Tuesday, November 4, 2014


I'm not very good company the day we clean out Daddy's shed.  Mostly junk.  Really that's all it was. Just junk.  It was rusted and broken and shredded and wasted from neglected time but I can't laugh and make small talk while I throw out what was his.

We move through the dust and webs and sort into piles and the scene plays out before me like a movie when someone dies and their stuff is here but they are not.

But I don't think I was really there.  I was in a hospital room saying good-bye.  I was at the doctor's office that very morning listening to her tell me my mama really needs to be hospitalized.  I was in the back yard thirty-five years ago watching the pecan tree be planted or a light filled sunny day walking in his steps or catching crickets behind his mower.

I was anywhere but there.

And I just couldn't make small talk that day or really talk at all.  Tears sitting on the verge.

I've been difficult to get along with lately.

I have people.

And I want them to love me through this difficult time and forgive me and cry with me and make me laugh and just stick by me.

Really - just stick by me.

Monday, November 3, 2014

when you go against better judgement and let her watch halloween and then she sleeps over...

Izzy:  I love you!!!
 
Me:   I love you baby bones!
 
Izzy:   I love you more!
 
Me:     Nope.  I love u more than Michael hates Lorie.
 
Izzy:    I love you more than Lorie hates Michael!

Me:     I love u more than how many times Michael dies.
 
Izzy:  I love you more than how many people Michael killed!
 
Me:  Ohhhh.  That's good!  Don't let him get you tonight!
 
Izzy:  I'll try!  I love you!  Goodnight!
 
Me: Love you too!  Put your white noise on if u can't sleep.  you and that dirty blanket.
 
Izzy:  Yes ma'am!
 
Me:  Y'all still awake?
 
Izzy:  Im peeing!
 
Me:  Really?  Don't fall in.  Wash ur hands!
 
Izzy:  Mother.
Izzy:  Whoops I fell in
Izzy:  IM DROWNING!



 
 

 

Saturday, November 1, 2014

Forest says ...


So a few days ago he comes to me and wants to know how one changes their eye color.  I'm not really sure of the question and mumble some ridiculous answer about age changing the color of your eyes.

And I know that isn't what he wants.  He looks unsatisfied.

And he returns and asks about contacts.  So now I'm following the conversation - but only for a moment.

Contacts can change your eye color.  If you have blue contacts your eyes might change from brown to blue.
 
Where are they?

Thursday, October 23, 2014

when we remember to be free

We are no longer slaves to problems, but instead are freed by His promises.
 
 

Tuesday, October 21, 2014

when you feel yourself slipping

Her name was Patty and she was my best friend. 

She had a kind of clown trailer in her backyard that her daddy rode on for parades, and when she and I pleaded hard enough he let us play in it.  He wore a funny hat with tassels hanging and did charity work and Patty won beauty pageants and wore white go-go boots. 
 
She had hair one would describe as raven black.  She could twirl a baton and dance and had cases of trophies and tiaras and wore real diamond earrings and won a car before she could drive. 
 
Her teeth were perfect and she never wore braces.  
 
Her bedroom furniture was a matching suite and her room was pink with a double canopy bed and ruffled everywhere.  A large pink stuffed snake she had won wrapped itself around the post of her bed and I thought she was the luckiest girl in the world. 

Friday, October 17, 2014

When you accidentally on purpose read

I'm probably gonna get in trouble for blogging about this.  There's really no probably about it.

Isabela is taking a literature co-op class that Shelby took years ago.  She didn't want to take it.  Izzy doesn't like to write.  She doesn't think she is good at it.  But Shelby took this same class from Jennifer years ago and the progress she made in writing was encouraging.  So when we were given the blessed opportunity for Izzy to take it I didn't hesitate.

I'm not supposed to read what she writes.

Friday, June 13, 2014

when i can't seem to stop waiting on daddy

I feel like I'm waiting on my Daddy.

It's four in the morning and I'm staring out the window at a storm.  Lightning flashes and I can hear the thunder.  I wonder if my mama is up.  Is one of my sisters awake and lost in her own thoughts of Daddy?



I am not seasoned at death.  I have lost grandparents, aunts, uncles, friends, and acquaintances.  But they all seem natural and mostly in order.  So, here I am.  Grown.  Mature?  Forty-eight years old, not seasoned but not stupid, either.  So why do I feel like my daddy is just running late?

Why do I feel like I'm watching out the window for his car to turn in the circle?  Mama has napkin over the fresh okra and the cornbread is turned over in the pan and in a moment Walter Cronkite will be telling America the way it is and Daddy's just running late.  These were the days before cell phones and if you looked closely you could and still can see the eyes of those you pass on the much too narrow Pearl River bridge that was his path twice a day.  And that's what I feel like.  That he's late.  He can't call and did he drive the bridge at just the wrong moment?  Where's his car with the hidden pack of smokes? 

Why doesn't he just come on home?

Some experts say there are five stages of grief.  Some will tell you it's not necessary to go through them all and there is not a definite order to them, but that all of us, at some time in our life, will encounter and must face and deal with grief. 

And loss.

Am I in and failing the acceptance stage?

All she had to do tonight was be thoughtful and ask me how my mom was doing and I crumbled with reminders of Father's Day all around me and I hide in the office and cry while all celebrate outside the door and I know in my tears that Daddy's not running late.  He didn't get stopped going out that glass door or caught in traffic.  There's no accident on the bridge.  He's not hiding somewhere angry at me because last year I didn't send him a card or go see him on Father's Day.

Because last year I didn't pause to think that it might be my last Father's Day with him. 

I'm not in denial.  I'm not angry.  I'm not struggling with my own mortality or bargaining with God to bring Daddy back. 

I am trudging through acceptance and missing terribly.  Everyday.

And just feeling like I'm waiting on Daddy to get home.  Feeling six, or ten, or twelve.  Or forty-eight without a Daddy. 

I'm just waiting. 

Monday, May 12, 2014

you ole sweet talker, you

I grew up in this house.  And I'm curled up in bed with Maxster telling him what this room looked like when I was seven years old.  Telling him about the old rotary phone in the corner and that Izzy's bedroom used to be the living room. 

And yes, he does say this -

Back in the 1800's, right?

And, believe me, I do more than just beg to differ.

I oppose loudly.  He blushes and stumbles and explains he meant the 1900's.  And really it doesn't sound much better. 

The 1900's?  Really, Max?

And then today we are preparing his project fair items and reviewing the Titanic books.  Do I really have to go on?  You know where I'm going here, right?

And yes, he does say this -

Mommy, how old were you when the Titanic sank?
 
 
Older than you're ever gonna see, Son.

Monday, February 17, 2014

when he might like to quaft just a smidgen more

He wouldn't give valentines at all if I didn't make him.  One day, four or so years ago, he asked to be excused from making some colorful glue-filled cut-out with the words -

Me don't 'ike to quaft.

And he ran off to play.

But I make him.  I don't believe it's necessarily necessary for him.  I'm not afraid he'll find himself lost one day on this great big planet with no friends because he wouldn't valentine gift.  His writing needs improvement and his scissor skills lack some, but will making thirty valentines form a Hemingway or a Meirs?

But I make him and we fold tinfoil and pull duct tape too sticky from the sun beating the dash all those days I looked at it and decided not to bring it in and we laugh when we both want to fold the last piece over and I pretend let him win.  It takes us both to pull the tape and he says -

We should do this more often.  We make a good team.

And there are no words lacking ending or beginning blends or shortened vowels or double l's.  But there is snaggletooth lisp and I kiss his nose and don't have to pretend to not be able to pull the tape hard enough.

And he helps.  He slices with the cutter and cuts the string and doesn't complain this year about writing his name so many times.  But he won't draw a heart or write the word from.


 
But saying we make a good team?  Wow.  What a compliment from my not-so-crafty valentine.  Because, well, you know - love is a battlefield.


a special thanks to Tia @ events to celebrate and Jamie @ creating really awesome free things for the free valentine print outs

Tuesday, January 7, 2014

and then we had a wedding . . .

 
 
After the clouds, the sunshine; after the winter, the spring; after the shower, the rainbow; for life is a changeable thing. After the night, the morning, bidding all darkness cease, after life's cares and sorrows, the comfort and sweetness of peace. - Helen Steiner Rice
Drawing of me losing my cool courtesy of budding artist, Izzy.


Have a dressed up day!


. . . put on a heart of compassion, kindness, humility, gentleness, and patience. Colossians 3:12