Chosen

As the sun continues to rise morning after morning and illuminate my walk with Christ that is now around five years long, I've noticed a pattern.... While most of my time is dedicated to growing in my relationship with Him, there are periodic windows where I am stagnant. And though I prefer to be growing, the stagnant periods persist and roll around like clockwork. I love God. I know that is a prerequisite for being a Christian. I get it. But I really, really love God. I fear Him. I respect Him. I love serving Him. I love talking to Him. I love Him talking to me. I love reading His word. I love sharing His word. I am intoxicated by Him. I crave Him.

I.

LOVE.

GOD.

Having said that, why does my behavior not always reflect this truth? Why am I not constantly fueled by the scorching faith fire that burns for God occasionally? What does it say about me, that sometimes said "fire", is better described as "fading embers"?

To further this self reflection and delve into the inner workings of my humanity verses my Christianity, I took to scripture.

What I found was interesting.....

Because Abraham proved his devotion to God, he was promised "descendants as numerous as the stars in the sky" (Genesis 26:4). Abraham's grandson, Jacob, (son of Isaac) wrestled with an angel all night (Genesis 32:24) and was renamed because he "struggled with God and with humans and overcame" (Genesis 32:28). His new name was "Israel". This is the first time that this word is mentioned in scripture. His descendants, the Israelites, were declared "God's chosen people". They dwelled in Egypt. When a new king of Egypt came into power, he found the growing number of Israelites potentially threatening. He enslaved them and ordered every newborn male Israelite to be tossed into the Nile (Exodus 1:8-22). One particular infant was hidden by his mother and discovered by the Pharaoh's daughter. She named him Moses, and raised him as her own child (Exodus 2:5-9). Overcome by oppression, the Israelites cried out to God to deliver them from slavery. God heard their cries, was concerned for them, and called upon Moses to lead them out of Egypt and to the promised land (Exodus 2:23-3:9). The Israelites witnessed God's mighty acts time and time again. Phenomenal, majestic, incredible Godly acts, they saw with their very own eyes! God parted the waters for their escape from the Egyptians (Exodus 14:21). He then manifested Himself in a cloud by day and fire by night to lead them through the wilderness (Exodus 13:21-22, Numbers 9:34-36). When they cried that the waters of Marah were bitter and undrinkable, God made the water sweet (Exodus 15:23-25). When they asked for bread, He provided flesh and manna (Exodus 16:1-15). (The miracle of the manna would continuously occur for a full forty years in the wilderness). As they moved into Rephidim, they cried out, yet again, with thirst. God instructed Moses to strike a rock, and when he obeyed, water came from it with the Israelite elders watching (Exodus 17:6). God not only worked miracles that provided food and water for them, but He protected them from their enemies. But even with visible proof of the greatness and glory of God, the Israelites turned from him time and time again. "And they have turned to Me the back, and not the face; though I taught them, rising up early and teaching them, yet they have not listened to receive instruction." (Jeremiah 32:33).

At first, I was appalled! The Israelites had the honor of being chosen by Him! They saw His miracles! I wondered how they could be so ungrateful and rebellious. God was faithful to them, but they were so distracted by the allure of false idols, sins of the flesh, and other worldly temptations in the wildreness, that they "forgot" to worship the one true God...

That sounded eerily familiar.

 I started thinking about present day distractions. With hectic schedules and lives that are lived in overdrive, it's so easy to put all of our focus on our marriages, our children, our families, our friends, jobs, homes, hobbies etc, and completely neglect the one relationship that's most important.

I am guilty of this.

When I am in need or hurting or broken I cry out to Father, and without fail, He is there again...

and again...

and again....

But the moment He mends me, I begin to "forget" my need for Him and I stray again...

and again...

and again...

How could I be so rebellious and ungrateful, when with my own eyes I have witnessed His power and His love and I have felt His presence upon me?

Just like that.... I realized

I AM AN ISRAELITE IN THE WILDERNESS.

Admitting this truth to myself was humbling, shameful, and disheartening.

But all that was replaced by sheer TERROR when I read Hebrews 3:7-11

7 Therefore, as the Holy Spirit says:

“Today, if you will hear His voice,

8 Do not harden your hearts as in the rebellion,

In the day of trial in the wilderness,

9 Where your fathers tested Me, tried Me,

And saw My works forty years.

10 Therefore I was angry with that generation,

And said, ‘They always go astray in theirheart,

And they have not known My ways.’

11 So I swore in My wrath,

‘They shall not enter My rest.’”

The idea that I could mistake my Father's patience for weakness, and possibly provoke Him to become angry with me.... and like the generation of Israelites in the wilderness, who's rebelliousness  forfeited them the ability to enter the promised land, I too could face God's wrath --was pure heart wrenching! The thought is truly shattering! Devastating! My lack of effort in my relationship with Christ and the steadfast devotion of Him to me rendered me guilt stricken and ashamed.

Fortunately, scripture reassures the matchless and unwavering  love of Father over and over again.

So I called out a prayer from Psalm 86:15

"But You, O Lord, are a God full of compassion, and gracious, Longsuffering and abundant in mercy and truth."

I thanked Him for being so patient with me. I asked for undeserved forgiveness and for the strength, fortitude and devotion to not become distracted from Him, who holds my very real and concrete eternity, because of worldly nonentities that will certainly crumble and scatter like grains of sand in a gust of wind. “Because All flesh is as grass, And all the glory of man as the flower of the grass. The grass withers, And its flower falls away, But the word of the Lord endures forever.” (1 Peter 1:24)

Time to break the pattern.

I know that I must give Father all of me to fully embrace His love and the power of the Holy Spirit. This can only be done by spending time with Him, reading and sharing His word, and relentlessly and passionately praising His name.

Overcome by emotion, I decided that's EXACTLY what I am going to do to achieve the committed relationship with Christ that I so desire.

God loves me. He really, really loves me. I refuse to be lukewarm. Mere embers will not suffice. Because like the Israelites, I have the honor of being

 CHOSEN.

"For you are a holy people to the Lord your God; the Lord your God has chosen you to be a people for Himself, a special treasure above all the peoples on the face of the earth."

Deuteronomy 7:6

Who Am I?

There are situations and conversations and milestones and observations and events that have lead me here to the moment that I am in. This is a moment I have never encountered. It's blinding and seemingly never ending.... Not until I settle it. It's an interesting occurrence when you find yourself asking inside your brain and possibly even aloud,

"WHO AM I?"

But I am there.

I have been asking myself this time and time again in recent months and more and more with each passing day. It's a thought that keeps bouncing around in my head and it ping pongs off of my heart leaving a sting of pain behind it, with absolutely no sign of resolving--at least not without some serious prayer and meditation.

Since mom has been gone, I have all but totally fallen out of the habit of writing. And though I miss it, an issue has to be spewing out of me like lava for me to actually take the time to sit down and write. Here I am. So I will use this blog, as I have so many times in the past, (as a therapeutic outlet), with hopes of getting to the bottom of this conundrum I'm currently encountering.

I suppose to figure out who I am, I need to remember who I was...

As a child I was a writer. The minute I was introduced to poetry at Powers Elementary School around first or second grade, I fell in love. I would sit in a lawn chair in our yard to be "inspired" and write goofy poetry about everything and nothing. My mamaw and I even wrote a song together once. One Christmas, Santa (who knew me so well), brought both my brothers a shiny new dirt bike.... And he brought me the coolest typewriter ever made (it had a delete button!!!). This only fueled my desire to write. So I did. I wrote and wrote and wrote. It was my passion. I was a pleaser at heart. I did every single thing from chores, to good grades to good deeds to make someone, ANY one proud of me. I was sporty. I loved sports, though I don't know that I was ever great at any of them. I was a mediocre softball ball player, a so-so cheerleader and horrible basketball player. I dreamed of being a writer or a veterinarian. I wasn't like every other little girl with the pink and the dresses, and I was fine with that.

I was me.

When my home environment changed, I changed. I rebelled against everything I once was. No more pleaser. No more writing. No more praise junkie. And though it always felt foreign, I would make myself ignore my screaming conscience, just to prove I wasn't the same person. I admit I made some regrettable choices, although I'm at a place where I know ALL my choices made me who I am --even the most cringe worthy ones. And while I'm slap dab in the middle of an identity crisis, to wish away my past would be to wish away the gifts in my present, and I'd never do that. I remember craving stability. I loved going to friend's houses where the mom was home and the dad was home and they got along and they were not caught up in themselves or their own drama. I dreamed of peace... Calmness... and continuity... I was stubborn and hard headed.... And though it was definitely a distorted version,

I was me.

 As an older teen, I  composed myself, dropped the self deprecating behavior, and set some goals.  I had a slightly demented sense of humor, that still links my brothers and I in an unbreakable way-- to this day. I was a hard worker and determined to be independent and self sufficient. I took pride in my refusal look/think/act like other people. Appearance wise, I was the same plain jane tomboy that I had always been. I almost never attracted the attention of the opposite sex, and I preferred it that way. I always dressed purposefully not to fit in. In fact, if it was part of a fashion trend, I almost certainly hated it (even if I secretly liked it). I cut my hair off unlike most folks my own age and got a lil wackier and shorter with each trip to the salon. I admit I wasn't very confident back then. I've never really been. But I know I had way more confidence in myself then, than I do now. I loved children and dreamed of opening my own preschool. I was grounded but full of dreams and excited to chase them.

 I was me.

As a young adult, I pursued the dream of opening my own preschool. I went to school and graduated and I almost opened my own place! I was just beginning some renovations on one of my father in law's rental houses to start my own little school, when Patsy Walker from SCRMC called and offered me a job as the preschool teacher in the childcare facility for hospital employees. She explained to me that there was room to grow there, and a possibility for promotion. I was all in. And eventually, I was promoted to Director. After Neva came along, it didn't take long before I realized I wasn't cut out for the balancing act. I was no good at it. So, I became a stay at home mom and started helping at the shop. That is around the time mom got sick, writing reentered my life, and I started my blog.

I'm not a perfect mom, but I'm a pretty great tryer and I've always taken pride in introducing them to Christ, loving them, guiding them and teaching them preschool at home. For years my life was full of diapers and needy lil kiddos and though I stressed out every moment of every day, I wouldnt trade those moments for the world. My kids are still far from self sufficient, but things have definitely changed as of late. I have no baby in my house. There's no breastfeeding. No bottles. At 2, Maxx is potty trained. So for the first time in 8 years, I am not changing diapers. She likes to pick out her own clothes and can dress herself for the most part. Mili at 4, goes in the kitchen to get her own snacks and fixes her own drinks. She doesn't need my help washing her hair anymore and she will officially start school next August. The big girls are so unbelievably independent. Nori, 6, is just precious, a great helper and the greatest big sister. I would never know she was in the house, if I didn't walk in a room and it be magically clean or her whispering how much she loves me in my ear. Neva, 8,  is so mature. She reads and likes privacy and seems to be preferring the company and opinions of her friends over mine... Which breaks my heart and makes me want to declare a "no friends!" rule effective 5 minutes ago.

Yes, they're growing. But the final straw came while sitting in Maxx's closet. Yesterday, I bagged up a lot of clothes that she has grown out of. It hit me as I sorted that typically I would put those clothes in storage for the next girl. But there is no next girl. She's the last of them. It was quite a flabbergasting thought, that for whatever reason, I had never processed before. She's my last baby. And she's not a baby anymore. What does that mean exactly? I couldn't really grasp ahold of it. Still can't. It's like gazing into the dark sky and stretching and reaching with all my might for so, so long, trying to seize the brightest twinkling star.  But just as my finger tips graze the tiniest tip, it shoots across the sky with such speed and majesty that I'm left both heartbroken and completely in awe... and

excited to have been so close to something so great.... and

proud of having even a small hand in something so beautiful... and

curious about my next step: Do I chase it across the galaxy?

Or do I step back, watch proudly-- and let it soar?

My goal for so long was to get from A to B. I never thought about what happens when I get to C.

I am them.

They are me.

Without them,

Who.
Am.
I.
?

I cried.

Not because I want another baby. (or do I?) (No I def don't.)(But....) (um no.)

But because I'm done having babies.

And who am I if I'm not having a baby or caring for one?

I cried some more.

Not because my babies are growing up painfully fast.

But because I stopped growing a long time ago.

I've kept my head down and parented the best I could  for eight straight years. Tea parties and park trips, birthday parties, and sleepovers. Mud pies and art work and gymnastics lessons and soccer games... I never looked up as I wifed, daughtered and volunteered my heart out... Well now I'm lifting my head for the first time in a loooong time...

And I looked straight into a mirror...

and have NO IDEA who is looking back at me.

Perhaps this is something every mom goes through at various points along her parenting journey. Or perhaps I am once again just struggling with the closing of a chapter that I've been living in for years: "the baby chapter". Change is hard. If I'm being honest, I'll admit that I've hidden safe and sound under my "MOM" title for so long, that the thought of branching out scares me beyond belief..... And excites me.

I see Michael chasing his dreams every day. He knows who he is and what he wants. He amazes me!  I am proud of his savvy business sense, his tenaciousness and his unwavering work ethic. If he can dream it, he can do it. And pretty much anything he invests in, becomes successful under his authority. I am proud to have stood behind him on his journey, helping him, encouraging and supporting him. I am so proud! Now, I'm ready for us to stand side by side.

Together he and I will start reaching for that next star.

So today, after a lot of thinking (an yes, a good cry), I decided to get back to my roots: writing. And though I know it won't happen over night, through my writing and with the help of God, I hope to find myself....

not my old self...

My now self....

My real self.....

I want to be me again.

He Can Handle It

As y'all know, the wind can blow and it'll somehow remind me of my mom. That said, I started thinking last night about all the mess I put my mom through over the years. I write this hoping and praying that it doesn't remain in circulation until my girls are old enough to stumble across it and hold admission of my rebellious behavior over my head.  It's just been on my mind, the things mom and I went through together that ultimately bonded us together like welded metal.

I remember in elementary school BEGGING to stay the night with a friend. This was my best friend of the moment and I just knew we'd have the BEST time at our sleepover. Mom refused. ABSOLUTELY refused. She never even gave it a thought! She gave no reasoning despite my pleading repeatedly. "But why not?!?!?" Id whine. And though I pouted like a champion pouter-- she never gave in.

I
Was
ANGRY.

I remember mom trusting me to go to the mall with my very best friend in junior high and even though she specifically said "DO NOT leave the movie theater".......I left the movie theater..... I walked to the arcade and played games with my friends. When she walked in the mall to check up on me, in front of all my friends she drug me out of there practically by my hair,

I
Was
ANGRY.

When she encouraged me to go back home after I fled to her house following one of the frequent newly wed arguments with my husband, Michael,

I
Was
ANGRY.

These are really just the tip of the iceberg. Yes, she and I had some doozies of disagreements and I had the silent treatment down to a slap science. I didn't think I'd ever understand her! I would get so fired up and mad at her that I literally thought I would erupt and spew lava. But no matter how angry I got with her, or how disappointed she may have been in me--we'd eventually talk it out, and even if I didn't wholly understand, I'd ultimately trust her and we'd move on having grown closer through the process.

Ive been looking around lately, and I see some of my brothers and sisters hurting. Hard times: familial, financial or otherwise, sickness, or loss.... The list of grievances goes on and on. I know that within these families, in addition to pain, there is fear, confusion and perhaps even anger accompanying each unique set of circumstances. Some people are angry not only with the situation, but angry with God. Last night I heard it said:

"It's ok if they're angry. He's a big God. He can handle it".

I walked away teary eyed and pure tangled up in those words. We're not supposed to be angry with God, right? We're not supposed to question Him, are we? I was so conflicted in my mind and heart.
Then, mama popped in my head and the memories washed over me....

I spent a lil time in scripture.

Suddenly it all came together in my heart like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle.

That sleepover with my sweet little bestie would have landed my naive, defenseless 7 year old self in the presence of some not so savory adults.
She was protecting me.

Dragging me away from the mall as a young teen, embarrassing as it was,  encouraged me to be honest and honor my word.
She was teaching me.

And when she encouraged me to keep working at my marriage, it helped me develop stamina and determination. She knew first hand it was needed in life and that quitting was a tough road to travel. She was helping me mature.

It may have taken time, but I eventually came to comprehend: She didn't cause those tough times to happen, but she used them to help me grow. She understood my being hurt, confused or angry and knew it was natural and---

She could handle it.

And even when I didn't quite understand, I always trusted that she had my best interest at heart.

Then I thought about Father.

It is true that we should not hold on to anger. The evil one would use that as an open window to sneak into our lives. But to never feel it, would be impossible. God knows our hearts. He knows us through and through. And He knows that in this world sometimes we will be confused, pain stricken, scared..... and  sometimes even angry. And you know what? We worship a powerful, loving, understanding God and ---

He can handle it.

Hard times will come, there's nothing we can do about that. But rest assure my hurting brothers and sisters, that God will use the difficult situations in our lives to protect us, teach us and help us mature as Christians. Understanding is hard..... But Im not sure that it's immediately necessary.

Trust is.

Comfort comes when we believers and the lost alike cry out to Father and admit our true thoughts and feelings and then confess broken heartedly and repent... Then time slowly heals the wounds left behind by hard times and delivers acceptance. And one day, though we sometimes think it never will-- clarity will prevail and understanding will consume us and conquer confusion.

And when it's all said and done, the bond will strengthen and we will be closer to Father than ever.

Trust in the Lord with all your heart; do not depend on your own understanding. Seek his will in all you do, and he will show you which path to take.

Proverbs 3:5-6

Southern Hospitality

 I am a southern Christian through and through. I believe in being kind to people. I believe in being hospitable. I rarely "speak my mind" or even defend myself when someone is rude to me. I just don't. But when my brother, Ronnie, called and told me that it had happened again, that you had struck yet again, I was furious. I got fighting mad, said a few words, felt guilty about succumbing to my anger, and then I cried. I just cant go to sleep tonight with this on my mind and weighing my heart. So, I just wanted to take a minute to step outside my comfort zone and tell you just what I think about you....

The first time you did it, I made excuses for you. I thought maybe you needed them. I told myself that you wanted to do the right thing for your loved one, but times were hard and you made one, emotionally driven, bad choice. I actually felt bad for you! I prayed for you! But, my sympathy quickly faded when you did it again, and again, and again.

 I'd like to know how you do it. How? Is there any guilt? Do you feel anything as you're walking away? Do you just walk up and down the rows until you find what you're looking for? Or is it just hers? Do you not like me or my brothers? Did you not like her? Is there ever a moment when you think to yourself "maybe I shouldn't..."? I like to think you do have a conscience. However, as many times as you've done it, I'm not sure how you could. What drives you?

On second thought, I know EXACTLY what drives you.... Or who drives you, I should say.

 That's not just some random rock that found it's way out there. We picked it out for her. And as eager as we were to put it out there, it was the moment that everything got real. It was carved in stone at that point, literally. Speaking of real, my mom was real. My brothers and I are real people too, ya know? We really exist. We work and we use our earnings to honor her memory. We still cry over her all the time. Though we know she is not there, we go there to remember her. Not that you care, but I want to tell you how great she was. She really was! She was everything to us. Everything. She was so funny. She was really hilarious. Her laugh was hearty and filled a room so contagiously, that you had to laugh with her. She was a straight shooter. She would tell you "like it is" in a minute, but in a likable way.... A respectable way. She was loving. She loved people with all of her heart. She'd put gas in a stranger's car when she didn't have enough money to pay her own bills. She touched so many lives in small ways and in big ways, but always in good ways. Not like you. She was very different from you. She was the hardest worker and the most determined individual that God ever made. That lady worked until her feet hurt so bad that she cried. She squalled. My brothers and I watched her keep putting one foot in front of the other, even though she was exhausted. She was self sufficient and she raised us to be the same way. Sometimes that means going from can to can't and sacrificing luxuries to pay for the necessities. The first time she took a hand out, it was only because the people that loved her INSISTED. See, unlike you, she worked and made her own way until her body physically failed her. When the cancer conquered her, she accepted the help..... but it broke her heart. She documented in a old spiral notebook all the folks that reached out to her. You want to know why? Because she didn't feel entitled... She felt grateful. She planned to pay each of them back when she got well.

But she never got well.

Her departure is why we have had the displeasure of getting to know you.

Because we do know you....

We know enough.

 As I write this to you, I understand that the chances of you actually reading it are very slim. Folks like you don't do much reading. You don't do much of anything productive. Well, I suppose you might check the jail docket here and there to see what old friends are up to. But I'm going to take my chances and hope that some way, some how, these words make their way to you.

That spot you love.... That shady spot under that old tree, SHE picked out that spot. She pointed it out to us when she knew she was dying. It wasn't easy for us, ya know? We honored her wishes. That spot, (the same one you cant stay away from), and the memories in our hearts--that's all we have left of her. Please think about what you're doing.

STOP STEALING THE FLOWERS OFF OF MY MAMA'S GRAVE.

So here's the deal, we have taken LOTS of precautions to catch you in the act. And WHEN we see who you are, so will the Sheriff's Department. And lucky for you, you'll get to catch up with your old friends one on one.

 I battled with whether or not to write this. I don't want to behave Godless, like you. You should know that it is because of my very real love for God and His presence in my life, that this letter looks very, very different than it would otherwise. Because it would look a lot different.

Trust me.

............And since I am a Christian, I am going to walk away from this letter with the heaviness gone from my heart.

I will pray for you, yet again.

And I will pray for me.

Before I go, I really need to warn you about your actions..... I know who you're in cahoots with. I know he's whispering in your ear, and whether you realize it or not, he's got ahold of you.

Stop listening to him.

Hanging out with the likes of that one will land you in a place down south that doesn't offer a whole lot of hospitality.

You don't need my forgiveness....

But you sure need to be asking the Good Lord for His, before it's too late.

The Life of The Cross

I always thought that I was destined for something great. I never voiced it aloud, but something deep inside me always felt special, set apart, and reserved for a bright future.

When I was younger, I blended in with the crowd. There was nothing special about my appearance. In fact, some that were standing along side me were taller, stronger, brighter, more attractive and more productive. In a sea of faces just like mine, there was no outward characteristic that drew any eyes specifically to me. I was overlooked by the world. Ignored. Passed up. I would often see those around me chosen and I would wonder "why not me? When will my day come?"

Years and years went by, and most everyone I grew up with had gone on to do different things with their lives. Some built homes and supported families. Others built businesses and various successful ventures. There were even a few that kept company with criminals. I heard story after story of the fate of my friends and kin, and good or bad-- I was envious of their lives. I looked at how little I had accomplished in my life and it was devastating. I've always stood as tall as I could. I've always tried my hardest. Why am I not good enough to have a story of my own?

The years trickled by, and in more and more ways, I felt so alone. I was way out in the middle of nowhere-- drowning in a sea of loneliness and desperation. I had all but given up. So when those intimidators showed up to kick me when I was down, I let them have their way. They beat me and cut me down. I did not have the strength to fight back, so I accepted my fate at the hands of these evil doers. I fell to the ground with a thunderous roar. They didn't stop there. Once I was down they destroyed me limb by limb.

This was my lowest point in more ways than one. Lying there in a pile of rubble that once was "me", I cried. I cried and cried and cried. The pain was unbearable! The devastation! The disappointment! A lifetime wasted! I yelled out to the heavens and begged for forgiveness for the failure that was me. Then I blacked out from the excruciating sting in my heart.

When I awoke, something was happening...

It was hard to make out, but Someone was carrying me. There were crowds gathered on either side and some were yelling angrily and chanting obscenities and others were crying and praying aloud. I noticed the Man that was carrying me, He was covered in blood and He seemed to be in pain. He had His arms wrapped around me tight and He refused to let me go. I wondered to myself what was driving Him.... What internal force pushed Him to keep putting one foot in front of the other? That same driving force that is allowing Him to support the burden of my weight even with His body in such physical despair. I had never seen this Man, but I knew this Man. Something deep inside, a feeling I can't quite explain, revealed to me that this was the natural order of things...

I felt that this Man was always intended to relieve me of myself, and embrace me, and carry me.

When we reached our destination,  I was laid upon the ground. The same hard hearts that had torn me apart, laid my Carrier upon me. His body was exhausted and it draped over me. Then, nail by nail, He and I became one. I felt His blood saturate me. It was a feeling like no other. His blood covered me and wrapped around my heart and soul.

Then, together, we were stood up to face the ugly world. His body was hanging on what was left of my branches. His physical strength was gone... But I could feel His spirit inside me. With His remaining strength, He called out to His Father:

"It is done".

And then that Man, that is like no other, breathed His last.

I was mourning for this carrier of mine, this lover of me, this savior of my heart...
Then suddenly, an old familiar feeling made its way back into my heart.
A feeling that the world had stripped from me over a lifetime of pain and loneliness.
A feeling that, I now know, came from this man all along...

I know that I AM special... I know that I AM set apart... And I know that I AM chosen...

My unique story unfolded in just the way it was supposed to.

After a lifetime of searching, I have realized my destiny...

See, I really was made for greatness...

I was made to bear Jesus for the world to see.

Chillz, They're Multiplyin'!

Just before I left church yesterday I started to feel achy all over my body. I ignored it like most of us mamas have to. But by last night, I had 101 fever. I felt HORRIBLE. I had chills, my chest was hurting and tight, I had body aches and a really bad headache. I always flatter myself to think that I am one tough cookie... But Nevie proved me wrong. A few hours later I would be up with her and she was running 103 temp. She wasn't as "pitiful" as me to say the least. She was eating popcorn and watching tv like it was no big deal. I made a mental note that I am actually NOT tough, but more of a big ole baby. I took her to the dr today at Laurel Pediatrics (where the BEST medical staff EVER are employed) and Ms. Nancy checked her for strep and flu. When those came back negative, they did a finger prick and determined that it was a viral infection. Figuring she and I have the same thing, I decided not to go to the dr myself. Instead, we came home to watch cartoons and wrap up under a blanket. Sometimes, on rainy days like today, it's nice to have an excuse to not go, go, go... I kind of wish it wasn't such a painful excuse......

Short post tonight, I know. But I did write something... You have to admit I'm doing a lil better...

The Family Business

       Yall have heard me talk about the donut shop... and I've complained to you about the curse/blessing that is Michael's work ethic. But you've only heard bits and pieces about something that is such a huge part of our lives. I wanted to take an opportunity to tell you a little bit about the family business.........

On September 12, 1955 a 19 year old young man from Chinendaga, Nicaragua 'leeegally' (<-- my best Trump impersonation) immigrated to America. His name was E.A. Garcia and his father sent him here to learn the American culture, the English language and to receive a higher education. He made his home in Laurel, Mississippi. He was a good man, a hard worker and enthusiastic about his future here in the states. Ten years after his arrival he had experienced college and worked here doing a number of jobs: selling furniture door to door, selling insurance and delivering newspapers. He lived very frugally with hopes of one day achieving the American Dream. In 1965 he walked in Commercial National Bank and asked for a loan to purchase, what would eventually become, the family business. Mr. Maddox, the banker, took a chance on a young entrepreneur and granted the loan. That business is none other than Shipley Donuts of Laurel. Thirty five years later, that young man from Nicaragua spoke fluent English, was married with 4 grown children and a beautiful farm, several rental properties, had built a thriving restaurant that had, not only paid off that initial loan, but also supported his family over the years. He had served far too many donuts to count and had became a pillar of our town. Then after decades of early mornings and late nights, he retired. His son, Michael, graduated from high school and took over the business. That is the very same Michael that I am now married to. Michael and I started dating during his senior year of high school and we were together when he made the decision to fore-go college and take over the family business. He had been working there since he was old enough to reach the rolling table and had been serving the people of Laurel for as long as he could remember, so for him, it wasn't a tough decision.

Michael has been managing "the shop" (that's what we call it) single handedly for 15 years now. For those that think taking over an already-established business doesn't involve sacrifcice, think again. Those of you that own a small business know that while getting established is huge feat, upholding a good reputation and keeping customers happy and coming back is an ongoing task. Some associate being a business owner with letting someone run your business for you while you take vacations and enjoy freedom and live the good life. But this is a HUGE misconception. In reality, owning a business is very confining and allows for very little freedom. Michael doesn't get a day off every week or every month or really ever at all. We are closed a cpl holidays every year and that is the only time my girls get to see their daddy in the morning light. They constantly beg him to stay home and cook breakfast (they think he is a better "breakfast cooker" than me) and he just can't...or won't... not sure which. If we get to take a family vacation, it's only because family members fill in and allow us to do so, and even then, it is hard for him to relax. I've often said, and wholeheartedly believe my husband is a workaholic. But I understand and appreciate his commitment to our customers. When you put out a handmade product everyday, there's no room for variations and inconsistencies that might accompany allowing different folks to fill in for you. So he just doesn't chance it. This is hard on our family, I won't sugar coat it. Time spent, or lack of, is literally the only thing Michael and I ever argue about. Our time together is so very limited and it makes me worry about the long term effects it will have on our girls. I have to remind myself that he is doing this for us.

My husband's alarm clock goes off at 3:00 in the morning, EVERY morning, seven days a week. He arrives at the shop alone and makes dough in a big ole mixer, then lets it sit for a bit. While that dough is sitting, he starts another batch. Soon, its time for him to roll it out, cut the donuts, place them on a screen in a proof box, then into the fryer to cook. Next, comes the glazer where piping hot, handmade treats are iced with delicious homemade icing. There's no conveyor belt that handles this entire process. That may be cool to watch, but that's not what's happening in our kitchen. Most all of the Shipley process is done by the same hands, every single day. And I think this attention to detail shows in the finished product. There are few treats that can compare to a good ole' Shipley Donut. We have regulars that are loyal to our store and come in every single day for the delicious donuts my husband makes. He takes his job as his dad's successor, serving the people of Laurel very, very seriously.

Since Michael has been running the shop, we have changed locations, created a unique and homemade lunch menu with the best chicken on a stick, hamburgers and onion rings in town... But some things never change....He has kept serving Laurel the fresh and delicious donuts they have come to expect from us. I work up front because I love, love, love meeting people and hearing their stories. The coolest part though, is we've started letting our kids follow in Michael's footsteps and work when they're out of school. We have so many plans and hopes and dreams to build upon this business that Mr. G. brought into this family FIFTY YEARS ago.

So there you have it! Next time you see me talking about "the shop" you'll know what I'm talking about!

No Quick Fix

Do you have a friend that's always there? One that you grew up with, made mistakes with, learned lessons with, laughed with, cried with, fought with and through it all you only got closer with. The one, that when life got in the way and you lost touch, you could still call after months of not talking and pick right back up where you left off. I have a few of those. Two of them are my buddies, Jennifer and Anna. We met when we were "grown ups" of thirteen years because our moms worked together. We became fast friends and were inseparable for the next several years. Then came weddings and school and jobs and kids-- and like it sometimes does, life pulled us apart. But through it all, we stayed in touch.

Yesterday, my phone rang and it was Jennifer. See, they lost their dad, Albert, about three months ago to (what started as) prostate cancer. It's been very hard on them because Albert was a wonderful person with a larger than life personality. We made small talk for a bit, then she broke down. "Nikki, it's just been the worst week. I miss him so much. I pick up the phone to call him, then I remember he's not there. It's just so hard.", she sobbed. I listened as she spoke. To make matters more painful, Yesterday her job in the medical field, (she sometimes floats from clinic to clinic) had landed her working an 8 hr shift in the very same oncology clinic where she sat with her dad just weeks earlier. She immediately got teary walking in the clinic. She said she could see him in every room... The vivid memories washed over her and suddenly she was listening as the dr recommended Hospice, with her sweet daddy sitting by her side-- full of hope and refusing to accept "no" for an answer. I continued to listen as she cried. My heart ached for her. She just kept asking "Why do I keep going down memory lane?", and it was killing me that I couldn't answer that question for her. She is hurting so badly. I am very, very worried about her.

Today, her little sister (and my other buddy), Anna, and I were texting. She is handling things a lot differently than her sister. Anna admitted that she refuses to let herself feel the loss of her dad. She has been keeping as busy as possible and is refusing to think or process what has happened. She, too, forgets he's gone and when the urge to call him or visit him invades her heart, she tricks herself into thinking he's sleeping or working. I read her words and I hurt for her. I worry that what she is doing isn't healthy and that she needs to grieve so that the healing process can begin. She said she is "scared" to face it. That breaks my heart. I am very, very worried about her too.



After talking with my sweet friends, I knew I had to come up with something to help them.

So I brainstormed ideas of how I could fix this:

I could send some scripture, after all, a little bit of Jesus makes everything better, right?

I could schedule a girls night to distract them.

I could take some donuts and we could all eat our feelings away.

I thought and thought and thought... But nothing I came up with seemed like enough.


Two sisters.

One significant loss.

Nothing I can do to help them.

Then I started thinking back to those first days without my mom. Much like Jennifer, I would have moments where the memory of my mom was so vivid that I could practically reach out and touch her. Restaurants and stores and familiar routes were filled with her in such a real way... and I, too, traveled up and down memory lane until it was paved with my teardrops. And similar to Anna, I would trick myself into forgetting she was gone. I would turn down her road refusing to accept reality. I would purposefully look for her sitting in that old rocking chair that we got her for Mother's Day. In my mind I was picking her up for some "great adventure" (that was actually just a trip to Wal-Mart or to Taylorsville).... In that moment, the sad reality was altered to something brighter. There was no new norm... She was still here and I was still me. And it felt good. Like both sisters, I wanted her back so badly. I would whirl into her yard and walk into her closet and bury my face in her clothes and breathe her in... and like the girls I, too, was in so much pain... and angry... and scared.. and confused...

And then it hit me..

Nobody ever fixed it for me.

They couldn't.

And I didn't expect them to.

But it sure was nice when they listened to me tell the same story about her for the hundredth time... and when they let me text at midnight because I was overwhelmed with memories... and when they called me on her birthday... and when they sent me flowers on the first Mother's Day without her...  and when they let me cry 1,2,3,4 years later and squeezed me tight and prayed for me....


There is no set way to handle a loss.
There is no timeline to meet certain healing milestones.
There is no 12-step program to heal your heart.

Simply put, there is no quick fix.

We just have to lean on God and wait for time to do it's thing.

I can't fix this for Jennifer and Anna...
I can't take their pain away....
I can't offer some guaranteed comfort in the form of advice...

But I can be there.

And you know what? A girls night filled with donuts, scripture, tears, laughs, listening ears and offering up a shoulder made specifically for crying on-- might do just fine in the mean time.

Four Years

Dear Mama,

           I have walked around with the biggest lump in my throat for days now, thinking of you and missing you. Each day seemed to be a little worst than the last, leading up until today.

Saturday, I accidentally caught the last bit of one of your favorite movies, "Terms of Endearment", and it took me three straight hours to recover.

Sunday, the opening music cued up in church and the tears didn't stop rolling until the closing music ended.

While working at the donut shop this week, (where I typically dive into conversations with the customers),  I've had to make myself talk and I've had to stop myself repeatedly from getting lost in my head..

But Mama, God has put the most amazing people in my path lately...

Yesterday I met the most wonderful little lady while working the drive thru window.  And while her sweet tired eyes and her extra short hair gave it away, her warm smile and the strength she exuded refused to let her be labeled as a "victim" of the horrible disease you battled. I learned that she is on her fourth round of chemo battling ovarian cancer.

I told her how beautiful she was.

And she really was.

I told her I'd pray for her.

And I really did.

But what I didn't tell her is that after I handed her donuts, which is one of the few things she can still eat, I had to run to the back to keep from crying in front of the customers and staff. I saw YOU in her. I remember those days so vividly I can reach out and touch them. And as scary as they were-- I'd still take them in my arms and wrap them up so tight, if it meant I could just feel you one more time.

Today, I met Mandy, who is rapidly approaching the one year mark since her mom left and went to heaven. I could see the pain behind her teary eyes. I could feel it. My heart ached for her as she told me her story. I've never wished so badly that I was articulate and could say the right thing to take her pain away and make her smile. But I couldn't. All I could do was hug her and cry with her. I think it was a hug we both needed.

Then this morning, I got several texts from friends and family simply saying "I love you" or "thinking of you".

Last, I have to tell you about tonight. Tonight at church, my friend Christina handed me a journal to record all of my thoughts and prayers and feelings. The gift was something else... So thoughtful. It was something just so incredibly sweet... and it made me so happy... And so sad... And all the feelings from the last week conflicted with each other in that moment and just completely overwhelmed me.

I took the gift.

 I hugged her.

Then I walked into my bible study class.

I knew it was coming, though I had been fighting it off ( fairly successfully) for days. I felt it building and building.

I had barely sat down before I started crying inconsolably. I was sobbing.

The girls in class didn't say a word.

They knew.

They just let me go.

After class I got plenty of tight hugs.

It's hard to remember what life was like with you here with me. Four years in your absence has almost stripped me of the memory of who I used to be. But God reminds me constantly that I'm not alone. He sends people to hug me, to talk to me, to laugh with me, to cry with me and to pray for me. And when they come, all I see is you... And Him... And I'm reminded that soon you and I will reunite and the pain that exists now will be no more.

Until that day,

I'll keep writing.

I love you mama.

Bushel and a peck,

Hug around the neck,

And all my broken heart.,

Love,

Nik

True Love

Of course I know what “love” is…

It is what I felt as a small child for my raggedy old brown teddy bear as my imagination gave her life and we played and played and  I confided in her all my tiny lil secrets.

It is what I felt for my neighbor and very best friend in the whole wide world back when we were climbing trees and catching bugs until the sun went down on each of our perfect days.

I truly do know what “love” is…

It is what I felt for my grandmother when she would smile and fill the air of her echoey old house with the sounds of her warm familiar voice singing beautiful old hymns and the smell of homemade buttermilk biscuits.

It is what I felt for my very first crush when I knew it all and was a grown-up of fourteen years and my stomach would fill with butterflies and my heart would skip a beat at the sound of his name.

I’m definitely aware of what “love” is…

It is what I have always felt for writing, which is the safe and comfy little nook that I can tuck into and truly be myself.

It’s what I felt for my two brothers when we would joke and laugh until our bellies hurt and have all night movie marathons when the heavy weight of our eyelids couldn’t force us to drift off and end our fun.

It is what I felt for the sweet freedom gained from the first car that I bought with my very own hard earned money that I thought would take me to the ends of the earth and back again.

Yes… I know “love”…

It is what I felt when I watched helplessly from across the room as my poor lil mama cried with her aching feet after her shift ended at her second job.

It’s what I felt for my fluffy and precious Pomeranian sister who grew up with me, but aged much faster and left me far too soon.

I absolutely know what “love” is…

It is what I felt for my husband when he held my trembling hand and confidently promised God in front of all of our friends and family that he would take care of me, always.

It’s what I felt earning the ability to  work with children and soaking up their sweet giggles and angelic little hugs one by one.

It is what I felt each time God blessed me and I was able to gaze tearily for the first time into the innocent eyes of my beautiful daughters.

I’m sure I  know what “love” is…

It is what I feel when I gaze across a fresh cut pasture where four giggling little girls are running free as the golden buttery sunset illuminates my hand inside my husband’s.

It is what I feel when my babies cry, and their pain stings my heart.

It is what I felt when I watched my sweet little mama fight the sickness inside of her with all her might and I secretly wished I could take it from her and fight it myself.

Yes…

Ive always known “love”….

At Least,

I thought I did…

But I was empty…

I was lonely…

I was scared and confused…

I was lost..

Then in a moment of utter darkness,

my heart shattered…

And I called for Father to help me…

To forgive me…

To save me..

And He did.

Then in that moment…

For the first time ever…

I felt true LOVE.


But God, who is rich in mercy, because of His great love with which He loved us, even when we were dead in trespasses, made us alive together with Christ (by grace you have been saved), and raised us up together, and made us sit together in the heavenly places in Christ Jesus,
Ephesians 2:4-6


So as Valentine’s Day approaches, I ask you this dear friends,

Do you know what true “love” is?