Gone

I miss her more than I had planned on.

When she left us in December, there was a palpable sigh of relief. Her passing had not been fit for a saint. If a life lived merited the death you endured, hers would have been injustice defined. But Paul was beheaded. James was flung from a rooftop, and upon surviving it, was beaten to death with clubs. And Peter was crucified upside down. She would not want me to compare her with Christ followers as legendary as these, but she's not here to object.

It was Christmas and we came home and were forced into activity. I put her on a shelf in the back of my mind and from time to time would note that I was handling it well. Although she moved to Nashville several years ago, I still didn't see her very often. I didn't talk to her almost every day like I do my mom. How big of a hole could she make?

A hole the size of China.

The more time that passes, the more I feel her creep back into my mind. The realization that she really is gone is hard to hold onto. The moment I feel myself take hold of that reality, it floats away. How can she be gone?

At the little church where Birch is interim pastor, I've met a lady. She's about, I'm guessing, 93 years old and she maybe clears four feet. Her name is Ms. Martha and she and her family had us over to Sunday lunch two weeks ago. She cannot see well and has lived almost a century, but she is never in a room unnoticed. She packs a wallop. She has known my children only for a minute, but sticks out her hand and beckons them with ownership, "Come here, my little children." "Where are my little children?"

When we left that Sunday, I turned to Birch in near tears. "I just spent the afternoon with Grams. What a gift!" And while I know, I mean I really know, that she is not my Grams, she is in all the ways that matter. She loves her family. She loves her Jesus.

And even though these days her absence is larger than it was the night we sat with her in her death, I'm here to bear witness to things she would say if she were here: Love each other. Don't be silly. Only buy what you need. Trust Jesus. Chicken gizzards are delicious. Laugh until you cry. Study your Bible. Work hard. Rest. If there's even a bite left, save it. Tithe. Pray for the lost.

She's gone. And gone with her is a mountain of wisdom. Gone is her example of faith and strength. And while I know she wouldn't trade a moment of Heaven to be back here, today and yesterday and the day before that, I missed her. She would "nonsense" all this sentimentality that I've written. And I miss that too.

First Date

Mouse had her first date last night with her daddy. Chick-fil-a, which is one of my all-time favorites and I'm hoping there's a franchise in the hereafter, had a reservations-only Daddy/Daughter Valentine's celebration. She was a bit hesitant about going, as in "But I don't wanna go on a date with Daddy!" in a tearful, frightened way. Apparently explaining the word "date" would have been most helpful.

I dressed her in a Valentine's shirt and bow and Birch picked her up and they arrived in time to be escorted to their table. It was fully decorated and was bearing a flower just for her. When Birch came home he told me that most of the dads were very dressed up and most daughters were wearing very dressy dresses, many of the little ones in hairdo and makeup. I had that momentary twinge of having blown it. It just never once occurred to me to fancy her up to go to Chick-fil-a. I mean I love it there and all, but...

He said as they were sitting there eating, she was giving the scene the once over, taking it all in, and then checked out her date and looked around some more. Finally, she pipes up with, "Daddy, you really oughtta wear something up on top of your bald head to cover it up." I guess everyone else's dad not only dressed up, but brought along hair as well.

After eating dinner, they were provided with a carriage ride, complete with blankets. And the highlight for Carolina was having her picture made with the cow. I'm so glad I've never thought that about any of my dates.

She was plenty excited to show me her flower when she got home. It's now in a vase on the sun room table. It will not live nearly as long as the memory, I hope.

And next time, we will go all out. We'll plan it before the morning of, and we'll dress her up spiffy. And maybe, just maybe, I'll provide Birch with a hat. Gotta keep the ladies happy.

Love the One You're With

Birch is leading his first communion this morning. He is humbled. He is not only taking of the body and blood of Christ, but will be at the head of the body of the church choreographing it. What an awesome privilege. What a blessing. What grace.

Scenes From Wonderland

The open gate to the defunct vegetable garden:

Muscadine alley:

Wisteria (the kids like to play underneath these in the summer...til the bees show up):

The pictures above were all taken by Bird. I think she has quite an eye. Below is my lone contribution:

Wonderland Day Two

We awoke this morning from dreams of sledding and snowman building. Last night we formulated a Frosty plan. We had picked out button eyes and planned on stick arms and a baby carrot nose. We had located extra scarves and hats (still no gloves unfortunately). We ate breakfast quickly, dressed, and marched outside. What we found was snow too dry to pack. Just because you have three inches of snow does not a snowman guarantee make.

Carolina, upon learning her button placing (her intention of involvement) would not be needed, decided indoors was calling. And since she refuses to go anywhere alone, Birch went with her.

It's surprising how winded you can get from sledding. I don't remember that part from childhood. I'm guessing that's only a part of the sport known as Middle Age Sledding. But truthfully, it's the screaming like a little girl that leaves you breathless.

We discovered that no matter how you pushed off, you were bound to end up sledding down the hill backwards. Every time.


Juliana shed her sweater (see! no waterproof coats either. We really do have "Georgia Winter Clothes", nothing very useful for winter sports, just pretend Southern winters). I do realize that in these pictures she looks uncared for and unloved (and, well... cold). Please know that we promptly provided warm, dry clothes and a heated house).

Walter would stand at the top of the hill and wait for the launch. He then summoned all his border collie instinct and bolted after us, wishing only that we could go faster and provide more of a challenge.

Holt finally decided he wanted a thrill ride and sled until his fingers couldn't stand it. He then rode with me in front. There's really nothing like flying down a snowy hill with your arms around your son and your stomach in your throat screaming at the top of your lungs and vaguely wondering if it would kill him if you landed on him.

When frostbite became a distinct possibility, I convinced them to head inside with the promise of returning after lunch. But, as all good dreams must end, the mercury rose and Wonderland was gone. Folks around these parts (See! I'm starting to fit in here) say it hasn't snowed like that in ten years, so I'm not hopeful for a repeat. But while it was here, it was magic.

Wonderland

We've come to never listen to the weatherman. The five of us used to get rather excited and anticipatory when they called for snow here, which was seldom, but it was never delivered. Today most of Georgia was under a winter weather advisory except for a small band of counties that wasn't supposed to even get a dusting. We were, of course, in that band of counties. It's like there's a cosmic umbrella over our stretch of Americana that refuses to ever allow my children to sled, make a snowman, or just freeze their tushes off at will.

But as usual, the weather guys were wrong. And for the first time ever since moving back to Georgia, we had enough snow to warrant digging through the back garage to find the sleds. Not quite enough to do much of a snowman, but enough to whizz us down the side hill. No one has attempted much of anything on the main hill since John's July 4th massacre. Ask to see his scars.

Unfortunately I never saw much need to buy my kiddos gloves. Juliana salvaged an old pair out of the recesses of her dresser, but The Littles went sans hand coverings until I finally got smart enough to improvise with socks.

Juliana was The Sledder.



Holt was the Snow Ball Flinger.

Carolina was the Whiner. Snow's really not much fun if you're too scared to sled and your hands are freezing cold. She also was Taster of Snow. She gave it a thumbs down and reported that it tasted like guts, grass guts to be exact.

I am unsure of Walter's take on the situation. He ate some, rolled around a little, but was perfectly content to return to the warmth of indoors. He probably had enough of nature when he was a street dog. I'd chance it to say he's spent a night or two shivering beneath a makeshift shelter trying to stay out of the elements. But nothing is more beautiful than a black and white dog in the snow.

Holt and Birch were really the only two game enough for an actual snowball fight. I may have been, had I not been holding my camera (please don't "whatever" me, Juliana). Birch ended up with snow inside his ear and Holt, well... see for yourself.





And though Juliana's Second Annual Valentine's Day Sleepover was snowed out (can't believe I've had need to use that verb!), it was a wondrous treat indeed. And it's snowing still. Just maybe we'll get to do it all again tomorrow. Fingers crossed.

The BIG ONE

It's happened. I woke up next to my 40 year old husband this morning. Hard to imagine...this man who's been a part of my life since I was 18 years old has hit the big one. At the same time the man on the next pillow over is in no way like the man I made vows with. And the fact that we woke up together is amazing all by itself.

Only through the grace of the God of Jesus Christ are we still married. And only through His grace has my husband been transformed. How many people are lucky enough to live with a miracle? Yet all of us who have been saved by the Lamb are miracles, just not quite as startling in contrast.

For his 30th birthday (which 10 years ago felt like the BIG ONE and now feels like mere childhood) he was treated at his favorite bar by his drinking buddies before stumbling home and passing out sick. I had made his favorite dinner and Juliana, in her baby way, had decorated a Snoopy card with stickers. We ate that dinner, just the two of us.

For his 40th birthday he bought himself the Star Wars Lego ship that Holt "suggested" his daddy would really like. And what Birch wanted more than anything else for us to all go bowling as a family. No bars. No buddies. He wanted just us.

For those that know we went bowling, the two of us, for New Years Eve, let me 'splain. We are not bowlers. The fact that I have been twice in under six weeks is an anomaly of major proportion. But when we went last month, he kept saying how much he thought the kids would enjoy it, so to the lanes we went.

I learned several facts about bowling today.

1. Juliana bowls like a girl. I'm sure I do also, I've just never seen myself bowl. She advances and releases much like I imagine a fairy princess would. If fairy princesses bowled.

2. Holt has confused bowling with baseball. He has quite a sidewinder.

3. A child's natural bowling stance is the "granny", but if you give a four year old the "ball slide", she can beat her mother and both her older siblings. I quite seriously considered borrowing it from her.


4. I bowl much much better with the rails up. I think I will never again bowl without kids, or at least without borrowing someone else's. Notice there is no picture to illustrate this epiphany as all bowling pictures are taken from behind and well, I'm not stupid.

5. I could live to be 100 and never ever beat Birch at bowling. Or anything else that requires the slightest bit of coordination.

6. Bowling should always be enjoyed with Coke (not Pepsi! Please... what is wrong with AMC bowling lanes?) and pizza.


7. I am, indeed, the luckiest woman I know.

Happy Birthday, Old Man!

On the Court

Today marked the end of Holt's first basketball season. He played with a local church's Upward program and Birch and his bff, Tim, coached.


The buddies to hang with and the snacks rate at the top of his list of reasons for playing team sports. He probably talks Lego Star Wars with Sam during half time...maybe even on the court.


I love to watch him play. His best athletic skill is that he's a quick fella, a lot like his Daddy. I'm not one of those screaming moms. Always wished I was. I come, I watch, I take pictures, I get upset when kids aggressively foul him (and have conferences with coaches on court during the break), I bring snacks (when I'm told I'm on the schedule), but I don't yell. I can muster it during teeball when he's at bat because otherwise he'd be the only kid swinging in silence, but otherwise I'm pretty silent. It's the Reid in me, I guess. Hope that doesn't bother him. I've yet to ask.

And this year we went from tee ball straight into football and then headfirst into basketball. I don't know about him, but I'm ready for some time off.

Counting One...

We moved here in August of 2007 and the lady across the street found out we were homeschoolers. She knew another homeschooling mom (an oddity in these parts) and had her call me. One thing led to another and 3 weeks after we moved here, Juliana was at her first CFT practice. We have seen over the last two and a half years how this was God's provision for us.

Last weekend Snow White- A Funny Thing Happened in the Forest debuted. It was a comedic remake of the traditional fairy tale and Juliana played one of two census takers who also served as narrators. The thing she loves most about CFT is the family that it is... the amazing friends she has there and the great memories she makes each Monday at practice and especially in the two week craziness that is crunch.

We were nervous about the weather last weekend as even our weathermen were talking snow and ice. Ma and Big switched their Saturday tickets for Thursday tickets at the last minute just to ensure they would make it. My dad had surgery on that Monday and his gut was being held together by staples, so to say that we were honored that they came would be an understatement.

I had to be at each show to sell tickets so Mouse sat through all three performances and loved it every time. She idolizes Juliana's friends and was so excited to see them on stage. And Kaylee, Emily and Andy are so good to include her and to always be happy to see her.

Here she is with Juliana and with Kaylee.


This is Juliana with Ella, who was in CFT the last two years but is taking a year off.

And Aubrey, forever known to us as Amayzing Mayzie, came twice. She is exactly who I want Juliana to look to for growing into adulthood with grace and goodness.


The last day the play ran (Saturday) Juliana was involved in a bit of an incident. 25 minutes before the curtain rose, a bench fell onto her foot. Purely through the aid of adrenaline, she battled her way through with a couple of broken toes. She played her role barefooted and the directors quickly rechoreographed several scenes so she was as immobile as possible.



As soon as one play ends, another begins. And that's the way we like it!

Pledge

I have been notified by my eldest that all my posts are depressing, so in light of that, I will be making a deliberate effort to lighten up. Good 'nuff, Bird?

Holding Hands and Letting Go

When he was a wee little thing and I would cradle him in my arms in the rocking chair, he would cry in distress every time I rubbed his back. I was befuddled. Juliana couldn't get enough of this, but this boy-child of mine seemed to actually be in pain. So instead I would pat his diaper over and over and this became our routine and replaced any form of touching his back. That's how I remember Holt's babyhood...rocking and popping that outcurve of his rear. Years later when he was finally verbal enough to make us understand, it all made sense. I had produced the world's most incredibly ticklish child. I still can't touch his back. We settle for rubbing his head, but even then you have to be careful to stay away from his neck.

But what I do want to say here is this.. he has always been one to snuggle with his mama. When he was born my friend Leslie warned me that he wouldn't allow me to rock him for long, that my time was limited and the stopwatch had already started. I've thought of that so many times since that warning was issued and waited and wondered when the timer would ding.

At school on Tuesdays he has an 8:00 class. No one, for good reason, signs her child up for an 8:00 class unless she's a teacher and there are, in fact, only 5 students in his first class. And it's the only class that runs that hour. It's the last room at the end of a very loooooong hall and as we walk down it each Tuesday, it's just the three of us, including Mouse.

So I like to hold his hand. I'm dropping him off, after all, and won't see him again until lunch. It's the first year he's had to navigate by himself and that part of me that feels that letting-go every Tuesday rips a little with each step towards that science room.

Last year I held his hand everywhere we went at school. It was never an issue. But this year there's been resistance really from Day One of first grade. I've ignored his hesitation and grabbed his little mitt and trudged on, but finally he's begun to pull away. Ouch. As we get to the end of the hall, the question "Are you gonna hug your mama?" has been met with a shake of the head.

So I brought this to Birch with a "you must fix this for me" pleading. Birch agreed he was way too young to be giving me the cold shoulder and had a long man-to-man with him. Here's the bottom line. There are older boys on that hall that might mistake him for a 6 year old if he's seen holding my hand. Birch explained to him that even big boys like to hold their mama's hand. He told me that he might have bought me one more semester and I'd better enjoy it.

To make matters worse, I came upon a letter I wrote to him five years ago when I was going through some pictures in the basement. And because I'm self-indulgent, I want it recorded here, in cyber-world, where I have no fear of losing it.

Dear Holt-
You are now two years old. Oh my! I love you so much more today than I did even when you had that awesome newborn smell. You are the sweetest boy I have ever known. I think your Neena must somehow be responsible for that. I want to always remember what you were like when you were 2...

You talk ALL the time. We can understand you about 60% of the time. Juliana gets it almost always. My favorite thing is the way you say "I don't know". It comes out "I aint know." It sounds so innocent and bewildered. Sometimes I ask you things knowing that will be your response just because I love to hear you say it.

You have no inside voice. You lay with us in bed at night and the people above us are probably beating their heads on the wall. You physically cannot whisper. We tried to get you to talk for almost two years and you are now making up for lost time.

You have an electric firetruck toothbrush with a man in a yellow hat. Every night after we brush your teeth, you say, "Goodnight man in the hat." You talk very distinctly. Daddy says you sound like the telephone operator.

You love your bup bup. This is your sippy cup with chocolate milk. Everything else you ask for by name, but the chocolate milk gets this affectionate nickname. You love ice cream and pizza and birthday cake and pickles. You also still eat bananas out of a baby food jar. A real banana makes you shudder.

You don't like to get your hands dirty. This really bothers your daddy, but I tell him not to worry. I have to take wipes to the playground because you will fixate on your hands after your first fall. You will stand and say "uh-oh" and "wipe Holt's hands, Mama". We went to the field last week and some boys had left trucks- really cool trucks like dump trucks and cranes- but they were in a big mud pit. You stood and looked at those trucks for a good 10 minutes. We could see your wheels spinning, but in the end, you couldn't overcome the mud.

You love to watch tv. I have to reign you in. Forever you called the "Wiggles" by the name "Viva". We finally figured that out. You also love Teletubbies and "People" (Little People). You remind me of your daddy. You climb up on the couch with pillows behind you and pull the blanket up and settle in for some good lounging.

You love your Ma (Grandma). You pick up the framed picture of Ma and Big and kiss it everyday. Every time we walk out the door you say "Going to Ma's house." You talk to her on the phone just about every day. You also love her because you are very into Winston. He is taking a small place in your heart now that our beloved Knoxi is no longer with us. John got you a stuffed Knoxi for Christmas that you sleep with at night.

You also sleep with Rosie, Big Monkey and Little Monkey. It's very important to you that each animal is securely under the blanket just like you. You lay down and call out "Bankie, Mama", even though you are perfectly capable of pulling it up yourself. You do this in your sleep as well.

You talk some in your sleep. I hear a lot of "Here you go, Mama" and a lot of stuff I can't decipher. Your bed is connected to ours, and if you wake up in bed alone, you will come crawl between us. You like to sleep on your Pooh pillow or mine or daddy's, depending on how the mood strikes you. You are a great snuggler, right up there with your Neena.

You love everything about Neena. You love to be in her room and her dollhouse is one of your favorite toys. You will do anything she asks, right down to learning her new ballet dances. You are concerned when she is gone, even when you know she's coming right back.

You have a hard time understanding where Nette Nette, Mi Mi Roy, and Miss Dudie have gone. "Church" means Rockdale and this will be a hard thing to explain when we finally find a church here in Louisville. You still tell us unsolicited how much you love them and we have been gone almost 2 months.

You love to play cars, pretend to cook in the play kitchen, read books, do puzzles, and draw with markers. You love to push buttons- to turn on alarm clocks or radios or the alarm to my car. "I make the car go 'beep beep', Mama!" Your favorite places to be are Juliana's room and Daddy's office. Nothing thrills you more than to play in Daddy's toolbox with the screwdrivers.

You've just started to pee pee in the potty. You ask to go about once a day and always succeed, and then immediately say "put Holt's diaper on, Mama!" You love to splash in the tub. I have to put the clear see-thru curtain between us so I don't get soaked.

These are only some of the things that make you who you are today. It is such an injustice to describing all of your wonderful complexities. I was always afraid of little boys. Now the scariest thing I can imagine is not knowing the goodness and wonder of being your mama.

I was in our snuggling chair with him later (for inquiring minds, the butt patting ended with the diapers) and told him that I bet even those big boys still liked for their mamas to rock them, and he gave me that look and said, "not at school they don't!" He had a point.

So I decided that I sure didn't want my "Holt Growing Up Crisis" to become his stress and I told him that he didn't have to hold my hand in public and I wasn't going to reach for his anymore. If he ever decided he wanted to, he could take mine. The very next day at Staples, I felt his warm little paw curl up inside mine, and I had to choke back tears right there in the envelope aisle. A victory! We were going to delay this process for a while, I was sure.

And then my friend, Ileana, whose son, Harry was the Cat in the Hat during Seussical, had Harry hold her hand at the theater in front of Holt on Saturday. Please note that Harry is a teenager of much high esteem in Holt's eyes. I pulled him over to the side and said, "Holt, look! The Cat in the Hat is holding his mama's hand. And he's waaaaaay older than 6!" I could see Holt process this and thought to myself, "This has cinched it! I've put this to bed!"

But victory was short. Yesterday was Tuesday. I walked that long hall to the science room with a swinging, lonely left hand. And I'm okay... kind of. After all, we still have the chair in my room, we still snuggle in bed under my blanket, he still likes to share my pillow and have me rub his head. He's playing his DS sitting beside me as I type this, just to be near me. Just no more PDA. And the little tear I used to hear on that long walk to science class has escalated into a painfully loud rip.