in me?

Or do they see the beaten-down Mom, dark-ugly heart, still harboring un-forgivess that wants Jesus—and.

I want Jesus, and for them to know the truth.

About our marriage.

And.

The truth about our divorce.

I want Jesus and a salary above the poverty line.

I want Jesus and. And. And.

I want them know God and love God.

And.

Love me.

More than their Dad.

And.

Why isn’t He enough?

Today there’s a man here to tune the piano. I have a beautiful piano that hasn’t been tuned since I moved it (twice) and probably for 50 years before that. He calls me in:

“Mary K. Here’s your problem. You’ve got a crack in the soundboard.”

A crack in the foundation.

A crack that is the forgetting.

Forgetting Him, the fount of every blessing.

They are little. But with each crack,  hurt and anger and jealousy and un-forgivness and.

And through those cracks come pings and rings and it’s impossible to sing with a joyful heart.

When you continually forget.

“Tune my heart to sing Thy grace. ”

And it continues.

“Prone to wander, Lord I feel it, Prone to leave the God I love; Here’s my heart, O take and seal it, Seal it for Thy courts above.”

Tune my heart to sing thy grace. Seal up the cracks.

The cracks and sounds that forget to praise and forget to thank and forget–

To remember.

His faithfulness. His goodness.

His grace, amazing.

Why do I forget His unchanging love and yet choose to remember his unfaithful heart.

How can I complain of not enough time and too much time and forget that He knows and forget that He cares and forget—

Him.

Altogether.

Tune my heart, Lord.

Turn my heart.

Bind. Up. This broken heart.

______________________________________________________

Yesterday I learned of young woman (friend of a friend,) with young children, had passed away. I didn’t know her, but felt strangely effected by her death.

As a mom, maybe? A fellow forty-something with dreams and desires and plans and I worry about tomorrow and I worry about the day after that and I complain about sharing and hearts-worn-and-tearing and how easily I forget that

All.

Is.

Grace.

Today.

A gift.

How do we live life after death?

After divorce and heartbreak and whatever the mess that is your life right now?

We name graces.

We recognize the gift.

We tune our hearts back to praise; back to joy; back to remembering.

And this is what I remember.

He is good and He is faithful and His mercies are new every morning. There is nothing I can possibly think of that He has forgotten and what is it that this heart wants?

I want my children to know God. I want them to know that His promises are true. That the joy of the Lord is my strength and that His grace is enough.

For them.

And even.

For me.

A nod to the late Tim Russert. Florida. Florida.Florida

I hate January.

I know I shouldn’t use that work and I realize it’s February, I’m just saying—ya know—for the record—that I really hate January.

Except if your birthday is in January. I like that day. I like your birthday.

January is cold and dark and dreary and there are no lights, except for those houses that never seem to take their lights down and that just gets annoying after a while, and January is hard.

Spring?

A long.

Way.

Off.

I spent most of the month trying to recover my name. In and out of the DMV and banks and back to the DMV and back to the bank and insurance people who are so tired of my questions I’m pretty sure they are ready to pay me to please leave and find a new agent already, and a 1-hour conversation with the TIAA CREF people and new W-2’s or W-9’s or whatever W’s you fill out when you are self-employed and a 3 hour wait at the Social Security office.

Three.

Hours.

I’m not kidding. At least 100 people all around me jammed in waiting and waiting and waiting. I couldn’t help speculate on their lives and their reasons for being there. We each had a different color.

And a different letter.

And with those colors and letters it was clear: A completely different life.

My card came in the mail today. I think I’ll frame it.

One thing is sure. I will never change it again.

And my mom and dad taught me to never say never.

One of the first questions people asked after learning of my separation was whether or not I’d change my name.

This came after the question about whether I was at all concerned about what would happen to me and my children for breaking God’s law’s.

Wait. What was the question?

Uhm, no to the breaking God’s laws.

And yes.

To the name thing.

To me that was like asking if I was still going to wear my wedding ring.

Yeah, no.

Event though it’s really.

Really.

Pretty.

And sparkly.

And I miss it. I miss wearing it.

And what it stood for.

Or what I thought it stood for.

Mostly I miss it because it was big. And again, ya know, really sparkly. 🙂

And then a friend said, “Well don’t you want the same last name as your children?”

And it’s almost comical to me.

Of course! But I also wanted to be married for the whole “until death do us part thing”.

Does having the same last name make us less of a broken family.

Will it make our lives easier? If I’m a Fritz, my children won’t have to go from house to house?

And they won’t have to share holidays and share vacations and yes, that is my question.

Keeping His name? Does it make us less broken?

We used to get in the car, ready for a trip and say, “OK Team Fritz, let’s go.”

But I’m not part of that team anymore.

I play for a different team.

He plays. For a different team.

I spent almost 11 hours on the way back from Arkansas recently, trying to think of a new team name for us because I didn’t know if it was right to call us team-Hale.

I came up with several (really clever!) ideas and they just stared at me. Coulter said, “Why can’t we just be Team Hale?”

Uhm, yeah. Ok. Team Hale.

That, ya know. Works for me.

I won’t change it again. 

Wherever we go, the Hales come together.

And it hard to explain….part of it is deeply spiritual and part of it’s that I simply can’t ever face having to go back to the Omaha Social Security office again.

Ever.

I’m rambling, now, but that’s what January does to me. It makes me a little bit crazy. And rambly. And I really want to go to Florida.

And lie on the beach. Lay on the beach?

Because that what Florida looks like.

I  have a highly intelligent friend who has started going to the tanning bed, desperate for color and vitamin D.

That’s how hard January in Nebraska is.

South Dakota was colder. But, a little trivia for you. Next to Florida it has more days of sunshine than any other state.

Whatever. I hated January there too.

Anyway, I’m 1000 words in and it hits me that I’m actually writing to tell you that while I love those days when there’s nothing hard to write about, I’m learning that with divorce there is this ripple, this current, this ebb and flow and some days I can see with such gratitude the life that is set before me and other days I weep for the life I had imagined.

One wedding.

One marriage.

I weep when Emma Claire asks why we can’t be like Elena’s family.

I weep when Coulter tells me how comfortable his Dad’s new bed is (yes, I know that’s weird.)

That’s been this week—grief and mourning.

But I believe that joy comes in the morning.

Lord, help my unbelief.

———————————————————————————————-

Sunday after church the kids were singing Deep and Wide.

I know my Methodist friends remember it:

“Deep and wide, deep and wide, there’s a fountain flowing deep and wide.”

And there are hand motions and then you leave out words and I can picture my elementary friends standing in the front pew of the sanctuary of the First United Methodist Church in De Queen, and my mom leading and her friend Dottie Lou, with her long red fingernails, dripping with diamonds, tap-tap-tapping at the piano as we sang that together.

Deep and Wide.

The fountain flows.

And divorce is no different. The grief can be deep.

And wide.

And  flowing.

And I think the idea is that we have to let it flow through.

Couldn’t stop it if we tried.

One summer we watched as my brother’s way-too-expensive-to-wear-swimming-sunglasses floated downstream the Cossatot. There was nothing to do.

Except let ’em float down. And make a mental note to never spend more than $10 on sunglasses.

And I told a friend this weekend, I am still—sometimes—just so sad.

And he said. Be sad, then.

There’s a fountain flowing.

Deep and Wide.

So yesterday—looking for the joy that comes in the morning—I woke up and decided Emma Claire and I needed a girl’s day. I asked her if she wanted to go to the “Frozen Sing-a-long”. She looked at me like a sing-a-long was surely the worst idea ever and gave the vote, instead, for just the movie itself.

She then proceeded to sing full-voice, completely un-aware that there were others in the theater.

What would you call that? Yes.

A sing-a long.

But I have to say, a few Disney tunes and a sunny 5-year-old who still wants to sit in my lap eating junior mints and I was feeling more hopeful.

Unfortunately we un-knowingly spilled a few and they got hot and melted and smushed and, horrified when the lights came on, I looked at Emma Claire and instead of being upset she just started licking her pants.

Uhm, yeah.

Thank you Lord, for the gift of chocolate, for the joy of giggly girls  and the reminder that You are here.

In this.

We don’t ride the river alone.

P.S. Tomorrow, Emma Claire and I will be going to the actual sing-a-long.

Right after my tanning appointment.

A Plan for Purpose

Last week I had dinner with friends. Friends who don’t talk about the weather.

Friends who don’t pretend that it’s warm outside just because we’re above 0.

Friends who don’t pretend to be OK when life is everything but OK.

Friends who love Jesus and speak truth and started the conversation with:

“I read your blog. Purposeful!

So—

How do you plan to do that?”

What? I need a plan? I can’t just write a blog about it and leave it there?

Dang-it. 🙂

But I did have a plan. A small one, anyway.

Evidence of needing a better plan came a few days later—

Yes, mere days into my year of purpose, I lost our dog.

Being purposeful?

Being mindful?

Being present?

Not noticing that the kitchen door wasn’t fully shut and had been thrown open by the wind?

Not noticing, after going back to shut the door, that there was only one puppy in our home instead of two?

Seriously. Who does that?

I do that.

I drive around.

I have friends drive around.

Emma Claire and I drive to the Humane Society.

Closed.

We learn that it was the wrong Humane Society, or more to the point, not the Humane Society at all.

I drive to the actual Humane Society.

Also closed.

Because it’s cold. Really cold.

I drive home.

Emma Claire and Coulter start arguing and fussing and I’m pretty sure that Coulter is bleeding and I start to cry.

They’ve just gotten home from Christmas with their Dad and I’m wondering who are these children he brought back.

Coulter calls his Dad on the emergency cell (which I guess is the divorced version of “I’m telling Dad on you when he gets home from work) and Emma Claire is crying to her Dad and all I hear is that we are never going to see Rocky again and Coulter’s defense at all this post-Christmas (mis) behavior?

“Aren’t you supposed to do unto others as they do unto you? Uhm, ye-ah.  I had to hit her because of that verse.”

We  need to re-visit that.

But first I need to cry.

Because what else is there to do?

I mean pray, yes. But sometimes crying is easier.

Later, when I did re-visit it, the kiddos explained to me that they wrestle with their Dad and since I don’t wrestle with them, they get carried away and have to hit each other.

And then their words tapered into silence. Even they were able to see just how lame the “Well, you don’t wrestle with us” excuse really was.

Anyway.

It feels like 30-sum below 0, I’ve lost all feeling in my fingers and toes, my children are bickering (and bleeding) and mis-quoting scripture in their defense, calling Fun-Dad to save the day and I’m missing a puppy that just months ago I tried to find a new home for but that I’ve since come to see that this is his home.

We are his home.

And he hates to be cold.

And so, yes. I began to cry.

The phone rang and I blubber out, “This is Myra Katherine.”

The voice on the other end said, “Yes. You called about a missing puppy.”

No tags? Yes!

No tail? Yes!

No boy parts? Yes! Yes! Yes!

The kids pile in, spirits lifted. A trip to the vet for papers and a trip down Luther stopped by a train and a trip around the train and a closed Humane Society that evidently opens if you just knock and a check for new tags and a check for city tags and a check that I suppose is just a polite way of making sure we say “thank you” to your local Humane Society (and one that I was happy to write) and finally, Rocky.

Back home, a wonderful teaching moment remembering to give thanks for answered prayer. We talked about the difference between luck and faith and blessing and a God who told the Sun where to shine in the morning is intimately concerned with me—-

And my children—

And.

Our dogs.

As a puppy, Tiger broke his shoulder, developed a life-threatening infection and was brutally attacked at the dog park. Rocky has gone wandering more times than I can count. I’ve picked him up at the local funeral home and from  back yard neighbors (after he used their doggy door to help himself inside their house) and twice friends have  performed their own rescues bringing home a puppy I never knew was gone.

Anyway.

Straight from this gold-star parenting—faith vs. luck—moment, Emma Claire chimes in.

“Mom, I wish you and Dad would get back together.”

And I can’t help but wonder where she heard such a grown-up phrase.

Not from  me. 🙂

“Is that impossible?” She continues.

“Yes, Emma Claire, that is impossible.”

“I think divorce is stupid.”

“Yes, Emma Claire, I agree. Very stupid.”

But I thought later. No. There is nothing stupid about my life.

In the super-dark days of not-stupid divorce my friend shared:

“Remember this, had any other condition been better for you than the one in which you are, divine love would have put you there.” Spurgeon

Any. Other. Condition?

I recently read through my prayer journal from 2010—the year before our separation. We don’t always get “happily ever after” here on earth, but reading through and remembering my heart-cries, I see clearly that there is nothing stupid.

Only grace.

Elisabeth Elliot says it best.

“Of one thing I am perfectly sure. God’s story never ends with ashes.”

And isn’t our God just something’? The credit for that quote was her book, “Womanhood with Purpose.”

Still working on a plan for purpose but this scattered, tear-proned chicky with two-too many dogs that so perfectly complete her family is steadfast in her faith and resolute in her quest to become a Woman with Purpose.

A purposeful woman. (Or chick or girl or momma, but as I recently explained to friends, anything but “gal”, which I think may be a southern thing but I’m not sure so feel free to chime in.)

(And just fyi—I’m also resolute in my plan that I may do bodily harm to the next person who brags how much nicer the weather is now that we’ve moved into the teens, but I’ll save thoughts on random violence for another blog.)