Bicycles and Fireflies

Marc said he’d never buy a home again after a substantial loss on our first home became our first hard knock in life together. I didn’t blame him…Renting was rather convenient on many levels.

And yet, we were pouring a great deal of money into rent each month. I hesitated to spend any amount of money on landscaping, knowing we’d just leave it behind for someone else to possibly care for or let die. Marc hesitated to begin big projects with the boys—a treehouse in the backyard, for instance. But there were all these dreams. Deep down inside, Marc and I both knew we’d eventually be ready for a place to call our own…eventually.

As we rented (and saved) we occasionally looked at real estate sites. I found a cottage, dating from the ’30s, on beautiful rolling land. Marc didn’t exactly wrinkle his nose, but…that was not the house for us.

I found a 30-year-old home—colonial style—on a couple of acres of land (grass, beautiful grass!). Marc looked, but then he said, “Honey, I’m just not going to spend that much money on a home that needs repairs and renovation. That’s not my thing. Besides, I hate low ceilings, cave-like bathrooms, and dark paneling. I don’t like old homes.”

Ok. But I wanted grass and he wanted a beautiful, big, modern home. And our budget was only this big.

He brought home house plans he’d come across. I knew he liked the Mediterranean style—red tile roof, courtyard with fountains. (It’s the italian in him.) And his dream home was beautiful. I told him it needed to be on the Mediterranean, or at the very least, in Miami. Here in the rolling hills of Tennessee, I quipped (cleverly, of course), it looked like La Quinta Inn. Whatever, he said. Anyway, like all homes for us at that point, it was just a dream.

When we knew we were getting closer to making a decision about a home, we spent one Sunday afternoon driving around different neighborhoods just to get a feel for our options. It wasn’t exactly discouraging, but only because we (happily) knew we didn’t have to buy any of them. The modern homes Marc liked sat on postage stamp parcels of land. Seriously. I couldn’t bear the thought of looking out my dining room window into my neighbor’s bedroom.

My motto became, Can they ride bikes? If not, it wasn’t the place for us.
“You and your bikes…” Marc teased. But bikes are an essential part of growing up for a boy, right? And a basketball goal in the driveway? And a big backyard to run barefoot in on summer nights and collect fireflies in a jar. Right? I know kids in every city in America grow up without those things, but if we were going to actually buy a home, we were going to have those things. It was that simple and I held my ground—Bikes and fireflies were essential. 

We came across a home one day that instantly caught our attention. The home was beautiful for sure. But the land! I kept going back to the photos of that backyard. Room for bikes? Yes.

Marc called me from work to say he had set up an appointment with a realtor to look at it. Ok. But up until the day of our appointment, I hesitated. If we aren’t actually ready to buy, should we even look? Marc thought so. It wouldn’t hurt to get an idea of what we were looking for and how realistic that might be.

His soccer game, almost an hour away, ended a little late and we rushed to meet the realtor. It had been a long, hot day at soccer games since morning and poor Livi was not herself. I didn’t realize till we reached home that she was running a high fever. She huddled in my arms as we walked through the home and even our realtor commented on how quiet she was. Her brothers were not quiet! One look at that expanse of green grass, and they were off at a run.

The neighbors on one side came over to meet us and the kids. They were so kind and they said they hoped we moved in. The neighbors on the other side had two little boys who tried to watch our boys without being too obvious. Our boys watched them ride bikes and scooters in their front yard and didn’t care how obvious they were.

We were all in love. Marc, with the modern high ceilings in a distinctly Tuscan home (yep, right here in these Tennessee hills). I fell instantly in love with the beautiful school room (I’d turn it into a school room anyway) with french doors and a bay window. I also loved the screened porch overlooking the backyard. The boys loved that backyard.

Did we dare to dream? Could the first house we looked at turn out to be “the one?” It may be the first house we actually looked at, but we’d been looking for a year and we knew how rare it was to find that sort of home on that sort of land with that sort of seclusion. We talked and prayed and called the realtor next day to put an offer on it. Just like that.

We were none too soon. Another couple put an offer on it less than 24 hours later, so we spent that Monday waiting and wondering whom the sellers would choose.

I tucked Livi and Reagan in my bed for a nap and drifted off to sleep for a few minutes beside them. As I woke, I felt the foggy sensation of a lovely dream. Gradually, I realized I’d been dreaming about that house. We were living there and we were happy.

Up till that moment, my prayers were always, “Your will be done.” I was afraid of making a big mistake and I really did want His will. But as I laid there in bed staring up at the ceiling fan, a spontaneous prayer leapt from my heart, “Lord, please let it be. We would love this, Father. Please let it be.”

I stood up and walked out to the kitchen. Almost seconds later, my phone rang.
“Honey, are you sitting down?” Marc asked. They had chosen us.

It’s been a month since and we keep pinching ourselves. Is this for real? Everything is settled and we are just waiting for closing now. It’s only three weeks away, and we have packing to do, but we really cannot wait.

A few evenings ago we played with our kids at the playground, watched dusk approach, and Marc said spontaneously, “Want to drive out to the house?”

Yes! We all tumbled into the car and took off, windows down. Cool breeze off the lake hit our faces as we drove past the harbor, boats bobbing quietly in the setting sun.

Marc drove slowly past the house, turned around, and paused for a moment. Lights twinkled warmly from the windows—Can you believe we will be at home there very soon?

I caught my breath. There, in the backyard. A tiny sparkle, then another, then a hundred twinkling lights! Fireflies. The whole backyard was alive with them.

I sighed. I smiled. Bicycles and fireflies, too.

Home.

Eyes Wide Open

The sun was not just hot, it was oppressively hot.

I sat in the lawn chair, my back turned to the sun for some relief. My back just baked. All of us had burnt nicely at the first 3 soccer games of the day, and now we sat at Marc’s game mid afternoon.

Well, I sat. Marc Anthony and Will, who had played hard in their own games (Marc even had a double-header), seemed to have an inexhaustible supply of energy. They continued to battle over a soccer ball and a goal across the field with other boys. I tried to keep an eye on Reagan who roamed empty soccer fields nearby. He wore his firefighter hat and kicked dust up in dry patches.

Livi sat on the ground at my feet. I angled myself to keep her in a bit of shade. The cooler was open and she paddled in the ice water, occasionally sucking the cold drops off her fingers. She looked up at me, her face glistening from a mixture of sunscreen and sweat. She grinned, her eyes sparkling through dark, moist curls in spite of being red-rimmed and sleepy. No naps for Livi on Saturdays filled with soccer games. She was cool with it, though.

The boys came running to guzzle more water. I poured some over their heads and they stood there gasping and laughing as it dripped down their necks. A little boy watched, then went promptly to his dad’s cooler. He pulled out the Gatorade his dad was drinking between playing and poured it over his face.
“You’ll be sticky,” I warned, but I couldn’t help but laugh—I’d heard his dad tell him not to drink the Gatorade and I doubted he would like it being poured out either.
“Hey, you were right. About it being sticky,” the boy came back to say a few minutes later. He grimaced and wiped at his face and hair. Boys.

Boys are the same in every generation. I watched grown men play wildly on the field and thought of Marc’s tongue-in-cheek description: “Just some old guys out there trying to relive the glory days.” They were probably slower and heavier and more cautious about injury, but they were having a good time and they were reliving those good ol’ days of endless energy on a soccer field.

My own man stood just a few feet away. He had come off the field for a drink of water and now stood on the sidelines waiting for his chance to get back in the game. I watched him there. Really watched him. Maybe, in that crazy day filled to the brim with doing, it was the first time I’d really opened my eyes and looked at him. I smiled tenderly at his wild hair—turned into a mass of crazy curls in the running and the sweating. He had grabbed one of my elastic headbands to keep the mass out of his eyes.  I had teased him that he should have grabbed the pink one to match his jersey. He rolled his eyes. That jersey. Bold pink and black stripes. Whoever chose them wanted to leave an impression for sure.

I loved so much about him, standing there in shin guards and cleats, urging his teammates on. I loved that I could sit here and watch him play his heart out. I remember sitting at his college soccer games right after we were married. I was a novice at life then and naive enough to never think about how precious those times were. I guess I thought those days would last forever—if I thought about them at all. But they don’t last forever. No days do. I don’t take precious times for granted anymore, but I do find myself just pushing through…just hanging in there…just trying to survive the heat and the sun and the craziness of the day, or whatever it may be…

I’m not the only woman just hanging on, I saw, as I glanced at the smattering of wives and daughters around me. One woman, her back and shoulders burnt to a painful crisp around her tank top, rocked her screaming baby girl and tried to stay in shade. She looked ready to snap between exhaustion and apology. Another woman under an umbrella yawned widely and looked bored. And who could blame us? It was 100 degrees and most of us had been at soccer fields almost since sunup.

(Daddy and Livi at lunch before his game)

There is that element of life that calls for survival and just hanging in there. There’s not much that can be done with miserable, tired babies and infernal heat. But I just want to keep my eyes open right through those times. I just want to see and appreciate–-that man of mine who really is quite amazing; that dark-haired girlie of mine with her toothless grin; those hot, sweaty boys who never stop going for a second.

Survive life. Sometimes that’s the best we can do. But survive with eyes wide open.

The Adventure Continues

We do love to talk! Sometimes we sit up till the wee hours talking, mugs of chilled chocolate milk in hand. We finish each other’s sentences and laugh that we can read the other’s mind.

So it comes as a surprise when we find that there are still things—big things—that we don’t know about each other.

One night recently we shared one of those late night talks. Marc felt it was time to make some big decisions. It was time to make decisions that were best for the family, for our kids.

It’s been 4 years since we made our biggest decision as a family—to move away from our hometown and families and little home (which we’d bought 9 months before) in Georgia and take our family to Nashville, TN. I had been all for that decision. I was excited for Marc and I was proud of him. I wanted to be behind him 100%. And I was excited about the “adventure” of it all.

What an adventure it was!

We started our life in Tennessee in a sunny little townhouse with parquet flooring and a big bay window. Marc had torn his ACL and meniscus just before our move, playing basketball. He still moved us to Tennessee that June, with the help of my little brother, climbing the townhouse stairs with our bulky mattresses and dressers. Later, when he saw a surgeon for the injury, the doctor asked him, “How in the world are you walking on this?” Marc laughed drily, “I moved us on this…” So the month after our big move, Marc had surgery and spent a few days in that sunny bay window recovering.

There was just enough room on our brick, ivy-covered front entrance for the boys’ play set. Marc Anthony spent most evenings up there watching for his daddy to come home from work. (Mainly I just shared this photo because he was such a cutie! He is growing up too fast.)

Reagan was well on his way the following Spring when Marc decided to find us a home with a backyard for the two older boys. We were still paying the mortgage in GA as well as rent in TN, but we found a small rental that not only had a backyard, it had a garden worthy of a magazine!

With a fountain off the patio, a stone walkway leading through an arch covered in clematis, ivy growing over the privacy fence, and rose bushes in the front yard, I was quite happy with our new little home!

The boys and I took long walks to the playgrounds nearby and we worked outside in our garden. Then trouble with the neighbors forced us to begin looking for another rental.

Our home in Ga had sold at last, so we finally felt free to move into a place with a bit more room. Our new rental was lovely.

Historic Franklin was close enough for long walks on quiet Sunday afternoons, and we lived right beside a huge park with playgrounds and miles of running trails. We also happened to be at the top of a hill, so when much of our town (including the rental we had just moved from) was flooded, we were ok.

That’s where we were a year ago when Livi was on her way. Our landlord wanted to sell the home, so we had 60 days to find a new place. At the same time, a company northeast of Nashville called Marc out of the blue. They offered him a job. We were all tired of the long, stressful hours he was putting in each week. This job seemed much more family-friendly….and we had to find a new place anyway…perhaps we should move north…

We ended up in a small rental in Hermitage. With our little girlie about to arrive, we could have used more room, but Marc and I looked at each other and said, “We’ll never  save enough for a down payment on a home if we don’t make a few sacrifices and save.” So we put all the boys in one big bed in the second bedroom, put Livi in her pack and play in our bedroom, and turned the 3rd bedroom into our schoolroom/home office/playroom. (For the record, it’s not a good idea to combine those three spaces. Toys have a scary habit of taking over.) Our little backyard looks out on the backside of Publix and Bed Bath and Beyond, but we felt fortunate to have our little patch of grass in the city.

The kids are growing up, though, and the little patch of grass in the city is not going to cut it forever. They can’t really run or ride bikes and they are going a bit stir crazy in a tiny house and tiny backyard.

I was going stir crazy after a winter of living on top of ourselves. I started dropping little hints, “Honey, have you thought of looking for a job closer to family?” I sometimes perused real estate sites in cities an hour or so away from “home.” I dreamed that if we were closer to home, I’d finally feel at home.

So we sat down and talked that night. Feet tucked up under me on the sofa, I poured out my heart. Here is how I feel….basically, that I don’t belong anywhere. Where is home? 

Marc shared his heart, too. He found it ironic that in the place he had been the happiest, I was unhappiest. He loves his job. He wants to stay. At my urging, he had glanced through job postings closer to family, but nothing interested him. He’s grown to really love living in Nashville. He could see us raising our family here…

It was obvious. His security and happiness were in a place where he felt able to provide for his family and enjoy his work. My happiness was entirely dependent on community, friendships, and being a part of something bigger than my immediate small world. I’ve just not had that here.

Part of it was because I didn’t want to put down roots. Maybe if I held out, we could eventually move closer to family. If I gave in, became a part of this community, we’d end up staying here forever and there goes every possibility of moving “home.” When I finally faced it, I had to admit that it wasn’t so much that I hated living here as that I hadn’t let myself love it. Marc was right: It is time we both made some decisions for our family. It is time to do what’s best for them. My loved ones—Marc and the children—need to be allowed to put down roots, too.

We started looking at homes and I earnestly wanted to be open to the Lord’s will for our little family. Wherever YOU want us, Lord. 

To make this long story a little shorter, this is where He wants us.

We are so excited and amazed! And we just wish we could make closing happen sooner (even though I only have a month to pack, as it is).

The backyard seems to stretch endlessly to our little guys, with “woods” around the house. They run nonstop while we are at the house and collect sticks as if they’ve never seen them before. The privacy is simply refreshing after city life.

Less than a mile away is beautiful Old Hickory Lake. The boys will love growing up with a marina nearby and all the advantages of living “on the lake.”

The more I learn about “our” community, the more excited I am to become a part. I am overwhelmed by the goodness of God who answers the cries of our hearts and blesses us in ways we never dreamed.

Because of Him, life is truly an adventure worth loving!

And She Laughs

On Mother’s Day, you expect the preacher to open his Bible to Proverbs 31.

I realized something (when I realized this preacher was not going to disappoint) as much as I appreciate Proverbs 31, no matter how heartily I agree with all it says, sermons taken from it usually leave me feeling…insufficient. I go away with a mental checklist: do this, this, and this, this week! That is part of the point of course. I haven’t arrived and I need a standard to look to.

But this Mother’s Day sermon was different. Instead of the checklist was the simple message: You can be all this. You have all the power in Heaven behind you. You can be exactly the woman you are meant to be, you just have to surrender in faith to the One who created you and loves you. A woman of faith is a woman who is grounded in God and He will take care of the rest.

It was powerful to me because, frankly, this has been a tough year. At times I’ve felt I’m getting to know a whole new me—a “me” that I don’t like very much. It’s hard to swallow when it hits me that the “whole new me” has been there all along, successfully kept under wraps, but there nonetheless until circumstances sweep away the wraps.

At times this past year, I’ve told myself, Just hang on. Things will get easier and I’ll be back to my old (good) self again. 

To some degree, that’s true. The pressure isn’t always on full throttle. But I’m discovering something about life—there is always pressure. One form is sometimes replaced by another, but generally, we feel pressured and disgruntled and hoping that things will ease up a bit so the “real me” can come out again.

“Your circumstances actually open the door for you to be all God wants you to be,” the preacher said, reminding us of so many verses that confirm this.

“Count it all joy, my brothers, when you meet trials of various kinds, for you know that the testing of your faith produces steadfastness.
And let steadfastness have its full effect, that you may be perfect and complete, lacking in nothing.” (James 1:2-3)

I sat there trying to absorb this. My thinking has been all wrong. No wonder it’s been a tough year, just trying to wait it out rather than embrace the circumstances engineered  by my Father specifically for me. He doesn’t want me to just hang in there. He wants me to soar! To be the woman He has in mind is as simple as opening my closed fists in surrender. Instead, I’ve gone from furiously “trying” to do better to giving up in weariness and defeat.

These days have been tough; I’m not sure I’d voluntarily go back and do them over. But I wish I’d asked myself, “Am I grounded in Christ today? Am I leaning on Him in faith today?” I think that simple change to my focus would have made the difference some days.

I don’t have to go back and do over tough times to change my focus. I want to change it today and tomorrow and all the tomorrows after that.

When I’m overwhelmed, even in despair, I want to look up rather than out at eye level.

When tough days come, I want to embrace this truth: This day, this circumstance, is an open door for me to be the woman I was created to be.

Months ago God gave me a special verse to hold on to. Proverbs 31:25.

She is clothed with strength and dignity, and she laughs without fear of the future.

I’ve “bumped into” this verse again and again recently. Oh yeah…remember that verse? I’ve not done so well making it my reality…

But now I’ve copied it down and placed it over my kitchen sink. I pray that in the days to come it will help keep me grounded in my Lord. I pray that it will be a daily reminder that everything in my life (which He has, after all, allowed) is an open door to lead me to Him.

That is the essence of the Proverbs 31 woman. She was not a “perfect” woman who was driven by anxiety to do, do, do. She was a woman grounded in faith and that freed her to bear fruit in every other area of her life.

What a relief for women everywhere. Eyes up—not out—and we’ll be ok.

We will laugh without fear of the future.

Mercy Today

“Honey. Have been in a wreck. Call me,” may be the worst text I’ve ever received.

At first, panic. Then the immediate realization that since he is the one contacting me, it can’t have been the worst, so relief.

I called him.

“The ambulance is on its way and they want me to go to the hospital to be checked,” he said. “I’m fine, honey. Just a small cut on my forehead really. I’ll be fine.”

So good to hear his voice.

On my bed were four little people just going down for a nap. They’ve been feverish today and Marc Anthony lay on the bed, wrapped around a plastic mixing bowl, looking very grim. His stomach was upset. What to do with them?? I had to go to the hospital with Marc, but what to do with feverish little guys?

Marc called back. The EMT who looked him over at the scene felt he would be fine so Marc had decided not to go to the ER. “Just come pick me up,” he asked.

So I loaded bare foot, pajama clad kids into the car and we went to pick him up. I was never so happy to see him!

The little cut on his forehead was not so little (I should have known) and it was clear by the pained expression on his face that his head ached terribly. Shards of glass dropped from his clothes (the impact of being rear-ended had blown out his rear window). He was evidently determined to be upbeat, but he admitted, “I’ll be sore tomorrow…”

His truck was totaled, I’m sure. It was towed from the scene as we arrived. I’m just so thankful he is ok.

Our Father was very merciful to us today.

At Home

Wednesday mornings are normally busy, busy. Violin lessons at home, then off to Vanderbilt for piano. This morning, though, my babies woke with 104 fevers. They have spent the morning under blankets, watching cartoons and downing orange juice. I’m enjoying lots of cuddle time…and catching up posting the pictures on my camera.

Will dressed himself that day. I made him change before leaving the house.

Livi discovered my baking cabinet. Cornstarch!

Brothers on a chilly spring morning.
I was working out at 6 am and had the ceiling fan going full throttle. Reagan is always one to find a solution so he came around the corner dragging the covers from his bed. Marc Anthony, curled up on the floor and shivering, was glad to capitalize on his little brother’s thinking.

Her little tongue is out more than in these days. Perhaps those teeth are about to make an appearance at last!

I love this girlie!
We watched Wives and Daughters together while I folded laundry. She “danced” to the music and sang along, she giggled and hugged the tv screen. I was so happy I had to call her daddy at work and tell him, “I have a girlie girl!”
Marc Anthony rolled his eyes and asked, “Can we watch GI Joe now?”

Sweet little profile.

Ha! I love that my “girlie girl” is playing with her brothers’ gun…

Reagan’s 3rd birthday arrived on Saturday morning. The boys were up before 6, eager to open presents of course, so Daddy and I pulled ourselves out of bed and got the party rolling with fresh donuts from Dunkin Donuts!

Happy with his presents!

Partying early in the morning.

Playing with his new toys.

The rest of his big day was chock full of soccer games in extreme heat.

We had an appointment with a realtor to look at a home, so we rushed from Marc’s soccer game 45 minutes away, all hot and sticky and hungry, to meet our realtor. We finally reached home that evening after 8 pm and discovered that poor Livi was feverish and throwing up, so beginning the fever and sickness still making the rounds. A crazy and unforgettable weekend. But more on all that later…

 

There’s A Time To Run Away

The day’s barely begun and my heart sags under the weight of it. Why? I stand at the bathroom mirror, stop trying to arrange hair that won’t be arranged any way but the way it was slept on. I stare at myself through a mirror speckled and needing to be cleaned. Maybe that’s it. The weight of a to-do list that never gets done. I feel overwhelmed and weary and the day is just starting.

The kids are going crazy. They need to get away from here as much as I do…but the to-do list, the priorities, beckon.

Marc was trying to sword fight with his daddy at 7 am. I look at his daddy, standing there in the kitchen pressing his shirt, “I just hope he’s not sporting the same ‘tude he had yesterday…”

I finally sent him outside to run yesterday afternoon. He ran along the fence—back and forth—25 times at top speed. He looked like a hamster running circles in our tiny yard, but he came in and dropped to the dining room floor, flushed and breathless. And for a while he was calm.

I feel restless too. Maybe it’s just this weather. It’s spring and we all want to be outside celebrating!

I’m trying to do better following my morning routine, so instead of taking off like I want to, I wipe down kitchen counters, sweep the floor. I force music practice on little boys who protest as if this is not what we do every single day.

Maybe that’s why we all feel this way. Because we do this every single day. Because the monotony is getting to us.

I look at my morning routine, easily written out—harder to follow. I stare at the list. I sigh and flip it over. “Plan some FUN one day a week,” I write. But somehow it just feels like one more thing added to the to-do list. I want to get away from the list and be spontaneous.

I have a theory that if I’d ever get organized completely, if I’d ever follow my list entirely, there would be more time and freedom for fun. So far, I’ve never gotten to it all completely.

“Do the next thing.” I can hear Elisabeth Elliot’s sage advice in exactly the tone she delivered it back when I was 18. She was no-nonsense about life. Stop struggling and obey. Stop whining and do. I try to do. I walk to the sofa and pick up one pair of socks off a mountain of laundry overflowing onto the floor. “Do the next thing…and breathe…” I admonish myself.

The laundry will eventually be put away, but there is also school to do.

I walk into the school room and find that the toy box and book shelves have thrown up over night. There is hardly a square inch of floor that isn’t covered in toys, books, crayons, or papers. Breathe? I think I may start hyperventilating. Forget it. It’s time to start school so I’ll have to tackle the mess later. I grab an arm load of school books and leave the disaster zone behind me. I’ll teach school at the dining room table today.

One math lesson and one reading lesson later, I send my wild first grader outside for recess. He’s off like a rifle shot.

I stare at the mountain of laundry that still seems untouched after my efforts earlier. I peek through the school room door at the disaster area. Then I reach for my phone. “Honey, does your invitation to meet you for lunch still stand?”

I know he is swamped. He couldn’t answer my calls earlier because he was in meetings all morning. He is having trouble getting his reports to run and I can hear in his voice that today is one of those days he might eat lunch at his desk. He’s having a day comparable to mine. But he hears my voice and he says gently, “Are you ok? You sound down.” Why does a little sympathy bring tears? I try to swallow them back. He is praying for me, he says, and today is a perfect day to meet for lunch. We make a date for a late lunch after he gets those pesky reports done.

Getting out of the tiny house does wonders for a girl’s perspective. Wow! The sun is shining out here in the big world. Somehow the memory of the laundry isn’t as daunting. The kind comments of complete strangers who stop to admire baby girl, or say how blessed you are with such dear boys, help me see these children with new eyes. I can feel myself relaxing and I am thankful.

My man pampers me—gets me my favorite lunch on the menu and squeezes my hand, smiling into my eyes. Will spills his chocolate milk all over Reagan, Reagan bawls; but Marc jumps up and takes care of him, cleans him up, then buys Will another chocolate milk. I can feel myself breathing. I’m so thankful.

We reach home at nap time. I cuddle my boys on the living room floor—backed up to the sofa since we can’t sit on it all covered in clothes. We read Aesop’s fables till Livi is rubbing her eyes and whimpering, then I put her to bed.

The afternoon is still full to overflowing with a to-do list. Finish school, finish housework, finish laundry, then off to soccer practice. But it’s no longer overwhelming and I manage.

It’s the gift of fresh perspective, of getting away for a little while. The gift of a man who doesn’t condemn me, but supports me and prays for me. I am blessed.

I’m also reminded—nurture yourself and you can nurture others. I still have that little note on the back of my list: “Plan some FUN…” I will. It’s Spring and these days are too beautiful to stay bogged down indoors! It’s time to fight monotony with a good dose of spontaneity!

These days are long and full of the same tasks and messes every single day. I know I’ll feel overwhelmed again, burnt out again. But I hope I’m learning that taking care of me, too, will go a long way toward taking care of those I love. Sometimes we just have to hang in there and do the next thing. Sometimes we have to run away and remember why we do it.

Southern Girls and Beauty

The dental assistant who had been helping the dentist apparently had other things to do. A new girl came through the door, quick and capable.

I leaned back in the chair, mouth wide open and full of dental tools.

She sat down beside me and said to him, “Oh my goodness! Isn’t she the cutest thing!”

What’s a dentist to say? He grunted and kept working.

She leaned over, her eyes inches from my own, and inspected my eyelashes. “Are they real? Gosh, they are long. Do you use Latisse?” She was sweet and down to earth—with a strong Tennessee accent and open demeanor that made offense impossible. I am a southern girl myself and I am not easily offended. But I was amused.

Around the tools and cotton swabs filling my mouth, I managed an indistinct, “Yes…and no…”

She settled into her role, handing tools over and occasionally squirting my mouth with water, and she kept up constant chatter. “All of us girls here use Latisse. It’s workin’ really well for everyone else. But I still have eyelashes falling out and breaking off…Do yours ever fall out?”

A barely understandable, “Sometimes.”

She sighed, “I don’t know what to do about my eyelashes.”

I looked at them closely—she was, after all, inches from my face so I couldn’t help but look closely. “I think you have nice eyelashes,” I told her. And I did think so. I never would have given her lashes a second thought under normal circumstances.

“Oh, you are sweet! Well, the girl at the front desk—Olivia—do you know her? Her daughter is one of those makeup people. Ya know… Went to school for it and everything.”

(My mouth was open again, so I didn’t even try to say “Cosmetologist.”)

“Her daughter gives her fake lashes. She changes them out every few weeks. Does a real good job! You’d never know they were fake!”

I giggled inwardly because I suddenly wondered if all the girls and Olivia would be happy about their beauty secrets being divulged.

And naturally, when I checked out at the front desk, I had to remind myself, “Don’t stare at her lashes, don’t stare at her lashes…” But I was curious to see what really good fake lashes looked like!

I thought about it later, after I’d gone home. Funny—I never notice eyelashes first thing. Because it’s not my thing. There are other things I get hung up over myself and they are the things I notice in others.

The truth is, these things that we girls obsess over (things we really can’t do much to change) are not as big a deal as we think they are. The details stealing my joy and taking up my time are details others probably don’t even notice. And even if they do, those details don’t define me.

I remember a middle-aged man saying, I wish my wife spent less time in front of the mirror obsessing about aging and more time with me living life. I don’t care that her body is changing and getting older. I love her and want to spend time with her—the person she is inside.

I have a friend who is, in my mind, the epitome of lovely. She has lived a full and adventurous life. She has known pain and suffering, affluence and wealth, humble beginnings and world travel. I love her stories and her humorous take on every situation. The commonest story becomes hilarious when she tells it. She is just full of life. One day someone mentioned how wrinkled she was becoming as she aged. I protested. She was beautiful and not wrinkled at all. The next time I saw her, I looked for the wrinkles and, behold, they were there after all. She was still beautiful, though, because who she really was was beautiful. Small details, like wrinkles, didn’t define her.

After Marc and I married, I worked for a plastic surgeon in Florida. One day a  tall, slender, tanned woman wrote a check for $12,000 worth of upcoming cosmetic procedures. I took the check and looked curiously at her. She spent so much time and effort and money on making herself beautiful—so why wasn’t she beautiful? It hit me as she stood there talking with the surgeon. She never smiled. She did not seem happy. In fact, she looked miserable.

Beauty is not dependent on having perfect lashes, or not having wrinkles, or whether you can afford plastic surgery.

Beauty is the real you inside. The one who smiles and loves and embraces life. The one your family loves and wants to spend life with. This is good news for all of us girls. A good reminder to stop obsessing and start really living!

Newlyweds!

We decided to try a new Sunday School class. Hand in hand (completely enjoying the rarity of being together—without little guys between us), we approached the front desk and asked to see the Sunday School schedule.

The older lady licked her finger and briskly whipped out a sheet of paper. She glanced over the options, her finger tracing down the schedule. “Married adults…young married adults…adults coed…” She glanced at Marc and me, then she said capably, “You don’t want those. Aha. Here is the one!”

We saw that her finger had come to rest under “Newlyweds or Nearly Wed.” We looked at each other in surprise at first, then amusement. She wasn’t asking any questions. Instead, she handed the schedule over to another middle-aged lady behind the desk and asked her to guide us to Room 234. No questions. We followed behind, still holding hands, eyes twinkling at each other.

“I wonder if I should tell her we’re not newlyweds,” Marc muttered out the side of his mouth.
I laughed softly. “No, let’s try it out,” I was feeling adventurous. “We don’t have to mention the four children upstairs in sunday school classes and nursery.” Marc grinned. It was kind of an inside joke anyway after last Sunday…

Last Sunday, we sat in a cozy room full of young married couples. Homemade croissants and jam made the rounds, along with styrofoam cups of coffee. Marc and I sat and listened to about 20 minutes of pet stories.

The girl who works at Way FM laughingly shared her dream of the night before. “…And the next thing I knew, poor kitty was screeching on the bed. Well, she sleeps between my legs every night, and I guess in my dream I squeezed her and scared her to death!” Her husband affirmed the story with a chagrined nod. Laughter all around, more stories. I saw Marc’s face out of the corner of my eye and fought off a case of the giggles. Let’s just say, a cat sleeping between either of our legs every night would be his nightmare!

There were stories about the chinchilla, DJ, and stories about the huge dog who likes to hide under the bed. Great stories. We laughed. But I suddenly had a desire to raise my hand and say, “I have a 9 month old who grazes under the table after breakfast each morning!”

Later, I suggested to Marc that maybe we should try the 30s class. “We might have more in common there—children, for instance.”
“Honey,” Marc told me, “that was the 30s class…Maybe we should try the 40s.” We laughed. (We laugh a lot.)

By the time we reached Room 234, we were both feeling sheepish. Like we should have been with the 40s class, but we were with the newlyweds instead—in disguise!

Ironically, it was our best experience in a Sunday School class yet! There was one other couple (besides the teacher and his wife) and they are “nearly wed,” planning an October wedding. But the discussion was deep and we thoroughly enjoyed the class!

Our plan not to mention the four kids upstairs didn’t go very far when the teacher asked us what we do. Marc answered questions about his work, then all attention shifted to me. There was no way around it. I felt my disguise slipping every second. “I, uh, stay at home…with our four kids…and teach our oldest first grade…so you see, we aren’t newly weds at all…we’ve been married almost 8 years.”

I was thrilled to find that the teacher and his wife home school their 9-year-old daughter. She even teaches a “Charlotte Mason” class online and she gave me her card, saying, “I love coffee! You can come have a cup with me anytime!” The best part—she lives in my town! It’s hard to even describe my excitement over this connection!

We left feeling refreshed and not nearly so isolated after finding out that we are not the only family making the trek from Hermitage—across Nashville—to that church every week!

Who knows? We may just join the Newlyweds class every week! It’s been a long time since we felt so “at home.”

Plus, it’s just good to know our newlywed disguise is entirely convincing.

So Let The Sunshine In

“The Reagan Smile.” Makes my day. Every day.

My Little Sunshine.

We have a special tradition every morning. With Livi on my arm, I go about the house opening all the blinds. Livi bounces with excitement as the sunshine floods into our home and touches her face. We laugh and I sing that song my momma used to sing in the morning:
“So let the sunshine in, face it with a grin! Smilers never lose and frowners never win.
So let the sunshine in, face it with a grin! Open up your heart and let the sunshine in!”

Livi waves her arm to keep time. She has the sweetest giggle.

I am surrounded by beauty and sunshine, love and smiles. Why then would I feel darkness and discouragement—ever?

My sister frequently posts photos from her life in Nepal. The leprous woman, her nose and hands eaten away, with the beautiful smile on her face…she condemns me brutally. How can I frown—ever?
The beggar, so broken and twisted he looks out from between his knees, his eyes at filthy pavement level…the beggar breaks my heart. I feel sick. How can I complain—ever?

Pals. These two have loads of fun together. How lucky to grow up with your best friends!

I am surrounded by love and sunshine and I am happy, but the other day I was online and I saw photos of a friend’s lovely schoolroom. I saw beautiful nurseries another friend pinned in Pinterest as she prepares to welcome her baby girl. Adorable playrooms. Clever DIY projects.

I felt my heart drop. I’ve never decorated a nursery. We’ve always been in apartments or tiny rentals when a baby is on the way. I look at Livi’s pack and play in the corner of our bedroom and my heart drops a bit more. I may never get to decorate a nursery…

What if I never get to design a little girl’s room? What if I never have a home of my own to invest in and plan my dream garden? What then?

I’ve always just avoided the DIY pins on Pinterest. I generally don’t peruse home decorating and painting spots. It’s best to avoid it because it’s not to be mine…yet. I always add “yet.”

Because one day I’ll have a place to make my own, right? I’ll pour myself into gardening on Saturdays. I’ll plan the coolest playroom ever. We will finally have room for the boys to learn to ride bikes and space for them to run barefoot on summer evenings and collect fireflies. Right?

And if not…? If this adventure we are living continues to take us for a ride as we move every year or two? If I never get to put down “roots” and put a basketball goal in the back and have a house full of our boys’ friends over for cookouts? What then? Do I go about life with a long face because it’s not what I dreamed up?

I sometimes give myself a pep talk: You only get one shot at life; make it what it needs to be! Pull yourself up by your bootstraps and make your one life count!

I look at the leper in Nepal. I look at the beggar. They only have one shot at life, too, and this is it. No amount of pep talks and pulling on their bootstraps will change this one life for them.

I cannot even compare myself to them, really. But I think one thing remains true between us. Life is what it is. It’s very seldom a dream come true in every way. There is not much I can do to change my circumstances, but I do have an amazing opportunity! I can change myself.

I can put away ideals and love my own reality. I can abolish the frowns and I can choose a smile. I can “open up my heart and let the sunshine in!”

See, it’s not so much about my life being what I dreamed so that I can be happy. It’s me taking what is given with thanks and joy.

That’s why a woman half eaten by leprosy on the streets of Nepal can smile in the sunshine. Because she has sunshine. No matter where you are in life, you can open the blinds and open your heart and let the sunshine in.

Discovering her shadow! She waved at it and it waved back!

Livi watches her brothers play outside as I prepare dinner.

It’s the simple things. Blueberry scones, brushed with cream, waiting to go into the oven.