An Undeserved Answer to a Hard Question

"Why did you tell us, and others, that you were going to heal Mom, and then not do it?" That question has been the root of some bitterness in my life for the past three years. You see, we (as in my family) believed God told us, members of our community, and even strangers that this was His plan for my Mom. He was going to heal her of the Ovarian cancer she had been battling for 13 years, and it was going to be miraculous, and it was going to be an earthly healing. We clung to that and believed it, until she took her last breath...and then we waited with one eye open to be sure He wasn't going to raise her from the dead.

I would have thought my belief in God would have been shattered over such an occurrence, but it wasn't. He had been too present during the fight, He'd held me too tightly for me to question His existence...or even His goodness. What was shattered was my faith. I still believed He had the power to heal, but I certainly wasn't planning to claim that healing for anybody else (or myself) ever again. I was happy for other people to claim it, I would even encourage them to do so, but I was done believing God for anything big in my life. It left me too vulnerable.

Then, I moved to Seattle and became desperate for the fellowship of other women and God. I missed Him and the good grind of knowing Him more deeply. So, I invited a few different women that I'd met here to do a study in our home, and I called my sister Kendall. Kendall's boyfriend's Mom (are you still following me, that's Watson) was one of my Mom's dearest friends in all the world--Mrs. Abby. She also collects Beth Moore Bible studies that she lends out to others. I asked Kendall if Mrs. Abby would be willing to lend me one. I didn't specify. Any 'ol Beth Moore study was fine with me. What did she send?...Believing God--experience a fresh explosion of faith. And Mrs. Abby added the note that it was the last study she and Mom ever did together.

Crap. That was my thought. It would be rude to send this back, but CRAP. I don't want to talk about faith; it's too sensitive. I don't want to dredge up old feelings about Mom; I'm not ready for that. However, I do know Him well enough to notice that He often asks of me things that I don't particularly like. The good lessons are never padded with satin and wrapped with a ribbon. So I opened by barbed-wire covered package and I stepped out--on the little bit of faith I'd managed to salvage.

On Day TWO of the study, we reached the scripture I was dreading the most. Hebrews 11:11 was probably the most quoted Scripture in our household for the last few months of Mom's life:

By faith Abraham, even though he was past age -- and Sarah herself was barren -- was enabled to become a father because he considered him faithful who made the promise.

God had given Mom this verse and we claimed it with her over and over. God was going to heal her, even against how bleak it all looked--because she considered Him faithful who made the promise. The verse still pierces my heart.

However, on day two of this study, facing my dread, I read on and God broke truth over my heart like a sparkling wave of light. If you read on, verses 13-16 say this:

All these people were still living by faith when they DIED. They did not receive the things promised; they only saw then and welcomed them from a distance. And they admitted that they were aliens and strangers on earth. People who say such things show that they are looking for a country of their own. If they had been thinking of the country they had left, they would have had opportunity to return. Instead, they were longing for a better country--a heavenly one. [Emphasis mine]

Tears were streaming down my face as I realized what He was telling me, and as I sat there the sun, the literal sun, broke through the clouds on this rainy Seattle Saturday--on a day when the cloud-cover was so thick I would have thought it impossible--and the warm sun suddenly spilled all over my face. It was a hug from God. Pure and bright and palpable.

I wrote down what He spoke to me, and I wrote it just like He was saying it. I felt like a secretary trying to scratch it all down so that I didn't miss a word. He said:

She wasn't wrong. You weren't wrong. You did what I required, what pleases me. You had faith to believe what I promised, but I gave her a choice. The free-will that is also my gift. And she chose me...she loves you but not more than ME. What would all that journey have been worth if she didn't? I foreknew the choice she would make and the promise is completed now. She is healed. She is healed and if she had chosen the promises' fulfillment to have been made on earth, I would have gladly given her that as well. But once I'd brought her to the place where I wanted her, the place where her heart desired me more than anything else--then the earthly healing no longer seemed so important. Who wants the shadow when offered the substance?

Now I need you to understand this. To bind it on your heart. I need more than the quarter of a mustard seed you walked away from this experience with. You've been content to tuck that in your pocket. I need you to take it out now. I'm ready to grow it.

And God's People Say...!

Wow. Wow. I cannot even begin to express how grateful I am for all of you. It's hard to say you feel abandoned by God, when you re-wake up (sometimes I might sneak back in bed after I write these :)) to ten missed calls and a whole load of encouraging comments and emails! I hardly got anything done yesterday for reading over your Scripture references and sending everything along to Jeremiah's phone. To show love and true, heart-felt concern for (in a lot of cases) a total stranger, says a lot about all of you. We felt showered by blessings and prayers and were reminded (how many times does He have to show us?) that He is always near. Thank you.

Let me also clarify that we suffered no bodily harm in the night. I think that lack of sleep and stress really brings out the flair for the dramatic in my writing. Sorry about that. I got a lot of calls wondering if the authorities had been alerted--surely we'd been robbed at gun-point. No, it was just an all-night onslaught on our hearts and minds....And I think I'm being truthful when I say, I would have preferred a man who wanted to steal our worldly possessions. Besides this computer, he would have been pretty sadly disappointed anyway :)

You'll have to forgive me for not going into more detail on the blog. If you could drop in for a cup of coffee, I'd love to hash through our current heart hurts with you. However, it's hard to know who all sees this little blog, and I just can't be more explicit than I already have been. That's annoying as heck, isn't it. Sorry.

Now, I'm going to write one of those happy blogs, because guess what--I AM happy this morning!

I love y'all. I mean that.

A Downer after the Smiles

I have two different posts that I'd like to write this morning but can't write either one. They are happy, and we are not. We as in, Jeremiah, Pace and me. Fortunately, Dapples is still looking at us like we're all crazy--she's still happy. We had a great weekend, a truly great one. However, the enemy hit hard in the night, and this morning we're left feeling the effects.

Have you ever felt abandoned by God?

We are claiming what we know to be the truth...that He will never leave us or forsake us. Sometimes though, in the midst of trouble, He can seem elusive. Maddeningly intangible.

What do you do? No really, I am asking. We look back at all the ways He's been faithful in the past. Other times we've felt alone or scared or overwhelmed, and the ways He delivered us each time. We acknowledge the godly counsel of dear friends. Oh the well-spring of life encouragement from a fellow believer can be! But still, even that sometimes cannot tilt our heads up enough to breathe in the full breath of God we crave.

What do you do?

This Easter's Blessing

Some of my earliest memories as a little girl, involve being at Jesus' feet...and sometimes I still find myself there today. It's always the same. I start by lying down at His feet, and then He pulls my head into his lap and lays His hand on the side of my face to comfort me. Because that's what I'm always seeking when I find myself there--comfort. I wouldn't call it a vision, but I wouldn't call it my imagination either. It's an experience that feels real when my eyes are closed, but I'm perfectly aware of being within the confines of my mind. I don't see with my eyes as much as my heart. And every time I'm in His presence, I'm amazed at why I haven't been there in so long. Why do I stay away?

On Sunday morning, I didn't know if I was going to be able to go to our Easter service or not. Pace was not quite stable on Saturday, and I knew she shouldn't be around other children just yet. So, after Jeremiah left for work, I got back in the bed with my Bible and poured over the Easter story, through the eyes of John--the self-proclaimed beloved disciple (that tickles me for some reason). And as it is the living Word of God, something fresh welled up inside me as I read the same old story, this time.

At first it was awe in the deep love of a God who stands on the eve of His own gruesome death, and is so concerned with the welfare of his friends:

"I will remain in the world no longer, but they [the disciples] are still in the world and I am coming to you. Holy Father, protect them by the power of your name..." John 17:11a

And with me:

"My prayer is not for them alone. I pray also for those who will believe in me through their message [me, ME!], that all of them may be one, Father, just as you are in me and I am in you. May they also be in us so that the world may believe that you have sent me." John 17:20-21

And what that meant for me, lying there in my bed and taking care of my children and cooking dinner and sinning like the sinner I am, is that Christ, in the form of the Holy Spirit dwells within me!! What in the world?! Just as I carried two little lives inside of me, before Pace or Mary Aplin were born, I carry around the God of all Creation ALL the TIME!

"And I will ask the Father, and he will give you another Counselor to be with you forever--the Spirit of truth. The world cannot accept him, because it neither sees him nor knows him. But you know him, for he lives with you and will be in you." John 14:16-17

How would my life look differently if I truly walked as though I believed in that powerful truth? That is when I found myself at His feet, crying out "How can I deserve such a gift?! How does any earthly blessing compare to this--this that I so seldom even recognize, much less thank you for? How can You bear it? To see all my sins, and abide within me despite my ugliness? Thank you. Thank you. Thank you! I don't deserve all the ways you bless me. I can't fathom why you continue to love me, but thank you. Grace. Grace. God's grace. Grace that is greater than all my sin."

Those were the cries of my heart, as my head lay in his lap, and he smiled down on me in spite of it all. As my heart finished, I asked a little sheepishly--not knowing if it were an appropriate request, "Do you think you could tell Mom, that I said 'Happy Easter'?"

And he said, "Why don't you tell her yourself?" And there she was. Even in her surprise presence, I didn't dare lift my head from His lap. But she understood. She knelt down, even with my face and she looked like my 45-year-old healthy Mom. Not the 18-year-old with long flowing hair, that I've been imagining her to be ever since she went to heaven, but my Mom. And she quickly poured out all the things a girl-woman longs to hear from the lips of her own Mother. Affirmation and encouragement about the woman I am now...the Mom I am now. As though the Holy Spirit weren't gift enough :)!?

I laughingly asked, "Is this real?" I opened my eyes and I was still in my bed. I close them again, and I'm in Jesus' lap with my Mom kneeling in front of me. His answer, "It's not your imagination."

And I smelled the squash boiling low in the kitchen--just like she used to make it, and I stepped back into "Easter Sunday" a blessed woman indeed.

Good Friday to You All!

I'm feeling pretty stupid right now. Mrs. Ohs (Jeremiah's mountain Mama from the year he lived in Montana) gave us a nifty little "flip" video camera a couple of years ago. She said she wanted to be able to see videos of our little girls growing up. GREAT GIFT...technologically illiterate wife. Y'all, we used it and loved it and then the batteries ran out and FOR THE LIFE OF ME I could not figure out how to re-charge it. I got on the "flip" website, and I read the instruction manual, but it did not seem to say anywhere how I could RE-charge the thing. So it's been sitting on our desk, unused, for a year...until today. When I realized that all it needed was an old-school AA battery change. WHO WOULDA THUNK IT? I mean, doesn't all technology these days either have to be plugged into a USB drive or a wall charger? Ok, so I'm dumb, and I've missed recording and sharing a year's worth of memories because of it.

Anywho, one night during the Christmas season Jeremiah and I were discussing teaching Pace the song "Santa Baby" for kicks and giggles, when I logged on to my friend Darby's blog to see that she'd taught her children to recite an entire chapter of LUKE. I felt like a horrible mother. Pace and I can perform an awesome rendition of "Your Hot then Your Cold" by Katy Perry and we were getting ready for the Christmas season with "Santa Baby," but I'd not helped her memorize any Scripture. So, for Easter, I thought we'd give it a whirl, and y'all it really is ASTOUNDING how easily their little minds soak up what you feed them. I'm glad I figured out how to work my video camera just in time :)




And while Mary Aplin is certainly not reciting any verses...I thought you might like to see a little clip or her live and in color. Does anybody remember Animal from the Muppet babies?

The Slithering Serpent

A lot of you have sent some sweet emails and left some nice messages about the big events that occurred over the last weekend. I was hoping this week was going to kick-start "normal life" into gear...and maybe even be a little relaxing :) N.O.P.E. The reason I haven't been returning emails is because Satan--that slithering serpent--has attacked us this week...in the form of the stomach virus.I'm not one to blame Satan for every malady that comes our way, but this time I feel pretty sure it's plain and simple spiritual warfare (I wonder if this deep conviction stems at all from the fact that Jeremiah and I have been listening to C.S. Lewis' Screwtape Letters before going to bed at night :)). You see, Jeremiah is trying to start an orthopedic residents/resident's wives Bible Study. We've talked about it for a while, and I felt strongly that it was a great idea. I know that every field has its individual challenges, but at this point in Jeremiah's training, I think it's important that we band together--remind each other that we're fighting a bigger battle than long hours and demanding attendings--encourage each other to fight the good fight and fight it well...and have a good free meal, babysitting and fellowship, how bout it :)?

So, we were having our second meeting at our house this Wednesday (as in last night). I could have just picked up dinner...but I really did want to cook. I could have left the piles of crap all over my house...but I wanted it to feel nice and clean. With an estimated 20 people coming for dinner (and an undetermined amount of children), I knew that the first part of my week was going to be busy, but I was happy with that, because I felt like I was doing something I enjoyed, AND it was serving a greater purpose. HIGH ideals on Monday morning, until my eyes fluttered open to see Mary Aplin standing beside my bed with vomit caked in her hair and a raw spot on her cheek from where she'd slept in the mess all night long. AGGGHHHH!!! (The child never made a peep all night. Who is that tough?!!)

Should I cancel? But we've been planning this for so long, and I'm already in gear. I thought to myself, "These stomach viruses are normally fast and furious. She'll be over it in 24 hours, and I'll just keep Pace far away from her. I'm not letting Satan slither in here and foil these plans. That's precisely what he'd want." And with that thought I fired ahead! I grocery shopped, and cleaned vomit, and disinfected, and held a sickly weak baby, and dealt with piles, and stripped full beds of bedding, and cooked for 20 people, and kept Pace away from Dapples, and scrubbed my hands in between each of these steps SO MANY TIMES that my hands are raw and my fingertips are sore while I'm typing. Basically, I worked like a madwoman who was fighting a demon.

And yesterday afternoon, it looked as if the good guys had won! Dapples was the toughest little sickling I've ever seen, (I'm not kidding y'all, she would vomit and then laugh apologetically and say, "Sorry Mommy" in a way that nearly broke my heart. She was so sweet.) and it seemed like we were through it all...all the food was waiting in the refrigerator, the house was clean, and I was really excited about the fellowship and discussion that was on the imminent horizon...and then...the serpent struck Pace.

One hour before everybody was about to show up (you know that last hour when there are a million little details to be finalized), and Pace walks into the kitchen...and vomits right. there. on my clean floor. I rush forward to try and sweep her away to the bathroom AND SLIP AND FALL IN THE MESS. As I mopped and dumped disinfect all over the floor, and showered as I simultaneously held Pace's hair back (one of the rare times a girl is thankful for a tiny bathroom), I thought "Maybe this wasn't Satan trying to stop us, maybe it was God trying to tell us it was a bad idea?!"

It all came together somehow. Between giving a million jobs to my unsuspecting babysitters who happened to arrive a little early and shipping off two sick children with my poor SAINT of a sister-in-law:

(Seriously, how many friends would come over and lovingly scoop away a child who is actively vomiting and another who is barely well at best?)

And then...God showed up. I felt like He did at least. We had a house packed full of men and women who were fighting to get through residency with their marriages--that still honor the God who institutes them--intact. People were honest and frank and even a little vulnerable (which is pretty rare in a room full of highly motivated surgeons, I'd think).

Pace continued to vomit every 10 minutes (I am not exaggerating) until 3:30 am when I (scared to death) carried her to Jeremiah and told him I thought she needed to go to Children's ER. He never agrees to going to the ER. Ever. But he took one look at her and started making phone calls. He whisked her away, and I got a couple hours of much needed sleep.

When I started writing this blog, this is how I left both of my little patients:

Hydrated (intravenously in Pace's case), scrubbed clean, swathed in Baby Lotion, and watching PBS while sipping Gatorade.

As I end, this is how I found Mary Aplin...covered in my mascara (and now crying from a spanking). Do you think it was the slithering serpent that made her do it? :)
Seriously though, please pray that Jeremiah and I don't get this virus. If I got it half as bad as Pace, there is no way I could function enough to take care of these two. So far so good!

A Japanese Magnolia Set Me Free

For the past month or so I've felt a bit like a toy of Pace's. It's a fairy with big collapsible wings and a long rope hanging from her feet. You wrap the rope tighter and tighter around her, and when you have her all bound as tightly as possible, you rip the rope as hard as you can and she goes spinning and flying all over the room. The rope's been winding tighter and tighter around here, but I haven't been able to find anybody to help me rip away the chord. I actually found myself mopping the kitchen last week and thinking, "If I had a genuine nervous breakdown, maybe I would get checked into the hospital and I could really rest." THAT'S when you know you're going nutso--when the hospital sounds like a fun break!

I told y'all about last week's list...and getting sick. I did get my taxes turned in and have been chipping away at all the paper-work that has to be completed before Jeremiah can begin his fellowship in Seattle. It's just that it wasn't only the physical stress of having a lot of things to check off my "To Do" list. I was dealing with some mental anxiety as well. We were facing our second wedding without Mom. We were facing it without her...and with Konie. We were facing it without her, with Konie, and with my normally very sensitive Dad, sporting the sensitivity of...a tree stump :). Before I go any further, let me point out that I would not be telling you any of this if I had any anger, or even anything negative to say about Konie. She has been the picture of kindness, discretion, helpfulness,...absolutely great. Konie is not the problem. The hard situation was the problem.

Most men don't like to talk, especially about awkward things like emotions or relationships. My Dad has never been most men. He lived in a house with five women, and while he is a man's man from the top of his head to the tip of his toes, there is also nothing in the world that he likes more than to have us all gathered around him for a good talk. However, when Dad is under stress, his people skills and his emotional radar don't tend to function very well. We know this. It's not a new condition, but when you combine his extremely high stress level (wedding at his house, planning a lot of it himself, his own wedding a week away, taxes, demolition/remodeling beginning yesterday to get ready for Konie to move in, 2 daughters in college...) with the sensitive matters being handled you get a volatile mixture to say the least.

So, on Sunday afternoon, when the wedding was over, Taylor and I sat down at our dining room table with Dad and vented a whole lot of crap. And cried. And talked in circles. And cried. And could hardly talk because we were crying so hard. He listened, apologized for some things, explained some others, and also had a few areas where we had hurt his feelings as well (which I didn't know was possible--shows how sensitive I am). It ended in hugs and relief, and eyes that were so swollen (on my part) that I could hardly keep them open.

I slept the entire drive back to Birmingham--until I was awakened by Jeremiah calmly but severely stating, "Abby, you need to wake up because something b.a.d. is happening with the car." I opened my eyes and we were bu-bu-bu-bumping our way down the shoulder of I-65. A tow truck, some divinely placed family members that could cart 2 adults, 2 children, a dog, and enough wedding luggage to clothe a small country on to Birmingham, a friend who works at a Chevrolet dealership down the road from the break-down site, and $1300 later (agghhhh!) and all is well, with the car.

I, however, was still not doing what I would call well. I felt like somebody had significantly loosened the rope binding me, but it certainly wasn't ripped off and letting me fly around the room. And then... ... ...I took my first run in real Spring weather. I almost didn't go, because I still have a lot to do, and today was the first day my sickly lungs have felt 50-75% better. But I just WENT, and about 200 yards into the run I knew Somebody was about to set me free. I let it all go, pounded right out under the bottoms of my shoes. With the sunshine on my face, and cool air filling deep down into my lungs I let Winter out and welcomed Spring in. Then, I spotted the biggest Japanese Magnolia I'd ever seen. A profusion of big pink blossoms stretching towards the sky, a green lawn, and crisp white house in the background, and Somebody had ripped the cord--I was flying. On the drive home from the gym, we rolled all the windows down and I pointed out the beauty of the Japanese Magnolia to the girls. They proceeded to squeal with delight and point out each one that we passed (which are a lot in our neighborhood right now). We took the long way home just because none of us could get quite enough of the beauty and the wind. It's funny what He uses, isn't it?
**I "stole" both of these flower pictures from Google images. My camera is still in my car in Clanton :)

That Solomon is a Pretty Smart Guy

Do you avoid certain books of the Bible? Maybe not on purpose, but are there those books that you always flip through and never actually read? I do. And one of those books was Ecclesiastes. Doesn't that just sound like it's filled with a whole lot of old testament laws that don't necessarily apply to us in today's society? That's exactly what I told Jeremiah the other morning at breakfast when I asked him what book he wanted me to read from and he said, "Let's do Ecclesiastes."

He laughingly pointed out that he thought I was confusing it with Leviticus. Dad, are you cringing right now? Apparently I don't know my Bible like I should :) Anywho, we gave the unintentionally avoided Ecclesiastes a go, and now I am loving it. If God promises to make someone the wisest man to ever live, it might be a good idea to listen to what they have to say:

So God said to him, "Since you have asked for this and not for long life or wealth for yourself,...I will do what you have asked. I will give you a wise and discerning heart, so that there will never be anyone like you, nor will there ever be." 1 Kings 3:11-12

I'll pre-warn you that it starts off pretty depressing, but I came to this yesterday morning and it has stuck in my heart so deeply:

Moreover, when God gives any man wealth and possessions, and enables him to enjoy them, to accept his lot and be happy in his work--this is a gift from God. He seldom reflects on the days of his life, because God keeps him occupied with gladness of heart. Ecclesiastes 5:19-20

What better gift could there be?!!! I want that! How often do I remind myself that here, in this home, with a husband and children to tend, is exactly what I've always longed for... And how often do I bang around in my discontentment? Literally bang. Bang the dishes in the sink (because I feel like I've washed 10,000 of them already that day), bang the car door (because I feel like I've strapped 95 carseats over the course of three "quick" errands), banged the girls' bedroom door closed (because I've told them to be quiet and take a nap for the hundredth time). I don't want to bang around! I want to be "occupied with gladness of heart" because of how richly He has blessed me...and most of all how much He loves me.

So yesterday, I reflected on those verses as I cleaned the mud off Pace's back from her attempt to make a snow angel--even though none of the snow was sticking to the ground.

I reflected on them while I learned the hard way that galoshes don't only trap compacted snow in their crevices but also dirt and grime--that gets tracked throughout the house.

I reflected on them while I cleaned up the diarrhea Locks had all over the one rug in our house (I think he developed a nervous stomach after guarding the girls in their state of snow hysteria in the front yard).

I reflected on them during Pace's sassy attitude and during Mary Aplin's constant shenanigans :)But I must say that there are lots of moments, when it is ever-so-easy to be thankful for right where I am:

Today Is Mom's Birthday

And I'm missing her.

(Mom with Grandpa, her Dad) (And again, a little later.)

(Caroline, Mom, Me, Kendall, and Pace)

And wishing we could share another piece of red velvet cake with cream cheese icing...even though I never could understand why it was her favorite :)

You Can Do Anything You Set Your Mind To

I can hear him say it. Just as clearly as if it were only a moment ago. "Abby, you can do anything you set your mind to." My Dad is foremost a teacher and encourager, and growing up with him was a blessing, a gift, that is still only slowly coming to consciousness. That one little mantra, has been haunting me lately. I think it was marathoning--all that time of quiet thinking-- that has led me to look back over the landscape of my life and question the validity of that statement.

I can say one thing for certain, I heard that I could do anything enough times, that I eventually began to believe it...and test it. It's recalling the testing that still makes my bones hurt. The recalling has made me want to shake Dad and ask him if he thought maybe he told me that one TOO many times. It's taken a while (27 years to be exact), but I eventually tested Dad's theory on all three areas of my life that he liked to stress the importance of developing. Mind. Body. Spirit. Mind. Body. Spirit. (I can hear him saying those words too, and pointing to one finger at a time for emphasis :))

Mind: I am NOT, in any way, smart enough to hold this Chemical Engineering degree that I have. I knew it would be hard. I knew I would have to give up a lot of the social life that my friends had, to accomplish it. That was ok. That's what you do right? As long as I was willing to put the time in. Try my best. I could do it.

What I found was that my mind has a limit. I know because I pushed it there. I watched the people around me grasp concepts that my mind just simply could. not. absorb. I wanted to quit. I called home crying a lot of nights with long lists of reasons why I should quit immediately--"Believe it or not, I CAN'T do THIS." Dad's reply: "God doesn't lead people from something into nothing. If you want to quit, then tell me where He's leading you and give me some good reasons He's doing it."

Unable to truthfully combat that last statement, I stayed with it. God, and my brilliant friend Stewart :), carried me through to the end of that test.

Body: When Ashley asked me if I wanted to run a marathon with her, I didn't necessarily want to do it, but I didn't doubt that I could do it. Just one foot in front of the other, right? I may be extremely slow. I may have to walk a lot of the way, but I can do it. You see how deeply it's ingrained?? What I found, at training run mile 17 to be exact, was that it may NOT be possible for me. Maybe, just maybe Dad, I CAN'T do THIS.

I finished it though. With the help of Ashley and Dr. Bonantz and Jeremiah and God (took a lot more help for that Body test :)), I pushed my body to its absolute limit and finished.

Spirit: Losing Mom. I can't tell you the number of times, during the battle and since, that I've had to remind myself that, "Other people have lived through this and so can I." There were days when I wanted to beat God to a pulp. A lot of days when I was over the flashes of anger but still couldn't stand to be in His presence (now that's hard to run from :)). It was a big test. To look at the faith I had claimed to stand on my whole life and find out whether I still believed in pain as I had in joy.

It was "working out my salvation." While I don't believe that we can work hard enough or do things "right" enough to save ourselves (what need would there be for grace?), I do believe there are times when we don't feel like being a Christian. It's those times when we have to trust that He knows better than we do. What He calls us to do is be faithful. To stay in the game. To keep loving and serving and praying, even when it doesn't make us feel good.

What I found at the end of that test, was that He IS faithful. As crazy as it sounds, I am grateful that He took the time to bring me through that fire. To bring me to a deeper and more true understanding of Himself. It took the support of my family, our community, and God (kind of ridiculous how much help I needed for the Spirit test :)), but I'm making it through that test...I started to say "made it through," but it seems this grief thing is never truly over.

From the outside, it would seem that these "accomplishments" might make me proud of myself. I got that degree, ran that race, and lost my Mom while still loving my God. Pat myself on the back, right? Nope. Just the opposite, actually. To go from a quiet assurance that "I can do anything I set my mind to," to, after the testing, taking all the I's out of the statement. To being thankful for a Dad who did a mighty thing for me, in giving me the confidence to face big challenges, but realizing that, in truth, "We can do anything He wants us to do...because He will be faithful to accomplish it through us."

Grant Me the Patience for Patience

Whenever the shackles of resident's life, loosen enough that Jeremiah can slide into his place at our dinner table, we then begin the process of absorbing each other's day. There's comfort in that. Comfort in the effort of recreating all the insignificant incidences that tied new knots in my neck, or strengthened the ones that were already there. I can try to huff, even more than I necessarily felt, over the "smart talk" I received from Pace. I can use all my dramatic faculties to paint the picture of the chaos that ensued after Mary Aplin discovered she could remove her poopy diaper herself. I can monotonously list all the chores I performed again this day, which I watched unravel as soon as they were completed...just gearing up for me to do them again tomorrow. I can talk about all these things, and he can nod his head and even open his eyes widely as though he understands...but he doesn't, not really. Just as I don't really understand all the pressures that call him in early and hold him there late. We try, for each other, but God has granted us two differing roles and asked that we sympathize with, but not necessarily understand, the other. Partly, I believe, because the need for understanding stems from the root of pride. And He's always trying to dig that up, isn't He.

Do you want to know, after all my dramatics at the dinner table, what is the consistent utterance from my lips? What I hear Jeremiah praying for me each morning before he straps himself back on to the end of that chain...Patience. Patience. Patience. Patience. How many times have I prayed the words, "Lord, help me to be slow to anger and abounding in love..." I desire a gentle and quiet spirit, one that has the patience to endure all things, with love. From the fact that Pace refuses to learn the letter "A," to Mary Aplin's temper tantrums every time I strap her in the carseat, to the playroom that is forever and always needing to be picked up--give me the patience to conquer each task, without tying another knot in my neck, and without showing my family the blackness of my sin-filled heart.

Someone warned me once, that patience is the last thing you want to ask God for. "When you ask for it, get ready for Him to teach it to you." I am willing to attest to the fact that He has given me ample opportunities to learn, and I still see no real end in sight. I think my new prayer may be, "Lord grant me the patience to learn how to be patient."

Sometimes, She Still Sends Me Presents

My Mom's love language is (still can't say "was"...) gift giving. I've talked about that before on this blog, if you want further explanation. But this past week I found out that she actually was NOT quite through providing gifts from her gift closet.

I was hosting a book party at my house
(I know I am weird, and it's only going to get worse when you see these pictures) and the time period of the book was Antebellum/Victorian...logically I asked everybody to come dressed in "period attire." Like any good Southern Belle, I thought I had a hoop dress I could wear for the occasion in my closet in Dothan. However, when I found that the dress would not zip even HALFway up my torso, I frantically started searching for other options.

I remembered a dress Mom wore in the seventies that I thought could pass for Victorian...so I found it and was going to deal with the fact that it wasn't "perfect" with a brave face. I was about to leave Dothan and head back to Birmingham (to start getting ready for my party the NEXT day), when I thought I would take just one more look in the "gift closet." I don't even know why I felt the urge to look there, except that I had some thought that my hoop could be hiding back there and maybe I was going to wedge it under some other poor unsuspecting dress that I could zip.

I walked back to the closet, pushed the random few hanging clothes out of my way, and noticed that there was a faded looking dress folded and lying right on top of the bins where Mom used to store her gifts. My breath caught, and I grabbed the garment and watched the old lace and soft cotton billow down to the floor. It was perfect. Victorian in the highest sense of the word, and I had never seen it before. I didn't cry. I just felt warm all over. I knew she'd led me to it. One more gift for her silly daughter, who loved party planning and perfecting details as much as she did.




Late that night as I baked and decorated, I thought about her a lot, and I felt her there. She always came to help whenever I had a party. Knowing all the details that needed attending to and the difficulties of making things right with two curious little ones. She couldn't be there to clean and cook and watch my girls, but she could lead me to the perfect dress...I just know she wanted to be a part.

And my silly little book party, was a lot of fun :)

(They are going to kill me for posting this :) hehehe)

Unless We're in Africa

Whenever Jeremiah and I start talking about our future, as in when he is finally--officially done with all of his training, he always adds the caveat "unless we're in Africa." An example: "Abby I hope we will have a farm one day...unless, of course, we're in Africa." What this means is, unless we get called to foreign missions. After several years of this, it has turned into something of a brand in my side. The hot shock I always get poked with if I ever start dreaming a little too much. I feel like it's how he reigns me back to reality, "Don't count on any of these big dreams you have, because we may be living in a tent and sleeping on the dirt. You may be home-schooling our children and fighting off deadly pestilence with your bare hands. You may be boiling buffalo heart for our dinner and learning how to garden so that we can have vegetables. You may be leaving our families and learning to speak Swahili." Ok, so maybe he doesn't say all of that, but that is what I picture every time he says, "unless we're in Africa." Don't mis-understand me here. I have always wanted to do foreign, medical missions with Jeremiah. As long as he's talked about pursuing medicine it has been one of our dreams. I just don't feel like God is calling me to long-term permanent missions. A month, two, even three sounds good to me...but our whole life???

This past Sunday I was confessing this struggle to our friend Cohen [for those of you who read regularly he is the one who raked our yard when all that stuff was happening with Mom]. He and his wife Amie are long-term missionaries to Belize, and they are here in the States for a couple of months so that Amie could deliver and recover from having their fourth child. I told him about Jeremiah's little caveat and he responded with a big, "Praise God!" "Oh no, no Cohen, don't start praising God over there. I don't want to live in Africa. I just feel like your calling, to permanent foreign missions, is so specific. Don't you think I would know by now if that is what God was calling us to? Don't you think I would have some desire--I am telling you I have none."

He started laughing pretty hard at me, and told me some things that were not reassuring in the least. Like, some missionary wives go kicking and screaming. Or, he was scared to death when God called him...and then he recommended I read this book. So I leave our Sunday school class in a mild state of panic, wondering if what I am running away from the hardest is still being orchestrated all around me against my will. Get the tent ready, I'm heading to Africa.

So I sit down in big church (does anybody else still call it that?), with my mind in no state to pay attention to a sermon. I made a conscious decision to look my fear in the face, because you see, it was becoming apparent to me that what I was really fearful of was not Africa and all those jungle fears I listed above...what I was scared of was facing the reality of what it meant to "give it all." The Sunday school answer, for all of us sweet little Christians, when asked "What are you willing to give up for Christ?" is "MY ALL." And what I was realizing was that the reason it made me mad every time Jeremiah threatened to take me to Africa was that I knew in my heart there were some things I didn't want to have to let go of...I was SCARED to look in the face of just how disgusting my "thing addiction" is. Please follow these next paragraphs (which are my stream of consciousness from church this week) to the end, because it is going to start out pretty petty.

Ok Abby Clark Maddox you've been running from this Africa thing for years now, it's time to ask yourself why. Are you really afraid that God won't protect your family?...No. Are you really afraid that you will not be able to leave your extended family behind?...That would be extremely difficult, but I know, as long as I had Jeremiah and my girls tucked up against me, we could make it together. Are you afraid of living in a hovel?...I'm not afraid of getting dirty. That's not what I asked, are you afraid of living in a hovel--as in not the house you've been dreaming about and designing in your mind and with Jeremiah (you know the one made of stone and wood, that sits on a farm with land rolling out in front of it, with a big library with a ladder that slides....) Oh please God NO, I can't bear to be one of those people. Those people who love their things. They disgust me! Is that who I am deep down where I'm afraid to look? Can I really not stand the thought of being a missionary because I want to create my dream house???

Lord, I am devastated and humiliated. Why is that house so important to me? That's a good question to ask yourself, Abby. Why is it? Why do you so long to create that house?...Because I want to make something beautiful. Why? Because I want to create a space where my family longs to be. I want it to feel like a sanctuary...like a home where we cultivate our minds and love each other and use the things you've blessed us with to pour out beauty on others as well. Is that all?...I think so. Don't you think we can create the kind of beauty you long for even in Africa? Do you think you have to have stone and wood and rolling ladders to create a sanctuary? I am bigger than that. I can show you my beauty through a dark black face with a huge white grin. Through a tiny, dirty child who flourishes under the love you have to offer. Through a giraffe grazing just outside your village. It's not wrong that you long to create something beautiful for yourself and your family. It is wrong that you don't trust Me to provide it in the way that's best for you.

Here a little bit of the sermon broke through to me. Brother Jimmy was referencing the Westminster Catechism: What is man's chief and highest aim? To love God and enjoy him forever. He designed us to enjoy Him and His creation. That's why He surrounded us with beauty, to watch as we delight in His workmanship. I realized that it wasn't ugly to yearn for rolling fields and deep woods and a beautiful home built from stone and wood. It was ugly to cling to that more than I clung to His infinitely more beautiful plan...whatever it may be.

Brother Jimmy ended his sermon with the story of the little boy who had his hand stuck in his mother's expensive vase. They had tried everything to get his hand out: pulling, yanking, goop, even calling the paramedics. They had just decided the vase must be broken when the Dad got home from work. He took one look at the situation and said, "Son, what are you holding in your hand?" "A penny." "If you'll drop that penny, I'll give you a dollar." Clink, the penny dropped and his hand immediately slipped from the vase. I dropped my penny too at the close of that sermon. I was able to willingly stretch out my hand and say, "I'll go. If that's what you want, I'll delight in going. I trust we'll create beauty together wherever you lead us...and I'll love and enjoy you forever."

I still don't feel "called" to permanent missions, but I can honestly say that I am not fearful of it anymore. In some ways, it would feel pretty great to just GO and live a life not burdened by the question, "Am I really willing to give it all?" Unless we ARE called, I suppose I'll just have to keep posing that question to my heart and facing the answer...I am sure I'll have to give that home up more than once :), but the freedom that comes from giving it back to Him is a deep rush of cool air in my lungs.

And Then He Reminds Us That Life, Indeed, is Good

I've been in a tizzy about some things. Could you tell by that last post? :) There's Jeremiah's schedule, which left me being exasperated with my children/feeling like an evil stepmother to them. Then, I have been having some body (insert butt) issues, with summer approaching and the realization that things aren't as I would like them to be. I actually wrote a funny post about this particular issue, but I am afraid it got filtered by my husband. Then there was this underlying worry I had about my sister Taylor, who was trying to finish the last weeks of Architecture school and was having a genuine nervous breakdown. There wasn't anything I could DO for her, really, and that was a weight. Finally, there was my home. I love our house, but it is old, and the plummer has had to visit us not one but FOUR times in the last couple of weeks. Not to mention my Dad and Jeremiah spending a Saturday making repairs of their own. Couple that money drainage with the fact that I read all these books about houses and their timeless beauty...I've been itching for a makeover (or overhaul) and the money to do it with.

So there they are. The issues that have been plaguing my mind for the past month and turning me into an all-around grouch. Turning me into one of those people you ask innocently, "How are you doing?!" only to be answered with a laundry list of negatives that you didn't want to hear. But today, as I was cleaning my kitchen, my heart was tranquil, and I felt like God spread before me the sweet ways He has been addressing each of my silly little grievances.

The evil stepmother issue: I received one of the most sincere and beautiful letters from my friend Aubrie that encouraged me in my role as a mother. Although I don't feel like a lot of it is true, it was the type of letter that backed each compliment with personal observation and just made my heart sing.

The body issue: On Friday morning I took a shower at the gym after my run. There was an 80-something-year-old woman, half naked, putting her make-up on beside me in the mirror. She was 80, and so was her body, but she was at home in her skin (much more than me who would never step out of the private shower without being completely dressed), standing there in her undies talking to me about my babies and my husband and her own life. It made me happy to see her confidence. It made me realize that this body I've been worrying so much about, is really just a shell to get the real me around in the world.

Taylor: The picture above is my family celebrating Taylor's graduation in true Auburn style--a tailgate with good BBQ. I am SO SO proud of her, and thankful that it is O.V.E.R.

The home issue: I got out of my car today, and my neighbor/friend Ashley (Noah's Mom for you faithful readers) called from across the street, "Can I come over and start trimming your bushes?" I called back, "I'll watch your boys. Come on!" You know it's bad when your neighbors are so tired of looking at the undergrowth consuming your house, that they offer to come over and take care of it themselves :) No seriously, she is just a very sweet friend who swears she ENJOYS yard work.

While Ashley was the catalyst, and the hardest worker, there ended up being a crew of three woman (Ashley, my sister Taylor, and me) in my front yard, with four babies running wild in the flying brush. It was hard work, but it was fun to do together. It was especially fun to see the immense progress we made. Here is a before and after, and a picture of all the bushes/vines/TREES we conquered.

Today was exactly what I needed to give me a jump start on wanting to make more affordable, doable progress on this old house. The trimming...along with the discovery that the Mr. Clean magic erasers take grime off my baseboards, cabinets, and floors that I had signed off on as permanent long ago. As hard as I'm nesting lately, I just hope I'm not pregnant. :) (I'm not.)

I hope God taps your heart with reminders of the ways He takes care of even the silly things that tax you. And tick tock, tick tock we find out TOMORROW!!!

Someone to Love Your Boring Parts

I've had a hard morning. I feel like I've been stretching piece after piece of brightly colored tissue paper over this hole that was left in my heart when Mom died...mom...died, and this morning I slipped--just a little thought that darted off down the wrong memory--and that slip pierced through all the paper and laid me bare again. It's been one of those morning that the harder I take in big gulps of air, the more I seem to be suffocating. And do you know what it is that is hurting me so bad? Just missing that one person who sincerely loved all my boring parts.

Who but your Mom calls to find out if Mary Aplin was liking applesauce again today, or if Pace went down for her nap and gave me some free time, or if I was still sore from my exercise class? Who cares about crap like that besides her? Who talks to you one day and can tell--just by the stress in your voice--how tough things are, and then shows up on your doorstep the next day saying, "I just needed to see Dapples smile, get a kiss from Pace, and take you to lunch." Who else is willing to come for a visit just to walk through your daily routine together and maybe help you clean out your closet? Nobody but your Mom truly loves all your boring parts, and I want mine back.

He is Risen! He is Risen Indeed!

Have I mentioned on here before that I love Jesus? No, like really, I LOVE him--want to wrap my arms around Him, press my cheek against his chest, and squeeze as hard as I can--kind of love Him?

At church this past Sunday, our choir did a song sequence with a video playing behind them. I personally do not tend to get overly excited about the audio-visual aids and "tracts" at church--leaning more towards the the traditional. Has anybody else noticed that I was, perhaps, born in the wrong time period :)? But anyway, our choir performed BEAUTIFULLY on Easter. They were filled with joy and passion...you could tell that the words they were singing were resounding in their hearts. But then, there was this video, with little clips of Jesus walking through the streets, greeting the Marys or talking and laughing with his disciples, and I don't know who this actor was, but he captured who I believe Jesus is more than any other movie or picture or painting I've ever seen. I had to fight tears every time his face came on the screen. I think it was because he was not stoic, and looking off into the heavens, or staring off in the distance like He is trying to bear the cursed sin he's surrounded by. I just don't think Jesus was like that. He "got us"--we humans--got us enough that he willingly DIED for us. Died because he wanted us to come back to His house for the rest of eternity. With a love like that, if you met Him on the road, do you think he would smile sweetly, nod in your direction, and then open his downstretched arms--like "Believe it or not, I accept you." That's what most Jesus pictures look like to me. But I don't think he was like that. I think if (WHEN) I meet him on the road one day, He's going to throw his arms open so wide that they're going to stretch slightly above his head, he's going to break into a huge grin and we're both going to run so hard into each other's arms that the collision would knock us out if we didn't both have our immortal bodies. He's going to smell like sunshine, and he is going to be solid and real and loving and laughing. Lots of laughing, because that's what you do when you finally see somebody you love that you've been missing dreadfully. I can't wait to see his face...Can you?

One more thing about the choir on Sunday. There was this one man who--like all the choir, including me, in the past-- was looking the part of the serious, worshipful Christian up there in the choir loft. Then, they reached a particularly powerful chorus, and I saw him throw his head back, close his eyes, and open his mouth wide. He forgot himself, was just letting it out, and I wanted to cheer because I was feeling the same way. Looking at the "real" Jesus up there on the screen, I felt like my joy was swelling so big in my chest that I could have clambered up some invisible curtains, all the way into God's presence. So there we are, me and the man from the choir, ready to head on up, when suddenly, he remembered. He remembered he was in front of the whole congregation in church and not standing in the midst of a heavenly host with Jesus standing right in front of him receiving his praises. His head snapped forward, his eyes opened and his whole head turned cherry red. It made me sad, but I understood. Even in my quiet little pew where nobody could see anything but the back of my head, I was embarrassed to let so much as a tear fall--much less raise my hands in the air and squeal at the top of my lungs like I wanted to. Aren't you ready for heaven? When these stupid worldly insecurities will melt away and we'll be able to praise him, all together, just like our hearts are longing to know how to do properly now? I am.

Can I just note, in all my worldliness--like any of you noticed or cared, that Mary Aplin outgrew her Sunday shoes when she woke up on Easter Sunday. Fit just fine last week, but that morning, when I put on the sweet little dresses with all their months of smocking and (Grandma) putting them together, those darned shoes wouldn't even go halfway on her foot. So there she is, in the pink squeaky shoes that I COULD shove on to that fat little foot.

Heart Update

Have you ever noticed that when God decides to teach you something, it comes up EVERYWHERE? Suddenly each Sunday school lesson and sermon comes back to that same "nagging" lesson you've been reading in your morning devotion. Then your friend across the street brings it up; even that movie you're watching has some comment about it, and before long you throw up your hands and say, "Alright Lord I'm listening. This is you talking; I get it!" Maybe it's just me and my stubbornness that keeps wondering if I'm hearing God or just my own thoughts, and so He has to use numerous methods before I wise up, but anyway, I thought I might share with you the couple of things He's been teaching me over the past weeks.

First is community. What it is. What that means, and why I should stop being so selfish and embrace it. In all honesty (it is oh so disgusting to admit), I shy away from "community". As soon as somebody starts talking about "showing love to our community" and "the fellowship of believers," all I can think about is how many casseroles I need to make and who all has had babies that I STILL have not taken a meal to. Then, my mind jumps to the people who have loved me that I still have not written a thank you note to. There it is, in all its ugliness, I am selfish and have been thinking that I was not a big fan of "community"--because in some sense community was tied up in work and guilt.

No sooner had I admitted these ugly sentiments to my husband (who is always wanting to expand and embrace our community, and who looked at me like I was a monster that he didn't even know when I admitted that stuff to him) than the Lord started land-blasting me. I have shed tears two Sundays in a row over the powerful ways God has used our church community to minister to me specifically. When all of that stuff was going on with Mom, the way my parents' friends and church reached out and loved our family was nothing short of miraculous. It was (and still is) incomprehensible to me--the way there were always people bringing food and performing the little tasks that just needed to get done and even just standing in our front yard to pray...

So, I had been in Dothan, living with Mom through the hell that was her last weeks of life, and being sustained (literally) by the community there. Then, I had to make a trip back to Birmingham because both of the girls had doctors appointments. I was only going to be here a day, but I woke up that morning to the sound of raking in my yard. I looked out the window to see Cohen Ezelle, who had left his wife at home to care for their three small children, while he spent the day raking the leaves in our yard that had grown knee-deep. Now, Cohen and Amie are some friends from our Sunday school class (who are also now missionaries in Belize), who we had grown to love over the years, but we'd never even "hung out" outside of church activities. He just found out where we lived, drove over to our house and thought, "What can I do to serve this family and show them God's care?" I suddenly understood why my Dad kept saying he "felt humbled" by all the things people were doing for us back home. Seeing Cohen out there with a rake in his hands, doing a thankless job that he (assuming we were still in Dothan) never even planned on us knowing he did, and knowing that my Creator had taken the time to prompt his heart to just DO something for us in the little sphere that we now called our own, touched me profoundly. I don't know that I even felt all of that then, as overwhelmed as I was by Mom's sickness, but last Sunday as I sat in church listening to a sermon on "community," all of that was laid clearly before my eyes. What I realized was that community is not about feeling guilty about every person in your church or neighborhood who might need a casserole that you have not come through for. It's about listening to the promptings that God lays on your heart for specific people, and ACTING on those burdens. It might be just to pray for them and love them from a distance, or it might be something that feels ridiculous, like showing up to rake their yard, but the fact is that God uses us as His ambassadors, to be tangible evidence of the love He's pouring out from above. What an honor that is! And what a pity that I shy away from it, because I think I am too busy. (There are many other examples of ways that friends loved us--or me--specifically during that time, and God has been pouring each one back over my head lately. I just listed the first that came to mind.)

The second lesson (and I'll try to keep it quick because this has already gotten really long) is a true thankfulness for my afflictions. This feels sort of weird to say, but my heart has realized that BECAUSE God loves me, He has allowed hardships into my life, in order that my relationship with him might take on a greater sweetness and sincerity. I've written about this before (shows you how long God has been teaching me this one), but it just keeps coming back. The writer of Hebrews (12:7) says, "Endure hardship as a discipline; God is treating you as sons. For what son is not disciplined by his father? If you are not disciplined (and everyone undergoes discipline), then you are illegitimate children and not true sons."

After going through something really hard (which I know that losing your Mom is nothing compared to what MANY suffer), I find that all Scripture is tinged with more meaning, that God is more real in my life, and that I relate to others in a more intimate way than I did before. To know that God took the time to love me through a hardship, to discipline me even, is (again) humbling. And while I wouldn't have chosen it, I grow increasingly thankful for the experience of it. Is that sick?

So, in a nutshell, community and hardship are good. Thank you Jesus that I've experienced the blessings of both.

Mom in the News

I wanted to post an article that was in the Tuscaloosa newspaper on January 2nd. Some of you blog friends are Mom's friends too, and some of you probably feel like her friend because you've read so much about her on here. Either way, this story touched me deep...I think she's so special, but to hear somebody else--a sort of unbiased opinion--feel as beguiled by her as we all were, means a whole heck of a lot. There is something too about hearing new stories about her--something that I couldn't have known unless she (or the other party involved) shared it, that makes her feel alive, just for a second. I don't know this writer--Mark Hughes Cobb--but I would like to send him a huge hug for writing this and touching me so:

Some friends gathered around at a pub the other night. I started the ball rolling: Tell one good thing that happened to you in 2008, the implication being give us your best thing.

One claimed her marriage. One loved the 12-0 season and 36-0 victory over Auburn. One guy landed a new job. Another was proud the show she'd directed was a huge hit.

I said nothing. Even though it was my idea. One of the good bits that flashed through my mind would have embarrassed somebody else at the table, and the rest seemed like reruns of previous years: The Rude Mechanicals had another good season, the Holiday Singalong likewise.

My job took me to interesting places, such as the inside of Leonardo da Vinci's codex.Aside from that, thoughts turned, not altogether surprisingly for these dark days of the year, to death. Each year at this time we run packages, as ads bulk us up and staffers go on vacation, of year-end wrapups about music, movies, politics, sports ... and death. I know the Grim Reaper is sharpening his scythe for us all, but it always surprises me to reflect on how much we've lost in a mere 12 months.

This past year was particularly tough, partly because long-time idols of mine such as Paul Newman, George Carlin, Will Elder (one of the founding genius-idiots behind Mad magazine), Bo Diddley, Danny Federici (keyboardist for the E Street Band), Isaac Hayes, Levi Stubbs, Arthur C. Clarke and yes, even old Charlton Heston (I did, after all, name a band the Damn Dirty Apes, after one of Chuck's most-quoted movie lines), shuffled off this mortal coil.I also felt twinges for Bettie Page, Odetta, Forrest J. Ackerman (his Famous Monsters of Filmland magazine racked up equal hidden-from-Mom-time with Mad), Heath Ledger, Jerry Wexler, Eddy Arnold (my dad's favorite country crooner), Sydney Pollack, Harvey Korman, Cyd Charisse, Larry Harmon (Bozo the clown), Bernie Mac, Jerry Reed, Bill Melendez (producer and animator of the Charlie Brown TV specials), David Foster Wallace, Clive Barnes and raunchy Rudy Ray Moore.

But what was really in my head that night was a silly little love story.

Flashback time: First day of first grade, Heard Elementary School, Dothan. We had experimental mixed classrooms — first-graders side by side with second-graders, for example. Not sure why, but it's a good thing we did. See, I took one look at Becky Sollie, with her wide blue eyes and devilish dimples, and painstakingly scribbled my first 'I love you, do you love me? Circle yes or no' note. She looked at me, smiled beatifically, then handed it to her second-grade friend to translate. (My big brother had given me a couple of years' head start on reading and writing, and it didn't occur to me she hadn't had the same benefit; I was educated, but not very smart).We wound up being boyfriend and girlfriend for three years, through hand-holding and fights in line (with covetous boys), through playground games (I taught her kickball, or tried to, and she taught me basic gymnastics on the monkey bars, or tried to) and bad haircuts.

We endured everything but a change of schools (mine), and every time I ran into her over the years — the last time, I was 16 and back in town for a wedding; she had beguiling waist-length hair and even more dazzle — my heart practiced some of those gym flips she'd taught me. I last talked to her when I was a few years into this job, passing through the old hometown, catching up with folks on the phone. I told her I was a writer, and she laughed, sweetly. 'Of course you are,' she said. 'All those notes!'

Yeah, even after I won her heart, first day of first grade, I kept up the correspondence. Wish I'd been as good at staying in touch in the years after third grade. Never even kissed her.Just a few weeks back, I heard that Becky Sollie Clark, mother of four girls, wife of Dothan veterinarian Ken Clark, had lost a long battle with cancer in 2007.So the best thing that happened to me in 2008 was the memory of a smile, with its adjoined reminder that it's never too soon to say what you mean, to stay in touch, to write 'I love you.'Happy New Year, y'all.

"I LOVE a Present"

Today is my Mom's fiftieth birthday. I know she is having a big party somewhere, I just wish it were here. That phrase, the title of this blog, was one of Mom's favorites. Her love language was gift giving, and she did LOVE a present. Big or small. Thoughtful or if it just "looked like her." It didn't matter as long as it was a surprise. While this may sound a little...greedy or something, the saving grace is that she enjoyed giving presents even more than she liked receiving them. She used to go Christmas shopping for her four girls with a TAPE measure. Can you imagine looking beside you in Banana Republic and seeing a little blond woman with a tape measure, stretching it across a pair of pants and eyeing every inch for possible defects? She didn't care if she looked nuts, it was a gift she was buying and she wanted it to fit perfectly.


Almost every time we saw her over the first two years of Pace's life, she had a gift for her. I can see her, standing at my door, her face in a big grin and her hands behind her back, gripping the surprise she was about to lay in my lap. She loved to see little Pace, wearing sweet outfits...that she knew I couldn't afford. She loved to see her playing with the toy she had labored over picking out. She just loved joy, and that was what gift giving brought her. Since she has been gone, I discovered a few gifts she had bought for Pace and stored away in a closet for the time when they would fit her. It has been a way I've kept her alive with Pace...pulling a gift from the closet and saying, "You know who got this for you?!!!" and then hearing her squeal, "Bebe!!" Or, as I dress Mary Aplin in all the sweet little dresses that used to be Pace's and saying, "Pace, Bebe bought this for you when you were a little baby, and look, now Mary Aplin gets to wear her love too."


The dress that Pace is wearing in these pictures is the last gift from the closet... She wore it to church on Sunday and then I let her wear it while we both cuddled up in my bed for her nap. As I lay there and felt her soft, warm body crumpled up next to mine, as I watched her rosebud lips pursed in slumber and heavy lashes laying on her cheek, as I looked at this little pink dress draping her now 3-year-old body, it made me hurt to think that Mom would never get to see what this present looked like on her little Pace. But, it gave me joy to think of her eyes and her hands, pouring over all the dresses in the store until she decided on this one and to imagine the warmth of her hands just having left the fabric. I felt a peace come over me that she can see how Pace has grown and how sweet she looks in her present.


Happy birthday Mom...

What Would You Give?

This time last year, Mom was really sick and growing exponentially sicker. It was horrible and exhausting to watch her decline like that. We never called in Hospice, and I got to serve Mom in ways that I could never have fathomed. I am thankful that I was able to be a small part of caring for her, but there were a lot of times that I told myself, "Just be thankful that she's here. Even though she's like this, at least she's still here with you." And over and over I said to myself, "There could come a day when you'd give anything, even to be back here, because it would mean she's alive. Be thankful even for this."

Today, I was washing dishes after the girls had eaten lunch, and my mind wandered back to where I was at this time last year and all those thoughts I fed myself came rushing back. What amazed me today, was the realization that I was wrong. I was wrong to think I'd give anything to be back there--just so I could have her. I am here to tell you that I wouldn't go back there for anything. To see her sick like that again. To go through the agony of uncertainty--just so desperate to know if He was going to heal her or not. I wouldn't go back there, even if it meant having her alive, because what she was then was not her. It was a faint whisper of her life, entrapped in a perishing and painful shell. Why would I trade that, for the knowledge that she is whole and beautiful and happier than I ever even saw her. I wouldn't trade it, and I'm sorry I spent so much time trying to relish something that I wish I could forget.

There is a sort of twisted game I've found my mind playing at times like these--when these types of comparisons start to seep in. I call it the, "What Would You Give Game?" While I've determined that I wouldn't want Mom back in the form she was before she left us, the question that plagues me is, "What would I give to have her back whole and happy? And what if I could throw in the, 'Her cancer would never ever come back so you can alleviate that worry as well' clause?" I can tell you that trading my immediate family gets struck off the list immediately. The thought of trading one of their lives makes my stomach turn, but what about somebody else...? None of you may be safe :) What if you throw out the God complex--lives are too valuable. What if you start talking about "comforts?" Would I give my house--meaning live with my children on the streets and not be able to be taken in by friends or family? Would I give my sanity? Is there a monetary limit? I mean when you think about realistically having to pay back 10 million, 100 million dollars and what that would mean about the rest of your life? Would I give up my ability to have more babies?

Thankfully, I serve a God who doesn't allow me to make these kinds of bargains. He makes decisions, that He tells me are in my best interest, and I don't have to decide anything. But, what does He ask me to give up in return?...Everything. Even those untouchables like my immediate family, my husband, my precious girls,...He demands that I give them all up to Him. That was a point that my Dad reached several years ago with Mom, and I could never hear him speak the words, "Lord, she's not mine, she's yours. I give her to you," without losing it. Because for us to, "Love the Lord your God with all your heart, with all your soul, with all your mind, and with all your strength,..." there's a sacrifice of self and others that's involved. I know I haven't learned what it means to truly live life like that. But I imagine it would be a beautiful.