Daughters of Joy

Red car and William

2018-07-08T04:25:00.000-07:00

This week is holding on to me. In some ways it was typical-busy. Since I am a planner, my calendar and my to-do list are my steady friends. I had must-attend meetings, I had routine job expectations and deadlines, not to mention a strange day off (July 4^th) thrown in the middle; it was a busy week before it even was given a fair chance. It is not the usual hectic pace that still has its grip.

Two encounters though, the red car and William, have me flipping back and forth between the pages of my week and just won’t let me rest. It’s like when you finish a good book, and you keep going back through the parts that affected you the most. The paragraphs, the thoughts - the carefully chosen words that changed you… This is where I am this morning while the rest of my house sleeps.

The red car. It is Sunday afternoon. We are on our way home from “The Walmarts” as we jokingly say. We are the first car waiting to turn left across a busy intersection on a familiar journey home. I confess my life feels rushed at the moment. When I am not at work, I am planning a wedding, selling a house, buying a house, talking about repairs and inspections, planning a move, and it goes on. It reads like a lot of work. However, at this moment we are in no particular rush. We are enjoying the afternoon together and thinking of our life ahead. It is a precious and ordinary moment.

Our light turns green. Scott begins to pull forward into the intersection. I am on the phone, talking to my daughter and paying zero attention when this red car comes blasting through the intersection from the left. We are hit! No! We brake hard! We lunge forward! I can feel the impact of the near miss as though we crashed, but we somehow escaped! We look at each other to process the event – We can’t. It was heart-stopping, unfathomable instant that was totally out of our control, and we both realize something else as we catch our breath. We were almost killed. We really almost died. Had we rushed into the intersection, had the events happened a moment in time sooner or later it would have changed everything. It would not have been just a scrape and an insurance claim. There would have been glass, the smell of air-bags and the sound of metal and sirens. We have no doubt. But we are amazingly and totally okay.

I am fine, but I am not okay. I know. I have stood at the grave enough. I know. In an instant. No more to-do lists. No more weekly meetings. No more wedding to plan. No more. We don’t realize how close we walk to the edge daily. We don’t realize the power of a random encounter.

William. It is now Friday. I am slowing down. My daughter, Hatty, wanted to hang out and get pedicures. We meet at our favorite funny, little salon – squeezed between the sub-shop and the liquor store – it is perfect. There are no frills. There is only room for friendly banter and efficiency within this tiny entrepreneurial space, and we feel like regulars. Tony is busy, but he gives us each a chair flanking a gentleman who is soaking and waiting.

I still have one more email, and since we can’t talk across the man in the middle, I busy myself with it. But, Hatty meets William. And, before long we are hearing his story. He speaks softly and smiles as we learn that he is a Chaplin and works on college campuses with male athletes. He teaches them many things about life that men should know. He says that many of them grew up without fathers and they just didn’t learn how to be “gentlemen”. Before that, he ran a half-way house. Before that, he was in prison. William was saved and forever changed when a stranger came to the prison and looked him in the eye and told him that Jesus loved him and he didn’t need to commit suicide (he could not have known that William was planning to end his life later that night). He spends his life impacting the lives of others because he knows. He knows how close he has walked to the edge. He knows the profound power of a random encounter.

William went on to bless us as we talked and he spoke of his love for Jesus, and his passion, and his hope of finding a good woman who was under 150 pounds. J As we left, he told us to pray for him. Which we did at dinner an hour later. We were both altered by our encounter with William.

Thank you for the red car that was a half-second too early. Thank you for William who was right on time.

#justwrite #choosejoy #daughtersofjoy

Grief, Growing Up, and The “Stew” of Life – Looking Back at a Hard Day with Gratitude:

2018-05-03T04:06:00.000-07:00

Ten years ago today will mark all the days that follow… but I will not know that until late in the evening. In typical fashion, I had crowded the day with worries that would soon seem small compared to the tsunami heading toward my front door. We were facing some tough decisions about a business venture gone wrong, and we had planned to have a hard conversation when Brian came home from his trip. I dreaded it. However, we never had that talk, because Brian never came home.

I lay in bed the night of May 3, 2008, occasionally checking the clock and waiting for the familiar keys to hit the desk in the home office a floor below. Instead of the keys-on-wood sound I expected, I eventually heard the sound of the doorbell. In the door, dear friends stood with a police officer to announce Brian’s death earlier that evening in a plane accident shortly after takeoff on his way home.

All of the concerns of a few minutes before were cleared in a wave that blew through my heart, mind and soul. Time stopped and rushed forward simultaneously, and my life began to spin like a crazy ride in a dream. I wanted out. I wanted off. I wanted to go back to before I heard the news.

I guess I began to grow up that May. I use that phrase now because someone said it to me a few months later. Something like, “I bet you have grown up a lot since it happened.” I thought that was such an odd thing at the time. Later, however, I would find truth in the notion that such tragedies are when we truly grow up. It is when we are stripped bare, that God can begin to make us into our truest self. When all the security of the world has let us down, and we know we are completely lost, we are ready to learn and grow. "But he said to me, 'My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.'" 2 Corinthians 2:9a. Wow.

I learned many truths through profound grief. I quickly discovered that suffering is everywhere. It is sort of like the experience of buying a car. You never notice how many Silver Honda Accords are on the road until you start to shop for one. It’s the same with a loss. Your grief makes you keenly aware of the pain of others. It is like a TV with only one channel; you can no longer look away or avoid the pain by flipping past it. In short, you are suddenly dialed in.

I learned that no matter how independent and capable we believe we are, God created us for community. He intended us to travel this journey with others. Unlike my nature to handle my problems on my own, I knew I would not travel well through this valley unless I could lean in and accept assistance and tell others what they could do to help. It was my journey, but it was not just about me; God’s goodness was revealed through the love of his people toward our family.

I realized that my journey was not the same as that of my daughters’. They also had a grief journey to travel. As a mom and a problem solver, it was hard to trust their paths to God. I could not carry the burden for them. But, God proved faithful in so many ways and provided just what they each needed. I had to trust Him. I am still learning this. Growing up is hard.

I eventually found that Brian’s death was not an end; it was a beginning. God had many things left for me to love, learn, do and be. He would plan a move for us to Tennessee to be closer to old friends and family. The unimaginable would eventually lead to blessing upon blessing that I would have never dreamed or agreed to ahead of time.

I read somewhere that it is the “Stew of Life.” All of the good parts and the hard times are essential ingredients. We often want to undo the hard parts. But, I know that to change something now would change the whole recipe. And, I wouldn’t want to do that. Many of you are a part of this stew as well. We have been so blessed with amazing friends and family who stepped in to help in some way. I will be forever thankful for you!

What is left after ten years? The same that will be left for any of us I think. The lives we impacted, the way we loved our people, and the good we did or at least tried to do. Brian is remembered through the many ways he touched others with kindness, humor, and service. I occasionally hear from someone who will tell me of his impact in their lives when they were a teen or some good deed he did for them. Through the blue eyes and laughter of my girls, I see his spirit and feel his zest for life. I still hear my voice repeat funny things he used to say, and I can almost hear him laugh with me. He reminds me by his example to play-hard and love-hard and enjoy the precious time I have left. On this May 3, I think of Brian and his memory reminds me to be grateful for today, and every day.

#justwrite #daughtersofjoy

More Than a List - More Than a Job

2017-10-27T10:02:00.000-07:00

It was on my list. My daily to-do list. The one that tells me I have made a difference each day. I have always worked off a list either mentally or physically. I am wired that way I guess. I am a planner. A list gives me hope for the day ahead. Without a list, I sometimes lose track of myself and wonder what I accomplished that mattered.

Today’s list included audit review and follow up, postage machine install, buying an ice machine for the office kitchen, completing reports, a meeting, approving payables, and being available to notarize documents at 2:00 pm. I had worked my way to the last item by 2:00 pm and was answering an email when Alisa poked her head in and asked if I was free to do my notary thing.

I walked into the family room. There was Alisa, the caseworker, and two young women (one blonde and one brunette), a tall young man, and an adorable, bouncy, baby girl with blonde angel curls sitting in the center of the room. All attention was on this child. One woman held her tiny left hand, and the other held the right. I realized then that this was an adoptive couple and a birth mom. I rarely see this process. I sometimes see babies, sometimes parents, but rarely see the process unfold. I have never seen it at this stage before.

The room seemed filled with a mix of anticipation, joy, and a bit of anxiety. I felt a pang as I looked at the birth mom. I was filled with the thought of giving up one of my girls, and I could not imagine what she might be thinking as she sat in the room. (Adoptions are not all the same, and many are a joint venture between birth parents and adoptive families that continue beyond the paper-work in support of the child – what a remarkable thing!) I do not know this young mom’s situation, but I know she is brave and probably a bit scared. All I know for sure is that I admired this pretty stranger who had options that may have seemed easier months ago when she chose life for this baby-girl.

Then I shifted my focus to the parents, and we walk to my office because it feels awkward to sign the adoption petition in front of the birth mom. This petition changes things. I chit-chat and congratulate the young couple. They see the pictures of my girls and ask me about them. As I comment on how fast (my) children grew up, I am thinking about the chubby legs still bouncing on the ottoman down the hall. This child will grow up too quickly for this young couple as well. That is what babies do. There will be dresses and bows, “Pat-your-Bible,” “Jesus Loves Me,” Barbies, boys, and sleepovers and one day they will wonder where all the days went. Oh, but they will get to have days- sweet, exhausting, precious days! I imagine all the memories they will make together because of the other young blonde woman sitting in the same room down the hall. The gift of all those sweet memories still to come is possible because a birth-mom is making a heartbreaking, courageous decision, and there is a caring and thoughtful advocate for both moms and the new dad, and there is AGAPE. A place to call when there is a family crisis, a child in need, or when you need help sorting through options whether it is adoption, marital problems, stress, or depression. For 51 years there is AGAPE with professionals trained to help.

I do not always get to see the work we do close up. I sign checks, meet with vendors, have planning meetings, and sometimes I forget how special this place is. AGAPE is a special place, and I work with special people. So, as I shut my computer for the day and looked back over the things I accomplished on my daily list, I said a prayer of thanks for AGAPE, a place where the to-do list represents more than just hope for the day, its signifies making a lasting difference and participating in work that matters.

#justwrite

#daughtersofjoy

#adoption

#agape

Good Things Come in Threes Too.

2017-08-11T12:50:00.000-07:00

Good Things Come in Threes Too.

I was talking with some friends last night over dinner. We were discussing some crazy luck of a mutual friend the week before. It was one of those days where it goes from bad to comical and you either laugh or cry. You know, you spill a drink at dinner and ruin your clothes, then go buy a new dress to change into but get out your car and realize it will not start, and in investigating it, you ruin the new dress you just put on. All true for this friend and thankfully she laughed. One of my friends said as he was remembering the events, “Bad things come in threes!” It does seem that way often.

I was thinking about that this morning while talking to a colleague, Kim, about what an awful week she has had. I mean the work she does is hard even when it is good, but this week has been HARD. She has been on the front-lines, she is battle-worn, and she is weary and when I looked at her today, I could see it in her eyes. She is hurting for all those she has tried to help this week and asking herself, “Why couldn’t I do more? Why couldn’t AGAPE do more? Why is life so hard for so many?”

In her week, there was certainly three ‘bad things’ to list and more. There were mishaps in the systems causing delays and pains for her regular tasks. There were court appearances where the ruling went against our prayers (and we fear for the future for the kids). There was unexpected death leading to much sorrow, heartache and uncertainty for the child left behind.

She just left my office with tears in her eyes ‘cause it keeps getting worse. As I watched her walk away, I said a prayer of thanks. Not for all the hard things, but for the good things that are in the midst of the hard. I said a prayer of appreciation because God brought my new friend and colleague to AGAPE to work with us. Kim brings laughter in the door with her every morning and she brings joy to her calling of helping children and their parents. She is wise like a mentor, but giggles like a girl when she is having fun. Kim is a good thing.

There was a foster family prepared to step-in immediately and help a young child during the most devastating time in his life-the death of a parent. He is without family, but a temporary family will care for him until he is reunited with his extended family. Foster Parents are a good thing.

Kim has a job in Nashville where she can be near her grand kids, and Christians serve our community as foster parents because of an organization like AGAPE that exists to help families and children in the worst of circumstances and fills in the gap for many when there is no one else. There is hope, help, and healing because for 50+ years AGAPE has been doing this HARD-WORK.

AGAPE is a good thing.

Good things come in threes too.

#justwrite #thisisagape #goodthings

The Garbage Can.

2017-06-15T08:41:00.002-07:00

As I backed out of my driveway this morning, I was reminded that it was Wednesday. Humpday to weary 9-to-5ers, but also garbage day for those of us on the mid-week rotation with Franklin Disposal. I put the Pilot in park. As I wheeled my big blue receptacle to its resting place, I felt a sense of peace. No big deal, I know this. However, there were many Wednesday mornings at the beginning of this 9-year journey that I felt ‘not peace.’ At times I felt sad, or angry, but not usually peace. I remember that first day in May 2008 when I rolled the garbage can back down the driveway in my fuzzy pink bathrobe. It was probably the first time I had done that in 5 years. Always in divide and conquer mode, Brian did garbage can duty. I did morning routine duty. I did hair, sock searches, and refereeing of early morning squabbles over cereal and pop-tarts. Brian did garbage duty for almost 20 years. I remember looking up and seeing my neighbor, Julie, as she watched with tears in her eyes. She also knew that Brian King did garbage duty. Brian was gone.

I was not sure I could do it, not garbage-can-duty, of course. It was everything all at once and nothing would ever be the same. The garbage can became a symbol for me over the years.

I am not sure why, but I didn’t adjust well to the garbage-can-duty-thing. I was confused about how early the garbage guys would come, and what about holidays? Seems so simple as I type this, but I often found myself trying to race, bed-head and barefoot, to get to the street before the schedule-conscious truck passed, often leaving the can at the curb past the HOA acceptable time limit. This of course causing an appointed deputy of all things Homeowner Association-like to issue me a helpful reminder delivered by personal post. It was a struggle. However, there are many things I handled with ease, much more complicated, time-sensitive, and consequential matters that others might find overwhelming, but I never quite fused the nuances of refuse disposal into my sub-conscious. When I forgot the schedule or missed the memo concerning holiday pick-up in those early days, I can remember just being angry all over again at the thought that garbage-can-duty was supposed to be Brian’s.

In case you were beginning to worry about me, I am actually quite adept at the job of Trash Captain now. I made a deal with “The Man” when I moved to let me leave my “Big-Blue” by the house so there is no remembering to put it on the curb, only to put bags in the can. Smart! This morning, though, I was reminded of all those feelings in those early days, and I realized I hadn’t felt that way in a long time. Peace.

More changes are in store and I am moving into new space again. My baby-girl is out of high school and she is not a baby. She is grown-up. She will not be living with me in just two short months, and I feel different but good.

It is almost like reluctantly moving to a much smaller home, but then finding out that the view is more amazing.

I am transitioning to a new place. I am going from I have to, to I get to. I no longer have to have milk in the house because I am responsible for other humans, but I get to cook dinner when everyone comes home because it brings me joy... There will be no lunches to have to pack (even though I enjoyed it) for Hatty this fall, but getting to schedule coffee or lunch with her across town when it works for both of us. She buys her own shampoo and tampons. I don’t have to check the school calendar. I don’t need to pull the parent duty.

I get to choose how I spend my free time. Weird.

I get to check in with my older girls to see what is important and have meaningful exchanges without the need to make all the decisions for them. I am a silent investor now. I am still deeply vested, but they have their own big-blue-responsibilities and I have mine (Yay). It is the same with the garbage now. It is my big blue receptacle. Who’s else would it be? I get to roll it back to its resting place and be thankful to have a curb on which it can sit, at the corner of a yard, where the house is my own.

#justwrite

A Barney Banjo Christmas and Coming Full Circle

2016-12-26T08:40:00.000-08:00

Another Barney Banjo Christmas

For those of you who knew Brian King, you will especially appreciate this story. Rewind to Fall 2016 when I saw Jeanie Garrett an old Florence, Alabama friend who surprised me with returning the Barney Banjo Brian had given to her daughter Julia, moments before we left Florence Alabama to make our new home in Hoover, Alabama where we lived for eight years until Brian was killed in an accident in 2008. At that moment, I knew I would have a special Christmas present to give to Kristian (pictured left) with the new Barney Banjo in the foreground, with her sweet Dad (right) that same Christmas morning,
and then yesterday (above) when she opened and laughed through tears as she read the Barney Banjo story again. See the story Below:

A Barney Banjo Christmas

It was the Christmas you were two and a half. For some reason to you were deathly afraid of Santa; I blame the creepy Easter Bunny at the mall we saw in the Spring. But my, you were cute with your blonde hair always spilling out - refusing to be contained by the bows I tried.

I remember the fateful day we first saw the Barney Banjos at the Florence Toys-R-Us. There was a massive display of purple plastic, and we were instantly enthralled with the cleverness of the design. You had to put your hand inside to make the banjo play. It played songs and sounded like a banjo - Cute! (My Mom brain immediately devised a plan, “This will be great ‘Santa present.'” So we began the discussion..“Santa might bring you a Barney Banjo for Christmas if you ask him.” Knowing full well that you would not want to get within 10 feet of the “Jolly-old-elf,” I thought this might just be the motivation you would need to get over your phobia. Never wanting my kids to grow up with unreasonable fears, I figured this could be the perfect solution.

Wow, was that a great idea that backfired! I did get you to talk to Santa – wide eyes filled with terror, you quickly asked for a Barney Banjo and ran back to me. Poor kid. Once that task was over, I realized Santa’s job was going to be tough. All of a sudden, there were no Barney Banjos at Toys-R-Us! I thought I would check with other stores, None. I called Gran. She checked in Tennessee – Zero. I called Aunt Michelle. She checked in Atlanta – Nada. I called Hasbro. The nice lady on the phone could not guarantee me that anymore Barney Banjos would ship before Christmas. Apparently, there was an issue with the manufacturer, and “Have a nice day!” What?! I started to panic; I started to talk to you about other fun toys. You would look at me with your blonde wisps and big baby blues and tell me how you could not wait until Santa came with your banjo. What was I going to do? I had a two-year-old who told Santa – at gunpoint, practically, the two things on her sweet list, and one of them might not make it!

You told everyone, over and over, about your Barney Banjo! I felt the Karma Gods placing their bets and laughing at me.

In December, your Dad was flying to Austin, Texas for a meeting, and I told him to look for the elusive evil toy while there. He was skeptical. I said, “Find one!” So, when he landed, I started harassing him, “Did you look for the Banjo?” “No,” I begged him to call the stores, and he promised to. He called around – no luck. Then he tried a K-Bee Toys in a local mall somewhere. At first, the clerk said they were out, but then hesitated and said he would check the back stock. When he finally came back to the phone, he said they had two Barney Banjos that had been pushed behind some other things. Your Dad said, “I just need one, I am on my way!” When a man who was sitting close by heard the conversation, he asked for the story behind the sudden excitement. Brian told him about the search, and when the man heard the toy’s name, his face lit up, and he almost shouted, “I am looking for a Barney Banjo too!” Off they both flew to the store and bought the last two known purple, plastic banjos on the North American Continent. When I next received a call from your Dad, I anxiously answered, and he did not speak at first. Then, I heard the sappy, sweet banjo notes that rang over the cell phone from Texas to Alabama! My hero! Christmas was saved, for both of us!

I can remember your chubby face full of expectation and delight that Christmas morning as you ran into the living room. Your only words, “Where is my Barney Banjo?”I wish I could always make your dreams come true like your Dad and I did that day. I love you, Mom. (Written in 2010 – edited Christmas 2016. Merry Christmas!)

#justwrite #christmas #daughtersofjoy

Comcast Hell

2016-08-04T14:16:00.002-07:00

A letter sent to a company acting as an agent for Satan:

August 2, 2016

Dear Sir or Madame,

I am responding to a letter I received yesterday in the mail. I cannot begin to convey my frustration with this situation. But, I am going to attempt to try (somehow the redundancy here seems wildly appropriate).

I am attaching evidence of an account closed in December of 2014. Upon which time I returned my equipment and received confirmation from Comcast that the account was closed and paid in full. Great. Super. (In case you don’t know, no customer has ever closed an account with Comcast and felt nostalgic. I am sure Jean Valjean felt similarly when he finally left the prison camp. Had it not been for the ‘24601’ tattooed on his arm, he wouldn’t have kept a souvenir to remind him of the “good times”. You just want to move on with your life and forget.)

Wrong. In December of 2015, one year later if you don’t have a calendar in front of you, I receive a bill for $118.23. Weird, right? I call and say, “This must be a mistake”, and they assign a case # and tell me they will make a note and do an investigation. They don’t. They send me another bill and then I call again. If you are thinking, surely it was resolved by the second call, you would be sadly mistaken. I am told they cannot explain the reason for the charge. Only that it appears that something was credited to the wrong account and I owe $118.23. This makes no sense to me because it has been one year since the account showed a Zero balance. Why were they just now sending me the first bill?!?

The next week I start getting letters and calls from Credit Management. Of course, I call, and I am SO happy to be able to start the process all over again. There is no resolution. They persist, and although I-do-not-for-one-second-believe this is a fair charge, I decide I will resolve it and pay the bill. I document my calls to them and put the papers away. I am assured that the Comcast account will now be completely settled and I try to rebuild my life. Seriously.

In case you have lost track, it is now August 2, 2016, and yesterday I receive yet another letter from another reputable business (yours) telling me that I owe money on my Comcast account that was closed over 18 months ago! Not frustrated at all, of course, I call, when I should be working, and speak to a representative of your company. Assuming she followed through with her promises, this matter should be in the “Dispute Bin,” or at least the “Mad as Hell” file and maybe even the “It is a good thing we don’t have a brick-and-mortar office in Tennessee, ‘cause we would have to deal with this crazy lady in person” folder.

So, to recap: I don’t owe this money. I am attaching a P.I.F. (Paid In Full) letter which is dated August 2 because I went to the Credit Mgmt. Website and pulled it today. But, I called an agent of their company Agent ID #A4Y to confirmed that it was paid by credit card 3/9, and then I found the bank record of the transaction for $118.23 (which I am also attaching). I am attaching the original bill for $118.23 so I am not even sure where you come up with $103.06, but I will mostly blame that on Comcast because none of this madness would be possible without the stellar management and thoughtful attention they give to customer service.

Please respond by emailing at ********@gmail.com or by phone (6**.***.*076) and message to my voice mail to let me know that this has been resolved.

Regards,

Traci (Unjustly Sentenced to Comcast Hell) K***

#justwrite

A Memory- My Mom and What I Learned from Her Tuna Salad.

2016-07-18T05:01:00.000-07:00

Janice Shockney May 4, 1937- July 18, 2012

It is the 4th Anniversary of my Mom's first day with Jesus, and I miss her. It is not as it has been said along the way, that we don't appreciate our parents until they are gone. It is just that we can never fully know all the ways we will long for them over the years. As our life changes and we face new unknowns and challenges, we just need them. We knew we would. We just didn't know in how many ways and the ways just keep coming it, don't they? Sometimes in the silence of the uncertainty of life, I strain to recall the comfort of just hearing her voice on the phone. No one has ever been on my team, quite like my Mom, and I miss her today and wish we could talk.

I have been thinking lately about the lessons I learned from my Mom. It is hard to boil down into a list all the things your parents teach you along the way, but this memory keeps coming up lately and the lesson it taught me unaware sums up my Mother's philosophy on life: And it is simply this:

We can't control everything. Plan for Joy. Expect some problems along the way. And, most days are salvageable.

My Mother was a planner. My Mother was resilient. My Mother was fun. And, if we made plans for a fun day, somehow we were going to have a fun day. On this particular day in the Summer, I woke up with excitement because Mom had planned to take the day off for a picnic and swimming for my brother, Gary, me, and my Grandmother too. My Mom worked, and during summer break, I was home all-day-everyday just waiting on something to do. There was camp, swim lessons, VBS, and sometimes, Mom would take a day off to take us swimming. Those days were the best!

I could hear her in the kitchen before I was fully awake. I knew she was working on the Tuna Salad sandwiches we would eat for lunch. The mixture was a bit weird, but she added enough sweet pickles that I got over the mayonnaise, and after a couple of hours in the pool, a kid would eat anything. She made a pan of brownies the night before and Kool-Aid Lemonade we would carry in a Tupperware pitcher and drink in styrofoam cups as we sat on our towels with hair dripping trails of water and happiness down our backs on a brief break in the fun of the day. I could not wait!

Mom, Dad, Gary and Me in the 70's

The anticipation would build on the long car ride from the country into Goodlettsville to Pleasant Green Swimming Pool. When we were finally winding our way through the pool's neighboring houses, I would roll down my window, because you could actually smell the chlorine several minutes before you saw the gated entrance. We would find a picnic table under a tree, and mom would stake it out with a red checked tablecloth and our Blue Coleman Cooler. Towels were piled on the bench and chairs unfolded as Gary and I would run down the grassy bank and head for the pool. My Mom would sit on the hill in the shade with a paperback novel until lunch time when we would eat the sweet tuna salad and lots of chips and brownies and Double Cola over ice. It would be great.

As we were preparing to leave our house that morning something unexpected happened. My mother was walking up and down the stairs to load up the trunk of our blue Ford Granada when she called down to Gary (our kitchen was in the basement - weird I know) to bring up the Double Colas, an 8-pack of heavy glass bottles housed in a divided, paper carton. Apparently, there had been something wet near the drinks so that when my brother picked them up the bottom released and glass hit the concrete floor of our old country kitchen. The glass flew in all directions like shrapnel and a piece lodged in Gary's calf. He hit the floor crying in pain, and chaos seemed to take over.

My Grandma started screaming for Mom and in a few minutes, we were all in the car, heading not for the swimming pool but for the ER. I was crying for a different reason now, but not so that anyone could see.

After what seemed like hours, we left the ER with my brother's leg bandaged and under the bandage 6 stitches in exchange for the glass that the doctor removed, with instructions to keep the wound clean and dry. DRY. Great, I thought. There would be no pool. No picnic. I must have said something out loud about by brother's part in ruining the day because I remember that MaMa (pronounced "MawMaw") scolded me.

I sat quietly in the back of the car with my eyes closed, and when the car finally stopped, I realized we had indeed driven from the emergency room to the pool. Just like we planned! I was thrilled! My Grandma was flabbergasted. My Mom was matter-of-fact. It seemed to her that we planned to go the pool for a picnic and a half-day was still more fun than not going at all. She reasoned that Gary could wrap his leg in a plastic bag, sit on the side, and at least get the other one wet if he wants to. And, we all needed lunch anyway, and it was already in the car. So a picnic it was!

I remember my Grandmother retelling the tell later. "Anyone else would have canceled the swimming day if a trip to the ER became necessary," she laughed, "But not Janice, she never lets anything get in the way of what she wants to do."

I loved that about my Mom. She just made the best of things (like adding extra sweet pickles to the Tuna Salad). She readily admitted that she couldn't control a lot of what happened. She taught us to plan with joyful anticipation, to accept problems or challenges as part of the deal, and not let anything ruin the fun if it is within your power. And most of the time it is. Thanks, Mom. That advice has always served me well.

No wonder this was one of her life verses.

#pleasantgreenswimmingpool #missingmom #philippians413 #justwrite

Living in the AFTER on a Tuesday - "Through it All My Eyes are on You"

2015-11-10T12:07:00.000-08:00

It Is Well - Bethel Music (lyric video) - YouTube.

This weekend my husband and I were invited to attend a marriage thing. Our lives were hectic last week and the invitation came at the last moment. We honestly didn't want to go. I mean we sorta wanted to go, but the stress of our pace has left us with little bravery. We knew we needed to, but the mountain before loomed large. His schedule, my schedule, the dogs, the teenager, other things needing us. Apathy brought on by fatigue. I think we both heard the small but growing call, "You should go." So, somehow we did.

There are lots of words I could use to relay the purpose of the weekend all beginning with "re":

Restore
Renew
Rest
Refresh
Reconnect
Reset

All good words. All much needed. But, today I keep hearing a couple of things over and over. One was a point made during a Sunday morning devotional as a group gathered from our church to remember our savior and commune as one body.

The First point was this (in my words):

There was a difference in the apostles' boat that day on the lake before and after Jesus got there (Matthew 14 22-33). There was panic, despair, and doubt in the storm, but the moment Jesus steps in there is calm, confidence, and peace. There is always a before and after with Jesus.

How often can others tell I live in the AFTER? My life should reflect the calm, confidence, and peace of Jesus' presence. Amen?

The Second point is this song:

It Is Well - Bethel Music (lyric video) - YouTube. This is a new take on the old hymn, and I hope you will close your eyes and just listen and rest.

The words wash over me like the "wind and waves [that] still know his name." I grew up listening to the hymn "It is Well" in my country church. As a girl, I had no idea what the words even meant.

I now know what it takes to sing those words, and it is not a fearless thing. I look up and the mountain just seems so overwhelming. Whether it is the mountain of responsibilities that don't want to move so that I can spend a weekend with my husband or a mountain that has broken my spirit as I view the devastation left in the wake of the realities of this life - there is struggle, loss, and crisis all around. And, sometimes there is just too much.

Still, Jesus climbs in my boat and invites me to trust in him. And, I don't have to know how he is going do it, but I just need to believe that he will calm the storms in my life. I just need to keep my eyes on him, through it all. "The wind and waves still know His name...[Who am I] not to believe?"

Let me live in the AFTER.

#justwrite #itiswell #throughitall #daughtersofjoy

Friday Thoughts About Good Gifts

2015-10-30T12:55:00.002-07:00

A few weeks ago on a remarkable fall afternoon, I sat with family and friends, in folded chairs semi-circle style, as an adorable mom-to-be unwrapped a mountain of gifts. Most of them from her registry, things she had pre-selected for baby boy. She, like most jubilant first-time moms, has endured the pre-partum countdown by thinking, planning and SHOPPING for his every need. This most loved and anticipated bundle will never know cold wipes on his bottom (why didn’t I think of baby-wipe warmer?), non-organic bedding, or naked, germy shopping carts without anti-microbial, designer, protective covers. His clothes will be the cutest little-man outfits ever, and she will carry him in the most stylish slings and carriers that will multi-task in ways my babies never knew. This is a special child, and he has had been carefully planned for.

What marketers and I know about my species, the parent, is also pointed out in Mathew 7:11; we “know how to give good gifts to [our] children.” And, we delight in thinking about and planning for their future. As flawed as we are, we usually ere by loving our kids too much if anything. God can relate; His love for us is “deeper than the oceans and wider than the sea,” and He has been planning for and dreaming of our future long before our birth announcements (Psalm 139:16).

I thought about God’s love again last week while watching a mom adoring her smiling baby. Moms (and Dads) are crazy about their children’s smile. Not long ago, I came across my third grade school photo, and I remembered how embarrassed I was that my mom had placed it in a frame on the mantel back then. My hair must have stood up in every direction! But, she would always say, “I just love that sweet smile.” I think God looks at us and says something similar. We know we are goofy and a mess, but He claims us and adores us because we are His.

And about those “good gifts” from God, He sent His own son, Christ, to die for a sinner like me (Romans 5:8). What a gift! Just like the baby boy above, I didn’t even understand my need, but God, my Father, did. From before the first sunset and long before my baby shower, God was thinking and planning for me, and you too.

#Goodgifts #Daughtersofjoy #justwrite #babyshower

The Wedding

2015-10-18T19:50:00.000-07:00

We wound our way through the hardwoods along the drive to The Barn at Shady Lane on Saturday for the big day of my step-daughter and her soon to be groom. This was the day to be married.

I mean if you are going to look in the big Wish Book of Wedding Days, you would order a day like this perfect Fall Saturday in October. The sky an endless arena of proud blue with only distant reminders that clouds existed at all, the air just warm enough for comfort and just crisp enough to keep our attention focused with every breath that this was not an ordinary day. This was the day to be married.

Lovely people gathered not in ordinary fashion but with a special attention to dress and order, with music to escort this company who would affirm and confirm the rightness of this ceremony. Soon the stage was set for the Groom as his Dad, Granddad, Uncle and many other family and friends joined him to await his bride.

The drama of the moment was held tightly like an archer preparing to release, and as if we needed an extra cue the music changed to announce the moment. As the Groom turned, witnesses held their breath. We knew we both observed and participated in a hallowed moment, one that would forever change all the moments that would follow. As her dad held a steady course, the bride approached her future as she approached center-stage. The words spoken next were significant and important and binding. Though barely whispers through restrained emotions, the weight of the pledges could be felt, if not heard, by all as yesterday’s hopes and prayers became covenant before God and family and friends. This was the day to be married.

In our ever changing world where “insta” is not fast enough, and all that is special seems lost on a culture that weighs the value of days by clever status updates, it appears weddings have become a competition for the best Pinterest boards. The rest of us have become a bit skeptical as we calculate the rising cost and wonder how we can keep up with the expectations when our children's day arrives. I have recently heard and debated the sanity of such events. I have a wedding planner, who is a daughter - thankfully, and believe me, our perspective on weddings has evolved with her expertise.

But tonight, on the eve after, I am struck with the beauty of it all. I am changed. I am reminded. It was not Pinterest or the Supreme Court, but God who dreamed of weddings. God had the first crush. He loved us first. We are his. He wrote this story for Laura and Luke because he is the God of romance and he throws the biggest banquets and he invites us all to the feast. Through the wedding day, we see who He is. God is love. And, He reminds us on Wedding Days; true love is worth a great cost. It should cost –but not just for the Caterer. It should be a day that alters our calendars and is anticipated as carefully as are the planned invitations and menus. It is a crossing over that must be marked and remembered because who we were before is not who we have become. We are changed by the day. By the love. By our God who loved first and made plans for us. This was the day to be married. This was the day to remember the love.

#Weddings #Justwrite

A Good Day – Always a Choice

2015-10-13T20:18:00.000-07:00

A day that begins with the stumbling up and crawling out as many mornings do. A morning that begins with beams of light through slats tightly closed to the outside.

Ah, sunshine and hot water and caffeine and routine. Traffic lines and frustrations build for morning-folk in transit, but that is only the start and still there is time for us all. Many hours yet. Time to contribute to the world. Time to decide. To choose to give. Give of gifts given. Must choose. There will be need and the option to give. Wants that will interrupt the flow. Desires that will intrude without apology. Differences in personalities, backgrounds, preferences. Differences that can frustrate and separate.

Or, we find common ground with the world today - we choose to see ourselves in others and others in ourselves. Can we who have unwrapped grace, offer the same to the day filled with striving, awkwardness and angst? A privilege. A choice. When we choose to bless by our blessings, we make room, we dignify, we honor, we notice. Then we invite and entreat and encourage what we wish to see in the day by living it. Like the morning routine, we can crawl and resist, or we can embrace and bless. Either way.

#Daughtersofjoy #justwrite #embracetheday

Homecoming

2015-10-05T19:24:00.001-07:00

Today was homecoming at the church we attend in Nashville. It didn’t really feel like homecoming, to newcomers like us, but it was a wonderful uplifting atmosphere nonetheless. Our speakers recalled church history and spoke on the meaning of home. There were hugs from old friends found again and a barbecue lunch for all with music and games. Whether visitors, new members, or friends from afar returned, all were welcomed as a part of the coming-home. I felt blessed to be a part of a church where coming home held special meaning and it left me thinking about home.

I haven’t been home in a long time. There is a saying that “Home is a place you grow up wanting to leave, and grow old wanting to get back to.” I left Birmingham to come back to Middle Tennessee almost five years ago. I thought moving back so close to where I grew up would mean I would find easy belonging. I was wrong. The familiarity tears wide open a longing that the place itself cannot provide. It is universally true and yet it feels so personal. The country roads still lead to the same house of my youth and people still gather inside, but they are not my people and it is not my home. My childhood home no longer exists. In my favorite Billy Joel song, “You’re My Home” he relates that home can be anywhere as long as he is with the one he loves. I believe this and it gives me hope and I make a new home and fiercely love all that gather here. But, they keep growing up and are leaving more than they are coming lately, and I feel like a Christmas tree left up until Easter. Everyone is celebrating a new season and I am a bit droopy and out of place. And again, I search for home and look forward to homecoming.

As our speaker said this morning, home is not a place any more than the church is a place; a home and the church are its people. And what I realized today in worship, is that if God’s family and its people are my home as Billy J. says, “I will never be a stranger and I’ll never be alone…cause home is just another word for ~~you~~ church” And, lately I have been feeling more and more like I come home every Sunday. I see smiling faces of new friends and remember the details of their journeys I am beginning to know and cherish. I visit today with the new mom behind me who was once just a pregnant stranger. Today, as she pats her baby’s back to the rhythm of life all around us, we exchange baby stories and relate as only mothers can. The couple to my right buried a brother this week and I hug the wife after service because I know; I have stood at the grave too many times myself. The elderly man (whose seat we may or may not have taken by accident) misses his wife who is in a nursing home with Alzheimer’s disease, and he loves to tell us stories about the many people he knows and has known. He blesses us every Sunday with his memories and love of life. In the world where we make people our home we are tossed about – never knowing what news and change will batter us next. In God’s Church, we are anchored- whatever the storm. Fragile and in transition separately, together we are a stable home – never changing. Together we are a people called with a common purpose, tied together by a common love, and held together by a common hope in Jesus. We can come home every Sunday. Because we gather. Whoever is left. Until he comes.

#homecoming #wearethechurch #justwrite

To My Daughters of Joy - Happy Daughter's Day!

2015-09-24T18:56:00.002-07:00

#Nationaldaughtersday

Post MBA and Finding Rest

2015-09-20T05:28:00.002-07:00

I have been on a two-year journey to earn my MBA degree. Every Monday night for 4.5 hours plus countless hours outside of class and many more thinking about the schoolwork I should be doing just as soon as I work a little, sleep a little, cook a little, clean a little, etc. If you have been down this non-traditional-student road you know what I mean:

It is a crazy time.
You are not a student.
You know nothing about being a student anymore.
You work full-time.
You have people who depend on your paycheck.
And, You haven’t pulled an ‘all-nighter’ in a decade (except the time everyone got a stomach bug in tandem). Or maybe that one is just me.
You only thought you knew tired.

But, it is over. Complete. Finished. Accomplished. Who Hoo!

If you had asked me how I felt in the first few weeks of post-grad life, I would have said, “Out-of-whack.” I am sure that two years of anything intense leaves you with an immense sense of imbalance. At first, you can handle things pretty well, but by the last half, you have stacks of neglected chores, paperwork, and relationships, which desperately need your attention, and you feel it down-deep.

And mostly, I felt out-of-whack with God. My prayer life has been stagnant, and bible study has been a joke. Honestly, it has been dry, stale and just bad. And, I know it shows. I have felt like the grocery cart that I always get stuck with (by grocery cart I really mean "buggy" - in the south we say "buggy"). I look perfectly functional and capable and steady, but I really wish someone would pull me out of the lineup before my malfunction becomes evident to the whole store and I am an embarrassment to “buggies” everywhere.

Can you relate? Do you ever need to get your spiritual act together but it is so hard to do? Life is still coming at you fast. I mean my people needed me to get finished with class and get with the program – STAT! On top of the normal chaos, we moved the weekend of my last class and there was so much work to be done. I won't even tell you about the last 8 months in an apartment crammed full of boxes and boxes and exploding with furniture. I was exhausted.

When I was searching for a Bible study to dig into, I ran across a study on Ruth. It was recommended to me a few months ago by a woman who didn’t even know me. It was one of those casual conversations that somehow led straight to the heart of the void of my life and I think she could see it. I felt like this was something I should pay attention to, so I bought the study guide and I stacked it with the stacks of stacks that had stacks - I know you know.

I unearthed it a few weeks ago, and I began a new journey. A journey both forward and back.

It actually felt a bit awkward getting back into regular prayer and study time. It was not as awkward as becoming a college student again, thankfully. There are no log-ins, deadlines or pressures to perform. God has been patient, and good, and he smiled when he could have yelled, and he is giving me the rest I need most. Rest from measuring up. Rest from keeping up. Rest from guilt. Rest from shame. (That was it, a break from me. Me doing but not being.) Ahh.
His word is healing and it feeds my soul and it is slowly fixing my broken, "buggy" wheels.

#War Room, #Wearealldaughters #DaughtersofJoy #Justwrite

Masterpiece

2015-09-17T06:35:00.000-07:00

Excited friends to paint our materpiece

In October, several years ago, I went to one of those paint-it-and-take-it-home-canvas studios with some eager friends on a Saturday night. It was a new craze then, and we were excited to be together for a fun night of painting and laughs. I was not alone in my anticipation of a canvas-trophy worth displaying in my home. We had purposely chosen this night because the colors in The Red Door painting we would create would work well in all our homes.

With blank canvas as our stage, smocks donned and our chosen Starbucks drink at our side, we were ready for our night of art and friendship. Susie, the master-painter, stood at the helm ready to instruct and guide in proper brush technique and paint application. We were enthusiastic students with noble intentions..."Yes we will do exactly as you say Miss Susie because we want to paint a picture just like you."

Me and Martha Brown

When Susie told us to use the big fat brush we all picked it up and dabbed here and there. Then, we tried the smaller brush. Next, we were mixing colors and applying techniques. It was so much fun being an artist! Before long my confidence in my abilities was high and I looked over at my friend Tyra's picture and was disturbed to realize, it looked nothing like my own! My friend Lisa's picture looked nothing like my own!! I got a little stressed. Then, I got behind. Before I could catch up Susie was two steps ahead and I had no idea what to do. So I found myself looking at my friends and asking, "What did I miss?" Thankfully, they told me. But my friends were not experts like Miss Susie, they were, like me, canvas painting novices. I still felt a little stressed.

Susie kept saying, "Don't worry about what it looks like now. Just wait until we add the foliage at the end and it will all come together!" She said this a few times, so at this point I was not so sure. But she was right, it did come together at the end. I did get a picture to take home (maybe not a masterpiece), and so did everyone in the room.

It was so interesting to see the differences in the art around the room. There were no two alike. But somehow, they ALL looked like Susie's. We were all proud of each other as many compliments and smiles were exchanged between old and new friends.

Several things struck me as we ended our journey together that evening:

We all started the evening without knowing how we would finish.
We all realized each woman tried their best and the individual result was praise-worthy.
We found common bond in our imperfection.

Women are so cool sometimes!

I drove home that evening with a wish for our daily journeys to resemble that evening in the painting studio. I wished that we would collectively realize none of us really know what we are doing, but we are in this together. To know we are so different because God made us this way for a reason. He knows some of us will get distracted and fall behind. This is why he gave us a friend who is working toward the same goal. A sojourner following the master painter like us, only a bit farther down the road. We can look to them for help. I just needed some helpful hints to get back on track with my masterpiece. If Tyra had said, "You need to pay attention," I might have never finished my picture. If Lisa had said, "No you are doing it all wrong," I might have gotten discouraged. We need each other, not for reprimand but for a helping hand. And at the end of the evening, my picture is not supposed to look like my friends', it need only resemble the Master's.

I prayed then and do today: "Let me lighten your load, not make it heavier. Before I do anything else worthy: bake a cake for the bake sale, drop off more donations, sign up for the next volunteer slot, let me show mercy to my sister where ever she is on her journey. Amen."

#masterpiece #wearealldaughters #weneedeachother

Making Your Own Footprints, and What Do Opportunities and Concrete Have in Common?

2015-09-16T14:57:00.000-07:00

Walking along the sidewalk on my way back to my office, I noticed some concrete footprints (that is footprints made in the sidewalk as it dried). Well, they didn’t start out as concrete footprints – they started out as an opportunity. Some hardy-footed fellow happened along at the perfect time to impact this six-foot section of walkway and “made the most of his opportunity” (as they say). Others may have passed by that day and chose an altered path, but not my mystery friend with the boots. He stepped up and in and made his lasting mark. I cheer for him with a smile as I walk.

That got me to thinking about opportunities. One of my go-to life verses is in Galatians 6:10a, “Therefore, as we have opportunity, let us do good…” This verse reminds me of two things:

We all have opportunities to make an impact.
Opportunities come, but like drying concrete, they might not last long.

So, while we can, we should make the most of our time and use our opportunities to impact others for good. But a secondary message I understand from Galatians 6 and the stony footprints is that my opportunities are not your opportunities because your journey is not my journey. I can stand in front of the walk and wish I could have made my prints in the mud that day, but it will never change a thing. That was not my opportunity. And, if I spend my days lamenting over opportunities of others, I might just show up too late to my own.

I Corinthians 7:7 helps me here by telling me I have been given my “own gift.” And Romans 12:5 reminds me I am uniquely created and have a role to play in the body of Christ, “So we, who are many, are one body in Christ”. When I put opportunities in the context of my gifts, it makes perfect sense that I will be given unique opportunities to serve and do good so that I can use the gifts God chose for me. I play my role well when I understand this. Uniquely Gifted. Uniquely Commissioned. I get it!

One thing I know for sure, I don’t want to miss an opportunity to show up big and make an impact (however small)…if it was an opportunity meant for me. I want to be ready with my boots on to jump in with both feet!

#justwrite #opportunities #footprints

My Honduras Trip Brought Up More What-Ifs than Answers

2015-09-16T14:44:00.000-07:00

My mind races from image to image as I mentally catalog the week in Honduras (My Global MBA experience). What an exceptional experience to come and use all our senses to learn about these, not so very, distant cousins of God’s creation in a world so removed from my daily reality.

Everyone who travels to a developing country will certainly be impacted by the contrast to our culture. My thoughts of Honduras will not only rest against the backdrop of the differences I wake to Monday morning in Brentwood, Tennessee, they will rest against extremes in life I found in the proximity of the city of Teguce itself. Yes, my memories of Tegucigalpa will come in pairs of extremes: from surplus to scarcity, from modern to ancient, from sophisticated to simplistic, from corrupt to benevolent, from whim to vision and hope to hopelessness.

As I think back on my pre-trip perceptions of Honduras, I admit I was expecting to be impressed by poverty we would encounter having experienced the culture through mission trips tales of my daughters on several occasions. I was expecting to see children whose eyes would steal your very heart because they have been so neglected and abused by conditions not of their own choosing but of hopeless circumstance. I was expecting to smell unpleasantness and taste the cruel reality of a world in malfunction. What I did not expect was to feel such a connectedness to the people we met in local businesses and the faces of mothers and children in rural locations.

We started our week with a visit to Jovenes en Camino, to tour the boy’s home and I was immediately impressed with the facility and structure and with those committed to providing for 57 boys who live in the home. I kept thinking these boys, who live in community with their playmates and share a surrogate mom and dad with 20 others, are the lucky ones. As much as I am thankful a place like Jovenes exists in Honduras, I was overwhelmed with the enormity of need for hundreds of places just like it that don’t exist. I felt a contrast of emotion, of hope for the 57 boys living within the safety and blessing of Jovenes and hopelessness for thousands who will never have a chance to be safe and blessed. I felt a connectedness with Annie Brown, our 25 year old missionary host, because I had just waved goodbye to my 18 year old daughter to begin her own missionary journey. I wondered, if in a few months she will find herself in a place that will capture her mind and heart and want to stay beyond her internship… As impressed as I am with Annie and her love for Jovenes, my soul is not settled at this thought for my middle child…and yet I know the world needs more young women and men like Annie.

Our next adventure would prove to be the most unsettling, for me at least. Just as we struggled to gain access to a community some two to three hours over nearly impassable roads, I struggle to make sense of the remote and unjust conditions of such a place. We first visited a dark room in a small house where moms, many in their teens, gathered to learn parenting skills from volunteers. Children in their arms, they sat in a circle and waited until each child was weighed and growth was recorded.

I thought to myself, this is a scene that plays out in every corner of the globe. Young moms, trying to do what is best in order to secure a sound future for their children. Do any of us really know what we are doing before we are handed such awesome responsibility in the form of our babies? Don’t we all hope someone will give us some guidance? These sweet volunteer-women were neighbors, but also pediatricians and counselors, teachers and mentors, in a community without professionals with such titles.

We then rode to the preschool and public school in the community. The preschool was run by a sweet lady, who basically worked for free because the $35 a month she was supposed to receive from government funding rarely came and never on time. Child Fund, our hosts for the visit, supported the preschool as well as many programs in the regular elementary and high school next door. I was impressed by the enthusiasm and passion in the voice of this teacher, who for 15 years had poured herself into these children so they might have a better chance.

As we walked to the high school, we could tell something exciting was happening. We would soon realize the excitement was us! The whole school and teachers were present on what was supposed to be a holiday because we were coming. We were greeted by boys on stilts and balloons and dancing and songs. Each group had projects to present and showed us their efforts. Another contrast occurred to me as I watched kids with bright faces full of excitement and potential perform for strangers. How could this be a place where most will only go to third grade? They were amazing and talented. Shouldn’t they get a chance to be just that?

In contrast to these scenes of rural life, we visited several companies and were hosted by some of Tegucigalpa’s leaders in business. What impressed me about our hosts at these companies was their willingness to speak candidly about problems and issues they faced as a nation. They spoke bluntly about crime, corruption, poverty, and perceptions of Honduras, but finished by explaining all the reasons they loved and were proud of their country. No one tried to gloss over issues we all knew existed, but all wanted to make sure we did not miss the many positives about life in such a country of beauty and history and family-culture. At University visits, we were greeted by educators eager to show us their facilities and speak of the future of Honduras through lens of educating its youth.

The remainder of our week we enjoyed some good food, local scenery, and near misses as Miguel, our guide, skillfully (though frighteningly) drove us around. One sight I will not forget will remain a symbol of challenges faced by those who wish to move the country and people of Honduras toward a new day. In the middle of the main thoroughfare is a brand new lane built for bus traffic. It was paid for with political capital and promised to provide an ease to the current traffic nightmare. Instead, it has never been opened and may not be operational for another year, if ever, due to lack of urgency in post-election time. Such a waste of effort and funds! Instead of an improvement, the infrastructure is much worse. This is a symbol in my mind of the inefficiency and lack of vision of the leaders of Honduras.

Finally, I think about the children who asked us repeatedly for money as we climbed in and out of the van. If given an opportunity for a good education, would such spunk to approach a stranger boldly translate into drive and determination in the classroom and then in the business world? I think about the men walking in-between cars at traffic stops, selling canvas prints and fruit, or the boy juggling machetes for cash. What could their lives be, in another setting? I believe at the end of the day the lesson I will hold close from this experience is how I will never know the what-ifs for those men and boys or the what-ifs for myself in their shoes. But I believe I can know for certain that I am not as smart as I am fortunate. I am not as hard-working as I am blessed with resources and opportunities. I was born into circumstances almost guaranteeing my success, if I don’t prosper in this life I have no one to blame but myself. I am so thankful, and I should be.

8/1/14

#whatif #Honduras #justwrite

Indian Corn

2015-09-16T14:32:00.002-07:00

From 2009

Some of the best times the most golden moments are the ones that happen right before "lights out" at our house. I wonder at how quickly the bedtime routines have gone from reading the well-loved and worn story books to "just thirty more minutes on the computer, please?" But for today my youngest, Hatty, still wants to share her bedtime thoughts and prayers with me...as they say "priceless".

It was one of those nights a few months ago, Spring maybe, and I was on the ladder that leads to Hatty's loft bed where she lay. Standing on the ladder I am face to face with my sweet girl as she pours her heart out in prayer to God. Oh my, I wish you could hear the things that are on her heart, I am amazed at her tender words.

But anyway, this night as she looks me over as we are so close she plays with my hair. And after "Amen." and before "I love you." she says..."Mom your hair is so beautiful! It has so many pretty colors...just like Indian Corn!" (she should be a diplomat or at least in PR) She was right my hair has many colors (dark brown, red, gray, blonde, gray)..just like 'Indian Corn'-Priceless!

#warroom #justwrite #bedtimeprayers

Things Change

2015-09-16T14:31:00.000-07:00

It seems I always come back from a vacation with thoughts that will not leave me alone until I sort them out. I must organize them, label them, and leave them in order so I can reference them from time to time. That’s the way it is today…as I upload pictures from our beach trip, two words keep repeating themselves “Things change.” I’ve both said and heard said hundreds of times…”Things change.” Travel down a stretch of road you’ve not visited in a year or two – Things change. bump into a friend you remember from college – Things change. Compare photos of your kids from one beach trip to the next – Things change. Our attention is diverted with tasks and obligations until getting through the day turns into years. We are reminded by the obvious of our negligence to be in the moment, and all we can offer in defense is…”Things change.”

But really that is natural-those changes we confront because time passes and progress happens. But whats washing up like waves competing for my attention against my stacks of laundry tonight are the changes I don’t make allowances for-the ones that really catch me looking the other way.

This week while on vacation, I received a phone call from a dear friend about a tragic death in her family. I also recently received other email telling of a cancer diagnosis. Both of them were a shock to me. Have I not learned my lesson yet? Guess not. Things Change. Yes, they do – but not in years or months, sometimes daily. Not in manageable doses, but in unimagined pronouncements. Its not always on the calendar what the next day will bring-we should all know this by now.

So I have to ask myself should I just live in dread? Always expecting bad news? The answer can’t believe I asked the question.

Do not live in anticipation of the next crisis – Just Live! Just Live!

But really live. I mean don’t just live hoping to survive the next unexpected phone call…Live expecting to Thrive, to Bless, to Inhale Deeply, to Love Hard, to Move Forward, to Forgive everyone, to Cherish today. Because really what is the alternative “Who of you by worrying can add a single hour to your life?” (not me, not you).

I choose what to do with this day, this wild and fragile moment. Whatever I choose I can say for certain It will pass…Things change.

(Summer 2009)

#vacation #justwrite #thingschange

Fourth Grade is a Jungle!

2015-09-16T14:26:00.001-07:00

I must get this story in print, before it gets lost in the folds of time.

This fall was such a dive into the deep end for me. I really did not know what to expect. We had the summer to just be a bit broken without alarm clocks and expectations. We had some time to begin healing. And we did. So in August I loaded lunches and loose-leaf paper into backpacks and held my breath.

One afternoon in September, we were having the usual let-me-tell-what-happened-in-my-life-after-school-girl-talk. One of the older girls was relating a boy-girl-tale heavy on the drama and light on common sense. I was giving my usual, "See, boys are such a waste of energy." speech. Then I catch the sweet face of my baby-girl all just turning 10 that month. Says I, "My Hatty is never gonna act like that, she's never even gonna hold hands not to mention kiss a boy in Middle School!" "Right sweetie?" (I said this knowing that she did indeed have a boyfriend. Hatty is just one of the girls that the boys don't know what to do with. She's confident, cute, and loves bugs and dirt. Instead of following the path, she blazes one, so she intrigues them. Like 'moth to a flame'. It was no surprise when she announced her 'boy' earlier in the fall. That did not mean I had to encourage it. So I ignored it. I down played it. I denied it. I hoped it would be over soon.)

Hatty looks up with that "My mom is a dork." expression and confesses boldly, "Mom! Will and I hold hands ALL THE TIME." (Now, I can over-react for effect on a dime and I was having a little fun.) Says Dorky Mom, "Oh Hatty! How could you? Where do you do this holding of hands?" A little quieter she responds thinking she has been too forthcoming, "On the playground, just around our friends." "Oh Hatty, I just can't believe that you are Holding Hands With A Boy In Fourth Grade!" (I too can pull out a little drama-queen when I need to.)

Then Hatty looks at me with the most serious of faces and proclaims, "Mom! Fourth Grade is a Jungle!"

Good Stuff.

(Fall 2008)

#kidssaythedarndeststuff #4thgrade #justwrite

Remembering Mom

2015-09-16T14:23:00.001-07:00

My Mom on right with her beloved sister Darlene on the left.

Janice Theola Simpson Shockney was born in a time that seems very far from here. Far from cell phones and email messages, Mom recalls the first telephone in her home when she was the age of 9 or 10. Not only a time without TV but without air conditioning and hot water heaters as well. Her childhood was a time when milk-men made deliveries instead of UPS men. It was a time when stories were told for evening entertainment and doctors made house calls. When no one was afraid to leave doors unlocked or worried over children disappearing outside for hours because that’s what kids did, played outside. Until dark!

Mom was the middle child of Theola and John Roscoe Simpson. Darlene her older sister was her best friend and they both adored and spoiled their younger brother Donald. My mom’s simple upbringing in Nashville Tennessee would prepare her for the life she lived with my Dad, Nelson Gary Shockney, Sr. She and my Dad were neighbors as kids in East Nashville but did not begin dating until after High School. My dad told her almost immediately, “He wanted to make her his bride.” But they didn’t marry until Dad returned home from his service in the Army because Mom wanted to be sure and not make a mistake that might lead to divorce like her parents.

Mom and Dad lived in Atlanta and then settled in Goodlettsville with my brother, Gary, and then later me. Our little house on Moss Trail was destroyed by fire in 1970 which led to a move to Robertson County where we tried to blend in with the locals and learn to be country folk! The house where we lived was remodeled around us and over us and we endured calamity and chaos including a flood in the basement, a barn that burned, and a well that constantly needed re-priming to insure enough water.

We tried hard to become farmers but we weren’t fooling many onlookers in those early attempts at planting and harvesting. It was much closer to an episode of Green Acres than a panoramic view of Scarlett O’Hara’s Tara in Gone with the Wind. I assure you. But we all enjoyed living in the country with fruit trees and fresh produce. Mom became an expert at canning our bounty and we raised a few ponies and cows which Gary and I thought was pretty cool. Mom worked at the Social Security Administration until taking early retirement in the late 80’s. When Dad’s health declined to the point he could no longer work, they moved into Gallatin and enjoyed what Mom would say were the happiest years they had together until Dad died in 1996.

We are all shaped by our parents and I am no exception. I hear my Mother‘s voice when I remind my girls to take a sweater or they will be cold in the movie.

Mom believed in being prepared.

As a teenager, like mine today, I would head to the door in a hurry to leave only to be stopped by my Mom’s warnings to buckle up, have plenty of gas, drive safely, lock my doors, etc. And, like my teenagers today I would roll my eyes at the familiar speech. But that was my Mom always ready and trying to prepare me as well.

Similarly, Mom began Christmas shopping in January and would proudly announce being finished sometime in late summer. She had the presents all wrapped of course too! In December we smiled as we opened slightly ragged gifts with flattened bows that had been stored away in tight spaces. There was the occasional Easter when a forgotten or well-hidden Christmas gift was found unexpectantly and appeared in our Easter Baskets instead!

I remember when a much discussed and anticipated Y2K really got my Mom in an uproar. She saved milk jugs and filled them with water and lined the storage shed with provisions so she would be ready for the weeks of survival that might accompany said Apocalypse. The funniest part of this memory is she decided if all life as we know it were ending it would not matter if her house was dirty, so she stopped cleaning as the impending time approached, and vowed not to clean again until the threat had passed.

She loved planning for Holiday parties and special events as well. I can see her cook books in a pile on the floor of the den as she made her menu weeks in advance. Mom was a great cook and she loved to make big meals for family gatherings. My cousins Brenda, Linda and Gina would rave over her fried corn on Easter lunch. Nothing made her happier than to prepare a good meal and have all the family come to enjoy it.

Mom also loved to travel. The most fun though was the preparation. Her trips she would plan by researching her destination and then writing and typing the information later cataloged in a photo album like a copy of National Geographic. It was impressive.

One of the greatest joys of her life was her Journal writing. In them she recorded weekly and sometimes daily the seemingly ordinary events of our lives. By doing so she gave herself the gift of many precious memories otherwise lost in the folds of time. In her last years she would revisit them like old friends to help with her fading memory being depleted by the cruelties of dementia. She wrote these memories down for herself and all of us as well because she knew one day they would be precious to her children and grandchildren as a record of our family.

But more than the sweet, funny memories of my Mom and her ever-ready habits, Mom lived everyday making the most of her words and time. She began everyday in bible study and prayer. She looked after everyone that needed her attention. She always ended a phone conversation with “I love you”. She always let us all know how proud and thankful we made her. She wrote letters to loved ones to make sure important things were said and not forgotten. She told us that she prayed for us every day and she did.

A few weeks ago she had the chance to spend a day with my daughters, she spent the day playing games, telling stories of her childhood, laughing, and telling them how important it is that they marry a Christian man and raise a Christian family. She didn’t know it would be the last day they would have to spend this way but she made the best use of the day because it was a day she would never get back like every day that we live. That was my Mom.

If July 18, 2012 caught her family and friends a bit ill-prepared and not ready to say good-bye, Janice Theola Simpson Shockney and been preparing her whole life for this day. She was ready that night as she lay down to sleep to wake up as she wrote me in a parting letter, “I am not afraid to die”, “I have lived a good life”, “God has guided me in his counsel and now he is receiving me in His glory.” She had been preparing every day for the day she would wake up in Glory.

She was ready for July 18, 2012.

I am so proud that she was my Mother. We will miss her loving presence from our lives. She was our greatest cheerleader and advocate before God’s throne. We love you Mom, Your daughter.

June 18, 2012

#warroom #justwrite #missingmom

We Don't Always Get What We Want, and Other Vacations Thoughts

2015-09-16T14:17:00.000-07:00

We are officially home from our week of Spring Break today, and I am thinking about our trip. This was the first big trip for us, just us girls. We did go to the beach with friends in June. We also went to D.C. with the family in November. But this was just us getting away as a family, and it was new terrain for me. On a whim, I booked a trip to Universal Studios in Orlando. We had wanted to go back since we first went in 2005. It was not as I imagined it, though. I never imagined going without Brian.

The girls were pretty excited as we headed out the door. At the airport, I instructed them to stay by the bags while I checked us in. The Delta employee gave me the first bad news of the evening. “Because of storms in the area, your flight is delayed and it might not leave at all tonight." She then suggested I might actually be better to drive to Atlanta than to wait in Birmingham. I don't know about you, but any solution that begins with a three-hour drive to Atlanta sounds a bit hasty to me. So I told her I would check in and take my chances. That's when she delivered the next round of bad news. I booked our flight online through Travelocity and there were "problems" with the reservation. These were not problems that she could solve and I had to call Travelocity Customer Service. In a nutshell, it was my mistake (Yes, It was my first rodeo flying with the kids). I booked myself and Alex a ticket, but when it came to Kristian (13) and Hatty (10) I misread the instructions. I thought I needed to book them under my name because they would not have I.D., and it clearly states that all passengers must have an ID. Just so you know-NEVER do this. There was no way to fix this problem, but it took two hours for me to understand this. I'm a bit slow. After two hours of hoping no one in the airport actually knew me (it was not my finest hour), the Delta employee found me behind a potted plant waiting on hold for my next attempt at saving the trip. She told me they figured out a way to let us on as 3 Traci Kings and 1 Alexis King. So I looked at my daughters #2 and #3 and said "if anyone asks your name is Traci. Got it?" They got it. "This is my daughter Traci and this is my other daughter Traci!" Hey, we're from Alabama, what did you really expect? That made for a good laugh for the rest of the week.

When we were finally able to board, they separated us and we all had different seats all over the plane. Hatty had these big puppy eyes that made think I would just tell the person beside her and they would have to understand and switch places with me. But in the end I told her she would be okay, and I went off to find my seat. I felt so bad for her having to sit by herself, and it had already been a long day. As I made my way to my seat, I told myself what I would do differently next time. Should have double checked the rules, stick with Southwest for customer service, etc.

Well, it’s Monday; so the trip happened. We had a great time. When the first flight landed in Atlanta over three hours late, I still didn't know if we would actually make it to Orlando. We were booked on three connecting flights hoping that we could catch one of them. As soon as we landed, I rushed up to make sure Hatty would not be looking for me (mother-hen). She was deep in conversation with her two new best friends, a couple in their 40's, she-ex marine he-marine. She beamed at me when she saw me and told me all about them. They had played Sudoku, and talked politics, and school. Hatty was sporting a bracelet given to her by the Marine made of special rope and clasped with a military button. My youngest has a way of making instant friends. It’s a gift. If we could bottle it...worth millions. As we ran to our connecting flight which had also been delayed by the weather, Hatty looks up and says "I had the best time." Then, "I'm actually glad I had to sit by myself."

We made our flight to Orlando. The trip from there was fun. As we waited for the first flight to leave Birmingham we all realized about the same time had it been on time, we would not have been on it because of the identification debacle. The delay was a blessing for us-we just didn't know that at first.

I thought about the trip today, I thought of all the fun we had "fast-passing" through the lines all the way to the front. The best was riding the front row on Dueling Dragons (Screaming the whole ride!), calling my girls "Traci-Ryan" and Traci-Ellen" all week, and Hatty reminding us - “It could be worse. We could have no arms and no legs!" more than once. But, what kept coming back to me today was how we don't always get what we want. We want everything to go smoothly. No Red lights when we're running behind. No long lines in the express lanes. No Flight Delays! No seat changes! No sickness. No disappointments. No sad goodbyes. But what happens when that is exactly what we get? - We have to take a detour. We regroup. We learn patience. We make new friends and create new memories. And...We gain perspective. And...We go on. And we find out that we can. And Hatty is right it could be worse, we could have no arms and no legs - or no Jesus.

March 2009

Gaining Fresh Perspective from a Ranting Twenty-Something

2015-09-16T13:58:00.000-07:00

Don’t you love it when one of your offspring calls to chat about life? I know how busy they are with school and work, so when they take time to poke my picture on one of their iPhones to check in and share the activities of the day, I just get happy! On this particular day, as I rushed from work to my grayer-than-I care-to-ever-know monthly hair appointment, I see the face of my oldest cherub and although harried, it pleases me to spend a few moments while in transit to catch up with my girl. But her tone let me know quickly, like Santa’s visit in The Night Before Christmas, this call had a purpose.

My mind skipped from hassle to crisis like a stone across the lake… It’s too early in the semester to have failed a class…Is she out of cash? Did she have a wreck? Is her car broken down on the side of the road? Another ticket? How fast were you going? Wrong, wrong…none of those…whew!

“What can I help you with?” “I need to order checks!” she rants. “Okay,” says I obviously not grasping the gravity of the situation, “Order some.” “I have been trying to for an hour and I can’t get it to work! What address did you give the bank for my account?! Whatever it is, I don’t know it because I have tried everything, and I can’t order checks without knowing my zip code!” declares my precious.

Well, this is not quite the “Hi, Mom, how are you? I am fine and I appreciate the free education,” kind of call I was expecting. I was slowly becoming aware that the purpose of the call was not for my banking expertise. None of my suggestions were welcome. “Do you need me to drive five hours from Nashville to Auburn to help you with this?” I finally offered, becoming agitated. “No thank you, I can handle it and bye,” were the final words to our friendly chat. Wow! So glad I could help! And, what did I do to deserve that? I declared to the sky as I drove on to my hair therapy.

On the way home, I thought about the call with my kid. She was my kid, for sure. She had items on her to do list and felt frustrated with the lack of progress. She should have been halfway down the list, not still stuck on top of the list. She needed to vent; I was safe. I get that. I do the same thing.

I have a mental to-do-prayer-list that I occasionally wave to my Father in frustration. “Why is this one so hard?” “Why is this one not working?” I rant to God in prayer. He smiles and says, “It’s good to hear from you. I was just thinking about you!” I let him know I have a specific purpose for our talk and I don’t have time just to chat. He listens patiently, unlike me the parent. He doesn't respond in agitation. I deserve it, but I do not make him mad. He is safe place for my ragged to-do-lists. He gets my frustration, because he knows me. I am his.

To be a Mom and to be a child. Such perspective.

Remembering

2015-09-16T13:56:00.001-07:00

When the time of telling and asking are done,
All that is left is the remembering…
I can no longer tell you of my love.
I can no longer ask your opinion.
The halls of your life lived here are silent.
But the memories speak to me softly,
And linger to remind me, “ Learn from this teacher.”
Death is never finished with the living.
In our disregard, it steals without reprimand,
Until the still halls of our soft remembering are made again alive in a joyful gathering.

by Traci Barton
(Inspired by the poem Thanatopsis by William Cullen Bryant)

#poetry #justwrite