Less Questions, More Jumping

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Jump. 

The very best thing I did in 2019.

Had I done this in any other year it would not hold the meaning that it does. It would just be a really fun and memorable experience with my brother. 

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I jumped out of a plane in June. Two months prior, I did a different kind of jump. Brent and I were on the brink of change. We felt it but we didn’t know what it looked like. We had an idea, one that came as a result of prayer and seeking wisdom from others. We had a goal in mind, but it required a decision on my part. Before we could commit to that decision, we had a checklist of a few areas we needed to see God move. We approached Him with bold humility and consistency, specifically requesting Him to handle these few items first. It didn’t matter if these items had a yes or a no. We just wanted answers before moving forward. I thought answers from God would produce the faith I needed. A few others knew about these things we were waiting on and they prayed with us as we navigated what was to come.  

But, we weren’t getting answers. We didn’t have a yes. We didn’t have a no. We had silence. 

A good friend who was praying with me and knew all the ins and outs of our lives at the time said it–

“Maybe it’s time to jump. Even if you jump in fear.” 

So I did. The very next day, I did the thing I was afraid to do without all the answers. I didn’t need answers. I just needed to obey the thing God had long been commanding me to do. 

What followed was disappointment at first, then confusion, then pure anger and frustration. Things went completely opposite of our expectations. Our ideas of how our lives looked after this decision were off. Big time. We thought we were headed in one direction, and these discouraging circumstances were quickly turning us from that direction. 

Before jumping out of a plane, I was tempted to do some research. Watch some YouTube videos. Read some reviews. But I knew if I had all of that information, I would never get out of the plane. I would build up fear that glued my feet to the ground. I would know just enough information to convince me that skydiving is risky and unnecessary. 

Likewise, had I known all the answers to the questions I was asking God, I would know just enough information to keep me from jumping. It would have seemed risky and unnecessary. I would have glued my feet down and remained steadfast to what was comfortable and predictable, and actually quite good. But not best. And not what He was asking of us. Jumping without answers meant obeying in faith. 

The days leading up to skydiving I just hoped to tolerate the jump and be able to breathe. I did not want pee in my pants (or poop–you know a good shart of nervous gas is possible at 15,000 feet). At the very least, dear God, please just make sure the chute comes out. 

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It was time to jump, even if I jumped in fear. As I stood on the edge of that plane, a moment I fully expected to bow out, I was utterly surprised with complete peace. There was no ounce of fear to be found in me. Looking out at the horizon of God’s creation at sunset was breathtaking. Every moment of the experience was far more than I imagined it could be. I was merely hoping to survive without embarrassment. Instead, I received a highlight of my life that can’t be forgotten. 

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I want to go again, yes, and I will; but I would rather relive this first jump because of what it symbolizes for me. A free fall surrender into grace with no answers, fully entrusting my care and releasing all control to someone else, only to discover some truly wonderful and praise-worthy things to come. Things that are so, so good I’d never think to ask for them. 

After the anger and frustration subsided, we began to understand the ways God was moving. He was physically moving us to another city and 4,592 things had to fall into place quickly for it to all work out. I remember my dad encouraging me at the onset of our overwhelming circumstances that I’m not responsible for making sure all the dominoes fall just right. My responsibility is to watch them fall and go with it. Because God does abundantly more than we ask or imagine, all the things fell into place in ways far better than we expected. 

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The checklist of things we asked him to do before I jumped? Zero percent of those things happened. Our lives now are not even remotely close to what we were asking God to do. We were asking the wrong questions with expectations much too low. Maybe that’s why God was not answering. He’s not silent because He delights in causing confusion. He’s not silent because He doesn’t care. Maybe, just maybe, His silence is His protection, provision, and guidance for what’s ahead. He would rather be silent in order to make me trust Him and discover His immeasurable goodness, than to answer no because I was asking the wrong questions. And I can say now it’s easier to move forward trusting Him with the unknown, than it is to move forward with all the answers you don’t want to hear because you were requesting things that weren’t going to happen. 

Maybe sometimes there should be less question-asking and more free-fall jumping. 

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2019 you were a weird one. Full of a whirlwind of unexpected events. Events that made me kick and scream and weep, resisting God and His ways. I didn’t want this. I didn’t ask for this. But I also didn’t ask to jump out of a plane because I didn’t know I wanted to. It was a gift that I couldn’t turn down. We can’t ask for things we don’t know we want. This jump into grace, this free-fall trust in God, this surrender to His better ways, is an irresistible gift that I could not turn down. God continues to be immeasurably more than all we could ask or imagine.

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Ben, if you’ve made it this far, thanks for giving me this gift for my birthday and in this particular year. You didn’t really know what it would mean for me. Neither did I. But this was truly a wonderful gift and I’m deeply grateful.

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My Last Words with Mom

Writing is just a way to make sure I don’t forget things. Whether it’s a to-do list, a funny quote on a post-it note, a prayer, or a conversation–there are things I’ll forget if it’s not written down.

I’ve had an orange post-it note in my wallet for months with a few notes on it for when I finally felt ready to write this post you are reading now. I wrote it in pencil and overtime, the pencil markings have been softened from being smooshed under cash and receipts and other random things in my wallet. I’m afraid if I wait any longer the words will be erased and my memory will go with it. What’s worse is one day I’m afraid I will no longer hear Mom’s voice when I replay these conversations in my head.

When my mother called in mid-July to tell me they were driving to Mentone to help Pop get Mom to the hospital, my gut knew she would never return to her earthly home. My mom, dad, aunt, and uncle took turns spending time at the hospital as doctors went from pneumonia treatment to the realization of the return of her cancer. The discussions and decisions became about where she’d spend her last days. The goal was to move Mom to palliative care in Birmingham, but it was a matter of waiting on an available bed. The longer the wait the more we worried she’d even survive the transport.

One day in particular, no one was able to be at the hospital with my grandfather. My mom called and asked me to spend the day with him because she didn’t want him to be alone when Mom died and she didn’t know how much longer Mom had. I gladly said yes and made quick arrangements for the kids.

That day was a rushing flood of emotions. Mom did not know yet that she wasn’t just facing pneumonia. She didn’t know she wasn’t leaving the hospital. She didn’t know yet that very soon she’d meet her Savior face to face. Pop wanted a certain doctor to be the one to explain reality to Mom and he wanted my mom and uncle to be present, so we were waiting for the perfect circumstances to occur.

Mom was in and out of sleep but she was still able to have conversations. Because she didn’t know all the facts, we had to keep conversation light and be general in our answers when she asked questions. We had to reserve our serious conversations for the hallway behind the curtain.

At one point I was at the nurses station discussing when other family members would be at the hospital. The nursing staff wanted to be sure as many people as possible could be present when she passed. They wanted to honor Pop’s wishes in how and when Mom was told but I also sensed an urgency in speeding up the delivery of this news and it wrecked me. I cried on the nurse’s shoulder, I cried in Pop’s arms. I felt a weight of communicating hard things and making decisions that I wasn’t necessarily expecting that day. Pop and I made phone calls and by late afternoon family was back at the hospital, there was a shift change, and circumstances were as Pop wished.

We sat in the waiting room while the doctor told Mom the news of her declining health. Shortly after, I had a quiet moment in her room with just the two of us. The odd beauty in knowing someone is dying is the opportunity to have intentional conversations you wouldn’t have otherwise. Feeling like I could discuss reality, I debated on what to say, what to ask, what to bring up. I fought tears walking into her room. Every memory my brain has stored of her was replaying like a reflection scene in a movie. I was walking into a last with her. The one who always brought Saltines and Ginger Ale when I was sick. The one who made me potato soup whenever I requested. The one who just 14 months before stayed with me for over a week when doctors discovered my kidney disease and I hadn’t left the bed in two weeks and Brent was out of town for two months. The one who took me out on fancy lunch dates to P.F. Changs in high school. The one who gave us both the gift of horseback riding lessons in 6th grade. The one I rode to school with in Kindergarten through second grade and always gave me 50 cents for a coke from the teacher’s lounge after school. The one who was always concerned about my thyroid when I told her how tired I was. The one who called multiple times during flu season to see if the kids had their shot yet. The one who bought me a Roomba because she was concerned I didn’t have time to vacuum and be a full-time working mom. The one who always sent money at the end of the summer with a note that said, “I figured you need a little spending money for clothes.” The one who taught me to iron, even though I refuse to do it. The one who surprised me on the first day of my first year of teaching with pot roast and fresh vegetables for dinner and also did my laundry because she noticed the basket was overflowing. The one who always gave me her Clinique free gift. The hip grandmother who bought the Kavu bag I still wear, even though she thought it was really ugly (but the print reminded her of me, so what shall I think of that?). The one I named my third child after. The one who constantly showed utmost love and care for the kids, Brent, and me. I was about to not have her around anymore. I was about to speak to her and hear her voice for possibly the very last time. I felt such relief that she knew what was going on, but man did I feel the heaviness of what was about to occur.

I sat on her bed, kissed her forehead, held her hands softened by years of using Curel and Eucerin lotions, and I said, “How do you feel?”

I did not want to know how she physically felt. Her pain and discomfort was obvious. I wanted to know how she felt in her soul–to be so close to seeing Jesus. I wanted to know what that must feel like.

“Relieved,” she said, “relieved to know why I’ve been feeling so bad.”

I looked away, completely choked for more words, with tears steadily falling down my cheeks. Then, still holding her hand, I said the only words I had in me,

“I love you, Mom.”

“I love you, too. I always have” she said in her deep voice that she cleared mid-way.

Then she proceeded to reflect on the blessing of having a loving family. She talked about how everyone knew the Lord and everyone was raised in a Christian home, even those who married into the family. In that moment, she seemed to not only have relief but a peaceful realization that her influence over the younger generations in her family were nearing the end and she looked back with a thankful heart for what God had done in her and through her.

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Then she said to me, “I want to see the kids.”

All three of my kids were too young to be in the ICU, but the nursing staff graciously allowed them to come see Mom the next day. They let Scott bring in his big trucks and Ruby showed up in all her spunk.

 

 

 

I brought them in to see Mom and she beamed a beautiful smile through her oxygen mask. Lily, Scott, and Ruby sat on her bed and the nurse brought popsicles for them to enjoy with Mom. I didn’t take a picture. I wish I had. I pray that image never leaves me–the oldest and the youngest generations enjoying the simplest of earthly pleasures, a cold popsicle on a hot summer day.

That was the last day Mom was with us mentally. She was successfully moved later that evening to a palliative care facility and was in a continuous state of sleep for nearly 72 hours.

We drove down the next day to visit her. At any moment she would take her last breath, so our moments were mixed with solemnness and sarcasm, because a good dose of laughter is necessary. I’m not sure my family knows how to grieve without an inappropriate comment here and there.

Mom was not expected to live through the night on Saturday, so we all individually said our final goodbyes with her in the room before we left for the night. She couldn’t respond and I wasn’t sure what all she’d be able to hear and comprehend, if anything. If she could hear me, I wanted to be sure I said what I was really thinking. I knelt down on the side of her bed and simply and tearfully said “Thank you” repeatedly. There were no other words. I was abundantly thankful for her life, wisdom, love, influence, care, prayers, and legacy. I knew she would be deeply missed but I also knew this was the course of life. Letting go, saying goodbye–it was all inevitable, and it was time.

As it turns out, she held on all night long. Of course she did, I thought, now we all have to do this difficult final goodbye thing again. Part of me got tickled and imagined she heard all of our heartfelt words on Saturday night and she enjoyed it so much, she wanted to hear how much we loved her on Sunday night too.  So, we did it all over again. Final Goodbye Take 2. This time with scripture reading and singing. My dad and I read Psalm 23, 37, Philippians 4, and Revelations 4 and followed by singing “In the Garden”.

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I left that Sunday night to drive home knowing that really was my final goodbye. She passed around 6:30 pm Monday night, July 30, 2018. Brent, the kids, and I had just finished up soccer try outs and we were eating dinner in the round corner booth at Zaxbys. My mom called and said that she took her last breath and Pop was able to be in the room with her. Pop was probably gazing at his beautiful bride when she left, then he peacefully stepped out into the hallway and said to my mom and the nurses, “I think she took her last breath.”

When my mom told me this news, I immediately had a flashback to 7th grade when Pop’s dad died. Granddaddy had been in a nursing home. Just like Mom, his last breath was expected at any moment. Mom and Pop had been with Granddaddy for a while at his bedside. As my memory serves, Mom and Pop left to go get dinner. My mom, aunt, and myself stayed with Granddaddy while they were gone. Granddaddy passed while we were with him. I was sitting on his bed, holding his hand. I will never forget the sorrow on Pop’s face when he returned to the nursing home. I’m not sure if he wished he hadn’t left or if reality was too much to bear. I’m guessing it was a mixture of both. The image of Pop’s sorrowful face was etched forever into my memory that day, and I was so thankful he didn’t miss Mom’s final breath.

Last words are awkward. You don’t know the right thing to say. You’re worried you’ll say the wrong thing. Simple phrases are all you can coherently say. These conversations are rare. Many times we don’t know it’s the last words we will exchange with another. But when we are fortunate enough to know, I think it’s a gift from God to let the Spirit lead you with those hard words so the moment can be seized. You’ll never regret saying the hard last words, but you will regret ignoring the Spirit’s nudges to speak them.

Redeem the time, because the days are evil.
Ephesians 5:16

 

The House that Pop Built

 

“It’s not supposed to be this way.”

Sitting at a table for two at Cracker Barrel with my grandfather, I listened to his sorrow-filled words. The food came and we silently sat there waiting for the other one to say the blessing. I finally spoke up and said I couldn’t pray because it would all come out as tears.

“Me too,” Pop said.

Mom was dying. Not my mother. My grandmother. She battled cancer 11 years ago, fought it, and now it was back with such fierceness and speed there was no need to try to stop it.

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The Spirit prayed a blessing over our country cookin’ in Fort Payne, AL on Thursday, July 26 with groanings too deep for words. He comforted Pop and me in that moment when we both silently acknowledged that this was breaking our hearts and we didn’t have words.

As we ate, Pop began telling me the story of how he fell in love with Mom. The two of them dated a couple times in eleventh grade, but he was not interested yet. Their senior year was a different story though. They dated again and would eventually get married. He made sure I knew that he never dated anyone but her. “Why look further when you have the best?” he asked with a smile.

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Mom and Pop decided to get married, so in the early spring of 1958 Pop began building her a house in his small hometown of Centreville. On July 24, 1959, Mom and Pop were married and spent their first night in the house that Pop built. They had little money and couldn’t afford a honeymoon, so their marriage of 59 years began right there in the three bedroom cinder block house. At the time there was only a kitchen, bathroom, and one bedroom. My mom was born in ’62 and my uncle in ’65. Pop added a bedroom to accommodate their growing family. Pop said his best memories in that house were the birth of his two children.

IMG_2167Mom cooking a meal in her Centreville kitchen. The meal probably included peas and cornbread and slightly sweetened iced tea. 

The family of four lived in the house that Pop built until August 1, 1966. They moved to Birmingham and Pop began working for the phone company. Mom stayed home and raised her children.

Fast forward several years to 1982. My mom was out of the house and getting married to my dad. My uncle was a typical 17 year old thrill-seeking boy, with a fascination for his motorcycle and really just anything that had an engine. He was only three years away from the birth of his niece (me) who would be absolutely terrified of his motorcycle.

In 1982, while at work, Pop received a phone call from Mom. “Let’s go somewhere,” she said. Veteran’s Day weekend was coming up and she wanted a weekend getaway. She didn’t care where, so Pop pulled out his state map and decided they’d visit Mentone, AL. Mom fell in love with the mountains of Mentone and that one trip was the beginning of their annual trips. Mentone became so loved by both of them that in the spring of 1992 they purchased land and were clearing it for Pop to build another house.

I remember the months and days leading up to this exciting adventure. From the time I was in first grade until I left for college, Mom and Pop lived across the street from me. I have fond memories of running over whenever I wanted. After the land in Mentone was purchased and Pop was working on the blueprints, I would go over to see his updates to the plans. I would sit on the love seat next to Pop and play barber shop with a comb and a glass of water while he unrolled the blueprints and explained to me all the things I didn’t really understand. I just knew he was building a house in the mountains that I could go visit and it would be fun.

They put a small, used camper trailer on the land so they would have a place to stay on the weekends when they drove northeast two hours to work on the house. Sometimes just the two of them would go, sometimes the whole family would go, sometimes friends would visit them, sometimes the grandkids would go. Pop slept on the dining room table/bed in the living area so Mom could sleep on the bunk beds with my brother and me. I never liked sleeping in that trailer. The eerie sound of the trains in the valley echoed up the mountain and the howl of the wind spooked me. I’d love to relive those days, though. I can still smell that camper–saltine crackers mixed with something sweet and musty.

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IMG_1878Celebrating Mom’s 55th birthday on the scenic trailer deck

Mom and Pop’s plan once Pop retired was to sell their Birmingham home and build another in Centreville. However, one day while sitting on the porch, where all deep ponderings and wise decisions should be made, Pop realized that it didn’t make sense to build another house in Centreville when they already had a house on family land there that served the purposes they needed. Mom joined Pop on the porch and he asked her what she thought about making Mentone their home after retirement. It didn’t take her three seconds to give a confident yes. She’d already made up her mind in 1982 that Mentone was her home. They sold their Birmingham house and permanently moved to Mentone in 2004. And from there until October 2018 countless family memories were made, so many that only a novel series would suffice to tell the all the stories.

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Dancing the Can-Can on what will be the first floor #Keds

IMG_5033That time we wore matching bear cheek pjs for Christmas. To this day, I laugh out loud when I think about this night. Even Ruby was in on the action. This was our first Christmas without my cousin Thomas Holt. My Aunt Sandra wanted to make it fun and memorable. Mission accomplished. Phyliss is quite the show stopper with that hand in the air. 

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My kids always enjoyed spending time in Mentone and playing with all the old toys Mom and Pop had at their house when my cousins and I were little. 

IMG_7286IMG_1793IMG_8014The rope swing in the backyard was a source of fun and laughter for all ages. The boys used a ladder to see how high they could swing without breaking their necks.  

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So many hours sitting on the front porch swing 

IMG_8363My brother and his wife Haley were engaged at DeSoto Falls. We threw a surprise party for them back at the house after Ben popped the question. 

IMG_1817My last picture and last visit to Mentone before Mom became very sick. Just four months later her cancer revealed itself again.

IMG_1811Walking down Libby’s Meadow, something we did on every trip to Mentone. Anytime we a had a big meal, we would walk it off down Libby’s Meadow. 

IMG_7211Our last Christmas with Mom 

The house that Pop built for Mom in Mentone was her dream. For Pop, the preparation and construction was a hobby. It was a major undertaking and they “had a ball” completing it together. Since he was still working in Birmingham while constructing the house, the process was a long, enduring, steady labor of love for his most adored person on this earth–just as their first home was. If ever there was an image of the love of Christ manifest in the selfless service of a husband, it would no doubt be in my grandfather. Their marriage began and ended in the strong foundation of homes he himself designed and built with her in mind.

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IMG_1879Pleated, acid wash, high waist jeans FOR THE WIN, Mom! She is clearly confident in what Pop told her to do with the hammer and wood–the “bridging” of course, which is a commonly heard term among grandmothers building homes. She needs no assistance. She is certainly not saying, “Psshh, Tom, I don’t know I’m doing.” in her deep, giggly voice.  

IMG_1883Lifting those walls with such ease thanks to that homemade tool  

Mom and Pop had already discussed prior to her death that if Mom left first, Pop could sell the Mentone house. It was always hers anyway. Pop was content to just be by her side, no matter where they lived. If Pop left first, Mom had no plans to leave Mentone. Pop sold the house just after his birthday in October 2018, just short of 3 months after Mom moved to her eternal home. The house was sold to a couple that came to look at it while we were tearing up the house going through all of Mom’s things. They didn’t seem bothered by the mess and all of us being present while they walked through the house. In fact, I think it helped because Pop was there to tell the story of Mom’s house. The wife was of course in love with the beauty and unique character of the home, and the husband was fascinated by the quality construction and firm foundation.

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Pop recently lent me the photo album where Mom documented the construction of the Mentone house. Mom highlighted all the “firsts” and the family and friends who visited to offer help during the years-long construction of this house. I have a thing for handwriting, so I made sure Mom and Pop’s captions are in these photos. 

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IMG_1875Pop drives in the first nail!

IMG_1891Thomas Holt and Cleveland using leftover wood to build something 

IMG_1892 (1)These three spent many days in the “backlard” of the Mentone house

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Travis and Rozzie Tindal laying bricks. They are great friends with Mom and Pop. Mrs. Tindal was my kindergarten teacher and taught with Mom during her years as a teacher. I bet Mrs. Tindal didn’t know she’d retire to become a brick mason in Mentone.  

IMG_1873 (1)IMG_1872Mom and Pop brought me to Mentone many weekends during the construction. By the look on my face, I’m obviously happy to be helping. My windsuit is protecting me from the strong, mountainous winds. 

IMG_1885 (1)My brother watching my dad and his dad (Poppy Bill) work on the house

IMG_1876 (1)My brother and I “lending a hand” but it looks like Ben is busy with the caulk gun and his Keds.

IMG_1888 (1)Mom sitting with Thomas Holt and Cleveland on the stairs leading to the second floor. 

IMG_1887My youngest cousin, Cleveland, is two months old here. This was his first trip to Mentone. 

IMG_1895 (1)My Uncle Daryl and Pop working on the second floor. 

IMG_1889IMG_1890 (1)The living room was the gathering place for all family occasions and holidays, both before and after construction. At this point, Pop had a make shift kitchen in one of the downstairs bathrooms while the kitchen was being built. You’d be surprised how many mouths you can feed from a bathroom kitchen. 

 

For our first Christmas without Mom, Lily sketched a picture of the Mentone house for Pop’s gift. There were definitely some tears in the room as he opened his gift. It now hangs in his apartment above a watercolor of the Mentone house in the snow.

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Mentone will always hold a very dear place in all of hearts, because of the person that loved the town and the people so dearly. Mom in Mentone is deeply missed in so many ways. I feel like Mentone was made for her and thus it was also made for us. But I had never considered the reality that one day Mentone would not be a central place for our family. But here we are and I’m jealous and a little possessive over the town. Mention the town and I’ll have something to say. I will be sure you know who used to live there and the memories I have and where the house is and how you’ve probably seen it on your way to DeSoto Falls right at the big curve at Libby’s Meadow. I’ll get on your nerves. You’ll tell me to relax a little. But you’d be that way too about a town that had so much of your family in it.

Pop prepared earthly homes for Mom with love, joy, and sacrifice. As promised, Jesus prepared an eternal home for Mom by an even greater love, joy, and sacrifice. The houses that Pop built were but a taste of the Home she now enjoys with pleasure forevermore.

While for a short time it’s not supposed to be this way, soon and very soon it will forever be the way it was always meant to be. Our light and momentary afflictions will give way to our glorious and eternal inheritance that can not be compared to anything on this earth.

IMG_7249I took this picture on my way home from one of my trips to the hospital to see Mom just before she died. This is in Scottsboro overlooking the Tennessee River. The kids were asleep in the car, so I pulled over and had a moment to myself. I’ve always loved crossing the river on our way to Mentone and on this particular day I realized that my trips over this river to see Mom were soon to be over. I’ll never forget this day or this view or the peace God gave in this moment. 

Grace in a Buffet

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If it’s possible to see God’s grace in a piece of restored antique furniture, I’ve seen it.

When my grandmother died, I walked away with three sets of her china. As we were cleaning out their house, my grandfather Pop was surprised to see all the dishes she collected over the years and wondered how she got past him with purchasing and storing it all. She was an antique connoisseur with classy taste and a knack for quality, even if for a higher price. One of the sets of china I now have Pop doesn’t remember Momma Jean ever using. I imagine she bought it because it caught her eye, and of course, she had to have the whole set, not just a few pieces.

Dishes, furniture, clothing, jewelry–her spending habits were a perfect mix of frugal when necessary but willing to spend a pretty penny on something that will last. A lot of the material things in our house are a product of that. My son is using the bed and night stand my uncle used as a kid. In the words of Cousin Eddie, Ethan Allen is really nice.

Two things I’ve learned about myself in the past two and a half years since the passing of both of my beloved grandmothers–

  1. I prefer the things that have been passed down over the brand new things.
  2. I have too many dishes.

Due to those facts, I realized I needed another place to store dishes and things from my grandmothers. I already have a kitchen with plenty of cabinet space, a huge hutch in my kitchen, a china cabinet of my grandmother’s, and a china cabinet Brent bought me that was originally purchased from the local hardware store in our town. All are full. And yes, I’ve already cleaned them out. It sounds like I have too much stuff. What you hear is correct. But I grieve by using all of these dishes and furniture.

Grief is not a one time event. It’s a rest of your life thing. And it’s not all tears and sadness. It’s also beautiful and full of grace. Grief can look like the daily use of things that once belonged to women in my family that served God and their families well, and using them with joy and thankfulness that God gave me such a Godly heritage. I can’t speak for your home, but in mine, we eat food and sit on furniture multiple times throughout the day. So much of what I do in my home reminds me of them, but more importantly leads me to remember the goodness and grace of God.

For Christmas this year, I asked Brent for another piece of furniture to hold the rest of Momma Jean’s things that had been sitting in bright, turquoise tubs in my dining room for a few months. Immediately, he was on it. Shopping around for new furniture at all the popular online furniture stores. He’d send me links of things he found that he thought I’d like. And, while I did like most of what he picked out, none of them were what I wanted.

“What is it that you want, then?” he’d ask.

“I don’t know. I’ll know it when I see it.” I’d say.

I knew it had to be antique, or at least not brand new. It had to be solid wood. It had to have dovetail drawers. It had to have a history in another home and with another family before mine. A warehouse full of the same pieces of overstocked furniture was not what I had a mind. There is a place and time for that, but this was not it. If the purpose of this piece of furniture was to hold Momma Jean’s things, it had to be a piece of furniture Momma Jean would buy.

It wasn’t until shopping after Christmas that I found exactly what I wanted. Actually, Brent found it first. We were walking around the store separately.  He saw an antique and restored buffet and knew this was the piece I’d unknowingly been looking for. He also saw the price tag and knew I’d see that first and dismiss the furniture quickly, so he turned the price tag around, found me in the store, and said, “I found something I think you’re going to like.”

I told him not to tell me where it was. I wanted to see if I could find it on my own. I turned a corner and saw it. My eyes went directly to the price tag and I saw that it was turned around. Brent said, “Tell me what you think. Do not look at the price.”

Well, of course, I loved it. It was perfect. It was what I was looking for, without being able to describe it beforehand. It was used. It was solid wood. It had dovetail drawers. It had a history. It was quality. It was worth a pretty penny.

Brent didn’t let me consider a cheaper buffet that I found. He wanted me to have what he knew I’d love for a lifetime.

I imagine similar conversations occurred between my grandparents when Momma Jean was shopping for just the right piece of furniture, or jewelry, or dishes. Pop didn’t let her settle. He spent the extra so she’d be able to enjoy it as long as she lived. Being encouraged (or told, rather) to buy the pricier item for the purpose of loving it as long as I’m able reminded me of the way Pop loved Momma Jean.

Brent knows I’m bent to the frugal side, not spending more when I can buy similar for less and rarely spending on myself. He also knows me well and wanted me to have what I truly wanted, regardless of price. He didn’t let me settle in the furniture store. The freedom, love, and grace Brent showed me in that moment made me tear up right there in the store, standing in front of the perfect piece of furniture. Being known better than I know myself is a gift of grace.

I’m convinced this piece of furniture was made just for us, just for this space, and just for the purpose of holding Momma Jean’s things. I’ve even decorated it with her classic Reader’s Digest books, her bookends, her milk glass, and a sign my aunt made with wood from my family’s land.

God’s grace stored and displayed in this new buffet of mine.

The Lord knows the days of the blameless, and their heritage will remain forever.
Psalm 37: 18

The God that Remembers

I have hesitated to sit down and share more about my trip to Kenya. Every time I start to write something it sounds so stereotypical of someone who did an extremely short-term mission trip to a foreign country.

“It was life-changing.”

“They taught me more than I taught them.”

The reason those things are said is because they are true and there’s just not many other ways to describe the experience. Read more

Problems Everywhere and the Lodge Just Outside the Gate

The day had two beginnings.

The first was at 10:49 pm, after having only been in bed on my quasi memory foam African mattress for less than two hours.

I was on the bottom bunk, Mackenzie was on the top, and the door to our tiny bedroom was locked. Earlier in the week this room had been an escape for six of us out of a small opening in the window bars when the door to our side of the home was unexpectedly locked permanently. That was our first of many #problemseverywhere. We broke the lock, we broke the hot water heater button, we broke the toilet lid, we broke the button on the newly installed fan, we tore the floor covering when we moved the bunk bed to escape the room through the window, the oven broke just because we were around. Don’t invite Americans to your Kenyan home unless you want us to break everything. Read more

A Place to Write

“Give me a place to write, ” I told him. I didn’t mean a comfy chair or a room with a nice view. I needed the literal space where I write words.

Nearly eleven years ago I sat on a white couch on Captiva Island on our honeymoon and started a blog. Then I deleted it. A couple years later I started another one and stuck with it consistently for many years and enjoyed the heck out of writing about whatever I felt needed to be said. At some point I became extremely sporadic. I once blamed having children for my lack of writing, and while that is a huge part of it, Read more