A Broad in Athens

9/11 remembered through a glass darkly

2011-09-09T11:18:00.000-05:00

Over the past few weeks, I’ve had many exchanges with people about their experiences of September 11, 2001. To a person, everyone has known exactly where they were, exactly when they heard, and whether they saw the towers fall as it happened or caught the horrific moments afterward on video. Everyone remembers.

Except me.

I’ve played that morning over and over in my head. I remember bits and pieces of it. I learned before leaving for work -- I was then the editor of the Athens Daily Review -- that a plane had flown into one of the World Trade Center towers. Did I hear about it on TV or on the radio during my drive to work? I’m not sure.

I also can’t say with certainty how I learned about the second plane. Was I standing at the TV in the newsroom, or was I in my office working on pages? I can only guess.

These gaps in my memory mock me. Why would I, of all people, not be able to access such details? I’m a writer. The emotions of a moment are as important to me as the facts.

What I do remember clearly is the overwhelming feeling of wanting to close my office doors, pull the blinds and be very, very still. At the same time, I wanted to be home with my husband and baby. I wanted to watch TV non-stop; I wanted complete silence. I wanted to know everything I possibly could; I couldn’t bear what I was learning. It was too much.

At some point, weeks or months later, I discovered many recollections of the day had quietly slipped into my subconscious. I imagine them sitting in there, hunched over like an old lady next to memories of my child-birthing pains and most of junior high.

A day or two after the attacks, a community wide prayer service was held on the courthouse lawn. This I remember clearly. My husband, Roy, and I attended. Our 10-month-old daughter, Madeline, was nestled against my back in a baby pack. I worried she would cry. She didn’t. I don’t remember who spoke at the event or what was said.

I do remember, when every head bowed, I became acutely aware of the weight of my daughter against my back, her chubby hand batting at my shoulder, her legs dangling against the small of my back.

That’s when I stopped listening to anyone else and prayed with all my heart, “Please, please, God, protect my baby. Protect my baby from this awful world.”

That’s been my fervent prayer ever since for both Madeline and now her brother Connor. Please, God. Please protect them.

It is a prayer I know thousands shared that day 10 years ago and for days afterward. It is a prayer of hope and fear and desperation, and it still breaks my heart to think about those we lost and the aftermath of sorrow that flows from it still. I will never be able to think on those dark days without a welling up of anguish in my soul. The grief is like a banked ember, forgotten until it flames.

This anniversary is a time for us to muck about in our memories, whatever they may be, to pull up what should be examined, swap stories, cry again. It is the season for such things, and afterward we can move forward again.

How we go about moving forward is crucial. As my beloved former teacher, Paula Lemmon, reminded me, the only thing that truly overcomes hate is love. I believe that, just as I believe God is love and that he will one day sit on his throne and make all things new.

What I am unable to remember with clarity is far less important than what I choose to dwell on now, especially in this season of fire and drought and sad remembrances.

The words Paul wrote to the Philippians echo through my mind. “Whatever is true,” he said, “whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable -- if anything is excellent or praiseworthy -- think about such things.”

It’s an admonition worth remembering in this or any season.

-30-

Of auld lang syne and those yet to come

2008-12-31T23:35:00.000-06:00

It's New Year's Eve. Aside from hearing the dog stretch in the other room and the occasional thump in the attic from what I dearly hope is a squirrel (as opposed to a rat or, say, a jaguar), all is quiet. About two hours ago the kids quit pretending to be asleep and actually were, leaving me to morosely flip channels and consider whom I might call. My sister? My best friend?

The truth is, I miss my husband. He's only been gone a few hours, so it's not the missing of a long absence. It's the missing of my partner during a symbolic-if-silly evening. We should be sharing a glass of wine. And the bed. We should be talking about the time we heralded the New Year perched, kissing and laughing upon the wall surrounding Christ Church Cathedral in Dublin as bells pealed.

All this quietness has me thinking too much -- no wonder at a time when making lists, setting goals and pondering the past is de rigueur. So, why not?

1. Some things I'd like to do in 2009.

Get published in a national magazine.
Start a book.
Have more structure to my days.
Write letters on stationary.
Go on more bike rides with the kids.
Travel to Africa.
Build up muscle in my arms.
Get away, alone, with Roy at least three times.

2. Some things I'm grateful for.

That Christ loves me anyway.
That Roy is an incredibly thoughtful husband.
That our children are beautiful, hale and clever.
An extra refrigerator in the garage.
That, though things are tight, our needs are more than being met.
That I have amazing friends. I can't believe how many people I have in my life who nurture my spirit.
Music. Art. Books.
Belly laughs.
Parents who love their children and each other and never, ever hesitate to say so. And show so.
A brother and sister I call friends.
Cheese.
Being able to reach the bowls on the top shelf without a stool.
A dynamic, loving church that truly seeks to help people.
A good bottle of wine and interesting people with which to share it.
Good health.
In-laws I love.
A passionate marriage.

3. The best things about 2008.

Two trips to Guatemala to love on kids who desperately need to be loved.
Watching Madeline and Connor grow stronger in mind and body.
Enjoying a carefree, sun-soaked summer.
Having another year with Roy.

4. Something I'd change if I could.

I think people who say they have no regrets are either lying to themselves or possessing of very poor memories. There are several things I'd change if I could. Very near the top of that list is a dance I declined nearly 20 years ago. It's been on my mind the last few days.

It was my senior year of high school. Prom. Halfway thru the evening or more, Eric Coker, having clearly mustered up his courage, asked me to dance. Eric may have had a friend, but, if he did, I can't recall who that person was. Though not everyone was cruel to him, plenty were. For my part, not being actively unkind to him didn't translate as kindness.

That night, he came to me and asked me to dance. I'm not sure how long I considered his invitation before I said thank you for asking, but I don't care to dance. It was however long it took to calculate the potential cost I would have to pay in social currency versus the clear need Eric had of just being accepted.

I knew immediately I had taken the coward's way out, and I was ashamed. Very little time passed before I went to find him, to tell him I'd made a mistake and would be honored to dance with him. But he was nowhere to be found.

Ten years later, Eric came to our high school reunion, and I had him sit at our table. He seemed to have a good time. He danced during a few fast songs. He smiled. He said he'd found a group of like-minded individuals in an academic setting that suited him.

A few weeks later, unable to swim, Eric took his life by walking off the end of a pier. He never did find a place in the world.

This coming year, as in past, I hope very much to say yes, whenever possible, to the Eric Cokers of the world. I've been given much, and much is expected.

-30-

Te quiero

2008-01-30T20:25:00.000-06:00

For ten days, early this month, I traveled with a group of men and women to Xela, Guatemala. A week of that time was spent at a government-run orphanage housing around 55 orphans -- boys and girls -- ranging from babies to 14. The orphanage is woefully understaffed.

Typically, there are 90 or more children at Xela (SHAY-luh), but most of the younger children have been sent temporarily to a warmer climate. There is no source of heat in their concrete, uninsulated 200-by-200 concrete compound. I say compound. What I really mean is prison.

A friend of mine who went on the trip said she came home, but a piece of her is still there. I believe it's that way for most of us. A piece of me is still there. What I brought back was a heart full of aching, desperate joy for the time I had there ... in that awful place, with those beautiful children. And stories. I have a head full of stories.

Here's one I wrote while I was still there.

-----

The first time I saw Hector, it was in one of the dingy little classrooms on the upper floor of the orphanage. We brought in some t-shirts that read: Tu eres especial (you are special) for all the kids to have and decorate. I asked the teacher who in the room would be able to write their own names on the shirts. She pointed to two kids out of some 15; one was Hector. The first thing one notices about Hector is his awful bowl haircut and too-short bangs. The next thing, at least for me, is an intangible quality that speaks of something deeper, something special about this child.

I took a liking to him right away, and I think the feeling was mutual. But there were several children those first two days whom I particularly noticed. Those were difficult days for me for different reasons, mostly having to do with being ill prepared spiritually and not giving myself over completely to God’s guidance. I played with the children, hugged them, kissed them, loved them. But both days I felt an inner disquiet that suggested my actions were on target but my heart wasn’t.

Wednesday morning, I asked God to meet me where I was that day and show himself to me. “Give me something, God,” I said. “I need to see you.”

That afternoon, while several of the children were out on field trips, I stayed behind with others to oversee the afternoon activities. Eventually, I found myself in the inner, concrete courtyard-area of the orphanage where a few kids wandered around. I kicked a soccer ball a while with a few before eventually Hector and I found ourselves passing a football back and forth. We played for close to an hour, sometimes involving other children, but always going back to just the two of us. After a while, he decided to spice up the game, and when I passed the ball to him, he tucked it under one arm, stuck his other out in a Heisman Trophy-style pose and ran at me, smiling and growling. I ducked out of the way just as he passed. We did this over and over.

He came at me again. I grabbed him this time and – at my orchestration – we tumbled to the floor. We found ourselves both stretched out, me on my back, Hector on top of me, his head on my chest. I laughed. He laughed. Then something happened.

Our laughter quieted. I didn’t get up. He didn’t get up. We lay there together, breathing heavily from exertion. I patted his back. He patted my arm. We stayed together on that concrete floor.

“Te quiero, Hector,” I said. I love you.

“Te quiero tambien,” he said. I love you too.

We lay there a little longer, just long enough for me to know God had shown himself to me.

Each afternoon for the past three, we’ve taken a portion of the kids to a nearby McDonald’s so they can get out of that walled-in building, have some ice cream and enjoy the outdoor playground. Today was my day to be a chaperone. Providentially, it also happened to be the day Hector was going. I was excited about that, but when it was time to go, I found Hector sitting in a chair, stone-faced, arms crossed and refusing to talk or budge.

“Hector,” I said. “Que paso?”

He didn’t budge, wouldn’t meet my eyes. It doesn’t take much for any of these boys to get angry, either turning inward or lashing out violently. He had turned inward.

“Hector. Por favor.” I tried pulling him gently into a hug. He resisted. I kissed his head. “Por favor.” I knelt in front of him. “Hector.”

Whatever had caused this reaction had nothing to do anymore with his behavior. He was full of despair.

I took one thin wrist in my hand and placed it behind my neck, then the other and pulled him toward me. He didn’t embrace me, but he didn’t pull away, so I pulled him up into my arms, this nine-year-old boy, and held him. I took him to a corner of the room, with his face turned toward the wall and I started to sing to him the song I sang to my children when they were babies and cried.

He couldn’t understand the words, of course, but the melody, it’s repetitiveness and my swaying eventually melted him, and he began to cry. He cried and cried on my shoulder, keening with grief.

He wept for a long while: when I took him to the front door, when we passed into the courtyard. Just before the front gates of the orphanage were unlocked, he calmed. Holding his hand, I led him in front of the rest of the kids waiting in line so that he and I could get a prime spot at the front of the bus. I sat him by the window, and while everyone else loaded up, I put a seat belt on him and pulled from my backpack the little iPod Shuffle Madeline had loaned me for the trip.

I placed one earphone in his right ear, the other in my left. I clipped the Shuffle to his shirt and hit play, finding a song for us to listen to as the bus started moving.

It was almost unbearably sweet, unbearably heartbreaking to see the longing on his serious little face as he stared out the window at the world he’s been rejected by, listening to sad, beautiful music and clutching my hand in both of his. I scooted down a bit in my chair, pushed my shoulder up next to his and memorized forever the look on his face, the feel of his hands around mine, the sounds of the city passing as we both remained mute and cocooned in the certain knowledge that this moment was beautiful and fleeting.

Hector and the other kids had a wonderful time on the playground. They laughed and played and made a mess of the ice cream the way all children do. In no time, we were back on the bus, sitting side by side. I pulled out the iPod and hit play as the bus started moving. I felt him pulling at my arm. He wanted me to hold his hand again. So I did. We were silent again. He stared out the window. As we were nearing the orphanage, I began to sing the song that was playing. It’s a popular song about a boy pining for a girl. Silly in the context. I found though, as I sang the words, the meaning changed for me. I began to sing to Hector.

“I came from miles and miles to stand outside your door … And you will be loved. You will be loved.”

Neither one of us moved until everyone else had unloaded from the bus. He watched me while I sang. Finally, I shrugged. My shrug said, “It has to end now.”

He handed me his earphone with an almost imperceptible nod. We understood each other.

-30-

Hello, old friend

2007-11-05T09:01:00.000-06:00

This morning, I met Fall. Driving back to the house from dropping off my son, I crested the hill of a busy residential street. Just then a gust of wind shook the limbs of the trees overhead, causing a patchwork quilt of yellow leaves and blue sky to be shaken out before me.

I've been waiting. Fall here in East Texas is not often remarkable. We do have the occasional turn of spectacular fall color, but most years the surrender from summer to winter is marked by an unobtrusive passage from green, to pale green to yellow to lawn carpet, with patches of red thrown in.

While there's nothing much for leaf looky-loos to get excited about, I have come each year to anticipate the leaf showers. Around our house, particularly in the back yard, and lining some of my favorite well-traveled back roads, are elm trees. I love the shape of these trees. They form a graceful umbrella canopy, with narrow limbs hanging down here and there like wayward tendrils of hair. When the wind blows, the trees sway gently. The movement mesmerizes me on the too-rare occasions when I stop, still and watch.

Seeing those leaves swirl up over the hood of the car this morning, bouncing against my windshield made me smile. It's not cool enough to require a jacket this morning, but autumn has made its entrance.

Once I arrived home, I walked out under one of the big elm trees, looking up as gusts of wind brought the leaves down around me like a light fall of snow. Just above, patches of white clouds streaked so quickly across the blue sky, it was as though everything outside the graceful, downward arc of leaves moved in fast motion. Within: peace. Without: the world.

I didn't pray, not consciously. But it occurs to me now I was obeying one of the commands I too often ignore.

Be still and know that I am God.

-30-

Call me Ptomaine Toni

2007-07-01T22:54:00.000-05:00

About six weeks ago, I decided it was time to lose some weight. The catalyst for my decision came in the form of an old pair of shorts. Actually, it wasn't the shorts as much as it was the zipper ... and its reluctance to zip. That. was. it. I started the South Beach Diet the next day. Roy joined me, which made the whole thing easier. Although the word "easy" is perhaps misleading.

South Beach was developed by a cardiologist for his patients and spread by word-of-mouth until he eventually wrote a book that has sold a gabillion copies (give or take 12). Phase 1 of the diet lasts two weeks and is pretty strict: no pasta, bread, juice, fruit, corn, peas or alcohol. Other than the pretty hardy breakfasts and fish allowed, you might as well pack yourself into a cardboard box full of lettuce and sugar-free Jell-O and eat yourself out in 14 days.

Phase 1, for all its restrictions, worked like gangbusters. But not before, in the first few days, I felt hungry enough to suck the toothpaste right out of the tube, not before I got so SICK of grilled chicken salad I couldn't bear the sight of a freshly mowed lawn. But because Roy and I were doing it together and because it became a matter of pride for me, I stuck with it.

About four days into it, I was throwing dinner together in a hurry, trying to get things on the table before Roy had curtain call. (My renaissance man was in the local production of "To Kill a Mockingbird.") I grabbed a bowl, marinated and seasoned several chicken breasts, popped the chicken in the oven, heated some green beans (minus a dab of bacon grease. sigh.), sliced and diced for the salad and washed up a few dishes. Roy was running out of time, so I went ahead and threw the salad together and sat with him to eat while the kids played. He left. I set the table for the kids, got the chicken out, told the kids to wash up and put dishes in the sink.

That's when I grabbed the salad bowl. The perfectly empty, spotless salad bowl. I stared into it, at the tiny oval reflection of the overhead light, the one covered in asymmetrical yellow daisies painted there by my grandmother. I stared stupidly, as if by not moving, I could alter the reality that I had served salad in the same bowl used to prepare raw poultry.

My response was a cross between panic and self-rage, with liberal use of a word rhyming with shmum-ash. I called Roy at the theatre to let him know if at some point in the second act he began to feel a little queasy, it likely wasn't nerves, but the first twinge of a horrible bout of food-poisoning that might have both of us curled in the fetal position with our faces pressed against the cool, cool bathroom tile.

Rather than acknowledge the fact that he had, sadly, married a shmum-ash, he assured me it would be just fine. That the bacteria from the uncooked chicken surely wouldn't be a problem. I responded by lovingly assuring him that, no, we were both about to die, thank you very much, and I'm pretty sure Harper Lee never envisioned Boo Radley projectile vomiting on Atticus.

The only silver lining was that, thankfully, the children hadn't eaten the salad.

About half-an-hour later, my friend Cathy pulled up. Her children were in the play, and she had heard from Roy about our impending date with acute gastro-intestinal cleansing. She pulled a bag out of her car and explained that her family used some products that might be very helpful to us. Out of the bag she pulled items I'm pretty sure even Whole Foods doesn't carry: a 32-ounce bottle of Liquid Chlorophyll; another of Whole Leaf Aloe Vera and a little squeeze bottle of Grapefruit Seed Extract (GSE). The GSE is a "bit tart," Cathy warned and would be more palatable mixed with fruit juice. I didn't bother explaining fruit juice was a Phase 1 no-no. With a few directions, she left me with the sack, on her way to deliver one large Chlorophyll/Aloe/GSE cocktail to Roy at the theatre.

Now, look. I don't particularly like green vegetables. I eat green beans because I know they're good for me. I eat asparagus and steamed broccoli, as long as it's smothered in butter. I don't care for much else green. So standing over my sink holding a white bottle of Liquid Chlorophyll stained green around its lid was similar to that moment right before the technician yanks the wax off.

The prospect of food poisoning, however, was sufficient motivation for me to dutifully mix a teaspoonful of chlorophyll into eight ounces of water. The smell isn't actually that bad. It's rather minty.

The smell lies. If you've shockingly never enjoyed a glass of chlorophyll, imagine gathering two large handfuls of grass clippings from your yard. Grab a few pine needles if they're handy and four or fives leaves from any available shrub. Place your harvest into the blender, add a little water and, voila!

If you don't remember your science that well, chlorophyll is the green pigment in plants that helps out with photosynthesis. According to Nature's Sunshine Products, Inc., it's also useful as a digestive tract detoxifier and supports intestinal health. I clung to that bit of propaganda as green water dripped down my gulping throat.

Next: Whole Leaf Aloe Vera. This time I mixed an ounce with water. The bottle assured me I was in for a "refreshing and pleasant tasting vegetable juice drink" which would be "intensely cleansing."

Refreshing and pleasant my ash. It tastes precisely how one might imagine it would if you broke a leaf off your aloe plant, jammed in a straw and sucked. Except maybe not that good.

I just managed to fight back the gag reflex, reminding myself what I was drinking would combat the bacteria in my digestive system. Fortified by that thought, I proceeded to put several drops of the grapefruit seed extract containing Citricidal into a third glass of water and knocked it back.

I like grapefruits fine, cut open and served with a sprinkling of sugar. I have nothing against grapefruit. But this stuff was so intensely tart that hours later I could still taste it on the back of my throat like a sour paste. I couldn't finish this drink all in one take, stopping to stomp, slap my hand on the counter and gasp.

A couple of hours later I repeated the process. The good news is, neither Roy nor I were ever sick. I can't say whether we just got lucky or the stuff we took really lived up to its billing. Either way, we were very, very fortunate -- if you call eating Salmonella Salad with a chaser of Liquid Plant fortunate.

In this case, I suppose the glass of liquid chlorophyll was half full.

-30-

The getaway

2007-05-02T22:20:00.000-05:00

I called Erin the other day to find out how long a hickey takes to fade. She said she wouldn't know, which I find hard to believe since -- hello! -- she has four kids.

The sad thing is said blemish wasn't a result of marital congress. I was grooming and unintentionally pinched the skin on my neck. Sounds implausible, I know. But I have the kind of skin that will redden up for half-an-hour when I scratch it too hard. It makes mosquito season a cornucopia of joy. (Mosquito season in East Texas runs from February to December.)

Anyway, the next morning when I finally got around to looking at myself in the mirror -- well after I'd dropped Madeline off at school -- I saw the telltale mark of any saucy tart worth her salt. (Angry comments from offended saucy tarts will be forwarded to the John McCain for President website. I don't know why. It will just amuse me.)

Erin didn't even believe my story at first, which indicates my inner saucy tart might be showing. This is probably the result of a recent getaway weekend with my husband. About two years ago we pledged to make it a priority to get away by ourselves for a couple of nights about every four months. Oh, my. I still vividly recall about 12 hours into our first getaway thinking, Yes! I remember us being this way. ... why did we have kids? Oh, yeah. We love and want them. They're wonderful. That, uh, what's her name ... Madeline! Yes, Madeline. She's the smartest most precocious child and her brother ... uhm ... her brother ... two years younger, blond. Connor! Yep, Connor. He's so funny. Great kids. Great, great kids. Honey, could you get me another mojito?

Seriously, I cannot say enough about the importance of getting away with your spouse for some alone time on a regular basis -- even if it's just a standing date night. It's marvelous for boosting intimacy, energy and generosity in the most crucial relationship in your family.

But even as I preach this, we don't always find it easy to make arrangements to get away for a long weekend. In fact, this last occasion was the first time we'd done so in nine months. Nine. long. months. As is our custom, we stayed at the Hyatt Regency (think the giant, lit ball above the Dallas skyline). While Roy parked, I went ahead to check in, full of the joy that accompanies the beginning of a much-anticipated trip. I strode up to the counter before a young woman with a friendly face.

"Hello," I said. "I have reservations for two."

She pulled up my name. "Yes, Mrs. Clay. I see you've already paid. I'll just need your credit card for any additional charges."

I gave it to her and she clicked away on her keyboard, finally pulling out two card keys. "I have you in a non-smoking room on the fifth floor with two double beds." She extended the cards toward me.

I stood there a moment, not moving, letting the words "two double beds" echo through my mind. This is what happens when you book through Priceline. They put you in a room low enough to hear the noise from the usually-loud open-to-the-top lobby with TWO DOUBLE BEDS. I don't want TWO DOUBLE BEDS. I want a giganta bed. I want a bed that screams This Way to Marital Congress! Or something like that.

I glanced at her nametag. "Jaymee," I said, my deep voice taking on perhaps a hint of controlled hysteria, "I don't think that room will do. I don't think two double beds will do."

I leaned in a bit. "Jaymee, I have two young children. My husband and I are spending our first weekend together, away from them" -- I spoke slowly -- "in nine months." Another beat. "They are six and four."

She stared at me. I lifted an eyebrow.

"OK, Mrs. Clay," she clicked on her keyboard again, "I have you in a non-smoking room with a king-size bed on the 25th floor with a city view. Is there anything else I can do for you?"

I smiled. "Jaymee, you rock."

About an hour-and-a-half later someone knocked on our door. Roy and I looked at each other. The kind of looks that said, "Why is there someone knocking on our hotel door and can this be good?" After a bit of scrambling, Roy opened it. I could hear a woman's voice but not make out the words.

When the door closed, he walked around the corner, grinning, with a bottle of champagne, a cork and two wine glasses. There was also a note signed by every member of the desk crew. The message said, "We hope you enjoy your stay here."

And we did. Yes, we did.

-30-

Upon having returned from Sam Hill

2007-04-27T13:30:00.000-05:00

I would say I'm back, but that would be pretty presumptuous considering not more than a handful of people care one way or the other whether I blog. And of that handful, fully half primarily visit this site for its links to bloggers who have a habit of actually posting.

I can't say precisely why I checked out of Blog World. By checked out, I mean not writing or reading any posts. My sister-friend JT would tell me when a particularly funny post somewhere cracked her up, like BigMama's encounter with a rude pedicurist. (Ironically, JT started blog reading because I kept sending her links insisting You Must Read This.)

And My Friend Erin With Four Kids keeps me up-to-date on major events in the lives of bloggy people she knows I care about. For good measure, she also lets me know when other bloggers -- those I hadn't gotten to know -- are going through tragedy. Erin is one of the most tender-hearted people I know, so she really goes there and digs in when others are hurting. She tells me I should read something because it's heartbreaking-but-inspiring writing. I usually don't read it, though, not if I wasn't already emotionally invested in that person's life on some level.

I ask myself why that is, and what comes to mind is ... an oyster. Sometimes I'm a mother hen (are they really that nurturing?) and other times I'm an oyster. A five-foot-eleven-inch oyster with freakishly long toes and a knuckle-popping habit. During, shall we say, the season of the oyster, when I get an intrusion of bad news that doesn't involve my immediate world, I protect myself by not examining it too closely. Instead, I begin to segregate it from the rest of my life, turning it over and over inside without letting it get imbedded too deeply. Present but separate.

The analogy breaks down, of course, when one considers this process in an actual oyster produces a pearl, while in me it produces ... uhm. I'll get back to you on that one. It also makes me less than exemplar in the arena of current events. Which is -- if I may use the word again -- ironic. I'm not suggesting we shouldn't ever get involved in the lives of strangers. I'm really not. But there are times, for better or worse, I'm compelled to tighten my focus considerably.

Look, I was a newspaper editor for seven years. Nearly every day I perused the Associated Press Wire, often reading the worst news I could imagine: children left in scorching cars to die, genocide, rape, abuse of power here and abroad. I went to the occasional murder scene where, once, people gathered in the street told me, "when you get angry enough, it just happens" as if I should understand why someone ends an argument with a gun.

When I left that job, which I loved, I traded in the 24-hour news cycle for the When-It-Really-Matters cycle. I felt like I had filled up on so much bad news in inverted-pyramid form, it would take at least seven more years to unload it. So I let my Newsweek subscription lapse. I don't watch Dateline or CNN. I read Slate online to keep abreast of the most major events. And, of course, my circle of friends keeps me grounded in the 21st century.

All that said, it wasn't because I was reading too much (or any) sad news that I took leave of Blog World. I think it's more because I developed a habit somewhere in the past two years of just stepping away from things from time to time.

Roy and I lived without television for most of the years of our marriage. We've had the cable hooked up for about a year or so now, and as much as I enjoy access to certain shows, I'm beginning to think we ought to disconnect again. I vegged out last night. Oh, sure it would take super-human strength not to watch the very first episode of "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" (her hair was brown! staked vampires didn't disintegrate immediately! Xander was thin!), but I should have just gone to bed. Then of course it was continued to the next episode, so I had to watch. Had. to. Then I felt guilty because I had put off reading my Bible. News flash: Zechariah at 1:30 in the morning isn't easy reading. My priorities aren't reflecting well in my time allotment.

I do the same thing with books. I love getting lost in fiction. But no doubt at lot of that time would be more wisely spent elsewhere. God is clearly telling me I need to step away from certain things, and in the process move closer to him.

Last night, when I groggily opened up to Zechariah, this opened my eyes wide: "Therefore tell the people: This is what the Lord Almighty says: 'Return to me,' declares the Lord Almighty, 'and I will return to you.'

It strikes me that it's all good and well to check out of reading or watching or blogging for a while, but if I'm not also in the process returning to him, it really doesn't matter.

-30-

This old house

2007-02-17T22:56:00.000-06:00

Colmesneil -- In the spring of 1955, a man named Woodrow Davis married a woman named Mildred Landrum, though no one called her Mildred. They called her Red.

The name hasn’t been self-explanatory in many years. Red's hair is nearly the color of milk glass. The freckles that once marched across her smooth, white skin have faded. But in my mind’s eye I easily see a head full of wavy, rebelliously red hair.

The day Red married Woodrow, she became the mother of three children: 14-year-old Jerrie, 12-year-old Jimmy and seven-year-old Brenda. Woodrow’s first wife had died five years earlier, when Brenda, my mother, was 13 months old.

Before the wedding, people asked Red if she was worried about inheriting three children. She told them she wasn’t.

When Red was around 19 years old, she had surgery. When she woke up from the anesthesia, the doctor sat at the end of her bed and said, “Now, you know, you’ll never have children.”

She loved children. The news was devastating. So when people asked Red if she was worried about becoming a mother to three children, the answer was easy: No. She was glad. Though the transition wasn't always easy.

Red had grown up in a sawmill town, Woodrow a few miles down the road in Mt. Carmel. They dated some in high school. He took her dancing. Then they drifted apart the way teenagers do.

When he was about 18, Woodrow met a girl in Ebenezer community, about nine miles down the road. Her name was Sadie Ruth Ellis. They fell in love, married and had children.

“You never met a better woman,” Red will say of Sadie Ruth. Everyone knew each other in the Deep Pineywoods of East Texas, when Sunday night dances were a dime and even that wasn't easy to come by.

Five years following Sadie Ruth’s sudden death, Red’s sister set her up on a date with Woodrow. He took her dancing. They both loved to dance.

“She was good,” laughs Woodrow. “I could hardly get a dance with her because everyone else wanted to.”

“Your Pappaw was a good dancer too,” she says with a serious nod.

After they were married about two years, Woodrow bought some land in Colmesneil and paid $7,000 to have a little wood-framed house built on it. But before the house could be built, the land had to be cleared.

There is a reason this part of Texas is called The Big Thicket. Red and Woodrow and Jimmy used a cross-cut saw, an ax, a shovel and a hoe to cut back a matted tangle of briars, chop down trees and dig out stumps. They tamed Mother Nature and eventually moved into the little white house on Highway 69.

Oftentimes after school, Jimmy and Brenda would sit at the table with Red and talk about their day. While they talked, Jimmy might drink a half-gallon of milk, courtesy of their dairy cow. The day they switched to store-bought milk, said Red, Jimmy quit drinking milk.

Over the years, Red and Woodrow expanded the house by taking in part of the front porch, adding on rooms, expanding the kitchen. Red’s azaleas climbed a pipe-framed tower in the side yard, and in the spring they still burst into a glory of color. Until recently, every summer Woodrow’s butterbean vines crawled so high up bamboo poles, an eight-foot ladder was required for harvesting. Once, a passing photographer spotted him in the garden, and a few months later Woodrow appeared in Texas Highways, perched atop the ladder, smiling from under the brim of his baseball cap with an outstrechted hand snapping off a butterbean. That picture hung in the kitchen, in a homemade frame, for years.

The picture isn’t there tonight. It’s in a box. The dining room table on which many an amazing meal was served isn’t here either. Nor are the chairs. Or the curio cabinet. The sofa is gone from the living room. The twin beds where my parents sleep during visits have been moved. There are a few chairs left, along with the TV, and a dropleaf table for meals from a depleted refrigerator. The master bed remains so Mammaw and Pappaw can spend a few more nights here while things are set up just a few miles away, in the comfortable little trailerhome behind Uncle Jimmy’s house and, nextdoor, Aunt Jerrie’s house. The double bed where I always sleep remains as well, perhaps because they knew I was coming.

I would have slept on the floor.

It’s not that there aren’t other homes here in Colmesneil where I’m welcome. Being a Davis in these parts means kinship in an enormous clan. But I would happily throw a pillow down in the living room and lay under an orange-yellow-and-brown crocheted afghan to be in this house one more night.

When I was very young, we came here on a visit. My memory of this particular visit begins with the house being full of people. Most of the people were relatives, but I didn’t know all their names. Several of them were crying, including my mother. So I backed into the utility room (“the freezer room,” Mammaw calls it) and started to cry myself.

That’s when Aunt Jerrie spotted me, my beautiful Aunt Jerrie. She was loud like my mom, like all the Davises. She laughed loud and talked loud and smiled a lot. But not this time. This time she was soft, and I felt better as soon as she spotted me.

“What’s wrong, baby?” she said, putting her hands under my arms and lifting me onto the freezer.

“Why is everybody crying?” I asked.

“Well, baby …” Her voice cracked. She gathered herself. “They’re just sad because Grandma died, and they loved her very much. But they’ll be OK. They just need to be sad for a little while.”

That moment on the freezer, in this house, I started to learn about life’s transiency. The lesson continues tonight.

Growing up, I spent at least a week every summer in Colmesneil, staying primarily at Mammaw and Pappaw’s house. My cousin Alex and I were inseperable as kids, and when we weren’t at Lake Tejas or at his parents’ house down the road, we were running in and out of Mammaw and Pappaw’s.

Mammaw would let us fill two bowls with Doritos, and we would lay in the living room floor, pulling out a chip at a time and comparing to see whose was covered with the most cheese. Then we’d argue about it. We stood out at the end of the driveway, and when the big rigs roared by, we’d pump our fists up and down so the drivers would blow their horns. When they did, we’d shout and jump for joy. We tromped through the woods in back of the barn where we’d imagine lurking hobos who’d hopped from passing trains. We created elaborate booby traps for the hobos, who somehow always evaded capture.

Most my memories in and around the house are loud ones. The Davises are a vocal bunch. I love how often our extended family gathered in the sitting area off the kitchen and laughed and argued about who had done what with whom, and just how long have they been crazy anyway?

I love that my own children have run through this house and played on the same swinging see-saw Alex and I enjoyed (even though it can pinch the bejeebers outta your leg). This is a wonderful place. And today, I swear, was the first day I consciously noticed the paint peeling on the garage in back. Today is the first day I realized just how many of the surrounding oak trees were felled by Hurricane Rita.

Red and Woodrow – my mammaw and pappaw – have lived here for 50 years, welcoming children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren. He is 89. She will be in August. The fact that they’re still able to do for themselves is a blessing, even if an inordinate amount of grunting is required.

I do not equate losing this house with losing them. Wherever they are, I’ll go there and be glad to be with them.

A house is a house. But it isn’t just a house. This house has a familiar, comfortable smell comprised of old things, years of great cooking and abundant grandparent love.

I thank God I still have the grandparent love. But I know when I leave here tomorrow, I’ll never experience the smell again.

-30-

Fat Tuesday tales

2007-02-15T14:30:00.000-06:00

Last weekend we made our annual pilgrimage to Shreveport to spend Mardi Gras with good friends. I've never been to Mardi Gras in New Orleans, but from the stories I've heard, the Shreveport version is decidedly more family friendly.

Oh, sure, there are the girls dressed like a Cosmo cover in 40-degree weather, warmed only by Budweiser and a burning desire to attract members of the male species more intent on goose-pimply cleavage than evidence of a brain. Not that I notice these girls from under my wool socks, tights, jeans, undershirt, sweater, parka, hat and gloves.

The parade route runs along the river, and the city divides the river bank up into narrow lots, which are divvied out by lottery. By mid-afternoon the street is closed, and the undulating route transforms into miles' worth of gumbo, grilling, music and laughter. Kids run about making new friends when not begging for cotton candy, gaudy hats and 50-cent light wands being hawked for $10.

Last year, a God-sent lady from one of the nearby lots walked over to our group to say she thought a little boy from our collection had wandered down the street and was in the hands of a police officer. Just as I was opening my mouth to say all of ours were accounted for, thank-you-very-much, I realized Connor -- who I knew was RIGHT THERE eating the hotdog I had just handed him -- was, well, not there.

I walked at least a block through a mass of humanity before I spotted my 3-year-old in the hands of the officer. He was perfectly calm, having happily followed a cart full of flashing lights.

This year -- thank you, Jesus -- all children remained accounted for. Aside from eating his cotton candy with black mittens and walking down the street insistent on balancing a stuffed chicken on his head, Connor was pretty mild-mannered.

Madeline on the other hand was feeling particularly flamboyantant. She fell in love with Kelly's Mardi Gras mask and after asking 5 to the infinite power number of times for her own, which wasn't possible at the time, Kelly allowed Madeline to wear it to the parade. (The whole reason for gathering is to get there several hours before the parade arrives.) I thought she'd get tired of wearing it, but that didn't happen for the first several hours.

Then, as evening arrived, Madeline took it into her head that she and Carl (Gene and Kelly's son) needed to tango. About a month ago, while flipping stations, I had watched 10 minutes of a dance competition on PBS -- I'm pretty sure I'll dance like that in heaven; the rest of you can amble politely in choir robes -- and apparently Madeline had paid close attention.

So she and and a more-than-game Carl clenched hands and began to march up and down the street, swiveling their upturned chins so dramatically a Bobble-head doll would fear whiplash. It was classic, and when I wasn't laughing I was thinking how lovely it is she's still so free just to be.

She wants to tango. So she tangos. Never mind that she's not sure how. Never mind several hundred people are walking by.

A girl must dance.

A boy must balance a chicken on his head.

And all is well.

-30-

This rains got my Éire up

2007-02-09T17:12:00.000-06:00

It's been raining quite a bit the past several months, and that's put me in mind of Ireland. They call it the Emerald Isle because it's so green. It's so green because it rains. A lot. Actually, it mists a lot. Flat-out rain isn't a constant.

That's what it's been doing around East Texas for several days: drizzling enough to curl my hair so that every day it looks as though I just got a haircut. A very bad haircut ... with the piece de resistance being a double spritz of overpriced Mega Frizz.

It's not just the rain that has me thinking of our time abroad, though. I've been reading Madeline a chapter a night of "The Secret Garden." (We adore it.) The book is set in York, and a number of the characters have a broad Yorkshire accent. For the sake of performance integrity -- and the need to distinguish between characters -- I must, of course, employ different dialects. The problem is that I don't have a wide repertoire. In fact, the only accent I can feign with better-than-nauseating results is a sort of Gaelic mish-mash.

I can also hold my own as a Munchkin from the Wizard of Oz, which was always fun in college. When JT and I got bored, we'd go through Wal-Mart and speak only in high-frequency Munchkin speak. That was after we'd gone to Chevron and charged off-brand Doritos, 2 cans of tunafish and a 2-liter of Coke to her dad's gas card. But I digress.

When Roy and I lived in Dublin, two of our flatmates were college students from County Galway. They were lovely (LOOHV-ley) girls, a fascinating mix of modern and traditional, unthinkingly sprinkling their everyday speech with thee's and ye's. ("Do ye mean to say ye didna know black puddin' was blood sausage? I bet that surprised thee.") It was like having a conversation with a King James Bible, only hip and funny.

I learned a lot from our talks in the teeny-tiny "kitchen/eating area" we shared on the first floor. Among which was the certainty that having a bathroom off a teen-tiny kitchen you share with three other people, with a door that's two inches shy of meeting the floor is not desirable.

For love of mercy, just finish your freakin' tea and bickies and go!

I have a couple of stories worth sharing, like the time Roy unintentionally insulted the Lord Mayor and the time I assaulted a man. But they'll have to wait until we get back from Mardi Gras. We're off to spend a family-friendly weekend in Loueeesiana.

Ye be good.

-30-

Can't I just carry the big stick?

2007-02-02T09:22:00.000-06:00

My dad used to say to me, "Do as I say, not as I do." Fortunately, he's the kind of man where often doing as he did was the right thing. But he'll admit he has a temper. And -- sigh -- I have to admit the same. I find myself having to apologize to my kids every now and again, almost always because I've lost my temper.

The thing is, I didn't KNOW I had such a temper until I had kids. People warn that you can't truly prepare for parenting, but you can at least anticipate certain things such as sleepless nights and coming into contact with more poop than a dairy farmer.

I did not, however, anticipate the times when just one more thing crawls. all. over. me. leading to bellowing and snorting and frantic hand-waving. It's ridiculous. I usually realize it's ridiculous in the midst of the snorting and deflate like a Whoopee cushion. Cue the apology.

This is something I've really been working on the last several months. God used Madeline to grab my attention on this when, in the course of a bedtime discussion, she commented quite calmly, "No, Mom, you don't yell at us all the time. ... Just most the time."

Hello, Conviction. Yes, just take that batt you've got there in your hand and beat me with it. Thanks.

OK. I wasn't yelling at my kids MOST of the time. In fact -- as she protests like Lady Macbeth -- I don't yell as much as I "raise my voice." (There is a distinction. Yes, there is.) As it happens, I have a strong, somewhat deep voice that always got me called out in school no matter who else was talking (Janet and Lori). In any case, Madeline's perception is what mattered. And, clearly, I was hollering/raising my voice too much.

These days I try, when I feel the pressure rising, to just get quiet. To speak very low. (Have you seen Meryl Streep in "The Devil Wears Prada"? I mean the tone; not the evil.) This tactic doesn't necessarily diffuse the situation, but it does seem to keep it from ratcheting things up.

A number of times recently, as I've tucked Madeline into bed, I've thanked God for the time she and I spent together that day: time with a minimum of head-butting or wailing. That's not because Madeline has changed. That's because I'm changing. And just this week I had one of the best days I've had with Connor in a long time. He was less mercurial. Part of that is the fact that he's maturing. Part of that is the fact that I'm maturing.

Remarkably, striving to be a better parent is making me a better person.

-30-

... with a young bull for a sin offering and a ram for a burnt offering ...

2007-01-25T17:40:00.000-06:00

I've been reading the Bible lately. And by "reading the Bible," I don't mean just on Sunday morning when the preacher directs everyone to Jeremiah, chapter 40, verses 2 through 4, and I try my best to look like I know whether Jeremiah is before or after Psalms, and for that matter is Psalms before or after Ecclesiastes, because that's where my Bible opened.

By this time everyone's already read about Jeremiah, and moved on to Isaiah -- who is not to be confused with Hosea. And excuse me. I just found Jeremiah! Why are we in such an all-fired hurry here?

No. That's not what I'm talking about. (And, by the way, that never happens to me.)

What I'm talking about is reading the whole glory-hallelujiah-let-there-be-light-but-the-serpent-gave-it-four-stars-they-worshiped-a-calf?-a-child-is-born-They-know-not-what-they-do-he'll-be-back Bible from Genesis to Revelations.

I'd made a short-lived attempt at "The Bible in 90 Days" regimen some months ago. So when PEZmama announced she'd be leading an on-line group through the same program, I jumped on board. I figured being a Christian and all, it behooves me to read my history; it'll teach me to love God more deeply; and I can regale friends with banter such as, "Did you know Abraham was married to his half-sister and pimped her out twice?" (Hey, he did.)

How hard could it be to read 12 pages (of small-script on razor-thin paper) a day? Turns out it's something of a challenge. It takes me about an hour and a half. Apparently, it takes most people about 45 minutes. I'd like to think I require more time because I'm absorbing God's word. Because I'm analyzing it for subtleties lesser minds might miss. In actuality, it's because I frequently have no idea what I just read and have to move back three paragraphs. Think Candyland meets Canaan.

Actually, I really enjoyed Genesis. I'd read pretty much all of it before, but not straight through. And it's quite a tale. There's poetry; there's drama; there's very old people. We see Abraham having dinner with God the Father, Son and Holy Spirit. There's a pretty humorous scene with Abraham bargaining with God over Sodom's pending destruction:

But what if there are fifty righteous people there?
If I find fifty righteous people, I'll spare the whole place for their sake.
Uh, now that I've been so bold as to speak to the Lord, though I'm nothing but dust and ashes, what if there are, oh, five less than fifty?
If I find forty-five there, I won't destroy it.
Okaaay. How about 40?
Sure.
Mmm-hmm. Now, don't get mad, but, if you don't mind me asking, what if you can only find thirty?
Fine.
Great. Uh, how 'bout twenty?
OK.
Sorry, uh -- just once more here -- how about ten?
Yes. Ten. We're done here.

God clearly understand the frustrations of parenting.

So even though the reading is a significant commitment (although not really considering how much time I spend on pointless frivolities), I really enjoyed Genesis. And Exodus started out pretty exciting (and weird): snakes, rivers of blood, hordes of frogs, gnats, flies, locusts. Good times.

Then the instructions begin. Instructions on how to build the tabernacle and everything inside it. I previously had no clue the Ark of the Covenant was made of acacia wood -- two and a half cubits long, a cubit and a half wide, and a cubit and a half high. That it was overlaid inside and out with pure gold to which four gold rings were fastened on its four feet. Or that the gold-overlaid poles inserted into the rings were never to be removed. Or ... .

But I kept reading and finally was rewarded by ... Leviticus. Leviticus is God's way of making the reader feel as if she too is wandering in the desert for 40 years. Tell me the sin, and I'll tell you the animal to be slaughtered. And where to smear its blood. And what to do with its fat. I cried out to the Lord in my suffering.

What struck me is the incredible specificity of the guidelines for sacrifices, cleansing, observing feasts, etc. juxtaposed with how often the Bible is incredibly, even frustratingly brief. There are 45 verses on how to handle persons with infectious skin diseases. There are six verses on Lot's daughters getting intentionally impregnated by their drunken father. Yes, it's gross. But that's it? Six verses? Did Lot get suspicious when the kids were born with his hairline? Did he care?

Here's the important thing, though: even when I was wading through Leviticus -- and it gets much more interesting after that -- I felt comforted by being in the word every day. I still do.

One night my leg was hurting enough to warrant some pain medicine and a heat pack. As I laid in bed, I started to do that thing. You know. Where you imagine every ache is a tumor? Normally, I mentally walk that road until I fall asleep and then wake up feeling foolish. But that night, no sooner had I taken a few steps down that path than my spirit heard: "Whatever happens, I'm with you. Rest." And I did. Immediately. It was awesome.

The more I read, the more I view God as an incredibly mysterious, forgiving, judgmental, frustrating, loving personality. I'm also seeing a much broader picture of The Story than I've seen before, which is helpful, to say the least.

And as for the questions raised by what I've read, for the most part I accept that "the secret things belong to the Lord our God, but the things revealed belong to us and to our children forever ...." (Deut. 29:29)

I thank God for what he reveals. Even in Leviticus.

-30-

On a winter's day

2007-01-18T20:15:00.000-06:00

I bundled Madeline and Connor up yesterday to go break off icicles (several of which are now in the freezer) and expend some pent-up energy. These two photos speak volumes about their personalities.

Please, join our heresy

2007-01-11T10:33:00.000-06:00

I received an email yesterday that engaged me more than anything I've read in a while. It was from Janet, my heart's sister. She asked me some no-frills questions about spiritual doubt. I love those sorts of "hard" questions. No wishy-washiness. No Sunday school language. Just: Here's what I've been thinking about. What's your take?

Sometimes the discussion is resolved with an "answer," oftentimes not. But always I feel invigorated by the discourse. Aren't we instructed to love the Lord with all our hearts, minds and souls? He's not afraid of our questions. What are yours?

I'm posting a very slightly edited version -- I had to dumb myself down just a little, you know, so as not to intimidate anyone -- of our "conversation" yesterday. I invite you to join in.

----- Original Message -----

From: Janet
To: Toni
Sent: Wednesday, January 10, 2007 12:21 AM
Subject: rambling...

Toni,

I don't know if this has ever happened to you, but I was being asked a gazillion questions by Austin about Lucifer and his descent into Hell, when it dawned on me – I'd rather be asked about Santa Claus, because THAT I can explain. Have you ever felt this way? I mean, I know what I know; I feel what I feel; but sometimes I can't help but feel I'm perpetuating some myth Frank told us all was fake long ago.

I'm not having a crisis of faith. I repeat: I AM NOT HAVING A CRISIS OF FAITH.

But still...

Austin had asked me about Lucifer's fall from Heaven, because he’s been explaining it all to a friend, and I found myself longing to explain Santa Claus's rise from Chris Cringle and the whole Rudolph saga. It's much easier.

So I talked to Wade, and he read me an excerpt from "The Brothers Karamazov" that was so compelling, so riveting that it was comforting. This has seriously been a question for thousands of years. And, as I had suspected: agnostics, atheists and believers alike all require faith. Faith. What a hard-to-nail-down word. What is faith?

And, how can God really value it when I have NOTHING else to offer? Everything takes faith. Not believing. Believing.

You know I love Jesus Christ with all that I am. He is my Savior; He has my heart, soul, marriage, my two boys and my girl. What I am extending to you is an opportunity to share any insight or struggle of your own. Wade and I sat up, with him reading to me from his marked-up copy of "The Brothers Karamazov," which was romantic and intellectually and emotionally stimulating in and of itself. But I thought I'd extend the question to you, my dear friend: Have you doubted God? Satan? What does that doubt look like?

I'm not expecting an answer back quickly...take your time. I love you.

JT

----- Reply -----

From: Toni
To: Janet
Subject: question
Date: Wed, January 10, 2007 11:18 AM

JT,

I love that you would think to ask me these questions, that you would share your thoughts on this subject. What a gift. Thank you.

Have I doubted God? Well, yes. Honestly, I think anyone who says they haven't is either a) lying or b) not given to thinking deeply about things. Part of faith is, for me, choosing to believe even when I doubt. Now, if I was plagued by doubts, that would speak to a deeper issue, one that would need resolving. But my doubts about God or the best manifestation of himself, Jesus, have usually come fleetingly amidst times of prolonged spiritual laziness.

In fact, I think what doubts I’ve had in the past were rooted more in a ... desire that there NOT be a God. What I mean is, wouldn't it just be easier if this life was it? Granted, I'm living a life that is, by the standards of at least 90 percent of the world, luxurious. So it's easy for me to say that. I'm not hungry or in pain or lacking for ANYTHING. So wouldn't it be easier, I have mused, if I could do what I wanted without consequences beyond this life? Existentialism – the view that we must create meaning for ourselves in an unknowable, godless universe – is seductive. To my mind it can be boiled down to two things: seize the day and, if you're nice, do unto others as you'd have them do unto you. The end.

But, the thing is, I couldn't believe that if I wanted to. God is too real. I'd have to literally pretend not to see him and hear him. I would have to ignore all the amazing works he's performed. It would take more faith for me to ignore him than to concede him.

And his way, the Jesus way, is hard. It's about service. It's about dying to yourself. It's about becoming less so that we can become more. Jesus was unbelievably radical. He turned the universe on its head and then said: Follow me. Do what I do. Was he serious?! Do what he did? Me?

So, yes. Sometimes I feel too lazy to follow and I think, Wouldn't it be easy if I could just carpe diem and, while I'm at it, be nice to people whenever possible? But what did David say? He said this life is but a breath. We were created to live eternally, and earth is not our home. So what seems as though it would be easier – not believing – would be incredible folly in light of what's ahead, like happily splashing in a puddle when the vastness of the ocean is over the rise.

Then, of course, when I embrace the Lord, there are not only hardships, but incredible blessings. Unexpected and bountiful blessings. And life without him would be so hollow, a sounding gong.

As for Satan, well, JT, it may just be easier to believe in him than God. This is his turf we're on, and surely he is horrendous beyond my ability to conceive. I read stories of torture and murder throughout the world, things happening right now -- as I write this. A few days ago, I struck up a conversation in the post office with a Jewish man who survived a concentration camp in Poland. His father and brother were shot in front of him. He was 13. He escaped to the woods. No one took him in. I've never doubted Evil. Satan is Evil. I choose not to think too much about him; there are dark places we're not supposed to go. And, as you know, I've seen a glimpse once or twice, and it's terrifying.

I love you, my very dear friend. And I'd love to hear more of your thoughts.
t.

Just leave a message, you say?

2007-01-05T23:22:00.000-06:00

You know the character Hugh Grant used to play variations on? The guy in "Four Weddings and a Funeral" or "Notting Hill" who, while somewhat amusing as he does it, tends to ramble on and on without being able to stop himself?

I channel that behavior an alarming percentage of the time when leaving a voice message. It's as if the beep of the answering machine queues my inner Manchurian Candidate, and what should be a relatively simple activity -- "Hi, JT. Just checking in. I'll call later." -- more closely resembles an oral roller coaster.

It starts out innocently. Then, somehow, I find myself steadily pulling further and further from the simplicity of the act, until everything tips and I'm hurtling toward a tangential freak show of verbosity. Part of my brain is demanding "Just shut. Up." Sadly, that part has little control over my mouth.

So what comes out is something like: "Hi, JT. Just calling to see how you're doing. It's been two weeks since the latest round of strep throat turned your house into a den o' pestilence, so I figured someone's due to get sick soon. NOT that I'm trying to jinx you. But Lord knows the weirdest things happen to you. Who else runs into J-Lo in the mall, for Pete's sake? I mean seriously. And then has her son ask why they keep calling that woman Jello? Or leaves her phone in a hotel where it's picked up by a member of the president's security detail? [Inner Sane Toni is yelling "Abort! Abort!"] But ANYWAY just calling to say --" BEEP!

Having been cut off by the end of the tape or the five-minute max on the voice mail service, I am left with nothing to do but stare at the phone and wonder why, why do I do that? I sat in a room and negotiated a piece of pipeline safety legislation with oil company representatives. I've won awards for extemporaneous speaking. Gift of gab have I, my friend. Oh, yes.

But, apparently, as all girls learn from fairy tales, there is a catch with the gift. A caveat. A stipulation. A sine qua non, y'all.

The listener must be alive.

-30-

He did what with what?

2006-12-14T23:25:00.000-06:00

I had just closed the front door early this afternoon, clutching a handful of newly delivered Christmas cards and a couple of bills, when I heard a yelp from the kitchen. Not a barbaric yawp, mind you. It was a Connor yelp, but not in one of its usual forms. It wasn't an I'm-furious-my-horse-won't-stand-up holler, or a my-sock-is-bunched-up-in-my-shoe growl. It sounded something like a small, surprised animal.

I had taken only a few steps before he came running toward me. He didn't say a word. Just stuck his tongue out and pointed.

"What?" I asked, seeing no signs of injury or destruction.

His pointer finger pumped like a piston at his now drooling tongue, and he raised both eyebrows, as if to say, "Hello! My tongue is what!"

I leaned down, careful not to get in the line of drool, and inspected it. It looked pink, kinda sandpapery. About what you expect to see in a healthy tongue.

I motioned with envelope-laden hands. "What, Connor?"

"I touched it," he said.

"Touched what?" I asked, but I knew. I knew.

"That." He pointed back toward the kitchen. There was no longer any question, really. But -- seeing that he didn't seem worse for the experience -- I wanted to hold onto the illusion a bit longer that surely, SURELY, my son (who, might I add, takes after his father very, very much) wouldn't do such a thing.

"Show me what you touched."

He stuck his tongue out again and pointed at it a bit peevishly this time.

"No," I began walking toward the kitchen briskly. "What did you touch your tongue on?"

He didn't comment. He couldn’t, really, since he had his tongue in his hand.

"You touched your tongue on the skillet, didn't you?"

I looked over my shoulder at him. He nodded.

"Connor, WHY did you touch the skillet with your tongue?" I removed it from the burner, on which I had briefly (it's possible to get the mail without stepping fully outside our front door) left a grilled-cheese sandwich browning on low heat.

He shrugged. And held his tongue. I examined it again closely and still saw no sign of a burn.

"Connor, haven't I told you never to touch anything on the stove?" He nodded. "That includes WITH YOUR TONGUE."

"Yesth, mahm."

I'm fairly sure he didn't know the skillet was hot. But he suspected it might be. So, he reasoned, the safest way to find out if it was hot or not would be to, you know, test it with his tongue. A tongue is wet, after all.

The obligatory moral of the story is never leave something hot on the burner, however briefly, when there's a four-year-old in the house. I shouldn’t have. If he had been seriously burned -- or burned at all -- it would be a different kind of story and I'd feel awful instead of mildly guilty. (Will there be a point in the rest of my live-long life that I don't feel some degree of guilt associated with parenthood?)

But a secondary moral might very well be, when instructing a boy never to touch the stove or items on it, be clear this includes with his tongue.

-30-

Would you rather eat Comet or Blitzen?

2006-12-07T11:01:00.000-06:00

A couple of friends have emailed this meme to me, and I've seen it posted. So here we go:

Eggnog or hot chocolate?
I tasted eggnog for the first time yesterday. It wasn’t bad, but I prefer hot chocolate. However, my favorite winter drink is a fruit tea* my husband and I first tasted long ago at a Tennessee B&B. I harassed the proprietor until she gave me the recipe. (What, did she think I was going to start a fruit-tea conglomerate?) I’m drinking the tea right now, in fact, out of a mug bearing the likeness of Young Elvis.

Does Santa wrap presents or just sit them under the tree?
Santa NEVER wraps his gifts. The very idea. Although, with Madeline, the jig is up. A few months after last Christmas (and turning five) she informed me one day, “I’m thinking Santa isn’t real. I’m thinking you and Dad give the presents.” She’s agreed not to tell her brother.

Colored lights on tree/house or white?
This seems to have become quite an important distinction in the past few years. I actually think white lights are, well, classier. But we have colored lights on our tree because that’s what I had as a child and that’s what Roy had. And apparently, that’s what our Indian/Irish/English ancestors hung on their teepees/cottages/chateaus. So we simply Can’t Break the Tradition. Santa might die or something. I’d like to say white lights on the outside of the house. But we don’t seem to get around to outside lights anymore.

Do you hang mistletoe?
Yes. Over our bed.

When do you put your decorations up?
The second weekend following Thanksgiving. I just don’t have the energy to go into full-blown decorating that first weekend. We just relax. It's like the calm before the storm.

What is your favorite holiday dish (excluding dessert)?
Excuse me? Excluding dessert? That’s like saying, what you’re favorite song, excluding the lyrics? Actually, this one’s pretty easy: my mom’s dressing. Oh, my, it’s so good. It’s very moist. It tastes wonderful. And – touching on a decades-long debate with family friends – it doesn’t have any sage. None. Nunca. Sage is bad. Bad, I tell you.

Favorite holiday memory as a child.
No way could I choose one, so I’ll pick a favorite older memory.
One cold Christmas Eve, as a teenager, I drove with my brother to town to pick something up for Mom. Sam was probably seven or eight. The sky was heavy with that crystalline quality, where sound travels miles and the darkness is almost blue. Cresting a hill on our farm-to-market road, we encountered the moon, perched hugely before us. It shimmered ivory in its enormity, close enough so that if we left the car, the steam from our breaths would have caressed its surface. My heart filled, but I didn’t say a word. My brother did. He exclaimed, “Wow.” “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” I asked. “Yes, it is,” he said. And that’s when, for me, my little brother became less my little brother and more his own person, someone who thought on his own, saw beauty and shared it.

When and how did you learn the truth about Santa?
I was probably in kindergarten. I just kind of figured it out and, on the way home in the car (sitting in the front seat, before all children had to be chauffeured), I asked Mom if Santa was real. She told me no, and I cried quietly. Not because I was bitterly disappointed, but – and I remember this feeling still – because I mourned the loss of something magical.

Do you open a gift on Christmas Eve?
We sometimes gather with another family for a Christmas Eve gift-opening party. But it’s not a matter of tradition that we open a Christmas Eve gift.

How do you decorate your Christmas tree?
I love pulling out ornaments because almost every one of them bears a memory or belongs to one of us. There are ornaments from my childhood, bearing my name or the name of my first dog (and still the best dog evvuh). There are ugly-but-lovely wooden soldiers Roy painted as a boy. (I don't try and hide them or anything.) The kids have gotten ornaments each year, and they love to see them again. Several my mammaw made for me. There are strands of wooden beads and, of course, lights. It’s not a designer tree, but we love it.

Snow! Love it or dread it?
Love it. Rarely see it. One early December, when Madeline was just a few days old, we woke to a blanketing of snow. Roy and I bundled her up like the Michelin man and went walking through a wooded park. It was magical.
The only other sound's the sweep/Of easy wind and downy flake./The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,/But I have promises to keep,/And miles to go before I sleep,/And miles to go before I sleep.

Can you ice skate or ski?
I can ice skate as long as no one gets in my way or makes me turn sharply. Or speaks to me. As for skiing, does water skiing count?

Do you remember your favorite gift?
My sister, Christy. Her birthday is Christmas Eve, and I adore her still.

What's the most important thing about the holidays for you?
It’s a perfect time to talk about the birth of Jesus into the world – God, all-powerful, mighty God, born into the world as a helpless infant to a teenage mother in a barn. Is that not poetry? But I would be lying if I didn’t also say I love Christmas music and sharing that love now with Madeline.

What is your favorite holiday dessert?
Oh, NOW we talk desert. This one’s easy. Every year, my dad and I make divinity fudge together. We use my grandmother’s recipe (I have the actual sheet of paper in her faded handwriting). It takes time, skill and – at the end – at least two people and preferably three to get it all out of the bowl before it loses its liquidity (you know it’s time to start spooning out when it begins to lose its shine). It’s almost an art form getting it just right. Dad’s the master, and no other divinity comes close.

What is your favorite holiday tradition?
I don't always get to do this, but most Christmas Eves, our church has a very simple service, wherein the Christmas story is read out of the Gospels, in between the singing of classic Christmas hymns. Members of the congregation take turns reading, and the music is led simply and without fanfare. At the end, the lights are extinguished, and the candles passed out upon entering the sanctuary are lit one-by-one as people pass the flame from person to person. It is an exquisite symbol of Christ's love. "I am the light of the world," he said. When all the candles are lit -- hundreds of them -- we sing one more time by the shimmering light. Writing about it makes my throat swell.

What tops your tree?
An angel. Growing up, for YEARS my parents used a cardboard star I cut out and covered in glitter. Every year or so, I had to reglitter. I loved that thing. I recognize now it was pretty hideous. My parents really loved me.

Which do you prefer giving or receiving?
Giving. Definitely. My godmother says she loves to give so much, it’s a shame she’s not rich. I feel the same. It would be really cool if she were rich. ;)

What is your favorite Christmas Song?
Hands down: “O Holy Night,” when it’s sung with skill and heart. When it’s done right, and I hear “Fall on your knees. O hear the angel voices …” I tingle all over. Incredible song.

*Fruit tea recipe
Make a gallon of your favorite tea (five tea bags) in a big pot on the stove. I use caffeine free, and there’s no difference in the taste.
Add:
2 cups sugar. You can start with less and add more at the end after tasting.
1 can lemonade from concentrate
1 can orange juice from concentrate
½ can pineapple juice from concentrate
5 or 6 cinnamon sticks
8-10 cloves
Serve when it’s hot enough (the kitchen will smell great). I refrigerate remaining tea and heat by the mug until it’s all gone. You can fish out the cinnamon sticks and cloves or leave 'em in.

-30-

Getting abreast of the situation

2006-12-03T14:59:00.000-06:00

Author's Note: I know I have a few readers of the male persuasion, which is fabulous, of course, with me liking men and all. But the following is intended for a female audience. I've got material too rich to pass on, but I really don't care to share it with anyone possessing both an X and a Y chromosome ... unless you happen to be my husband. In which case I hope you know who you are. So, if you don't have breasts, you'll need to skip this one. Or, at the very least, pretend you did.

6666

My mother-in-law, Sandra, says that as we age, medical tests get steadily more invasive and dehumanizing.

I'm beginning to see that may be true. Certain events took place, which had me taking a trip to the radiology department last week for my first mammogram.

Yippee.

The procedure was mostly about peace of mind, in light of an It's-Probably-Nothing concern. Of course, like most women, I'd heard about how getting a mammogram is even more fun than an annual pelvic exam. And I'd seen the stock photos of a woman getting one. Those pictures usually show the woman from behind, perhaps partially draped, while a sweetly smiling tech (let's call her a boob technician) takes an x-ray from behind the protective screen.

It's quite clear why you only see the back of the patient. The kindly photographer is shielding you from the fact this woman's boob -- besides looking like a week-old, Dollar Store balloon wedged under the dresser -- is being pulled two feet from her body by a $300,000 vice. They like to call it a "mammography machine." Wink. Wink. And the tech is smiling because 1) her boobs are not where yours are, and 2) you look ridiculous.

The whole procedure, while necessary and not particularly painful, is pretty much an exercise in humility. In situations like that, I find it's best to roll through with humor. My boob technician, it turns out, was a former student of my mother's and remembered me from when I occasionally accompanied Mom to school. Life is funny, you know. One day you're 11 and shyly waving hello to a roomful of teenagers. The next day one of those teenagers is 42 and telling you you'll need to wear nipple stickers. That's what she said. Nipple. stickers.

I lifted one eyebrow.

"We're all out of tassels," she deadpanned. Thus I discovered a boob technician after my own heart.

The whole clamping ordeal -- you must get in as much breast tissue as possible -- reminded me a bit of trying to get an overstuffed pillow into a starched case: you shove on this side, and it pops out the other. My job, I was told as she positioned and tightened, was to relax. Yes, relax.

At that, I couldn't help but laugh out loud -- which of course created jigglege, which then necessitated reclamping. Eventually, though, I just sort of checked out of my body and watched remotely. Not exactly like Shirley McClain, but with that part of myself that takes notes to process later. And here's one of the things I noted: It is possible, even when one's mammary glands have gone from oval to linear, even when a virtual stranger is sticking metal-tipped stickers on parts of oneself never intended for accesorization, it is possible even then to continuously suck in one's stomach.

Because, by golly, a girl has to maintain her image.

-30-

Best holiday of the year

2006-11-22T22:54:00.000-06:00

I am amazed. As I sit to write, it's not yet 11 o'clock this Thanksgiving Eve. I have baked cookies -- and by baked I mean added an egg and butter to the package mix -- prepared the first half of the cranberry salad (which must sit overnight), remembered to set out the yeast rolls and managed not to burn a chess pie. I've done more food preparation this evening than in the last, uhm, what year is it? I realize this is a paltry effort compared to, oh, most any mother with two good hands and a stomach. My own mom has probably been in the kitchen for 18 hours by now. BooMama has doubtless cooked enough to make Paula Deen weep.

Roy has injected a poor, defenseless turkey with Cajun garlic marinade, and we've set aside the neck and sundry other bird gut items for Mom to use in her giblet gravy tomorrow. Roy won't touch the stuff, but he's faithful every year to set it aside for her.

And here's the really amazing part: the house is pretty clean. And there's not one basket full of clothes waiting to be folded anywhere in this house. It's like an early Christmas miracle. The fact that I can say all of this before 2 a.m. is astonishing.

Tomorrow we'll load up sometime before noon and make the five-minute drive to Mom and Dad's house. Family I haven't seen in years -- the California Garrards -- will already be there. In fact, they're probably arriving at my parents' house as I type this. Not long after we get there, the Browns will arrive en masse*. They're family by choice, and we've been gathering for Thanksgiving as long as I can remember Thanksgivings. The only year I've ever missed was when Roy and I were living in Ireland. To my shock, the Irish don't observe an American Thanksgiving. Go figure. Although one pub we visited offered free buffalo wings that Thursday. Oh, yes. Guinness and dried-out chicken wings: We were one Wampanoag short of recreating Plymouth Colony.

I've always loved Thanksgiving. By the time I hit my mid-teens, I had decided it was better than Christmas. I love being around so many people I love, so many people who make me laugh, so many people who complain about the board games we always play. There will be incredible food, someone will bring wine in a box and insist it isn't that bad. Mom will pull out all her china and my grandmother's. The silver will be used. We'll run out of room and tables and tell the kids to quiet down. They won't.

After dinner, we'll gather all the food on the island in the kitchen and cover it with a clean tablecloth. Then we'll visit and laugh and not two hours will go by before someone pulls up a corner of the tablecloth and digs in again.

I love Thanksgiving.

-30-

* Writing en masse takes me back to a lovely time in my life as a journalist. Early in my newspaper career, I pulled a story off the Associated Press wire about some poultry disease spreading through Mexico. In an effort to stamp out the disease, the government was wiping out the entire poultry population. I used the story and, pushing deadline, hurriedly slapped on the headline, "Mexico kills chickens in mass." Probably somewhere in Haiti, there are people perfectly comfortable with this marriage of voodoo and Catholicism. But that wasn't exactly what I was going for. Y'all don't go killing any turkeys in church over the holidays. Trust me. It's frowned upon.

Worrying, happiness, vomit and thanksgiving, or The Day I Turned 35

2006-11-12T21:06:00.000-06:00

Today is my birthday. From college on, I don't recall getting particularly excited about a birthday. I'm perfectly pleased to have lived another year, and haven't the slightest qualm about my age. But a birthday is pretty much another day for me, except, if I'm lucky, my mom phones early to sing happy birthday. I get a few thoughtful presents. Some people I love call me or even visit. Those are good things.

Yesterday was the 25th anniversary of the day my best friend's father died. She's the same age now her dad was when he died. That and something else that occurred yesterday had me thinking this morning -- before I ever got out of bed -- about the possibility of dying young. (Not that I've been given any bad news, mind you.) Connor wouldn't remember me. Madeline wouldn't remember me well. So there I was -- the woman who rarely cries at crying-appropriate times -- all weepy.

Poor Roy. He behaved as though he didn't even notice the wife he went to bed with had obviously been body snatched by Sally Fields in a performance somewhere between "Steel Magnolias" and "Not Without My Daughter."

Connor woke and crawled into bed with us, and we giggled together. Then Madeline made an appearance in all her tumble-headed glory. And I felt better.

We all joined Mom and Dad for breakfast before church, and I got presents and kisses and the pleasure of just being with my parents ... without having to pull Connor into the bathroom for a stern talking to/thrashing. Nothing spilled. No one cried.

I felt good.

The music was great in church. The band led us in a super-charged, rockin' down-home version of "I Saw the Light" which no one under 30 had the slightest clue what to do with. But we older folks -- you know, 35 and up -- clapped and sang like we all have Dolly Parton and Randy Travis on speed-dial. Oddly enough, there were helium-filled white balloons loose in the sanctuary -- probably the remnants of a wedding -- which would swoop down from time to time while we sang and while the pastor preached. Kyle made a joke about how God had appeared as a dove. Maybe he takes balloon form these days. From then on, I imagined the slowly diving and lifting orbs as his spirit. I know they were just balloons, but the visualization was a comfort.

Sometimes, even when it brings out the Sally Fields in us. Even when it's at an inappropriate time, like your birthday, I think it's worthwhile to remember we aren't promised tomorrow. "Man is like a breath. His days are like a shadow that passes away," the psalmist tells us. In my recent sleeplessness, I came face-to-face with a review of regrets I would have if, indeed, I didn't have tomorrow: an angry response to a wet bed, days and days without answering a prompting to open my Bible, putting off making cookies with Madeline, not getting under the sheet-and-chair tent with Connor. Not praying enough.

Our church had a potluck Thanksgiving meal tonight. Unfortunately, Roy couldn't go with me because -- in the fine tradition of my sister throwing up on me one long-ago Christmas Eve -- poor Madeline was hit by a stomach virus this afternoon. You know, to commemorate Mom's special day. Roy insisted on staying home with the kids, so I went on and even wore the tiara and red feather boa all members of our small group must wear during their birthday celebrations. Picture the looks caused by a woman sweeping by in twist of red feathers, a head full of cubic zirconia and a plate piled with chicken enchiladas. Priceless.

After we ate, Kyle told us about the Pilgrims' tradition of counting blessings during the meal and prompted us to do the same. It was a wonderful exercise and a great way to close out the evening. In fact, expanding on what was shared around the table tonight, the following is an incomplete, in-no-particular-order, off-the-top-of-my-head list of 20 things I'm thankful for:

1. I'm thankful for a great marriage. Not a good one. A great one;
2. I'm thankful for two healthy kids (present stomach virus excluded);
3. I'm thankful Madeline didn't throw up in a restaurant;
4. I'm thankful for the carwash vacuum cleaner, floor mats and Febreeze;
5. I'm thankful for the flowers, the cake and the balloons waiting on me at dinner tonight (even if the balloons were already tangled 40 feet up in the ceiling joists when I arrived);
6. I'm thankful for thick, warm socks on a cold night and the feeling of taking my bra off after a long day;
7. I'm thankful for music -- jazz, rock, pop, praise, bluegrass and even the occasional splash of hip-hop;
8. I'm thankful for living in a country where education, access to healthcare and the right to worship and vote are largely considered givens;
9. I'm thankful the holidays are coming, and I'll have a chance to make memories and take pictures and see my children thrilled;
10. I'm thankful for terrific friends, good conversation and a bottle of wine;
11. I'm thankful for being tall;
12. I'm thankful for serving in a church that truly cares about people;
13. I'm thankful I can pick up most of my children's toys with my toes;
14. I'm thankful Roy is able to provide well for our family;
15. I'm thankful my mother-in-law just moved back to Texas;
16. I'm thankful my parents live in the same town, and my sister has a new baby boy;
17. I'm thankful I have a brother who enjoys my company;
18. I'm thankful for a king-sized bed and the man who shares it with me;
19. I'm thankful for good books that don't end with the hero dead; and
20. I'm thankful for God's grace.

Your turn.

-30-

A cowboy, an Indian and an ill-mannered orangutan

2006-11-02T18:02:00.000-06:00

Apparently along with the gum, lolly-pops, fake cigarettes and jaw breakers, Connor and I picked up a virus for Halloween. Fortunately, it doesn't seem to have hit Connor as hard as me. (Yes, I knocked on wood -- you know, just in case there is no God but rather an angry family of imps randomly punishing people for spilling salt, breaking mirrors and assuming they've dodged trouble.)

Halloween night was fun. We trekked over to my parents' house so the kids could show off their costumes to Grandbee and Granddad. A few days earlier, we spent a small fortune on Connor at Lone Star Western Wear. I was going to go the Wal-Mart route, but Roy and I decided to splurge, and the kid's outfit ended up costing about the same as a one-minute Super Bowl ad. It was worth it, though, when I saw him all dudded up. Connor looks like my dad in his Stetson. As for Madeline, well, she was a Disney Princess for the fourth year running. This year it was Pocahontas. A very blond, Nordic-looking Pocahontas.

Roy couldn't make it because, poor man, he was home in bed with a migraine. Nevertheless, the kids and I met up with Erin and her clan to trick-or-treat through Bel-Air neighborhood. Folks there have to buy candy in milo-sized bags.

It was, as always, a memorable experience. On the occasions I hung back while the kids walked up to a door, inevitably something interesting would happen. Connor really enjoys ringing doorbells and viewed the evening as a doorbell delicatessen. Once, Madeline reported he had squashed a plant. I asked him if this was so.

"No," he said very seriously. "I just laid on it."

About 30 minutes into the evening, Madeline began grabbing her throat and making fairly impressive hacking sounds. "I need water," she demanded. "I need water!"

"Did you eat hot candy?" I asked.

"No! I'm just thirsty." She looked at me as though I was capable of pulling a Capri Sun out of my nose.

We stared at one another a while, her exasperation refreshingly wordless. She waited for me to DO something.

"Well," I offered, "I could spit in your mouth." Because, you know, I'll go the extra mile for my kids. "Otherwise, I don't know what you expect me to do at this moment." I held my hands out to verify I had no liquids.

She looked at me the way she will be looking at me for at least the next 15 or so years and turned on her Disney Native American heel toward the next house. There were about a billion kids pressing toward the door and I was caught toward the back with Connor. So it wasn't until I heard the man at the door saying, "Yes, sweetheart, go right on in." And the yelling: "HONEY, can you get this little girl some water?!" that I realized Madeline had taken matters into her own hands.

By the time I made my way past the press of humanity and identified myself as the camel's mother, she was walking out of their kitchen wiping her mouth with the back of her hand and looking very satisfied. I guess the spitting idea wasn't her first choice.

Once home, the kids had a few pieces of candy, and I got them cleaned up and to bed, just in time to have my mom come over while I took Roy to the ER with his migraine. Two hours and shot of Demerol and Phenergan later, he was doing much better.

Wednesday morning, I woke up not feeling so great. Nevertheless, Roy's headache was gone, and we had plans to go to the Fort Worth Zoo with the kids, where Roy had arranged to meet a high school friend of his (with her oldest daughter) whom he hadn't seen in 21 years. When it's been over two decades since a visit -- not to mention having told the children 500 times they would be going to the "big, big zoo" that day -- feeling a little under the weather and having logged a trip 10 hours earlier to the emergency room isn't enough to call it off. So away to the zoo we went.

We did indeed meet up with Roy's friend, Shannon, who, not surprisingly, proved to be lovely and witty company. Those two caught up as we walked through the exhibits. My favorite was the primates. Connor was particularly fond of the orangutan, which looked just like the one in "Every Which Way But Loose." While I was thinking about Clint Eastwood and how much I hated that movie and wondering why it was broadcast on network TV at least 50 times when I was a kid, the hairy beast walked right up to Connor from the other side of the glass and proceeded to eat his snot.

I don't buy into humans having descended from monkeys, but Connor and that primate have eerily similar eating habits.

About an hour and a half into our visit, I was freezing -- more so than the weather should have caused -- and feeling generally awful. So I excused myself from our company, left the kids with Roy and returned to the car.

And I slept. For two hours. In the zoo parking lot.

So that's what I did yesterday: Went to Fort Worth to take a nap.

Good times.

-30-

More than I asked for

2006-10-29T21:11:00.000-06:00

If the first sentence of my last post has taught me anything, it's that you don't joke about hating someone. At least not someone who works for a church and is beloved by the masses.

The things is, I figured I could say something like "I hate my friend Erin" without worrying because it's so obvious IT'S NOT TRUE. It's akin to saying after a while you'll get used to the smell or God is a Republican. (Kidding! We all know he's a Socialist.)

I've mentioned somewhere in my musings that, while I have many friends, it's rare that, like Anne of Green Gables, I find a kindred spirit.

I moved back to Athens, my hometown, nine years ago. I had my wonderful husband and my parents around me, which was and is an incredible comfort. But I felt the absence of a really good friend. So I started praying about it.

It took a while, but God answered that prayer in the form of two people. My friend Elise (who deserves her own post) and Erin.

Elise and I think scarily alike. We say similar things. We like similar things (excepting her freakish love of marching band music). We travel well together.

On the other hand, Erin and I really aren't all that alike -- at least not on the surface. She accessorizes the house according to seasons; I do Christmas. She's very sensitive and nurturing; I've never cried at a wedding and I'll nurture you if I HAVE to or if, you know, you're my kid or something. She remembers everyone's name; Now who are you again?

When we first met, I felt drawn to her but didn't figure there was much of a chance we'd be close friends. I was wrong.

Almost five years ago, she reported (in what I recall being a shell-shocked manner) that she and her husband, Jon, were expecting another child. Up until that time, she was just my friend, Erin, who had three kids. It was with the birth of Caleb nine months later that she became My Friend Erin With Four Kids.

Two months after Erin's announcement, I learned I was pregnant with Connor. In the years that have passed between then and now, our families have gotten increasingly intertwined. They love us and our kids, and we love them and their kids. I've viewed that fact as a blessing for a long time now. But it really settled in my heart last week.

Connor and Caleb both attend Angel Keepers a few days a week (a Mother's Day Out-type arrangement). Those two adore one another, which is a joy to my heart. This particular morning, Erin was running a bit behind, so she dropped Caleb off at my house, and I took both boys to their class.

We sang together in the car on the way there. Caleb requested Johnny Cash. I prayed over both of them. On the way down the hall, I held Caleb's hand and he held Connor's. Outside the room, I put lunchboxes in their spots and then knelt down to hug them both. Kiss them both.

"Love you boys. Have a good day," I said. And they marched in where they were greeted by a chorus of "Connor!" and "Caleb!"

I smiled all the way back to my car as I thought how much I love Erin's son, and what a precious gift that is. I wouldn't hesitate, nor would Roy, to take not only Caleb but every one of those four children as my own.

That's God for you. I asked for a friend, and he delivered a family of six.

-30-

Running without being chased

2006-10-18T10:29:00.000-05:00

I hate my friend Erin with four kids.

OK. Not really. I love her. But last night while I was running in the half-dark round and round a mile-long path, and it was humid, and hot in a way that is RIDICULOUS for October, I was not thinking of how I love her.

I was thinking about how two weeks ago she casually asked, "You wanna run the Turkey Trot with me?" And how -- though my brain screamed, "SAY NO! For the love of Kraft cheese, say NO!" -- I shrugged as if it were a minor matter not involving pain and phlegm and said, "OK."

Obviously, I was in denial of the last few times I've decided to start running again. (And by "again" I mean since graduating from high school sixteen years ago.) You see, I used to be an athlete. Really. Four quarters up and down the basketball court? No problem. Four quarters up and down the soccer field? No problem. I got tired, but my body went as long as I told it to.

Then, at 24, living in Austin, I decided to join an adult women's soccer league. I was once an awesome soccer player (never mind that it had been a decade since playing competitively).

I couldn't keep up. I had to ASK someone to substitute in for me. Small children and bunnies mocked me. I had a splitting headache the rest of the day following games. It was humiliating. My body wouldn't behave the way my brain told it to, and I detested that so much I did what any proud, self-respecting former athlete would do: I quit.

Damn you, bunnies!

Since then I've briefly re-entered the cardio-workout world on a few occasions. But, to my total shock, my body STILL would not behave the way my brain told it to. I got exhausted quickly. And I hurt. And I felt like crap afterward.

Isn't there supposed to be a rush of hormones that makes me feel wonderful? Aren't I supposed to be energized? "Natural high," anyone?

Well, let's just say after a good margarita and Mexican food with friends, I feel pretty darn good. After a run, I feel like the fourth day of a flu. This is clearly a no brainer.

Then Erin said, "Wanna run the Turkey Trot with me?" And I said yes. And I've been dying ever since then, because I CAN'T just quit now. I can curse the day we met. I can curse the fact that two children, no exercise and an unholy love of cheese does not make for physical superiority. I can just curse.

But. I. can't. quit.

So there I was last night, running/walking/running/walking ... I've worked up to longer runs between the walking. Eventually (she tells herself) I'll be just running. Although at this point, it's hard to imagine that happening. The good thing is, in the short time I've been running, I no longer feel like Toni McKillMeNow for three hours after the run (like the first day), and I'm no longer sore over most of my body (like the first week). So that's progress.

When I no longer check my watch every minute to see how much time I have left to suffer and when I no longer breathe to the beat of "I-hate-this," then I'll REALLY be making progress.

Thing is, I don't REALLY hate it. I mean, I don't love it. I don't even like the running itself. But I do like the sense of accomplishment afterward. I'm not too old or too lazy or too out-of-shape to push myself. That's a good thing. It may not be non-stop up and down a field, but it's something.

And that's more than I could say a month ago.

-30-

WTFFDTM, or What The Frickin' Frackin' Does That Mean?

2006-10-09T20:46:00.000-05:00

There's something that's been bothering me for quite a while now. More, I daresay than the waning popularity of celebrity poker. In my Internet perusals and the occasional email, I come across acronyms that mystify me.

Hi, Toni. IHHFYIAW. How R U? What's new in ur world? IRAAMND.

And, of course, I'm supposed to just know this translates into:

Hi, Toni. I haven't heard from you in a while. How are you? What's new in your world? I recently acquired a monkey named Deborah.

At the risk of offending millions, is it THAT HARD to spell out words like "are" and "you"? I suppose I should note I'm not talking about text messaging, which involves pecking out correspondence on the cell phone keypad while eating a Frito pie and tailgating me at 70. Clearly, that's a time when linguistic brevity is the only reasonable course of action.

I just missed the boat entirely when it comes to knowledge of all the commonly used shorthand acronyms. I've figured several out from context, of course. It only took a minute or two of pondering to discern IRL means "in real life." At first glance I wondered if "Maybe we can meet IRL someday" suggested a liaison in Ireland.

So in the absence of an authoritative www-shorthand source (and being too lazy to Google it), I've devised my own translations. I like to think they add a certain je nais se qua to the original text.

ROFL. Now I know this denotes laughter. I often see a smiley face next to it. But I cannot figure out what it stands for. ROFL brings to mind the sound one makes while vomiting, which I don't equate with hilarity. But that's just me.

BTDT. I'm clueless. "Beautiful turkeys don't talk." "Beware the dainty trucker."

KWIM. "Kool-Aid works in ministry." "Kan we ingest monkeys?"

MRME. "Methinks randy merriment ensues."

IMHO. "Ima ho." Clearly.

I could go on, but TWJBA. (That would just be annoying.)

-30-

The other man in my life

2006-09-22T23:48:00.000-05:00

I was out late with the children tonight. Those of us who went to Guatemala last month gathered with loved ones at Ted and Melissa's house to watch an incredible video Steve put together from the thousands of photos taken on the trip. Afterward, we ate more and talked while the kids played upstairs in an Elysian Fields of a playroom.

What with all the visiting and kids not bothering me and pudding eating and visiting, it was just after 11 before I gathered the children and headed home. We skipped teeth brushing (they'll grow new ones) and got right down to the nitty-gritty of prayers and "see ya in the mornin'."

Madeline was asleep inside five minutes. Over half an hour later, Connor was still restless. He's been afraid of the dark lately, so I let him go to sleep with a little flashlight. Sounds like a bad idea, I know. But, to my surprise, he usually turns it off after a short while and goes on to sleep. I suppose it's more about the comfort of having a light than using it.

A few minutes ago, I went in to check on him. As I pulled the tangled sheets from under his little body and spread them out again, he shined his growling tiger flashlight on me.

"You're beautiful, Mom," came a voice raspy from sleep and allergies.

I leaned down closer. There was no charmer's grin. He was sleepy serious. Before I could gather myself to respond, he said again -- in case I hadn't heard the first time -- "You're beautiful."

I put my lips next to his ear.

"That's the sweetest thing you've ever said to me," I whispered. "Thank you."

It wasn't what he said. It was the way he said it: spontaneous, unsolicited, sincere. I thought of all the times he's frustrated me and when I held him as a newborn so full of love I thought my heart might break. I thought of the years ahead when he'll naturally start to pull away, and my heart will break.

You're beautiful, Mom.

My hair is pulled back in an ugly hairband I use for face washing. The makeup hiding the scar across my eyebrow is gone. I'm wearing a 15-year-old robe.

He thinks I'm beautiful.

-30-

A leaky tire, a fake leg and Floam

2006-09-19T22:09:00.000-05:00

I am a mess.

I have friends whose husbands have been away from their families many months at a time. These women dig in. They go deeper. They find reserves of strength.

Here I am, lo unto the second week of Roy's absence. I have dug in and gone deeper only to discover I am perhaps not suited for single motherhood, in the way Notorious BIG is not suited for children's music.

Let's review the past couple of days.

I had intentions of being good -- of getting up early every morning to have some quiet time. It hasn't turned out that way, so much. After pushing the snooze button a number of times that requires the use of integers, I rolled out of bed yesterday having to get Madeline up, pack her lunch, get us both dressed, force her to eat two bites of SOMETHING (not eating breakfast = godlessness), scoop Connor out of bed and get her to school before the tardy bell rang.

35 minutes? No problem.

I pulled up alongside the curb where one of the helpful teachers -- who was beginning to give straggling parents the we-really-need-to-get-inside-now look -- headed over to our car. At this point, I turn around in my seat to hand Madeline her cute, pink monogrammed backpack. Unfortunately, it's upside down, so the top comes unsnapped in her hands. Which, although nothing fell out, greatly irritates Madeline who wastes no time telling me about it (which, in all fairness, pretty much mirrors my behavior the past several days).

The teacher is getting closer. Other late arrivers are waiting for us to Unload The Child and move on. I snatch the backpack, invert it, snap it, hand it to her again. She starts to put it on her back. The bag is fairly small, and the straps aren't too long, so in order to get it on her back, she has to shimmy into it using chicken-esque arm flapping motions.

Get out of the car first, I tell her. Which, of course, ratchets up the tension. Then I remember her four-pack of cinnamon-flavored applesauce for snack times and hand it over as she's fighting with her pack.

Oh my good Lord. You would think I handed the child an oil-slicked octopus. The audacity of asking her to carry TWO THINGS in her TWO HANDS was, well, too much.

Despite the plethora of items she had to juggle -- in fact, the teacher had read the scene and moved on to another car behind us -- she somehow found it possible to slap her face into her hands out of the sheer horror of having landed such a mother. Finally, when I said something nice like, "Get out of the car. Now!" she exited the vehicle only to find it impossible to close the car door, what with an item in each hand and all.

She shoved at it halfheartedly with the applesauce pack. It moved a few inches. She looked at the door. Shrugged and turned toward the building. At this point, I employed my highly refined knowledge of child psychology by hollering: "If you don't CLOSE THE DOOR I'll spank you RIGHT! NOW!"

Magically, she managed to do just that fairly quickly, but not before I added, "Have a good day. Love you."

Then I went home, got Connor dressed, fed, lunch packed and carted him off to Angel Keepers for a portion of the day. I discovered somewhere during all this that I had a low tire. So I went to a convenience store, put in my 50 cents (because we certainly wouldn't want to offer free AIR, would we?) and stared at the lifeless hose. Busted.

I drove off, leaving behind my air pressure gauge. I pulled into another gas station. The air pump had an Out of Service sign on it. I moved on.

The air pump at the next station had no sign on it. But it cost 75 cents. Because, of course, we wouldn't want the price of air to be competitive. I had two quarters left and managed to find enough loose coins to exchange them for the all-important third one. I inserted them. I staired at the lifeless hose.

Have I mentioned it was raining?

The clerk kindly provided me not with 75 cents, but with an 800-number I can call for recompense. Yeah. I'll get right on that.

A customer witnessed the exchange and informed me Brookshire's has -- are you ready for this: -- free air. So I drove across town. Yeah. There's an Out of Service sign on the pump.

Sigh.

I pulled into an auto service station, quickly explained the situation, throwing myself, like Blanche DuBois, on the kindness of strangers. All six employees, heretofore seated comfortably and probably discussing the president's address before the United Nations, shot me blank looks. The kind of look that makes you think if you had a spare banjo, there might possibly be a showdown to follow.

Finally, to get me out of there, one fellow graciously aired up the afflicted tire. Thank you, Jesus.

Later that day, when I return home with both children, I find a prosthetic leg hanging from my back door. Really. A prosthetic leg. Hanging. From my back door.

A friend of a friend had dropped it off for me to return to its owner, whom I sorta know, through my husband.

I just wish it had been an arm, because at this point, I could really use an extra hand.

Then tonight as I worked to get the kids in bed, Connor walked into Madeline's room where I was enjoying a nice mommy moment combing out her hair. He was still undressed, having not been long out of the bath. Without preamble, he turned his back to me, bent over, grabbed both bottom cheeks and said, "Look."

Have you ever heard of Floam? It's basically goop -- in this case pink goop -- filled with Styrofoam pellets, which can then be molded or used to coat various items. The various item during this instance would be my son's posterior. Or, as his best friend Caleb likes to say, his boodelay.

If Roy was here, I imagine Connor would still have applied pink Floam to his boodelay, but it would be nice, so nice, to have said, "Roy, could you remove the Floam from your son's hiney?"

Opportunities like that don't come along every day.

-30-

Innocence unwinding

2006-09-11T23:41:00.000-05:00

Sunday evening, I drove the kids home with the windows down. It was cool only by a Texan's standards, but being desperate for Fall, I kept the air conditioner on to create an artificial chill. A new CD played music somehow melancholy and hopeful at the same time.

The setting sun, just beginning to dip below a canopy of oaks, threw a golden light on my children in the back seat. I watched them in the rearview mirror: Madeline's body turned toward the setting sun, her face held up to the light, her blond hair moving softly, then whipping suddenly. Connor, uncharacteristically, was quiet as well.

The moment was a wordless, passionate prayer. In my heart there welled up a sense of gratitude for the instant that can be neither manufactured nor captured, seasoned with the knowledge of how tentative the beauty of it is.

I started the morning of Sept. 11, 2001, like most mornings -- racing the clock to get out the newspaper by deadline. Then came news of planes and collapsing buildings and the horror. Before I could even begin to try and process it for myself, I had to grapple with the design and content of the most important front page of my relatively short journalistic career.

Madeline was 10 months old, and it wasn't until that evening, as I sat her in a bouncy chair on the floor and watched TV coverage, that it hit me. Seeing her there, helpless, innocent, dependent -- while above her ran images of people hurling themselves from burning towers -- I felt fear. Fear not for what all this meant for me or Roy, but for what it meant for my daughter and any children to follow.

I've swallowed that fear for the most part. I can't control events that big or the ones still to come, so I don't dwell on them. For that reason, I've avoided coverage of the 5th anniversary. Avoided stories and pictures, movies and TV specials.

Until tonight.

My husband boarded a plane on a mission trip to Romania today. I didn't want him flying on 9/11, but neither of us made a fuss about it.

This evening I watched interviews with people whose loved ones were aboard United Flight 93. And I thought about what it would be like if Roy called me to say goodbye.

Earlier, Madeline had walked up to me as I sat watching a video montage of images from that day five years ago. The picture she saw was of an exhausted firefighter in the foreground, while behind him flames consumed a building half-hidden in smoke and debris.

"Oh, my gosh," she said. "Look at what that fire is doing to that building."

Before I could react, she turned away, offering with confidence: "It's probably a grass fire." Then she went back outside to play.

She is still that innocent little girl, dependent on her loved ones and now teachers to filter life for her. And I grieve, truly grieve for the day she understands it was not a grassfire.

-30-

Book Love

2006-09-08T12:34:00.000-05:00

I've been toying with a way to write about some of my favorite books without boring the jiminy cricket out of you. You'll be pleased to know I haven't figured it out, but I'm going to press ahead anyway. You see, someday, years from now, when Madeline and Connor are in their 20s or 30s, they'll have an overwhelming desire to read some of my favorite books. (Shut up. Yes, they will.) Fortunately, all they'll have to do is flip to page 31 (that would be this post) of the leather-bound collection of my writings available at any good bookstore.

I loves me some books. I can remember being in elementary school and reading "Bedknobs and Broomsticks" because I discovered it was listed at a higher reading level than I "should" have been at. Didn't actually like the book that much -- I can still picture the "Murder She Wrote" gal on the cover -- but it got me into the habit of seeking out books that would force me to think a bit. (No disrespect intended toward "Sweet Valley High," Erin.)

It was also about that time I realized the daily ever-lovin' eternity I spent on Bus 13 passed quickly if I had a book to read. So on that bumpy yellow dog I fostered a reputation as a stuck-up smartypants by burying my nose in books like "Let the Circle Be Unbroken" and "The Red Badge of Courage." "Circle" was my gentle introduction -- through the eyes of four precocious black children in a loving family -- to segregation and racism. "Red Badge" was the first time I'd seen fighting and war portrayed in a way that was neither glamorous nor heroic.

In about seventh grade, there was a miniseries on TV called "North and South." Some of you might remember it for having kick started Patrick Swayze's career. (And aren't we all eternally grateful for "Roadhouse"?)

Well, we just had one TV at home, and Dad was not the type to commit to a miniseries (particularly since he avoids stories about "dogs, Indians and the Civil War"). So every morning during gym, I'd listen to my friends gush about Orry and Madeline and how wonderfabulous it all was. So I went to the library and checked out the book (the first in a trilogy by John Jakes). It was like entering another world. Anytime I could be reading it, I was. Same for the concluding books in the series. When one of the main characters was killed, I cried like a pregnant woman reading Nicholas Sparks and moped for two days. (No, I don't know why Madeline cried when the visiting team scored a touchdown last week. Her dramatic flair is a complete mystery to me.)

In high school, I read a bunch of Dean Koontz books, which introduced me to the idea of magical realism -- something I would come to appreciate even more in college with books by the awesomely original Alice Hoffman ("Practical Magic"), Isabel Allende ("The House of the Spirits") and Gabriel Garcia Marquez ("One Hundred Years of Solitude.") Long before Oprah gave "Solitude" her gold-minting seal of approval, my Latin teacher, Mrs. Lemmon, passed copies out to her graduating seniors with the charge: "Read it." We did.

Books have almost always been a way to escape for me. And I'm certainly not living a life of silent desperation; I just LOVE being transported into other people's stories. For that reason, I stick mostly with fiction. I couldn't possibly list all my favorites, because I'd leave too many off. So I've walked around my house collecting books off the shelves. I'll try to organize them into some semblance of categories. Pay attention now, because when I'm done, I hope you'll reciprocate.

Classics (modern and old):

"A Tale of Two Cities" by Charles Dickens.
In junior high, our honors English teacher got it in her crazy head that we were plenty old enough to do a research paper. (God bless her.) For whatever reason, I chose Charles Dickens and read "A Tale." We're all familiar with the first few lines: "It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness ..." Besides being an epic run-on sentence (You know I'm a stickler for complete sentences. She said. Sarcastically.), it's not a half-bad opening line. Better even than, "It was a dark and stormy night." The rest of the chapter was pretty much a bore, however, as it just sets up The Times for us. But the story kicks off in Chapter 2, and from that moment on, I was hooked. Up until then, I was pretty much clueless about the French Revolution. This book made me care.

"All The King's Men" by Robert Penn Warren.
I would never have read this book had it not been forced on me by my Southern Lit prof at A&M (along with "The Bear" by Faulkner). Ostensibly, it's a fictionalized telling of the life of Louisiana's most infamous politician, Gov. Huey Long. What it ends up being more about (for me) is how his right-hand man refuses, ultimately, to shed his idealism. It's got everything -- including a Pulitzer Prize.

"Beloved" by Toni Morrison.
Another Pulitzer winner. This book is dadgum fabulous. It blows my mind. Set several years after the Civil War, it involves the loss of a child, a runaway slave, a terrible secret, desire, hope, a haunting. Amazing read.

"Franny and Zooey" by J.D. Salinger.
This was originally published in two parts in "The New Yorker." J.D. Salinger is an incredible talent, who frustrates the tar out of me by being such a whack job he won't publish any more of his stuff. You just KNOW his house is full of manuscripts collecting dust bunnies. "Franny and Zooey" is the story of two remarkable siblings who are part of an equally remarkable family. It's just a sweet, melancholy telling of Franny's spiritual struggle and her brother's response. When I read this, it made me want to be smarter.

"All the Pretty Horses" by Cormac McCarthy.
OK. If I HAD to pick a favorite book of all time. This would be it. (I've never seen the movie.) I picked this one up from a display table at a bookstore when Roy and I were living in Dublin in '94. We had just finished college and were doing the expatriate thing, living hand-to-mouth and trying to make friends. It rained all the time. It was beautiful. It was lonely. So when I saw this was a coming-of-age story about a 16-year-old Texan, who travels to Mexico, it struck a chord in me. I wasn't 16 and I sure wasn't in Mexico, but I felt a kinship in the adventure of leaving what you know for what you don't without much more than what's in your pockets.

Y'all. It's just about the most beautiful thing I've ever read. And I don't mean beautiful pretty. I mean lyrical, transcendental, haunting.

"Gift From the Sea" by Anne Morrow Lindbergh.
This book was a wonderful gift from a wonderful woman who, for a very short period, took me under her wing. Lindbergh (yes, that Lindbergh -- who's husband was a wealthy aviator and whose baby was tragically kidnapped) was in her own right a very gifted author. "Gift From the Sea" is a collection of beautiful meditations -- using the ocean and its shells as her muse -- about what it means to be a woman at different stages in life.

After I read this and marked it up a bit, I gave it to my mother who made notations of her own and then returned it. What a treasure.

Just plain good stories:
I could go on forevuh here, so I'll just list three.

"Cold Mountain" by Charles Frazier.
This is one of the best books I've read in the past six years. (Yes, I saw the movie and liked it too.) What I love most about it is how the main female character, Ada, makes the journey from a smart, pretty, genteel, useless woman who can't even stand up to the yard rooster to a person of internal fortitude and strength. At the same time, the hero's journey homeward is very "Odyssey" like. It's some of the best prose writing you'll ever come across and just a beautiful story.

"Outlander" by Diana Gabaldon.
It's hard to categorize this book (the first in a series, but it can be read alone). It's got all the elements that make my reading heart happy: a smart, wisecracking heroine; a strong, good-hearted hero, an epic setting, terrific, realistic writing, a gripping storyline, adventure, romance (though it's not A Romance), tragedy, triumph. Gooood stuff.

"Redeeming Love" by Francine Rivers.
You get a group of women together, mention this book and STAND BACK. There will be exclamations and exhortations. And if someone in the group hasn't read it yet, well, buckle up. I'm sure not everyone who reads it loves it, but I'd bet at least 90 percent do. Now, it is "Christian fiction," and I'm not a big fan of the genre. (Don't hurt me.) But this book stands on it own as a work of literature. It will also make you say, "Man. God loves me that much? Really?" One warning: The prologue, in which we learn exactly why the main character is so screwed up, is a downer. It's a necessary setup however, and the book takes off with chapter one. I read until 5 in the morning. It's that good.

Christian literature that has recently rocked my world:

"Velvet Elvis" by Rob Bell.
Weird title. Fabulous discussion on what this Walk With Jesus thing is and what it should be or could be. It stretched me. It made my faith bigger. I wish all my non-Christian friends would read this and "Blue Like Jazz" so that, at the very least, they could better get what this faith thing is all about for me -- and a lot of other Christians who don't fit the Pat Buchanan mold.

"Blue Like Jazz" by Donald Miller.
This is a quirky memoir of one man's growth as a person of faith. One of the many things I love is that it gives "permission," if you will, to love Jesus and still -- gasp -- have a beer and be a Democrat. (I prefer wine and I'm not a fan of either party these days, but that's not the point.)

"Always Enough" by Roland and Heidi Baker.
Here's the story of two missionaries who took that Great Commission thing very seriously. They went out to the poorest of the poor to bring them help and hope. The amazing story they have to tell (and are still telling) took my breath away.

And one more:
"Sheet Music" by Kevin Leman
Leman is a Christian author and psychologist who has mostly written about child-raising issues. But this book is all about sexual intimacy in marriage. I hesitate to list it because 1) I don't want people thinking, "Oh, she and her husband needed help." Or, "Oh, she's a pervert." Neither is true (I hope). I give "Sheet Music" to engaged couples about a week before the wedding, and at least one new bride has made a point of pulling me aside to say, "Thank you." Now, this isn't your typical Christian-author sex book (though I've only read one other and that was right before my own wedding). It's very frank. There are no euphemisms. He's no-nonsense about saying: Generally speaking, here are a woman's sexual needs and here are a man's and here's what makes a sexually happy couple. I think in the church and even amongst ourselves, we're too shy about this subject and a lot of couples suffer. That's my two cents.

Assuming anyone is still with me at this point, I'd love to read your comments about what your favorite books are and why. And if you think I'm way off base with one of my picks, tell me. After all, I don't mind telling Sarah she's nuts to like "Silas Marner." ;-)

-30-

The me and the me I wanna be

2006-09-06T11:43:00.000-05:00

After my last post, I've been at a bit of a loss. A couple of things have thrown me. First, it took every bit of a week for me to really recover my equilibrium from the Guatemala trip. Not that I did any mountain climbing there, but there were a lot of late nights and early mornings bookending emotionally exhausting days.

What seems also to have stalled me in my post-writing tracks are some of the seriously nice things people have written in the comments section. This is a paradox even to me, since I really love getting comments (it's not entirely about ego). Yet frequently when I write about God-y things in my life, people respond with the kind of accolades that make me wiggle a bit uncomfortably in my seat.

You know how the Apostle Paul was fond of calling himself the worst of sinners, etc? Well, even as I read that, I figure he had to be aware, at least on some level, that he was The Apostle Paul, aka God Actually Spoke to Me During a Road Trip; Author of Most of What-Would-Be The New Testament; Early Leader of A Little Movement We Like to Call Christianity.

I mean, come on. He knew he was the man.

So, to clarify, when I say I'm really not worthy of some of the praise thrown my way, I'm not saying this in a Paul kinda way. Nor am I suggesting I'm literally the worst of sinners. First of all, I'm not settled on whether or not there's a sin hierarchy. There's that whole a-sin-is-a-sin thing, which still perplexes me somewhat. While all sin separates us from God, I'd rather Roy lose his patience after a long day (a sin) than have him operate an international drug cartel from his garage office (a sin).

I just feel that, while I'm not selling pot to Girl Scouts or dressing up like a Dixie Chick for Halloween, I should state for the record that in some of my more personal, faith-oriented posts, I'm presenting the best of me. Not fake me, but certainly not the way I am all the time. I'm writing about the me I want to be when I grow up. The me God wants me to be. The me I tend to be in starts and fits.

I've clearly shared more about the starts and not so much the fits. For balance, I submit forthwith, a few of my shortcomings fit for public consumption:

Though I come from a fine tradition of Southern-style cooks, I really hate spending time in the kitchen. I do it because it's necessary. But the redundancy of mealtime, for me, is like standing on the shore and watching wave after wave after wave after wave after wave rushing up at me. (Paradoxically, I do love the fellowship that takes place over a meal and consequently enjoy having people over for dinner parties.) No doubt, because of my limited mealtime offerings, neither of my kids are great eaters, and Connor especially has culinary preferences ranging from A to A-and-a-half.

I also suffer from playtime elitism. I adore my children. I like going places with them (except restaurants). I like talking to them. I like walks and chasing them in circles around the house for the purpose of scaring them into muscle limpness. I like swimming and dancing with them and roughhousing a bit. But I really don't like kid board games or coloring. And there's only so much time I can tolerate being the horsy. Or roll playing as the customer in the world's most bizarre restaurant. A few minutes of that type of play and I'm disengaging, no matter how pathetically they implore.

And now Madeline and I have ventured into the lovely mother-daughter experience known as homework time, which involves crying jags (hers, not mine ... yet) and dialogue such as:

Me: Sound out the word, please, Madeline.
Madeline: But the teacher said I am supposed to read it to you.
Me: Yes, but you're just looking at the picture to know what the word is. I want you to sound it out for me.
Madeline (throwing her head back against the pillow, cupping her face in both hands and groaning): I am reading it.
Me (voice rising): Sound. It. Out. If you would obey me and have a better attitude, we'd already be done and this wouldn't be so painful.
Madeline: It is painful!

To which I could only silently agree. I have all the respect in the world for parents who do a good job of homeschooling. Clearly, though, when God looked down from the dawn of time, saw Madeline and devised plans to prosper her, they did not involve being homeschooled by her mother. Because when I get frustrated, I tend to react in a way that ratchets up the tension for everyone. And I don't care if you're five. I'm taking you down with me.

Here's another thing -- and I am being honest here -- ignorant people really irritate me. I know God loves them and I'm supposed to love them. When I ask God to help me be Jesus for anyone in need, I know that includes ignoramuses. But it is just so hard to to be Jesus to people who irritate the fire out of me. (And, yes, I'm being a bit on the dramatic side here, but this is obviously a real area of pridefulness in my life that isn't pleasing to God ... or me for that matter.)

I also find that after meaningful times of spiritual growth, I tend to almost immediately afterward behave poorly. I'm grumpy. I fall out of good habits. I start praying less. It's ridiculous. I'm sure God gets tired of it. I know I do.

God: If you'd just obey me and have a better attitude, this wouldn't have to be so painful.
Me: It is painful!

-30-

There and back again

2006-08-27T09:39:00.000-05:00

I returned from Guatemala yesterday afternoon. It was an exhausting and exhilarating adventure. I made new friends and tried to comfort those in need. I messed up and got frustrated. I held babies and wiped tears and laughed. I tried to ignore mess and stink. I saw beautiful children and was amazed they have been tossed aside. I saw people grow right before my eyes.

Once again, I'm grateful for the expansion of my faith, and I'm sore -- physically and emotionally -- in the aftermath. I'm not sure I yet have the energy to wrap my mind around the experience and offer it up for others to digest. So, instead, I'll share something I've already written.

First, though, a brief explanation: There were 14 of us in our group. We traveled with the assistance of Buckner Orphan Care International. Most of the group members are employees of Red Dot Steel Buildings. Some of us, like me, are connected to Red Dot through our husbands. Amazingly, the company's leadership regularly sends its employees on mission trips where it funds improvements at orphanages in several countries. They also look for places to do good works right here at home. Can you imagine what the world would be like if more businesses cared so much about people?

Nearing the end of our trip, I sat in the dim light of our hotel room, the veranda doors letting in a cool breeze behind me. And I wrote.

lllll

Hello, husband. I write this late Thursday night. Today has been quite a day. I’m sitting here trying to think of how to describe it, and the only words that come to mind are mountaintop and valley. I saw both today; I suspect most of us did.

Melissa spoke to the group early in the week about us being the body of Christ – how we are individually his hands, feet or eyes; his mouth, legs or arms. We all have different functions within the body, none being more important. I really saw that today. I thought about the men, spending most of their time here on hands and knees, bent over tile – cutting it, laying it, grouting it, cleaning it. What wonderful work.

Near the end of our time today, Melinda and Valerie and Renee and Leanna spent a long time struggling to get photos of the girls printed out to put in picture frames. The going was slow and frustrating; the room they were in was crowded and warm. It must not have felt rewarding or even worthwhile at times; and yet they were doing their best to have just one more thing to leave behind.

The last time I came to Antigua, what I prayed was that God would break my heart for the children I encountered. As you know, he did that. This time, my prayer was (and still is) that Christ’s love for these children could be seen through me. Specifically, that at some point, when they looked at me, they would see his face.

When we returned from Manchin today, I wanted to write you an email, but not having access, I wrote this in my journal:

Thursday, 8-24-06

I just returned from our last afternoon at Manchin. Sitting in the airport Saturday, before leaving, I read through some scripture. One of them was Ezekiel 26:25: “I will sprinkle clean water on you, and you will be clean.”

When I read that, the Holy Spirit convicted me that we should have a baptismal ceremony for these girls. We had been told several of them had made professions of faith. Some I know about personally from the trip in January. An attempt had been made previously to have baptisms at Manchin, and we were refused. But God laid it on my heart: Try again.

So this morning we decided, one way or the other, it was going to happen. We arranged for a large bucket of water to be placed on a concrete slab in the courtyard. Along with that was a smaller container.

In our Bible time, Melissa and I explained sin and God’s desire for our salvation, and about how baptism – though it is not necessary for salvation – is a symbol of God washing away our sins. And how he desires us to experience baptism. Robyn and Phaedra shared the same thing in their classes.

In crafts, Leanna & Melinda and Renee & Valerie had the girls make salvation bracelets, explaining how the colors represent our spiritual walk from sin to an eternity with God.

We explained in our Bible classes that after we were done, we would be gathering in the courtyard for all those who had made professions of faith in the past and felt led to be baptized (there were no new professions that I know of). Roughly 20 girls gathered in a circle around the water bucket. We explained that this act should be purely personal and not for anyone else's benefit.

Then, one by one, they walked to the center. Robyn stood on one side with her hands on the girl; sometimes Phaedra and later Melissa stood on the other side. Francisco, our wonderful 17-year-old interpreter, stood just behind her and translated. As girl after girl came forward, I was so blessed to be able to lay my hand on her shoulder or over her heart and speak God’s message: “I baptize you, my sister, in the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. God says, ‘I will pour clean water on you, and you will be clean.'"

As Francisco finished translating God’s blessing on each girl, she lowered her head, and I poured water over it. Sometimes, when one of them particularly special to Robyn or to me walked up, we would speak more words of love.
Robyn hugged them and kissed them as they returned to the circle and the next girl came to the center.

It was miraculous. An incredible blessing. Some of those girls had such beautiful emotion on their faces. They understood what was happening. With some I could feel their hearts pounding under my hand.

It had been a tough day up to this point. We had to battle for their attention. Several slept. Two had seizures – one in the middle of Melissa explaining how important it is to grow in the knowledge of the Lord. We were beset.

But God, oh, how he shined. How he blessed us.

Praise God. Praise him.

----------

You know, Roy, there’s something else. One of those girls, as I was speaking God’s blessing over her, she looked right into my eyes. And I swear, at that moment, I know she wasn’t seeing me. She was seeing Jesus. As much as you love me (thank goodness), you know I’m not worthy of that kind of blessing. No one is. But in our weakness, he is made great. If he can do that in me, he can do that in anyone.

See you soon, dearheart. Kiss the babies.

lllll

And that was that. To those of you who lifted us up in your prayers: Thank you. It was good. God is good.

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A broad in Guatemala

2006-08-19T08:34:00.000-05:00

It usually takes me a week or so to feel prepared to write a post. Those of you who on a daily or nearly daily basis offer up funny, pithy, witty or thoughtful musings amaze me. I'm not creative enough, or prolific enough or -- I should just face it -- disciplined enough to do that ... unless you want to hear what my kids say every day.

Or I could start posting parenting advice. Here's what I told a friend yesterday. She was upset with herself because she had had such a difficult time with her children the night before, she ended up telling them to "go to bed now!" Then told the youngest, very firmly, to brush. his. teeth. Now.

He ended up in tears, telling her he was "afraid" of her, afraid she was going to scream at him. My friend was guilt-ridden.

So I counseled her that she needed to begin yelling at her children on a regular basis. That way, it would no longer be a traumatic experience for them when yelling commenced. Problem solved.

Next?

So perhaps you begin to grasp how I need to carefully screen my ideas before posting. This post, however, shall be an exception. It's a Hail Mary pass.

I'm leaving for Guatemala in a few hours. I'll be spending most of the week in Antigua at a teenaged girls orphanage -- Manchin. There will also be visits to a small children's orphanage and a boy's orphanage.

I spent a week at Manchin in January. It was a spiritual-high experience. But this time I feel totally unprepared. Because I am. I've asked God to forgive me for my lack of discipline in preparing. I'm asking him to use me anyway, and he's proven time and again he's capable of doing amazing things with my sorry butt. (Slimming would not be one of them, unfortunately.)

I would covet the prayers of any of you so inclined. I am praying those of us on the trip will be smack-dab in the center of God's will for these children and anyone else we encounter. You know: whoever the One is. They are the disenfranchised. The forgotten. The cast off. They are hungry for love. I want to give them my love. But I can't stay with them, and my love is not sufficient anyway. God's love is sufficient. That's what I want them to grasp. Please pray for that.

I'll post when I get back -- probably next Sunday. So many of you have become so precious to me. Thank you for that blessing.

-30-

From fourth grade to Beaver's Bend

2006-08-14T23:09:00.000-05:00

My earliest memory of Janet is on a basketball court. We were both in elementary school, but attended different campuses. (South, West, Bel Air's the best!) We ended up playing Little Dribblers together. She was tall like me. But, unlike me, she was good at the game. She already knew about bouncing the ball. Janet's dad was our coach. I don't remember much about that time, except her dad was nice, and Janet dominated the court.

I probably wouldn't remember that short season at all were it not for the fact that a year or two later, in fourth grade, Janet would re-enter my life in a significant way. During the in-between time, her family had moved away, her nice dad had died, and she had moved back to Athens. Our teacher told us Janet would be joining our class. We should be nice to her.

It was never any trouble being nice to Janet. I remember saying hello to her when she returned. She tells me I reminded her then of Tigger. I think she's referring to Tigger's hyperactive bounciness. It wasn't until our freshman year in high school that Janet became "JT" to me, a kindred spirit. A sister.

The same fourth-grade year that Janet joined our merry gang (we were a so-called gifted class and wasted no time dubbing ourselves the "The Nerd Herd"), I also got to know Joye. Joye was one of those girls. You know the type: Pretty. Kind. Sparkling smile. Blond. Did I mention kind? Yeah, that's the part that really gets you. You can't even dislike her for all the other stuff, like being pretty and blond and sparkly.

Oh, and she was also really smart. I mean really. She was reading Dostoevsky and Tolstoy in junior high. And didn't even tell anyone. Who, who reads Dostoevsky without telling people? Seriously, if I ever get to the end of "Crime and Punishment," I'm sending out embossed announcements.

So around about high school, I figured out Joye was a keeper. A life friend. A sister.

At different times, Joye and Janet and I roomed together in college. We got married, had kids. Traveled. Got jobs. Had more kids. Quit jobs. And the whole time I've tried to hang on to both of them. It hasn't always been easy. We've lived in different states, and I'm not a good phone caller or frequent flyer. Somehow, though, we managed to keep the connection. There's nothing -- nothing -- in the world like girlfriends. I figured that one out even as a naive teen. I know myself well enough to be aware I don't collect good friends easily. It takes years. Decades even. And the older I get, the slower I am. So when it happens, I don't let go.

An amazing thing happened, too. The men we picked to marry? Well, they like each other. A lot. And our kids like each other too. So a few summers ago, Joye and Matt and Roy and I got to talking and decided we'd get together for a long weekend in a cabin near Beaver's Bend, Oklahoma. It was fun. I mean staying-up-late, stupid-laughing fun. So we did it again. More fun! And this year, since Janet and Wade decided it was time to return to this part of the country, they were able to join us.

So two weekends ago, there we were: in a huge cabin, overlooking beautiful land: Roy & Toni & Madeline & Connor; Matt & Joye & Emily & Claire & Garrett (and Emily's friend Gabby); and Wade & Janet & Austin & Jackson & Anna Grace.

Sounds like a bit of a madhouse, doesn't it? It was. A really loud, busy, incredibly delightful madhouse. And when we finally got all the kids to bed at night, we stayed up talking and playing games and drinking wine and eating well and laughing and laughing and laughing. I'm positive that type of thing pleases God. It's no accident so many of the Jesus narratives take place while he's at a festival or a dinner guest at someone's house. We're wired for fellowship. It feeds our souls.

Our last full day, we rented a pontoon boat and motored out into the crystalline water under a perfectly blue sky. Eventually, we killed the motor and floated to an undulating almost-stop. The desire to jump in was so great I didn't bother fighting it. I swam back and pulled in Austin. Then almost everyone else, acting in a singular motion, flung themselves up and out. Screaming, splashing, laughing.

That time was pure joy. The children were thrilled and we adult-types no less so. It was beautiful, and we held onto it until finally, a few hours later, rain pushed us to shore.

I think about how different things could be, if one of us -- Joye or Janet or I -- had let go of the other. I think about what we could have missed. But we didn't. We held on. And we make life beautiful for each other.

-30-

JT's in the center; Joye's on the right. She's not blond anymore, but she's still sparkly.

It burns like a blazing fire, like a mighty flame

2006-08-02T12:04:00.000-05:00

I was 19 when I met Roy. He was 24. I walked into a crowded, loud Chewy's restaurant in Austin, Texas, and spotted him standing near the door with a mutual friend. I noticed him right away. Noticed him the way a woman notices a man she will think about for a while. Noticed him in a way that drew my eyes toward him even when he wasn't speaking.

I was smitten.

He had longish hair and dark-green eyes with smile lines (already?) at their corners. He wore a worn-out leather bomber jacket and a couple of small hoop earrings. We were introduced, of course, but I don't remember that part. I remember how he stood there, handsome and somehow serious and pleased at the same time.

There were several people in our party, many strangers brought together by mutual friends. We got to know one another in short time across our long table. I learned Roy's mind was sharp and his laugh quick. I learned he spent four years in the Presidential Honor Guard. I learned he was studying archeology.

During the give and flow of talk, the conversation moved away from us, and I used the diversion, under hooded eyes, to peer across the table and study his face. What I saw was him looking at me. I'll never forget the almost literal shock of that moment.

That was when I learned the best, the most wonderful thing of all: He was smitten too.

After that evening a courtship of letters began. We attended different universities, so he wooed me, from a distance, with his words. He couldn't have known then how much I loved language, how I adored seeing the depth of a mind pour itself onto a page. So when his letters arrived, full of self-disclosure and humor and romantic pursuit, I felt joy.

We were engaged a year later. Nine months after that, we married and finished college, together finally, at the same university.

A friend once told me he thought it was a little sad, really, the idea of someone being with only one other person -- only having loved that person, only having been intimate with that person, only partnering with that person.

And if someone's that person isn't the right person, well it can be sad.

At the beginning of our courtship, I couldn't have imagined how good life with this man would be. At the beginning of our marriage, I couldn't have imagined how the roots of a love fertilized by friendship and devotion and passion could seize me in such a way that I can't imagine, even for a second, turning my back on it. I've learned, when marriage is right, it does, it truly does get better.

When I met him, at 24, I didn't foresee celebrating his 40th birthday -- today -- with him.

I could fill pages with the things my husband does that make me love him more -- playing with the children, seeking me out for a kiss and a hug in the middle of a busy day, cleaning the kitchen while I bathe the children, endless back rubs, his love of books and learning, his compassionate heart, his artistic skill.

But what it all comes down to is his realization that love, that love (raya, ahava, dode) is not a feeling one simply enjoys as long as it lasts. Love is a decision, a constant series of decisions one must make. He decides to forgive me when I'm churlish. He decides to encourage me. He decides to help me, even when he's tired. He decides to spend time with me and talk with me and seek me out. He decides, every day, to love me.

How then could I not love him back?

-30-

Welcome to my fixer-upper

2006-07-28T12:34:00.000-05:00

For the five people in the blogging universe who don't read Boomama's site, here's the deal: She invited everyone to take photos of their homes and then link to her Tour of Homes post. The idea is that those of us who have been reading each other's blogs for a while can get a better idea of what it's like in each other's real lives.

So here we go. First let me explain Roy and I have owned for lo these six years, a Fixer-Upper. We got a lot done the first couple of years, then what with kids and jobs and my general aversion to painting, things slowed way down. Until recently. Roy's been working on our garage. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

Here's a view from the street. Perhaps I shouldn't include a street-view shot of the house for fear of ninjas lying in wait, but I've lived in this town long enough, if someone really wants to know where I live, they can ask the lady at the grocery store. I'll just have to trust if someone comes here with evil intent, they will know what Jonathan Edwards meant when he referred to sinners in the hands of an angry God. And, yes, the grass needs cutting. And there's something resembling a partial, dried-out mote near the front door. Eventually (Mr. Man promises me) there will be a covered veranda there.

Living room/dining room.

Uhm. Kitchen. Don't really know what to say. It's no showplace now, but you should have seen it when we bought the place. Yech.

I love going into someone's house and checking out their refrigerator. Refrigerators and bookshelves say a lot about people. So what does this one say about us? Well, that's me in the blue dress with a very dear friend. I'm about six months pregnant with Madeline. That's a bottle of champagne in my hand and a cigar in my mouth. I didn't drink any; I didn't smoke it. But I love the picture. Below that (next to me in the WW I biplane) is Roy with his best friend; Roy's face is partially obscured by cigar smoke. He wasn't pregnant (and he rarely indulges anyway). The magnets are from England, New York, D.C. and Luckenbach, Texas. One of my favorites is a gift from Elise. It's a Davy Crockett quote: "You may all go to hell, and I will go to Texas." Perhaps not the warmest sentiment (hell notwithstanding), but if I'm going to be generally reviled for being a Texan, I may as well earn it.

Bedroom/office/blogging central. At the opposite end of the room, are the built-in bookshelves and window seat Roy built. Mad and Connor have their own rooms, but I figured I'd better draw the line somewhere with all these pictures. You might notice our windows aren't framed-out (same with the windows behind the living room sofa). They used to be, but we recently had most of our windows replaced, and that's work still to be done. The joys of a house built in the '30s.

OK. I mentioned Roy is working on the garage, which is connected to the back side of our house by a screened-in porch (a MUST here in Texas). He's resided/painted half of it.

So that's about it. Thanks for stopping by.

-30-

The proposal and the condition

2006-07-27T15:42:00.000-05:00

When Roy asked me to marry him, we were on a mostly deserted stretch of Florida beach. We had traveled there together during our respective spring breaks. It was chilly, but not that chilly, so I wondered why he chose to wear his jacket for our walk along the dunes.

The mystery was solved when he dropped to one knee near a stand of swaying beach grass and pulled a small jewelry box out of the jacket. He was as serious as I had ever seen him when he proposed.

Of course, I said yes. Whispered yes. Yelled yes. Became yes. And we kissed and were generally exuberant the way couples are supposed to be at that moment. Well, except my parents. Story goes that when my dad asked my mom to marry him, she started laughing -- the way we women will sometimes do. Apparently Dad hadn't read the happiness-plus-momentous-occasion-sometimes-triggers-bizarre-fits-of-laughter memo. So he thought she was laughing at The Question, which was not the response he hoped for. Fortunately, they got it sorted out in less time than it would take on an episode of "Friends."

So there we are, Roy and I, walking along the surf, full of the promise of the future and our lives together. And it occurs to me that, Hey! I'm going to Ireland when I graduate. I mean I had been planning to see Ireland, live in Ireland since I was in the fifth grade and wrote off to the Irish Embassy for all the free stuff they could stuff in an envelope and send to Athens, Texas.

And Europe. I was traveling Europe. I was SEEING THE WORLD, you understand, Mister? And if we're gonna get married, you're gonna have to come with me. 'Cause that's where I'm goin'.

To which, he replied, "Sure." Roy had already seen a pretty wide swath of the acreage on the other side of the Atlantic, and he was more than happy to see it again with me.

And that's what we did. We graduated together, obtained student work visas for Ireland and the UK, spent four months after graduation saving up funds (and living with my parents; God bless 'em), and then we showed up in Dublin without jobs or a place to live.

It was a grand adventure.

To be continued ...

-30-

Rise up early and lay down late

2006-07-23T22:06:00.000-05:00

I've been back a couple of days from Georgia, where the familia spent a week (sans Internet access) mostly chillin' with my very dear friend and mother-in-law, Sandra. She lives in a sprawling old house in the town of Ailey (pop. 623), which is down the road a spell from Vidalia -- home of the sweet onions. Roy and I spent Wednesday night away from the kids in Savannah at the lovely bed and breakfast to which we always return. It's a beautiful, eccentric city.

I've got a few stories to share from the trip. A couple of pictures to post. But darned if I didn't just visit Boomama's blog and sit here at my computer trying hard not to cry. Her dear friend's husband died suddenly. The post is beautiful, a tribute to a marriage that was apparently what God designed marriage to be.

There's a lot of dying going on, and I don't mean mostly among people I don't know. There always is -- dying gone on. But I'm either more aware of it these days or -- and this is what my friend Erin would say -- I'm more connected. And the more connected we are, well, the more hurting people we encounter: mourning people, damaged people, lost people, people in need.

We're supposed to love on 'em. That's the Message. LOVE on people.

Look, it doesn't come that easy to me. My awesome mom clearly has the gift of hospitality. She'll do just about anything for anyone -- and feed their family while she's at it. She keeps an open spot at the table; she speaks words of wisdom ... and listens.

My husband, now he has the gift of mercy. He feels people's pain, and that's not a backhanded Bill Clinton reference. He does. The first time Roy spent a week at a Russian orphanage, I worried for a while, just a little, that I lost a bit of him to that place. He was so heartbroken when he returned.

I'm not so much that way, really. Oh, it's certainly in me to be hospitable. To be merciful. But they're not my gifts. My gift is reading through great stretches of inky night to the music of frogs and crickets. My gift is disengaging from marathon talkers who don't respond accordingly to very clear body language. My gift (and shame) is being able to tune out a little boy clinging to my leg demanding I make Madeline give him the plastic fish while I write an email.

You won't find any of these gifts in the New Testament. I think Paul probably ran out of room as he compiled the list. Papyrus was limited in prison. He probably also intended to include the gift of sarcasm. (Which I've obviously passed on to my five-year-old daughter, as tonight, when I told her rather abruptly to "find the soap; you're the one in the bathtub!" responded, "Yes. Boss me around. I love it.")

So, to recap: I'm a book-nerd, me-time lovin', slightly narcissistic wise a--.

So it's a mystery why the Lord keeps leading me to engage with people desperately needing to be loved -- as they heal, or, sometimes, as they die.

Man, it can be hard. Hard when I don't know what to say or how to say it. I've come to realize that's no excuse. Being afraid is no excuse. Being unprepared is no excuse. Being tired won't even wash that often. (What mom isn't always tired?)

One morning a while back I prayed God would help me die to myself that day and live as Christ. (I'm finally getting what Paul meant.) That, if needed, I would be Jesus' mouth, his legs, his arms for whoever needed them.

Well, it was a whopper of a day. I was peripherally involved in a crisis situation that arose among a family we care for. That and a few other factors took pretty much all of my energy. That evening I looked back with a mental "whew!" and looked forward to bed.

Then the phone rang. Another friend needed me. Needed Christ through me.

Did I mention it was a long day? That I was tired? That I'm a bit, ah, selfish? Then I remembered my prayer that morning and it hit me fiercely if I'm going to live for Christ, it's not always or often going to be on my terms, during my free time, when I'm feeling refreshed and ready to go. I'm just supposed to respond, or try to, when I'm needed.

So, like Boomama, we might find ourselves watching a best friend kiss her husband goodbye. We might place a friend's head in our lap while he cries over the cancer that's killing him. In between those awful and awesome times, we might do a thousand other things that don't register with the world.

We might rise up early and lay down late so we can be Christ's mouth, his legs, his arms.

Praise God. What a blessing.

-30-

Yes, but does the pastor do summersaults?

2006-07-11T21:58:00.000-05:00

So most of you know the routine. Near the beginning of the service, our pastor has everyone meet and greet. I used to cringe internally during this time because I'd pretty much metted and gretted everyone I was comfortable with before being commissioned to do so. That meant I had to wander AWAY FROM MY PEW in order to avoid blinking slowly at the people around me I'd already hugged hello or punched in the shoulder.

Now days I pretty much just head for the back of the church and fling myself at anyone. Still, the problem with a church our size (which isn't huge, but fairly large for a smallish town), is the real possibility that I could introduce myself to someone, asking if they're a visitor, who not only already knows who I am -- in fact used to be my soccer coach or sell my dad hogs -- but has been a member of the church since the Kennedy Administration.

While all the "good morning!" "how are yous" are under way, the younguns in the congregation charge up on stage and gather 'round our pastor, who is about to begin the children's sermon. Each Sunday there's quite a gaggle of kids up there, of all shapes, sizes and backgrounds. I hardly ever pay close attention to the sermon because I'm so intent on studying their little faces.

Roy and I have been members of the church for almost nine years, and for the last five I've wondered what it would be like to see my children up there. Class promotion took place this summer, and Madeline -- who will start kindergarten next month -- began attending the main service with us. So she's one of those kids now.

Almost from the first Sunday she went up on stage, she did it. When the children's message is over, the pastor prays. Then he motions for the kiddos to head back to their pews. There's stairs on either end of the stage. All the kids go to one set of stairs or the other.

All but Madeline.

She walks right to the center of the stage, grins to herself just a little. And leaps off. She doesn't just scoot over the edge. She throws her hands up in the airs and jumps up ... and out. Then -- whump! -- she lands.

Roy and I sit amongst the teenagers at the front, center of the church, and I always hear a few of them giggle. I guess they've started, like me, to anticipate her exits.

It's not ladylike, the way she removes herself from the stage. I want her to be ladylike, in most things. I've thought about telling her she has to walk off the stage. But I can't bring myself to do it. If it ever appears she's begun to perform, well I'll end it then. But for now, I don't believe she thinks much about other people seeing her. I don't think she's trying to get attention -- she doesn't look out as she leaps.

No, I think she just sees the stairs as a boring way to get where she needs to be. Hurling herself off the stage is, well, fun. And the mood after a children's sermon isn't particularly reverent anyway. So, for now, I'm going to let her leap. Who says church has to be all "every head bowed; every eye closed"?

Phooey. King David stripped off his shirt and danced through the streets praising God. Madeline can leap.

-30-

Summer, thou art fair

2006-07-05T14:42:00.000-05:00

So I've been gone several days. I'm about to be gone several more. It's not so good for keeping the blog current, but I like being out and about.

This is the second summer since leaving the full-time professional world, and last summer I was still too stunned to take full advantage of the freedom. I won't make that mistake again. No, siree, Bob. For the first time in a long time (since college I suppose), summer feels like summer: get-togethers, swimming, family, old friends, late nights, tans, grilling. The smell of PABA.

Deeeeeep inhale. Ahhhhhhh.

I spent this past weekend with my brother. He's 25, charming, incorrigible, an outdoorsman. And hunt. That boy (sorry -- man) loves to hunt the way birds love to sing, balls bounce, flips flop.

Friday night we sat across a table discussing his future. (Hey, he brought it up.) Sam works as the ranch hand on a 1,000-acre Hill Country spread. He's out bailing hay, worming cattle, repairing fence, digging tanks. Your basic "Lonesome Dove" without the prostitute or untimely death.

He loves it. "I'm happy," he told me. "I'm not stressed. And if I get hungry, I go shoot a hog and I'm full as a tick for a week."

Saturday evening, he asked if I wanted to get on a four-wheeler and see the land. Still being a tomboy at heart, I readily agreed, and we set out -- he with his sweet girlfriend behind him and me enjoying my own ride. (That was for the best, since I have a bit of a wild streak in me. Don't tell my mom. Or my kids.)

We zoomed down tree-flanked trails, across open pastures, along the cold-running water of the Guadalupe. He showed me some of his hunting spots, the tank he recently dug in anticipation of a time when this blasted drought finally ends. Khara and I worried about the beautiful white-faced calf standing apart from the herd. I zoomed across the crest of a hill, barely stopping in time to avoid a deep rut that would have flung me over the handlebars. Disaster avoided, I could only laugh.

As the sun set, it was all so beautiful. I thought of my children, who along with Roy spent the same day with their grandparents on a lake. I missed them, but knew they too were receiving the gifts of the season.

Summer at its best is, I think, a taste of heaven. I'm sure there will be work for us to do there. And plenty of joyful praising: all those things the Bible tells us about. But the spirit-fullness that comes with just sitting back and watching. Or floating. Feeling the wind push at my face. Watching the sun go down. Waking rested. Smelling warm skin. Oh, my. Those simple things speak deeply to my soul in a way that must be God-wired.

Yes, I think heaven will be a very, very fine summer.

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Beth Moore's message in a teeny-tiney nutshell. Plus a few things you might not know

2006-06-27T20:35:00.000-05:00

So I last reported (at 2 a.m. Friday morning) that I was going to a Beth Moore conference with two of my oldest and dearest friends. Sorry I’m a bit tardy in reporting, but I’ve been a tad under the weather since returning, and life threw a curve ball Monday. (Dern you, life! Dern you!)

Nevertheless – ahem – I present What I Learned At The Beth Moore Conference (followed by BM trivia). Yes. I said BM trivia.

I've had several people ask how the weekend was and what she said. Frankly, it's hard to distill several hours worth of anointed speaking into meaningful soundbites. But I'll try.

Beth's message began with the observation that we probably all have areas in our lives where we don't really trust God.

I trust him with my finances, my marriage, my children …. But I don't trust him with THIS THING.

Apparently, she's struggling with a This Thing, and, out of that, God led her to have each of us consider what our This Thing is.

“The place where you have a steadfast mind,” she said, “is where you trust God. Anyplace our minds are not steadfast, we can find the root of our distrust.”

She spent a good deal of time explaining how we can really know what our This Thing is. Some of us may know automatically. Others may not be so sure. She asked, for example, if we find ourselves with heavy hearts and we can't articulate why. Most of the time, she said, our hearts are heavy in the areas where we don't trust God with something. And the root of that something, that sadness is always found in a wound. (This is excluding obvious external causes for mourning, such as a tragedy or some kind of loss or bad news.)

Is it getting a little complicated? Well, she unpacked her message over two days. But I'll try a bit more.

If we don't trust God with something, it's probably because we were wounded somehow, by someone at some point in our lives -- and we haven’t handed that hurt over to God. Maybe we tried. Maybe we didn't. That wound may have scabbed over, but it didn't become a scar. It's still painful when hit. And wherever we're wounded, that is where we typically don't trust God.

Then there was this: “The very area you are most tempted not to trust God,” she said, “is the place God has most chosen to trust you.”

Do you understand that? His permissive will allowed you to endure some sort of suffering. What he wants you to do is rise up from whatever it is and use it to glorify him. He's trusting you to do that.

"I'll make Satan sorry he ever messed with me," she said. "It'll turn on him."

She gave us another guide for identifying This Thing that we don't trust God with. She called it The Spewing Head. Every time she used this term, which was often, she mimicked the sound of a gushing fire hydrant and motioned wildly, flinging both hands out from the side of her head toward the heavens: spewing thoughts. It was goofy and hilarious and made the point pretty well.

If there's an area in your life where you can't seem to control your thoughts -- you worry yourself to death about something, even if you know you shouldn't and it's pointless -- that’s where your distrust can be found.

Psalm 112:7 -- He will have no fear of bad news; his heart is steadfast, trusting in the Lord. (I needed to hear that one.)

Life, she said, is more about purpose than pleasure. And I’m beginning to get that.

That's the best I can do with her message. Wish you all could have been there, and I mean it. There were somewhere between 14,000-15,000 women in the coliseum. It was amazing. If you ever get a chance to hear her speak: Go.

Now for a list of Interesting Things I Didn't Know About Beth Moore:

1. She's a fan of the (spray-on) Mystic Tan. ("People in my office say, 'Beth, you're so dark.' And I tell them, 'You too can be tan like me.' … "My brother always says, 'Tanned fat looks better than white fat.'")
2. She discovered the hard way, while with daughter, Melissa, that one should not get into a pool after having just been Mystic Tanned. The chlorine in the water is, after all, bleach. ("When I got out of the water, I was dark, dark, dark from the shoulders up. And from the shoulders down, I was white, white, white. Melissa said, 'Mom! You look like a Dairy Queen dipped cone.'"
3. She's been stalked twice, forcing her to hire a private investigator to handle the situation. So it's pretty amazing she opens herself up, still, to people the way she does.
4. From around December to March/April, she had some sort of physical ailment that made her drop weight rapidly (and she SURE doesn’t have any to lose, being roughly the size of my thigh). They thought it might be, among other things, cancer. It wasn't, though she didn't say what it was. It was bad enough, though, that she feels God allowed her to go through the ordeal so that she can use it when she ministers to people. (See the bit about God's permissive will above.)
5. She has a new (first) grandbaby, and she's so crazy about him, she'll answer to whatever word he says following Momma and Dadda. ("If he says Momma, Daddy then bow-wow, I'll be Bow-wow. 'Come here, precious. Come to Bow-bow.")
6. Her oldest brother is an orchestra conductor, and she's watched him at work so often that when she's alone, she likes to crank up the stereo, take a pencil and conduct the music with abandon. ("Have you tried it? You should try it.")
7. The hotel she was staying at (across the road from where a few thousand more of us were located) threw its breakers half-a-dozen times Saturday morning because of all the hairdryers being used at the same time. ("And I'm seeing some fabulous hairdos out there. Honey, I'm from Texas, and we UNDERSTAND big hair in Texas.")

Amen and amen.

Oh, and I also learned Janet (completely devoid of stage fright) can play a mean tamborine when it's thrust on her by a guitar-wielding restaurant troubadour lacking backup.

"Lake House" is a fun chick flick, but it should come equipped with a flowchart. Or a lobotomy. Thinking it through hurts.

And Joye can navigate us on foot perfectly through OKC, but she has no idea why they have buffaloes on every corner or how to pronounce the word frite.

-30-

I'll be your best friend if you go to Oklahoma with me

2006-06-23T02:03:00.000-05:00

I'm leaving my little East Texas hamlet tomorrow to head for Oklahoma City. That's where Jesus' sister (aka Beth Moore) will be speaking. I'm looking forward to it because I've heard her speak before, and she’s not only an awesome preacher (though she wouldn't call herself that, being a Baptist), she's also flat-dab funny. I mean fun-ee. There's nothing like having the Holy Spirit convict you about your orneriness one minute and the next laugh so hard snorting commences.

But – and no disrespect intended toward Jesus’ sister – I’m mostly excited because I’ll be spending the weekend with two of my oldest, dearest girlfriends in the world. We're staying two nights together in a decent hotel – no husbands, no children (though of course we love them and will miss them and think of them blah, blah, blah), no laundry or dishes or errands. Nada. Zilch. Zero. Just the three of us. (At this moment, the heavens are opening up, an angel choir is breaking into the “Hallelujah” chorus and a blinding shaft of light is engulfing me.)

Joye, Janet and I haven't been completely alone together in about 14 years. And the last time doesn't even count since Joye had a three-day-old baby who kept getting a wee-bit aggressive with the whole breast-feeding thing.

I’m blessed to have made some incredible friends in my life. I sometime categorize my friends by eras: the growing up era (k-12); the college era; the newspaper era; and the stay-at-home mom era. During each one of these periods, God has blessed me – and I mean BLESSED me – with incredible friendships. The funny thing is, I really don’t make friends that easily. When I say “friends” in this case, I mean FRIENDS. Not just stopping to talk in the grocery store friends or saying hello at church friends or sidling up to at a shower friends or even Bible study friends. Those kinds of relationships are relevant and important; having friends like that means you’re connected to your community. You care about people outside your own world. You’d help them in a time of need and do so earnestly.

But what I’m talking about here are the friends you can phone well after 10 p.m. if need be (something my mom was very definite about being a no-no), friends you can cry on and laugh with – simultaneously. Friends you trust your children with. Friends for whom you’d seriously sacrifice your time and energy, and know they’d do the same. Friends from whom you can seek wise counsel … then tell them their pants look ridiculous. And they still love you.

These types of friends I’ve never made easily. It’s not uncommon – and I HATE this – that after someone gets to know me well, he or she tell me, “This is funny now, but before I really got to know you, you intimidated me.”

I don’t know if it’s my height, my outspokenness (which I like to think is charming in a forward, Texas woman sort of way), the spider tattoo on my forehead … What?! But I get it a lot, and I’ve finally come to accept it the way I do my long toes and distaste for slapstick comedy and Zydeco music.

In that light, each dear friend I’ve made is someone I am convinced God connect me with as a gift. And with that gift comes a charge – that I stay in touch, that I reach out, that I connect with across time and distance – whether the distance be thousands of miles or two blocks.

God created us for community. Within that community we can thrive. Outside of it, we often whither, turn inward, become selfish.

Be sure you're connected.

-30-

Things unremembered

2006-06-19T15:45:00.000-05:00

I've been thinking quite a bit about death lately. Morbid, I know. But there it is.

A very dear friend of mine died a couple of months ago, leaving behind her husband, their 5-year-old son and 10-year-old daughter.

After the graveside service, a few of us stayed until most everyone but the immediate family was gone. Before the casket was lowered, the 5-year-old asked, matter-of-factly, if he could get in there with his mom. When they told him he couldn't, he went back to playing with his friends, running around headstones. His sister on the other hand, looked paralyzed, tearless eyes blazing. When they began to lower the coffin into the ground, no one spoke or moved. To be frank, the knowledge that my friend was remade in Heaven was of little comfort in those endless minutes.

Since then I've been thinking a good bit about the nature of memory. I wonder how much the 5-year-old will recall of his mother. I have memories dating back to when I was two and three, but they're like the flickering reels of film used in old-timey cameras. And how many of the fine details, the little things do any of us remember about even the most important loved ones lost to us?

I think about this when I've been separated for a lengthy period of time from someone dear to me. I find myself registering, almost subconsciously, how she purses her mouth this way or curls forward when she laughs, or how he habitually rubs a leg or pushes back his hair. I realize then I had forgotten those idiosyncrasies. Seeing them again is like having a sepia-toned photograph bloom into color: the image hadn't been lost, but its vibrancy had faded.

I especially think about this when I consider the death of Robert, the brother of my heart. He died of cancer seven years ago, and I still chafe at the reality of my children never knowing him. He is to them little more than that man in the photo with Momma when she was young. I kept a journal the last few months of his life. Recently, I read an entry following one of our final conversations. I had forgotten the exchange completely. Reading it again made me gasp at how I could have lost its memory.

Speaking on the phone with Erin just before attending this recent funeral, I rhetorically asked her (feeling ridiculously sorry for myself) how many more funerals of close friends I would be attending in my life. She answered simply, "A lot more."

It was like a needed slap in the face, reminding me that death is irrevocably part of life. It's just part of the deal, and we're not excused from it at any age or under any particular circumstances.

What I've tried to take from all this is the constant awareness that I'm not promised tomorrow with my children, my husband or anyone else. How will my words and actions stack up if today is my last day? Will I have been unnecessarily selfish or cross? Or will I have reacted to the challenges of my day with love and treated my husband as my best friend?

With this in mind, I realize that while my friend's beloved son may not carry a great deal of specific memories of her into his adulthood, he and his sister are permanently imprinted by her goodness, her laughter, her love of them.

Such things outlast memories.

-30-

Oh, yes. I look JUST like Julia Roberts. And Jacques Villeneuve

2006-06-15T14:59:00.000-05:00

I've apparently got one of THOSE faces. I'm pretty frequently being told, "You look just like ..." And what comes out of people's mouths next is usually some actress who 1) looks nothing like me, and 2) looks nothing like the last person I was compared to.

It's not just the occasional "Has Anyone Ever Told You You Look Like Hilary Swank?" (who played the roll of a young man VERY convincingly). Umpteen years ago when my senior class had a panoramic picture taken, I proudly showed it to my Mammaw and asked her to pick me out. I was sitting on the front row, ankles crossed, hands primly laid across my knees (just like I ALWAYS sat) and, blessedly, my hair had grown out of The Perm.

She studied it a minute, and then pointed to the third row, where Andrew, our class's official Longhaired, Pot-smoking Dude was smirking knowingly. The damage was permanent.

So when I found a link to this very cool site, I was curious to see who I would be compared to. After uploading a photo, the site utilizes fancy-schmancy technology to compare you (or anyone else you happen to have a photo of) to a database of "the world's 3,200 most famous men and women."

Ohhhh. Fun.

So I uploaded this picture of myself and waited patiently to see who my celebrity look-alike is. After which I planned to contact her so we could get to know one another before becoming Best Friends Forever.

The first match I get is Courtney Cox. OK. That's flattering, but ... come on. We look like we could maybe be cousins. If she fell on her face.

But my FAVORITE, and the third best match on the list, is (drum roll, please):

Matthew Broderick. Yeah. The skinny little guy from "Ferris Bueller's Day Off" and "Inspector Gadget." That Matthew Broderick.

Well, now. I couldn't just take that. So I uploaded a different picture. (Hey, the site told me to.) The problem is I don't have that many photos of myself. I'm always the one taking them.

So I chose the profile photo I use on this blog. Big mistake. Big. Big. Mistake. Apparently I should delete this photo immediately. Because, y'all, you know who my first match was? With an even greater compatibility ratio than Ms. Cox?

Kevin Bacon. Mr. Six Degrees Of. Kevin Freakin' Bacon.

But it gets worse.

In order of compatibility, I also learned I could pass for Swiss politician Moritz Leuenberger (huh?), racecar driver Jacques Villeneuve, actor/comedian Jack Black (by which point I'm ever-so-willing, begging even to be compared to Ferris Bueller) and Bob Dylan.

Bob. Dylan. My mouth opens. But no sounds comes out.

My sweet Lord. Mammaw was right.

-30-

It's just my 'after-baby' weight. No. Three years is not unusual

2006-06-15T14:24:00.000-05:00

I've been going to the swimming pool with the kids fairly regularly the last couple of weeks. We haven't had an outdoor city pool in Athens for years and years now -- unless you count the wading pools at Kiwanis Park, where, by noon, the water-to-urine ratio is tilting dangerously.

Without a city pool, the kids and I have contented ourselves for several summers with one of those hard-plastic numbers in the back yard accompanied by a fanning sprinkler that doubles as a force field.

But then several of my friends joined the country club in the past year. And I must say, it's not what you know; it's so who you know. Given that I don't play golf or tennis or care particularly to eat regularly in the country club restaurant (though the food is perfectly delightful), it doesn't make sense to join just to be able to use the pool.

But mooching as guests off my friends who are members? Heeeeck, yeah. The kids love it, and I've actually gotten enough sun to look, you know, alive. (I'm one of those people who occasionally gets complimented on my "porcelain" complexion -- which translates "pasty white.")

There is a drawback, however. Apparently, there's an unofficial "beautiful people" day at the pool. I accidentally went to the pool this week on Beautiful People Day. I don't fit into this category. I never did, and if I had, it was at least two children and 200 varicose veins ago.

So I love going to the pool, but I would love it a lot more if perfectly tanned, flat-stomached, no-need-for-padding-here types would, you know, not go. Or at least post a Beautiful People Days schedule.

-30-

Those whacky Clays

2006-06-13T20:16:00.000-05:00

First off, thanks for all the toe support following my last post. It's nice to know so many of you also have freak toes. I don't feel so alone anymore.

However, I was asked, "Who has pretty feet, anyway?" So let me clear that up right now. Erin Humphries does. I like to call her, "My Friend Erin-With-Four-Kids." Actually, I like to call her a few other things, too. But I'm pretty sure she'd get angry with me if I shared them here. Anywho, Erin has beautiful feet. Really. They're smooth and elegant and, well, pretty. It's totally annoying. When I start to covet her feet, I remind myself she has twice the responsibility I do for keeping human beings alive. In light of that fact, she can keep the pretty feet.

~~~

I've been trying to come up with a few things that make my family unique. I can think of plenty of things that make us special and perhaps even enviable, not to mention bizarre and annoying. But unique. Well, now, that's a bit more difficult.

So the first thing that comes to mind is our wheels. There's the fairly standard Toyota. It's old but runs well. Then there's my husband's baby: a faded green 1970 International Scout, complete with customized roll bar. It's a Man Magnet. Come to think of it, it's a magnet for the curious everywhere. On the occasions I drive it, I'm very careful not to pick my nose at red lights. Not that I do that, of course.

What really puts us over the top in the unique category is our 1996 Dodge Caravan Sport minivan. How can a minivan have the word "Sport" in its name, you ask? Well, ye shall know it is Sport by its racing stripes. A minivan with racing stripes, y'all. !

My husband bought it from a friend for $100. It had been sitting for about a year. One new transmission and a good cleaning later and that baby runs like, well, like a 10-year-old minivan with a perpetually squeaky belt. But it seats eight, so I'm not complaining. Occasionally I pick up My Friend Erin-With-Four-Kids' kids.

Another thing that makes us unique is the frequency we partake of breakfast suppers. My mom -- a super Southern-style cook -- used to occasionally offer breakfast meals, which I always thought was awesome. Never mind that the woman can have all the major food groups represented on the table AND everything still be warm. Nah, scramble up some eggs and call me Fred. That's what I'm talkin' about.

When it comes to breakfast suppers, I subscribe to the Mae West philosophy. She said too much of a good thing is wonderful. So it's pretty common in Casa del Clay for me to whip out the pink carton of eggs, a can of biscuits and announce: Breakfast supper! So common, in fact, my 5-year-old daughter is now capable (with supervision) of preparing her own eggs from start to finish.

Another thing that's become standard around our house is a strange array of across-the-street parkers. When we bought our house, the view out our front door was of woods. Those trees have since been cleared, with a few picnic tables scattered around the lot. I never see anyone using the tables, but people like to park along the road there and do ... I don't know what. I'm afraid to know what.

A few days ago, this was the vehicle parked across from our house.

Excuse me, but why does someone driving a hearse need to pull over and rest? It seems to me that if ANY vehicle should drive from Point A to Point B without stopping, it's a hearse. And an ambulance. Definitely an ambulance.

Lastly, and I know I'm probably riding the poopy train too far, given the Connor Clay and the Disastrous Poopy post, but this is, after all, about what makes us unique. So it would be dishonest to not include the fact that my son now insists on sitting backward on the potty.

Of course.

I asked him why, Why, WHY must he sit backwards? He explained quite calmly, "Connors like to sit this way."

Oh. Well, then.

-30-

Toeing the line ... the scissors, the belt, the toy horse and anything else I don't want to bend down and grab

2006-06-10T08:24:00.000-05:00

I bought some thongs a few days ago. (I refer to the kind you put on your feet.) This was a major purchase for me. Not because they were expensive. Heck, no. Most of my footwear is purchased off the sales wrack -- the one with the sign proclaiming: "75 percent off our already ridiculously reduced sticker price, plus a bag of chips and any loose change the sales representative has in her pockets."

No, this was a major purchase because, being thong-type footwear, they expose my toes. All of them. All 900 inches of them. It's a big step for me. Nearly any sandal I've ever purchased has a fairly wide strap across the end. I've done this to prevent people from gawking or getting distracted and walking into walls.

My husband -- then my affianced -- once asked if I would accompany him to his anthropology class so he could present my toes as evidence of The Missing Link.

He still limps.

I can pinch with my toes (though I don't -- well, only my husband occasionally because he's still being punished). I can grab things with them (incredibly handy feat). I can find purchase with them while forging a swift, rocky bottomed river bed. I can lean forward until my head is nearly parallel with the floor without falling (now I kid). Oh, yes, these toes, they have their uses.

But for years I was just plain embarrassed by them. Who has toes this long?! And believe me, I've searched. Many is the time I've heard someone mention their long toes and assured them, "Ohhhh, you haven't seen long toes."

They always eye me dubiously because -- not being familiar with my mutant super powers -- they think I'm jesting. But I've never lost a toe challenge. I warn them: Really. I've Never. Been. Beaten.

Inevitably we circle around one another a few times, move into close proximity, kick off our shoes and -- WHA-BAM!

Ahhh, Grasshopper, when you too can snatch these pebbles from my hand without moving your arms ...

They back away in fear and awe.

So, I was saying. I bought some thongs the other day. This was preceded a few weeks earlier by an emergency shopping incident in which I had failed to bring a change of comfortable shoes following an out-of-town event. In an effort to spend as little as possible, I bought a pair of cushion-bottomed flip-flops.

(Queue harp music.)

Oh. Oh, my! These are (as my daughter recently said) like beds on my feet.

I wanted to wear them all the time. I wanted to sleep in them. The wiggle room! The fresh air! The cultural relevance!

So Thursday when I was perusing the Please-Just-Take-Them wrack and spied an ever-so-cute, semi-dressy pair of thongs ... well, I threw caution to the wind -- for the low, low price of $8.

Look out world. The Missing Link is moving among you.

-30-

What the Dixie Chicks say about Grace

2006-06-07T18:19:00.000-05:00

I’ve been listening quite a bit lately to the Dixie Chicks. Don’t know where the blogging community I’m becoming a part of (mostly female, Christian moms willing to embarrass themselves for a laugh) stands on the issue of the Chicks. If you’ll recall, they polarized the country for a time in 2003 when the lead singer commented during a concert in London that she was ashamed George Bush is from Texas.

Look, it’s certainly not classy during a time of war to insult the president in front of thousands of people – particularly on foreign soil. But the resulting fallout was rather extraordinary and, to my mind, ridiculous. In addition to their radio play plummeting, they were cursed, threatened and harassed. Essentially, they became pariahs.

Was it because they disagreed with the president on the issue of Iraq? Personally, I believe George Bush is a man of character. I like him. I interviewed him a couple of times as a young reporter and, later, enjoyed running into him from time to time at the capitol (think governor, not president).

Politically, I’ve got issues with several of his policies. I was particularly not a fan of several first-term cabinet members. For a while there, though, I felt I could hardly disagree with an item on his agenda without being labeled “un-Christian.” Strange times.

Was the backlash because the Chicks spoke out against the president on foreign soil? That probably had a good bit to do with it, but I suspect the brouhaha would’ve been just as bad if they’d been in the States. Heck, anywhere north of the Mason-Dixon line would have been considered “foreign soil” anyway.

Was it the fact that they’re country singers? I think this is mostly it. Country singers can embrace drinkin’, cheatin’, stealin’ and beatin’ – but left-leaning politics are strictly verboten.

So, I was sayin’ (about a hundred years ago) I’ve been listening to their new album. It’s very good. Musically it’s excellent. Lyrically, it’s raw and revelatory. Many of the songs address the fiasco and the fallout of the incident. What I’ve learned from listening is they lost friends, got very angry, received death threats, refuse to apologize and are hated in their hometowns.

What really bothers me is a song called “Lubbock or Leave It” where, I think, Natalie Maines is from. Here are a few of the lyrics:

Throwing stones from the top of your rock
Thinking no one can see
The secrets you hide behind
Your southern hospitality …

Temptation's strong
(Salvation's gone)
I'm on my way
To hell's half acre
How will I ever
How will I ever
Get to heaven now

This song exemplifies – once again – the perfectly lovely tradition of people who either are or just call themselves Christians throwing stones at those they disagree with in some bizarre attempt to get them to change or apologize.

Bam! Be more like me. Slam! Think differently. Whack! Jesus loves you.

Why would anyone who’s attacked by The Church want to join the church? The question they pose is valid: How will they get to heaven? Not by following that example.

-30-

Connor Clay and The Disastrous Poopy

2006-06-05T22:19:00.000-05:00

My children are night and day. They're both strong willed, but Madeline is a bit more ... shall we say, well-thought-out (we can't say "manipulative," right?) when she acts out. She tells me I'm not listening to her. I don't understand. I'm so mean. (To which I've finally started replying, "Yes. Yes I am. I am MEAN." She doesn't know what to do with that.)

Connor, on the other hands, likes to let it all hang out (figuratively and literally). He's not one for over analyzing something. He invites the entire world to feel his pain. My eardrums feel his pain. Then his bottom feels a disproportionate portion of his pain.

The good news is that he's happy in the same way: passionately. In fact, he pretty much throws himself whole-heartedly into everything. It's not that he doesn't KNOW he shouldn't be climbing over the fence. He's been disciplined for it before. He just wants SO badly to get to the horses. Or up the ladder to the top of the house. Or across the ninth hole to get to the pond. Or off the deep end to get to the water. Never mind the hooves, the height, the flying golf ball or the times I've already fished him out of the pool.

It's scary parenting a fearless and strong-willed child. It's also frustrating. What's helped me the most emotionally is something planted in my heart as I prayed over him one night. I always thank God for the children, for the good plan he has for their lives. But this night, as I bowed over Connor, I thanked God for making Connor exactly as he is. I thanked God for my son's energy, his passion, his determination. For I realized if God has a plan for Connor -- a plan to prosper him -- then he also equipped Connor with exactly the set of characteristics necessary to fulfill that plan. Knowing this has been immensely freeing. I don't spend time now (well, not much) wondering why he's this way or that way.

But what about the post title?

Imagine, if you will, a young boy who hadn't -- as far as his mother could determine -- had a bowel movement in near-on on a week. I've no formal medical training, but I'm fairly sure this is a bad thing, which could result in an explosion of some sort. Or, worse, a very unfriendly visit to a doctor which could scar a boy for life ... or a doctor.

On Thursday, I gave Connor a dose of Milk of Magnesia ("Comfortable, cramp-free relief. More like nature intended.") It's cherry flavored. He took it easily and announced, "It's good. It makes poopy come outta my hiney." That's the general idea. So we wait.

Fast forward to Saturday. Still nothin'. By this time, the kids and I are out-of-town visiting family. I ask my Mammaw for some Milk of Magnesia, which she has because at her age, she's collected enough pharmaceuticals to shame Merck. He gets another dose. (And, yes, I said "Mammaw.")

Moving on to Sunday. No results. Connor gets another dose in the morning. That afternoon, he has so much fun playing with cousins, he does the pee-pee dance a little too long and wets himself. At this point, I don't have any more clean clothes for him, so I find a pair of shorts and, after drying him off, send him off commando.

We return home several hours later and, with my husband now in tow, go quickly to our church's recreational building where, with much help, I began transforming a Sunday School room into an Arctic scene, complete with covered walls, snow, an igloo and a mountain. (Only took six-and-a-half FUN-FILLED hours.) In the midst of hanging snowflakes, my husband walked in to inform me Connor would be needing fresh clothes. And a bath. Oh, and a mop might be handy.

It was then that I remembered the poor little thing, having been given three adult-sized doses of Milk of Magnesia and THEN set loose to play, still didn't have underwear on.

And Ground Zero ... my sweet lord. The horror. The horror.

I don't care what the bottle said. It was NOT like nature intended.

Fortunately, Connor had made it into the restroom. And -- yes! -- there was a shower in there. So we got him cleaned up and covered in an adult XL camp T-shirt in no time. Still there's no doubt: This incident totally trumps the time I said the sucker would kill him.

Loading your constipated son up with a laxative for days and then sending him to play without underwear: priceless.

-30-

Ah, shucks

2006-05-31T21:00:00.000-05:00

Wow. When BooMama links, people clicken. Howdy, everyone. I'm honestly a bit overwhelmed at the response to my last post. Thank you. And trust me when I say the one incident I related is not the norm for me.

It's not unusual for me to say in the morning, "Lord, help me die to myself today and live for you."

And by that evening, in a desperate bid not to spank my three-year-old in public, tell him -- after the umpteenth time he's asked for the sucker with the built-in fan: "You can't have that candy because it's poison and it'll kill you." Yeah, that's livin' for Jesus.

It happened at Blockbuster. The teenager behind the cash register looked at me aghast and said (glancing first at my check to get my just-askin'-for-a-CPS-visit name), "Mrs. Clay, you did not."

I said, "Hey, talk to me when you have kids." Then I grabbed "Barbie: Fairytopia" and marched right out of there ... as Connor asked in sonic-boom voice, "It's-poison-and-it'll-kill-me,-mom?-it's-poison?-mom?-it's poison?"

I had some explaining to do.

Anyway, BooMama, thanks sincerely for expanding my blogging world. Some folks I'd already discovered via Leslie's haply thinking; others I will be visiting for the first time. Can't wait. I'm still new to the blogging world, but already it feels as though I'm on the threshold of a fabulous sisterhood. Thank you all.

-30-

The one

2006-05-30T15:24:00.000-05:00

I went on a mission trip to Antigua, Guatemala, in January. It was a wonderful experience. We spent a week ministering to a group of mostly-teenaged girls at an orphanage. The opportunity to focus on ministry, completely away from my everyday life (which is where life is really lived) was soul feeding. A few nights into our visit, a few of us splintered off after dinner, wandering about the cobbled streets of Antigua looking for a place to enjoy ice cream and more conversation. I had already come to love the people in our group of 15 or so. All but two of them had been complete strangers before we met on the trip. As we wandered aimlessly in search of dessert, we laughed plenty and acted silly. Along the way, I passed by a homeless man and felt sorry for him. But I didn't know what I could do for him. We walked on by. You have to walk on, right? There are so many people like him across the world.

I read a book recently that really has my attention. It's "Always Enough" by Rolland and Heidi Baker. The book details the Bakers' experience sharing God's love (right along with food, shelter, medical attention and education) with the poorest of the poor in Zimbabwe. Along with incredible hardships, they've also witnessed and been part of incredible miracles: the blind seeing, the lame walking and more amazing things.

But it's not the miracles that hit me squarely between the eyes (though their accounting is remarkable). No, it's Heidi Baker's conviction that God has commissioned her over and over again to take care of "the one." The one in front of her. Likewise, God has commissioned us -- we Christians -- to care for the one in front of us. In other words, we shouldn't spend our time shaking our heads about how "the poor will always be with us" (and I'm not just speaking of the monetarily poor). Rather, when we see someone who is obviously in need, we should discover if we're able to help him -- and, if so, act.

That's scary stuff, y'all. At least it is for me. What, I can't keep walking past the homeless guy when I'm having a good time with my friends? Well, of course I can keep on walking. Of course I can. But should I? Will I?

Monday Roy and I got the kids up and headed to Georgetown, where our awesome friends Janet and Wade (I have to put Janet first; I've known her longer and she's The Keeper of Girlhood Secrets) were hosting a Memorial Day party, complete with bouncy house and 1,000 hamburger patties. It's about a three-hour drive. Normally.

My daughter doesn't look a thing like me. She doesn't have my hair, my eyes or (thank you, Jesus) my absurdly long toes. She does, however, get carsick like her momma and her momma's momma. Let me just say pulling over quickly when you're traveling 70 mph in the fast lane alongside concrete barriers is no small achievement. But Roy, bless his heart, did just that. Major points to Madeline for being able to wait long enough that the Crayon box did not become a receptacle of something the folks at Mattel never dreamed of.

After repeating this scene a second time, we decided 10:30 might not be too early for lunch after all. So we stopped in Temple at -- what else -- McDonald's. Sure, their food is gross and the McNuggets are barely edible pieces of chicken wrapped in fat. But, HEY, they have a playground. And there's really unimaginative, cheap toys in the Happy Meals!

Roy and the kids walked ahead of me into the restaurant. A middle-aged man in a black, Lynyrd Skynyrd cowboy hat sat a few yards from the entrance door. His feet were Indian-style and pulled under one bony elbow was a small travel bag. I had noticed him when we drove up. Now I would have to walk past him like the group of people ahead of us. He didn't speak to anyone.

Help the one, I thought. So I stopped in front of him. He looked up without speaking.

"Do you need anything?" I asked.

He stared a moment more. "Something to eat," he said. I told him I'd get him a burger. Just before I walked in the door he added sheepishly, "And a cup of coffee."

I told Roy what to add to our order and why. When we got our food I asked the man if he wanted to eat with us. He did. The playground was an outdoor one, and as it turned out, the kids never sat down with us anyway. So we sat at an outside booth and talked.

His name is Leray. He was mugged getting off a bus somewhere. They took all his luggage but the one bag. They took his money and his bus ticket. He was sleeping at a mission, waiting to get past the holiday weekend before he started hitchhiking toward a friend's house in New Mexico.

At Roy's questioning Leray told us, haltingly, he had served two tours in Vietnam. I noticed, though he was in need of fresh clothes, his shirt was tucked in and he wore a belt.

I felt the Lord urging me to say more, pushing me out of my comfort zone. So near the end of the meal, I told Leray the story of Jesus and the woman at the well, about how Jesus told the woman, "If you drink this water, you'll be thirsty again. But if you drink of the Living Water, you'll never thirst again." I told him we were happy to buy him a hamburger and give him a little cash, but he'd be hungry again and run out of money. "Jesus," I said, "is the Living Water. He can take care of you far past this meal. If you don't have him, I want you to."

He just stared at me a moment, his eyes moist. "I do," he said simply.

When we said goodbye, I hugged him. He told me, "Thank you for talking to me about Jesus." What a simple thing.

I share all this for two reasons: to remind myself that once is not near, near enough. That I must minister to the one over and over and over again -- even when the one isn't so pleasant. And to say that if I, the greatest of sinners, can begin to do this, we all can.

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Introduce your inner Picasso

2006-05-28T19:43:00.000-05:00

My friend Elise sent me a great link the other day (Web, not sausage) which anyone with a kid who can handle a mouse should know about. The site allows the untalented (moi) to play at being an artist and the enviably talented to do some amazing things (see the "gallery"). Madeline, who will start kindergarten at the end of the summer, has LOVED getting artsy, and I've been surprised at her creativity. And, let me tell you, turning off the computer when she's done is considerably quicker than vacuuming up the glitter that was the hallmark of her most recent creative outlet.

One of Madeline's recent pictures is particularly notable for its text. Madeline knows her letters and their corresponding sounds, but I haven't made a real effort to teach her to read. (Before my Mom Card is revoked, let it be known I do read TO my children.) For starters, I figure that's what kindergarten is about. But, more importantly, if I tried, I'm virtually certain at least a month of any future counseling she might seek would involve describing "the summer my mother became the writing nazi."

So the little sprite spells everything phonetically. I correct her, of course, but mostly she just goes wild stringing sounds together. (Her kindergarten teacher will just LOVE me.) So, ahem, you'll notice in the photo, in red, it "says" iwutmbrdu. Which translates: "I want my bread." Now, like me, you might wonder what that last u is about. I asked Madeline and she explained, "Well, it's 'unh,' like when you're really tired and hungry, so you say, 'I want my bread.'" At this point she drops her shoulders and, with the weight of the world on her, adds a breathy: "Unhhh."

Keeping with her theme, the rather fancy breadbox is marked (translating): "Bread. Unh."

I would share something Connor has drawn, but so far everything resembles a plate of maroon spaghetti. In the interest of at least acknowledging I do also enjoy my son's company, I'll share a brief story (since you insist).

A few months ago when we were working on potty training (which is a whole, 'nother, deeelightful post), he was standing in front of the toilet, waiting for, I don't know, Santa, the Second Coming, a growth spurt, his mother's bum to meld with the tile floor ... out of desperation and a dash of the absurd I have never outgrown, I implored in a sing-songy voice. "Wake up, tee-tee! Come out!"

To which Connor immediately replied with crinkled brow, "It doesn't talk, Mom. It's tee-tee."

Thanks, Son.

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A bottle of wine and unfinished business

2006-05-27T11:38:00.000-05:00

A few of the things within my eyesight at this moment are a famous photo of Joe DiMaggio hitting a homerun (that would be Roy's), a photo of my children in which the difference between Connor then and now is startling, a fist-sized typewriter replica reminding me I'm a writer (a gift from Elise), a charcoal drawing of me 8-months pregnant that has disconcerted the occasional roaming guest (it IS in my bedroom), a marble curio box Roy brought home from Russia, the president's signature from the days he was governor and I worked in the capitol, Roy's unfinished passport application, a Yankee candle Roy loves and I think smells like dead crickets (Midsummer's Night) and an empty bottle of Concha Y Toro 2003 Merlot.

It's the empty bottle of wine that cracks me up. I imagine what it might look like were an acquaintance unfamiliar with my habits to walk in at this moment: the kids, playing happily (it does happen occasionally) while Mom sits in front of the computer next to an open bottle of wine.

"And she's a Baptist, at that!"

Well, the bottle has been empty a few weeks. Its demise can be attributed to a lovely dinner party. Roy liked it so much he asked me to save the bottle so he wouldn’t forget the label. I'm tired of looking at it, so yesterday I brought it in here so that I could email label particulars to him at work -- and then throw away the bottle.

Haven't gotten to that last part yet.

There are lots of unfinished things around this old house. Further north or east, 80-year-old houses are commonplace. But here in East Texas, they aren't the norm. We bought it six years ago as a fixer-upper. It has wood floors and plenty of charm, all right, but it also has a seemingly endless to-do list. Thankfully, I have a very handy husband (who can translate Latin AND build furniture), but he spends long hours at work and understandably isn't interested in tackling The List every evening. So we've hired a few things done. Most of our counter-balance wood windows with the wavy glass (love the wavy glass/hate the rotting wood) have been replaced by sturdier, insulated windows. The job required most of the windows to be completely ripped out, so there's now exposed 2-by-4's inside that we'll have to cover with trim and paint. We've got a beautiful new front door -- that's unfinished on the inside. The siding on the garage was rotting, so Roy's replacing boards at this moment. The porch doors are only half painted (my job).

It's just my nature, I suppose, to be bothered by unfinished things. Almost-done this and nearly-complete that. No matter how good something looks, if it isn't complete, it hasn't reached its potential. That really bugs me. I've been thinking the last few days about why it bothers me so much, and I think it's because I am so unfinished. If I'm unhappy about the trim that still needs painting (which, yes, is my job to do), what must God be thinking when he sees where I am in my faith walk and where I could be? Sometimes I feel as though I'm little more than stud walls and exposed plumbing. I have the foundation, but I lack the will to do the hard building, much less the finish work.

Thankfully, the Carpenter hasn't given up on me.

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The Graduate

2006-05-24T22:58:00.000-05:00

My daughter graduated last week. No, not from high school. That would make me 16 when I had her. Uhm, I mean 10. Yeah, 10.

Heck, it wasn't even Kindergarten graduation, where adorable six-year-olds act out literary classics like "Little Bunny Foo-Foo" before walking across the stage to receive sheets of rolled-up printer paper.

No, she graduated from Angel Keepers Pre-K (where she and her brother have been going twice a week for some time now).

I know most moms -- heck, every other mom I know -- say these things are not boring for mothers. Yes. Well. Some mothers also spend hours scrapbooking events such as The First Time Johnny Ate All His French-Cut Greenbeans. Some mothers make mock museums in their living rooms in preparation for a visit to a real one. Some mothers regularly cook healthy meals for their family. What is WRONG with these women? (I'm not looking so good now, am I?)

OK, so I wasn't actually bored at the program. But I wasn't riveted every minute. What I was hoping for was The Moment. The moment when one of my children (Connor is 3 and his part in the program involved intensive sulking and slumping during song time) did something that imprinted itself permanently on my gray matter.

Well, it happened. Madeline and her fellow Angel Keepers Class of '06ers lined up at the back of the sanctuary, waiting as their names were called one-by-one to walk on stage and receive their "diplomas" and a Bible.

I had a prime spot, thank goodness, to watch as her excitement grew. She knew I was there. I could tell it pleased her, but she didn't watch me much. She watched the woman on stage. She delighted in the anticipation. When her name was called -- Madeline Clay -- her face transformed in a way I find hard to describe. She lit up from the inside. She threw her hands to her face with the joy of it. She made an almost-squeal sound no adult can approximate. Then she looked at me for just a moment before bouncing up the aisle.

Oh, the joy of being a mom at that moment. Of being her mom. Madeline Clay's mom: the girl who knew all her lines without prompting. The girl who knew almost every other child's lines. The girl who stood up during one song and bounced because she couldn't contain herself.

I pray out loud over my children every night, and almost always I tell the Lord, "Thank you for making me Madeline's mom; thank you for making me Connor's mom."

And I mean it. How I mean it.

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