Waiting by the Berry Bush

This blog will be nine years old in less than two weeks, but it has been well over a year since I've written anything new in this space. Cade asked me about my writing, recently, and I think maybe that's what I needed: for him to ask. I think I've relied on his interest in my writing more than I'd realized; I think, as fellow creatives, we've nudged one another forward for a long time, and when we didn't (or couldn't), we both struggled creatively. I did, at least.

But what I told Cade when he asked about my writing is also true: that for awhile, his plot line was the most engrossing one in the story of my life, and I didn't feel free to write it; patient enough to somehow disguise it; and certainly not inauthentic enough to avoid it in my writing. I still don't.

Imagine the two of us, though, in the very back of our new yard where, at dusk, the bunnies slip from a blackberry bush to taunt Lucy the Beagle. Lucy is a hunter's reject, but maybe she's been healed in our home, as I witnessed her chasing a rabbit just two days ago. At any rate, imagine it: Lucy has darted around Cade's feet and out the door, and almost five years into our relationship with the dog, we all know her bright heart; we know she can smell her way home, that she will return if she can. But we don't know most of our neighbors (or their dogs), and there's no area code on Lucy's collar; we know no one who might find her could guess it. Meanwhile, cars zip by on Old 109.

Cade is especially close to Clementine, and Lucy is Clementine's dog. Clementine is struggling with the move more than the rest of us put together, and she's in the house sobbing at the thought of losing her one. last. friend. At the back of the yard, I recognize Cade's discomfort, although most of you wouldn't; he's quiet, as always. He could be a rabbit, himself, for the way he holds himself alert and listens for the bay of the dog, looks intently into the brush for the white tip of her tail even as I have settled down in the grass, to wait.

"Do you think I should go in after her?" he asks.

"No," I say gently, "it's not a good idea. There are sure to be snakes in there."

"Don't you care about Lucy?" he snaps, uncharacteristically. "You don't even seem upset."

"I care," I say. "I'm praying. Are you praying?"

"Yes," he says quietly, "I am."

Much later, after the dog is safely home, after Clementine has stopped crying and gone off to sleep along with her younger siblings (and Lucy, exhausted by her great bunny chase), Cade and I sit quietly among our books. "You know how, earlier, I didn't get as upset as you'd expected?" I ask him.

He looks up and nods. His great, grey eyes search my face.

"That's what parenting you has taught me," I say. "It's taught me not to get upset until I know there's something to get upset about. Papaw tried to tell me, but I had to learn it for myself. Parenting you has taught me not to make things worse by getting upset. It's taught me not to waste my energy. It's taught me that--when you're out of my hands--I need to wait and pray for you to come safely home, that maybe you will, that maybe everything will be okay."

Cade nods again, slowly, and holds my gaze long enough for me to know he knows. Then he turns his eyes back toward his book. The chemistry between us is right; it is what it was for 17.5 years and what it wasn't for two years, and in a nutshell, what I really want to share is how I understand more, now, about beauty from ashes than I ever did, before. About David's Ziklag. There were moments in which I honestly didn't know if we would survive, and you want to believe I'm being melodramatic, but even if you've been close, you haven't seen through my eyes. It has only been by God's hand that we have made our way, here, to this good place; it is a mighty hand.

I can breathe, again. Maybe even write.

On Drowning

Like Charlie Brown, I'm in love with a little redheaded girl. Her name is Charleigh (pronounced Charlie), and she's my third of four children, second daughter, presenting middle child.

She's been hauled in distress from the lake the past three summers in a row, and I told her daddy I couldn't enter another summer without Charleigh's knowing how to swim, float, something. We signed both girls up for swim lessons at Aqua-Tots: Level 3, Fast Track. Six-year-old Clementine loved every minute of it.

Charleigh, though, struggled. She's strong and solid in the way my people mean when they say built like a brick shithouse, so there was never a question of physical capability. Problem is that she's strong-willed in the way my people mean when they say raised in the canebrake by an ol' mama lion. And Charleigh wasn't happy over the swim-lesson situation; in fact, she was periodically awash in terror.

The first week, I bit my nails watching Charleigh through the glass. Instructor Alex pulled her into the water and made her complete the drills even when she roared with her head tipped back or pleaded with her pale hands clasped together. Sometimes he worked with Charleigh's classmates while she dangled off his back like a baby monkey. Once, Charleigh broke free and ran, and the master instructor on duty had to abandon his class in the pool to return Charleigh to hers.

She did her fair share of yelling at me before and after class; one afternoon, I pulled the minivan off the side of the road and refused to drive until she quieted. I assured her over and over that Alex was not going to let her drown for fear of losing his job. (Ha!) But on the fifth morning, Charleigh melted down completely. Complete and utter hysteria.

"If you're not a big enough girl for swim lessons," I suggested, "maybe you're not big enough for Vacation Bible School."

"Or King's Dominion. Or a week at Nana's," Jim said.

"Or your birthday at Jellystone," I added.

Charleigh, sobbing, said: "Maybe we can just celebrate my birthday, next year." My eyes met Jim's. (His were wet.) He shrugged. For a moment, we were completely at a loss. Then I thought: this child has almost drowned three summers in a row; of course she's afraid. Of course the fast track's hard on her. But we've already paid (an arm and a leg); I'm watching her through the glass; her instructor is so kind, so patient; and ultimately, I'm just trying to keep her alive. She's going to have to be pushed through her fear. She needs to know how to swim. She's going to do this. Period.

It was the right decision. Somewhere in the middle of her fifth class and just like that, Charleigh stopped being afraid.

***

And here comes the Lord. Later, when it's quiet. You see it now; don't you? He asks. I immediately go twitchy and try to chalk His voice up to magical thinking. A facet of mental illness, I think. That's all. But we've been in many of these uncomfortable places in my lifetime, and we both know what this is, so He laughs and cracks my world open just a little more.

I see Charleigh's hysteria and hear my assurances that Alex will not let her drown. Then I see myself in a state of emotional disregulation. I've just come to understand the term for this form of it: panic. Like Charleigh's fear, it has been hard-earned. Our counselor has explained it to Jim in terms of drowning. ("She's going to come up clawing and scratching," he said, "or whatever she thinks she needs to do to survive.") I realize with a start that Jim isn't going to let me drown any more than Alex was going to let Charleigh drown, also that Father God (on the other side of the glass through which I see Him darkly) isn't going to let Jim let me drown any more than I was going to let Alex let Charleigh drown.

I see that, like Charleigh, I have to push or be pushed through my fear. Life with fear in one's heart isn't kind. It isn't God's best for any of us.

Parenting. Jesus promised: whatever we do for others (especially the least of them), we do for Him. But in my lifetime I have found that, often, whatever I do for others and from a perfect place in my heart, I do for myself. The Lord in His great mercy works it out that way.

White Flag: A Poem for My Children

There may come a moment in your lives
when you realize: most people love you
in proportion to how comfortable you
make them feel, which may or may not
be love at all. You may start to see that
it was never about you (the person at
the center of your center) but, instead,
about how obedient you were...or quiet
(shhh)...accommodating, pleasant, loyal.
In other words, it was always just about
your giving something, or everything, and
your not asking for too much, or anything,

            especially repentance.

You may wake up one morning and see:
the truest love you've ever experienced
is that which you disregarded or (worse)
destroyed. You may start to realize you
had it all backwards, and even as regret
and shame wash over, the world will say:
"You've always made your own decisions;
own them and the consequences, too!"
You may insist that all you knew is what
you knew, what they taught you, but the
world will just shrug and hope there's a
name for what's wrong with you, a way to

            explain it (you) all away.

I'd like to tell you how it will all turn out,
but I just woke up this morning and arrived.
I just. Woke up. If it ever happens to you (if
you can forgive me in that moment), find me.
Make a white flag of this page and remind me.
Make a white flag of this page. Remind me.

To Clementine at Six

Oh My Darlin',

My head spins a little when I consider the last year of your life. You got your ears pierced and hair cut. You lost your first four teeth. You learned to read and completed kindergarten math. You asked Jesus into your heart. You were baptized.

And I don't always know what I'm doing; in fact, I'm very often at a loss. You're so different from your older brother that I tend to feel like a first-time parent, parenting you. I've been guilty of fretting, and I've done a fair amount of asking God to help me be the mother you need.

The most important thing I can write down for you today, when you're six, also against the day that you will be a mommy, yourself, is this: God loves you so much. He has been for and with us, behind and ahead of us, too. At every point, He has made our path clear. He has answered in detail every question and provided for us at a level very hard to explain.

He called me to be your teacher and hand-selected each of our resources. I bought our book of Bible stories for a quarter the day before we started kindergarten. I found your Bible for one penny plus shipping. One friend gifted us our entire math program; another wrote the devotions we were reading the night you asked me, crying, how to pray Jesus into your heart. I found two books I'd sought (sometimes quite actively) for thirty years, since losing them in my own childhood.

You mentioned you wanted a piano, and within weeks, a piano became available for free. You asked for a dog, and I gave you a hard no, but within two days, a dog--the right dog--made her way to us.

And perhaps most importantly, the Lord is actively addressing my weaknesses as a teacher (mommy, person). He has opened my eyes, and He has sent helpers.

I can't imagine trying to live this life without Him, and I'm thankful for His promise to both of us, Clementine, as His children: nothing--not tribulation, distress, persecution, famine, nakedness, peril, sword, death, life, angels, principalities, powers, things present, things to come, height, depth, nor any other creature--can separate us from the love of God, which is Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen, Honey. Amen.

I love you so much,
Mama

To Cade at Fifteen

Dear Cade,

I had the opportunity to meet with a bereaved family, the other day, and they passed around a letter that had been written by the mother of the one whom they'd just lost. The words were simple but had held deep meaning, obviously, for their dearly departed, who had kept them close for more than twenty-five years. They held meaning, still, for those left behind; I could see that clearly.

I couldn't help but think of you and this birthday letter, almost two months overdue.

I want to tell you how proud of you I am. I could start listing your achievements one by one, and we'd have us a right long letter, but (while I appreciate those) it's not about your achievements and has never been. You mean so much more to me than anything--or all the things--you've ever achieved.

I love you for you. You make it so easy, loving me for me, the way you do. I worried about these teenage years; thank you for being gentle with me. You would never think of raising your voice to me; thank you, and thank you for the ways we work and talk it out.

Thank you for every time you've seen me. I didn't expect your eyes, at this stage in our lives, to be the ones seeking my eyes across the room, but so it is. One of your sisters will say something funny, and we'll look at one another and laugh without a word. Or something not-so-funny will happen, and your eyes will say: Are you okay? and then, sometimes: I'm sorry you're not.

And here you come with your cracked iPhone: "Watch this, Mom," and that talk-show duo you like met Merle Haggard, whom I love. I pass you a book; you read it right away. You come in the door waving something: "Look what I found, cleaning out my room at Dad's: a Regal gift card! Do you wanna go to the movies with me?" I'm so touched that you've chosen me over any one of your excellent friends.

You let me choose the movie: Still Alice. I'm crying at the end, and (our having just watched both What Dreams May Come and Dead Poet's Society) you wonder aloud what's up with me and the depressing movies. "You know that's my greatest fear; right?" I ask: "Alzheimer's?" and you nod. You know. Thank you for knowing. Thank you for being the one to ask if I've been writing. Thank you for snatching up my blog books as soon as they arrive and reading them straight through.

Thank you for, without complaint, going to church and singing in choir with me. I know you're doing those things for me, right now; I'm grateful. Thank you for never acting embarrassed of me in front of your friends. Thank you for ruffling my hair on your way to bed. And you know when Jim was sick with the kidney stone and we ran, that night, to Food Lion? I felt uncomfortable, suddenly, about wearing fleece pajama pants and said: "I really should've changed clothes before we left."

"Nah, Mamsie, you so swag," you said, and you took my arm. Thank you so much for that.

You're a good son. You bless my life. I know it may not always be as sweet and uncomplicated between us as it is right now, but I want you to know: I'm just crazy about you at fifteen.

Love, Mom

Cade with Phillip, Andrew, and Sam

Psalm 23 (Videos)

I'm not much of a videographer, but I thought I'd share these little videos of the girls. They had been saying they were afraid at bedtime, and I remembered our having a children's book about Psalm 23. The book, Comfort for a Child's Heart by David and Helen Haidle, explains the psalm one line at a time, which is exactly how the girls learned it. It took a month or so of bedtimes for them to memorize the entire thing, and they continue to recite it every night. It does seem to comfort them, and you know, I didn't anticipate how comforted I would be in relearning the psalm myself, also in knowing my little girls will carry it into any and every situation. Psalm 23 was our friend Bob Pino's favorite, and I like to think he's looking down. I'm so thankful for the timeless beauty and relevance of God's Word.

The Ramp Festival

I'd hoped to take a hike with Dad and Cade, and Dad wasn't opposed, exactly, but he'd already made plans to spend Saturday morning at a ramp festival with his friend Benny. They'd gone last year, he said, and really wanted to go, again.

The good news is that the ramp festival was more Baby-Chip-friendly (and therefore Jim-friendly) than the hike, also that--when given the choice between my brother's house and the ramp festival--Cade chose the ramp festival. We were six, then, in the minivan: Dad, Benny, Jim, Cade, Chip, and I. The road took us into the middle of nowhere or Morgan County, winding this way and that, and--having taken a seat in the way back--my stomach wasn't handling the curves so well.

"Last year, we followed the piles of horse manure in the road," Benny said, "but I haven't seen any, yet, this year," and I was just starting to think we were truly lost when we drove up behind a couple covered wagons.

The venue for the ramp festival was the old Mill Creek School.

When we pulled up, some picking and singing was happening on the porch.

I saw a few dogs decked out in costumes. They were in the back of a pick-up truck, at first, but then their owner got them out and paraded them around a little. One enjoyed a snack of horse manure; at least three of us witnessed it. 

I'm not going to point any fingers, but ummm...

Otherwise, the ramp-festival action took place under or near the pavilion, and shoo wee! In case you don't know it, a ramp is an intense sort of wild onion. I heard a preacher joke that he hoped his entire congregation would show up to eat ramps so no one would be offended, next morning, by anyone else's breath.

But in all sincerity, I was blessed, watching the preparation of the ramps (also gravy, eggs, and hog jowl). 

While the food cooked, Chip practiced going up the steps and down the slide, also drinking green tea through a hole in the lid of the bottle.

Meanwhile, Cade practiced waiting patiently.

Finally, the aforementioned preacher prayed over the food and encouraged us to dig in. Dad was first in line; in fact, by the time I got my plate, the silver bowl of ramps was empty, and Dad had been finished a good little while. He said later: he'd been standing at the wrong end of the table when the amen had gone up, year before, and he wasn't about to make the same mistake twice.

The Wrong End

There was a potluck element to the ramp festival, and I got myself a heaping plate full of food. Both my eggs and my potatoes included ramps and tasted delicious. By the time I'd finished eating, Dad had done his little bit of socializing and was ready to go.

Cade and I walked side-by-side to the minivan. "Well," I asked him: "what did you think?"

"It was alright, I guess," he said. "There wasn't much to do besides eat."

I shrugged and said: "Good eatin', though, and sometimes the fun of a thing is in watching someone else enjoy it. Your papaw's wild about eating off the land."

And seconds after I'd finished talking, we heard Benny behind us, saying to Dad: "Well, it was a good day."

"It was a great day," Dad responded with passion, and I watched pure joy spark in Cade's eyes as he turned toward me, raised his eyebrows, and flashed an ear-to-ear grin.

For Clementine at Five

"I haven't been able to shake it all day," I told your dad. "I was minutes from walking down the aisle, wearing a white, wedding dress with pink trim, and I couldn't decide whom to marry. Neither man was a good choice," I said. (Neither man was your dad.)

"Huh," your dad said. "Sorry about that. I don't get why you're calling it a nightmare, though. It doesn't sound scary."

But it disturbed me. Disturbs me. And I feel like I'm supposed to write this out for you, my just-turned-five Wild Orange: like you're the one who will need it most.

I wouldn't go back in time, Baby. Even if given the opportunity to erase some hurts, I wouldn't go back...even to either of my beginnings with your dad. I'd be too afraid of the butterfly effect: too afraid that, somehow, things would shift so that one of you (my babies) wouldn't make it through to me just exactly as you are.

Folks assume wrongly that--if I have a wild card of a child--it must be your red-headed sister, but no. She bounces (with an umph) off the dot of my exclamation point, but you come bearing gifts in the form of mystery surprise. Five years in, I can't quite anticipate what you might say or do. I don't feel, to this day, like I have a good handle on how to please you.

We go 'round and 'round, but I see how your heart hides trembling behind those words you cook up according to whim and serve with a side of exasperation. You set up shop on the corner of Boss and Sass but rarely strike. If something's been gotten into or shredded into itty bits, you're most likely to blame, but--when I need to grab something from the minivan or change my clothes--you can be counted upon to watch Chip like a hawk. You love to sort silverware, fold washcloths, and sweep the kitchen floor. You're our tiny dancer, and when you sing, it's on key and with vibrato.

I think you're perfect just the way you are. (I wouldn't change you nary a bit.)

You were wearing a hint of make-up and unfamiliar clothes, one day, in preparation for group photos. In the split second before I recognized you as mine, I thought: what a pretty little girl. You are, and--another day, as you slept (long, lean, sweet-smelling, and sun-kissed) in my arms--I felt compelled to pray over your body: that anyone who ever holds you will love you as much as I. We mothers tuck moments like these in our hearts, and one of the dearest in mine is this: one day, when I was particularly frustrated with you, I heard the Lord speak to me as clearly as ever He has.

"There are so many who would give anything to have a little girl like that," He said.

I felt so small and sorry for my impatience, just then, and with tears in my eyes responded: "Yes, Father. And I am one of them."

I've never forgotten, Clementine, and I'm so thankful you're mine: just the way you are. I've never loved anyone better or more, and I'm so glad we've made it safely to five.

Choosing Love, Pt. 2

I stood at the top of the hill in the East Tennessee churchyard of my youth, Valentine's Day, and watched the others ascend through the melting snow. God bless and please don't fall, I prayed. They didn't, but one of the pallbearers moaned under his burden at the crest of the hill, and a couple other men rushed in to help. Together, they settled the casket safely into the device stand and, panting, clapped one another on the back.

A preacher read Psalm 23 and Jason's brother "A Cowboy's Prayer." James Watson bear-hugged me at the casket just before I patted it with a kiss and returned to my parents' house, to vacuum. That evening, Mom and I baked the same heart-shaped sugar cookies she had baked for my elementary-school classes.

So I spent Valentine's Day away from Jim, who was snowed into our log cabin in Virginia, and Cade, who was snowed into his dad's house. I recognized love throughout my trip, though: heard it traveling the telephone line; spoken from the mouths of preachers; spilling over my little children, who settled in Mom's lap for story after story. I saw it in my dad's and daughters' shared enjoyment of the snow and in my babies' flat-out ministry to my mother-in-law. I heard it in her laughter and saw it in her tears.

For days, I said to everyone who would listen: "I loved him," and the only responses were "Yes," "I know," and "He loved you, too." My other two boy friends from high school e-mailed condolences. I know you were close, each said. Thinking of you. (The balm of affirmation.)

I bade my own hands and feet to show love in service while I was in East Tennessee; they did their best.

And maybe I've never felt so threadbare as I did, returning Sunday evening to the log cabin in Virginia, but Jim had made the space clean and bright, picked up Cade from his dad's, cooked dinner, and filled the dining-room table with Valentine's presents for the children and me. Later, in bed, I wept into the warm fur of his chest while he stroked my hair and spoke love over me.

"My trip brought it back," I told Cade the next day, "how real this time of your life is. You love certain people deeply, and you'll love them forever." He looked into the pain of my tired eyes and nodded. Later, when I asked him to sit close for a tv show, he didn't hesitate; he slid in my direction and rested his shaggy, fourteen-year-old head against my shoulder.

Love.

The Tug

The post below appeared first a year ago, on Emily Wierenga's blog. I published a teaser in this space and intended to paste the rest of the post in with the teaser, later, as I do always before having my posts printed and bound; however, I forgot in this instance. I'm publishing the entire post, now, so as to insure its inclusion in my next blog book. My friend Dot Samuel of Psalms of Samuel in Watercolor painted the two images below as a visual prompt for this specific project; I include them with gratitude.

Baby Chip celebrated his first birthday November 2nd. I remain keenly aware that, daily, God is writing the story of his life.

***

They counted to three and, working together, swung me from bed to table. Strange to witness their strain when I felt nearly weightless; I am a pendulum, I thought, tugged by time. I am floating; I have become a boat on water, or perhaps I am the water itself. On command, I spread my arms wide, and I won't lie: I thought of Christ crucified and wondered--as my doctor flayed me open like a fish--if I were about to die.

I felt no pain in the slicing: only a great tug, and my doctor lifted out the baby I could not touch. Later (after they'd swung me back to bed), someone handed that child to me. He latched with ferocity onto my breast and tugged out everything I had, and for the first time I believed the whispers I'd heard for years: a baby boy, and neither of you will die in getting him here.

And then relief leaked out of my eyes, but shame, too, because I'd made Doubting Thomas look good. Hearing and seeing hadn't satisfied; I needed to feel this son at my breast. I'd been pulling him toward me--out of dreams, out of the star-filled pocket of the Lord--for so long: I needed to know that boy had given up a more impressive Milky Way for the one what courses through my body.

He brought with him new eyes, because now I see it everywhere: the tug. I see the tension between beings, and there's no need to (be a) jerk, but every relationship involves tie and tug. The way one spouse offers up flesh to the other: I'm still here; don't turn your eyes toward another. The wildly creative ways in which a child of any age interrupts his or her parents' conversations, screen time, alone time: prove that no one and nothing is more important than I. The way even the restless dog carries a rope, a ball, to its master's feet: play with me.

And beautiful, isn't it?, the way a (wo)man of God pulls at the hem of His garment: see me, hear me. The way the Father responds in reaching down and lifting up: seek me, serve me.

I hold close this child for whom I prayed and ask God to help me take myself less seriously. Make me a pendulum, I ask. Make me a boat on water. Make me the water itself. Help me to float, to die to myself. Help me to pick up the ball, to keep it rolling. Help me to show You, and them, how very much love I have in my heart. Give me tug, Lord, on these ties: just the perfect amount of tension that You, and they, should feel me ever on the other end.

Prayer Meeting of the Blogosphere (15)

Every time I host a prayer meeting of the blogosphere, I wonder if it will be my last. I wonder often: who am I to host a prayer meeting? Because I know the truth, and the truth is that, as ever, I'm a hot piggy mess.

• I didn't make it out of my pajamas all day.
• I didn't comb my hair, either.
• I'm going to have to rewash what's in the washing machine.
• I can barely see the floor of the playroom.
• Or the floor of the girls' bedroom.
• I'm having at least one issue with 4/4 children, right now, including this one, who keeps climbing up on the dining booth:

Kitchen floor isn't looking so great, either.

But--insecurities and all--here I am. In the same "Chicks with Brains" pajama pants I've been wearing all day. And what I want you to know is this: I'm not concerned with my brains, or yours, but with our hearts. If you're here reading this, I want you to know: I love you. I may not agree with you, but I love you. And if you're a mama like I am, I want you to know that I know.

I know you're at a loss, sometimes, when it comes to your kid. I know you don't know how to persuade him or her to stay in bed, take a nap, sleep through the night, eat the healthy dinner, complete homework, step away from the screen, step away from the compromising situation (whatever it is).

I know you're worried about how this person--this person you grew into being--will turn out. Will (s)he be healthy in every respect? Safe? Morally sound? Jesus-loving? Well educated? Will (s)he find the right job? The right spouse? All the right answers?

You're wondering if you're appropriately engaged. You're wondering if you're overlooking something or over-thinking it. Are you dropping the ball? Are you too controlling? Are you taking enough time for yourself or not enough? You can hardly say.

I know. I know because you tell me, but I also know because I'm just like you. We need one another, and we need the Lord. We need Him to center and ground us: to direct and lead us. To fill us with His wisdom and love and patience and strength. I invite you to pray with me:

Heavenly Father, I need You. I'm overwhelmed by the responsibility of mothering this person whom I want to become his or her best self. Guide me. Open my eyes, hands, mind, and heart to the best way: to Your way, Father. I long for my husband and children to rise up and call me blessed and for my husband to praise me as in Proverbs 31. I can't see the way to there, from here, and I need Your help. I'm asking for it. Forgive me for my sins and shortcomings, Lord, and help me to be more and better, tomorrow: for my family and for every bit of Your kingdom. In Jesus's name I pray and ask these favors, amen.

Now it's your turn! Would you like to participate in an old-fashioned prayer meeting of the blogosphere? Here are some ideas:

• You can pray about my prayer request.
• You can share a prayer request by means of a comment.
• You can share a prayer request on your personal blog and direct me to your post by means of a comment.
• You can pray about a participant's prayer request.
• You can write a prayer about my, your, or someone else's prayer request (in comments hither or yon, on your blog, etc.). If your prayer is somewhere other than this place, please direct me as you can and  will.
• You can join in praying my or someone else's prayer.
• You can share an update regarding a prayer request you've made here, in the past. 

I'm here for you, Friends.

My History with Halloween

My grandparents' living room. I'm the vampire in the back right.

I have only a handful of memories of halloween, growing up. I dressed as a vampire one year but know this because I have a photo and not because I much remember it. I do remember Little Bo Peep and Strawberry Shortcake costumes, and I know why.

The Little Bo Peep costume came about because we realized at the last minute that it was trick-or-treat night. I had a big, fat come-apart for my lack of costume, and Mom pulled Little Bo Peep together from what we had lying around (i.e., a cane became a shepherd's staff).

The Strawberry Shortcake costume included one of those hard, plastic masks with eye holes, and--for as cute as it was--it was the most aggravating thing: hot, also dangerous in that it really limited my vision.

I remember my daddy spreading our candy out on the carpeted floor of the rec room and examining each piece carefully: for razors, I guess, or poison. I don't know how he would've detected poison, but I knew in those moments of candy examination that he loved us.

My brother and I carried the same, blow mold jack o' lantern pails every year; I still have mine, in fact. I don't remember Mom's ever decorating for halloween, though, and we entertained a precious few trick-or-treaters because of the length of our driveways in both Pennsylvania (where we lived until I was eleven) and East Tennessee.

I was a little old for trick-or-treating at the point at which we moved south, and there were no nearby neighborhoods, anyway. Down home, older kids like to "go rolling" on halloween, which--in case you've never heard of it--entails making a mess of someone's yard with toilet paper. Like this:

Source

Now, our daddy made it very clear that--if he caught someone rolling our yard--he wouldn't hesitate to shoot that person dead, also that--if he ever found out we'd been up to such tomfoolery--he'd flat wear us out. So I really have only one halloween memory from my growing-up years in East Tennessee, which is of the parents of our youth group setting up the scariest haunted house for us, one year, in the upstairs of a vacant farmhouse.

They put somebody in a coffin up there, y'all, and he popped up at us. Someone else jumped out from the shadows; I want to say he appeared to be bleeding profusely from the face. We screamed our heads off and then died laughing; I suffer no PTSD from that situation. I've had to overcome several fears (most notably that of taking communion), though, instilled in me on Sundays by the God-fearing preachers of that church.

Many years later, when Cade was born, I was so excited to live in an actual neighborhood where there would be trick-or-treating. Cade was too small to eat candy, so we didn't trick-or-treat. I dressed him up like Blue from Blue's Clues, though, and my best friend Erin (who'd flown in from far away) and I handed out candy to trick-or-treater after trick-or-treater.

Cade, Erin, and Me. 2000

And as far as I can recollect, I've missed only one year of trick-or-treating in all the years since (last year, because I was two days from having a baby and exhausted, and by then we'd already "trunk-or-treated"). Back when I taught English at the tech school, I flat-out refused to teach on halloween night. I held three make-up classes, one year, to accommodate all my students from a cancelled, October-31st class. I didn't care; it was totally worth it to trick-or-treat with Cade.

Erin brought a baby girl (Mira) into the world six months after Clementine was born. They've twice traveled to Virginia to visit the pumpkin patch, carve pumpkins, make Nutter Butter ghosties, and trick-or-treat with us. In less than 48 hours, they'll be here to do it all a third time. I'm so excited I can hardly see straight.

It hurts my heart a little when fellow believers talk about the evils of halloween. I haven't experienced any evils of halloween. Yes, I'm aware that there are pagan origins to certain halloween practices, but there are pagan origins to the practices of other holidays (more religious holidays!), too. We don't associate any of our holiday traditions with satan, and I feel like we're clever enough to assign our own (positive!) meanings and reasons to/for all our holiday traditions.

Yes, I'm aware that some people enjoy scary and gory costumes, decorations, etc. on halloween. I don't want my children exposed to or frightened by these sorts of things, and so far, they haven't been. One of them has been frightened, however, by my mother-in-law's ex-husband (who did nothing but open the door to us at Christmastime), and another has been frightened by many a small animal. We worked through those fears, and I reckon we'll work through any future fears best we can, regardless of the holiday or situation.

I think my children will grow up and wax nostalgic about halloween. I'm just like every other good parent; I'm raising my children according to my own conscience, and I assure you: the Holy Spirit is much with me. So far, I haven't fallen under conviction for the ways in which I celebrate halloween, and--until the Holy Spirit convicts me--(wo)man doesn't stand a chance of changing my mind. What other people do or think about halloween is their business. I'm about to do my deal.

2012, for Trunk-or-Treating

From the Mother of a Boy Scout

I've been sitting on this post for awhile, and when I say that, I mean not that I've been sitting on it in draft form, but that I've been trying to figure out what I want to say and how I want to say it.

Let me start here: my thirteen-year-old son has been a Scout (first Cub, now Boy) for six years or so. He loves Scouting, and I think it's been good for him. I joke sometimes that--thanks to Scouting--he could probably survive more easily in the wilderness than in our home. 

Some of Cade's fellow Scouts have become his best friends over the years, and let me tell you: I love these boys. So does my husband. So do my little kids. We really know them, too, because they've camped out in our play room over and over, and three of them have vacationed with us at one point or another. They all want to be Eagle Scouts, some day, far as I know. And they're already six years in; I imagine it'll happen.

Cade's dad and I have discussed the Boy Scouts' decision to welcome gay members but have never (for one second) considered pulling Cade out of the program. We're saddened that--because of the policy change--Scouts are being rejected by certain churches. Of course, in our minds' eye, we see the face of our son, the faces of his friends.

I think I'm safe in saying: my husband Jim (Cade's stepdad) and I see from the churches' point of view more easily than does Cade's dad, who grew up Methodist. Jim and I grew up in Baptist (and East Tennessee Baptist, at that) churches, where we heard homosexuality preached against regularly and vehemently. In my experience, life can open a person's eyes, mind, and heart; she can reject some or all of the viewpoint she was offered, first; but she can never unlearn it. She'll never forget that initial position and how/why it works. Even if she no longer agrees with it, she'll have sympathy for those who continue to hold it.

Anyway. At this point, the decision's been made, and we could have a lengthy discussion in terms of whether or not it was the right one. Many churches see the new policy as a means to condone or encourage sin, and I get that. But isn't every Scout a sinner? Every single one?

I know: if my son were to come to me, tomorrow, and tell me he thinks he's gay, I'd be thankful he could still participate in Boy Scouts, where the Oath continues to be:

On my honor, I will do my best
To do my duty to God and my Country and to obey the Scout Law;
To help other people at all times;
To keep myself physically strong, mentally awake, and morally straight. 

My son and his friends, far as I know, are not gay. I see them--and Boy Scouts, in general--as future leaders in our community; indeed, I see them as future leaders in our country, in our world. My son and his friends did not make the decision in question, and they've long benefited from the support of local churches (one, in particular). 

Churches who struggle with the Boy Scouts' new policy, I ask you: do you intend to stop supporting future leaders because someone who participates in the program, somewhere, is openly gay? And if so, what does that mean, exactly? Does that mean you don't want an openly gay person in your building? And if so, why? Because you perceive him to be a sinner? Aren't we all sinners? Isn't the church supposed to be a place where people draw closer to Jesus?

I'm so thankful the Southern Baptist Convention didn't call for a Boy Scout exodus. I've been a Baptist most all my life; do you see me hanging on? It's by the very skin of my teeth, sometimes. Churches of the SBC, you've been given a choice: to 1) reject the Boy Scouts or 2) "impact as many boys as possible with the life-changing gospel of Jesus Christ.” Won't you choose the latter?

If not, I'm curious: have you withdrawn your support of our military because they welcome openly gay service(wo)men? If you're a veteran, have you (in shame) stopped admitting it because someone who serves this country is gay? If you have a loved one in the military, have you closed your doors to him or her because someone who serves this country is gay? And speaking of that gay someone: aren't you thankful that (s)he stands on the line for you? Would you refuse him or her entrance to your church? I guess I fail to see how this situation with the Scouts is so different.

Tonight, my dear, conservative husband leaned toward me and said: "I think I'm coming your way a little. I'm starting to see this, with the Scouts, as an opportunity to minister to someone who's never stepped inside a church before." My heart swelled; my tears welled; I sat down to write this post.

Who is this Jesus you serve? Do you doubt for one moment that He would sit down with a gay Boy Scout?

Lest You Think It's Picture Perfect

I have some fun photos and stories to share from Charleigh's birthday weekend, but I haven't had the time, energy, or will. And it dawned on me, earlier: I don't want to be misleading. Ever. I don't want people to look in at my life and think it's oh-so perfect or that I'm perfectly happy all the time.

If you're interested in the truth, I'll give it to you. Here's the truth: in the last few weeks, our Internet and the power steering on my minivan have gone out. My cell phone, the washing machine, a shelf in our refrigerator, and the coil pack on Jim's truck have broken. A skunk has sprayed the outside of our log cabin, and we've killed a mouse and a snake...inside our log cabin.

I'm working through old issues, new issues, marital issues, parenting issues. I'm trying to establish balance: figure out how to teach the girls; get them to dance/gymnastics; keep up with Cade, his school stuff, and activities; take care of the baby; beat back the piles and dust bunnies in my house; pray and do the things God wants me to do; and be good to my loved ones, including those at the adult home.

Maybe because I choose to read, write, photograph, and explore/travel (with the children, but sometimes over cooking or cleaning), more than one person in my family has suggested that I'm spoiled. Someone even suggested recently that I'm narcissistic. I don't know how this can possibly be true of an utterly dedicated mother of a thirteen-year-, four-year-, three-year-, and ten-month-old, but there you go: sadness, a source of mine.

And then...the voices that chime in and say: count your blessings; it could be worse. I know that. I have friends whose children have flown from this world. I have a friend whose little daughter is battling cancer. I have a close childhood friend battling leukemia. My older son's stepmother has been unwell most of this year. My own brother has been unwell to varying degrees for nine years. I go around and around with the Lord over these very things, oftentimes in the middle of the night. I believe He wakes me to pray. In the shadows I ask Him: why do You wake me to pray only to deny my requests? What sort of work are You trying to do in me?

It doesn't make it easier to know other people have it worse. It just heaps guilt (And sometimes fear: oh my lands, I can barely put one foot in front of the other now; what if it gets worse?) upon the rest. Who am I to complain?, but it's still hard. Life is hard. IT'S HARD. IT'S HARRRD!!!

Monday, my real-life friend Beth wrote this post (You should read it: click here!) asking, ultimately: why is it that you cannot be replaced? And honestly, I couldn't think of a single reason, so I stared at the screen and cried. Like, I had been beaten down to the point that I had no earthly idea.

But today I called Marlece. She prayed over me, and I took a nap; now, I'm strong enough to say: of course I cannot be replaced.

• No one else knows my children like I do, having grown them within...then breastfed them from my body for four years, five months and counting. 
• No one else will take zillions of photos of them.
• No one else has my words for them. 
• God selected me for my husband, despite our struggles. 
• I am my parents' only daughter and my brother's only sister, and I haven't been perfect, but I've sure enough been dedicated.
• The Erins need me, and Rachel. The others might not need me, but they'd miss me (especially Christy, Sharon, and Anjie) because no one else does adventure like I do: tons of kids, crap falling out the minivan right and left.
• Who else cares so much about tacky lights, blow mold, giant fiberglass sculptures, and roadside America?
• Who wants to challenge me in the cookie-baking department? Really.
• Who else is going to break Miss Joyce out of that place and take her to the science museum and zoo?
•  And who else is going to pray those same, old unanswered prayers if I'm not here to do it?

Oh, y'all. It's not perfect, no matter how it looks in photos. Most of the time, it's a big ol' hot hoopty mess. People be yellin' and runnin' amok in the Good Will, and sometimes I just want to put my head down and cry. If it were a job, I'd quit, some days. But it's not a job: it's my life. It's hard, but it's my life, and I claim it over and over because I cannot be replaced.

Photo by Anjie Kay

Photo by Anjie Kay

Photo by Rachel Huff

Photo by...One of the Snyders...

Photo by Bridget Maxey

Photo by Harriet Stone