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BLUE APPLE MOMENTS

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December 17, 2020 · 3:22 pm


BITING BLUE APPLES

Biting Blue Apples
“So, what’s the deal with blue apples?”

This is one of the most commonly asked questions I get when students peruse the
decor of my classroom, where I have several blue apple tributes. One of those,
by the way, includes a 25-year old painted blue apple given to me as an
end-of-the-year teacher gift by Bobby Higginbotham, who was in my very first 5th
grade class in 1995 – it’s made out of resin and filled with sand, and is now
plugged on both ends with globs of hot glue because at some point when it was
being used as my hall pass, some students had a bit too much fun playing with it
and, if I’m not mistaken, the poke-a-pencil-in-the-blue-apple game got out of
control…! But I still cherish it and prominently display it on a shelf behind my
desk.

My 1995 blue apple (with hot glue plugging the hole a student made with his
compass 15 years ago…), along with some other classroom memories and motivators!

What is a blue apple? I’m so glad you asked! Basically, a blue apple is a
metaphor. You knew it was coming. I’m an English teacher, so of course
figurative language MUST factor into the discussion! The exact metaphorical
reference, though, is hard to pin down. It’s a combination of risk-taking and a
lack of reliance on comfort; it’s a weird mixture of venturing into the unknown
and committing to persevere even when circumstances are mundane. Basically, when
we bite blue apples in life, we move into a time/place/relationship/circumstance
for which we have no guarantee of success nor do we know what the situation will
feel or be like. I first heard the story of the blue apple during June 1986,
when I walked into a huge gymnasium full of strangers at the opening session of
the Mississippi Governor’s School at MUW and heard the analogy in the director,
Dr. Guy Rose’s, welcome speech. I was honored to have been chosen as one of 150
Mississippi high schoolers to attend Governor’s School, and even though it meant
giving up cheerleading my senior year of high school, that decision was a HUGE
blue apple for me and it was one that changed my life dramatically, in many
ways.

When I introduce the concept to students, I ask them to imagine themselves
walking among trees, looking up and all of a sudden noticing a bright, shiny
blue apple in the midst of ordinary (green, red, yellow) ones. The question that
they must then answer is: WILL YOU TAKE A BITE OF THAT BLUE APPLE?!?! Now, it’s
very interesting to me to see – without giving them a third option – which
students choose to take a bite without hesitation and which say they would just
walk away and pretend like they never saw it. After I allow them to verbalize
some options for a third choice there are, of course, many suggestions for
studying/testing the blue apple before actually taking a bite. The discussion is
a nice ice-breaker for the first week of class and reveals some important
insights about my students. But perhaps more importantly, the story illustrates
a point that I want students to absorb and contemplate time and time again in my
class: thinking about decisions and planning for the future is important, but
there are sometimes moments that transcend logic and pro/con lists. Personal
comfort and guaranteed success should not be our only decision-making
parameters! For some students, taking an Honors or AP class is a blue apple . .
. for another student, breaking off a bad relationship might be his or her blue
apple moment . . . for yet another, auditioning for the school musical or trying
out for (or dropping off!) an athletic team might be huge blue apples.

After almost 30 years of working with children and adolescents, through both my
classroom and DI experiences, I’ve witnessed some amazing blue apple-biting!!
How amazing it is to see middle school and high school students break out of
their “molds” and try something new, even if they have no idea what the new
experience will be like. These students inspire me and boost my spirits in a way
that is hard to describe. Even after they are not “my students” anymore, these
young people (my oldest former students are almost 40 years old . . . so they
are still young to me) are still inspiring me via facebook (mostly, although I
do get to see some in person on occasion)!

I am grateful to so many mentors in MY life who’ve helped me bite blue apples,
some of which have dramatically altered the course of my life and whom I firmly
believe God placed in my path to help me understand His plan and purpose for me,
even when I didn’t understand it myself. At the risk of leaving out someone, I
hesitate to name names here, but I’m going to tag at least some of them in the
facebook posting about my blog update, because I really do owe them a huge debt
of gratitude. We all need people to kick us in the pants (metaphorically
speaking…) sometimes and get us out of our comfort zones, and I’m so very
grateful for those kicks. And those bites of blue apples!

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March 26, 2019 · 12:19 pm


NOT THE END OF THE ROAD

The metaphors explored in Frost’s poem about the “gold” that cannot stay – the
fleeting qualities of life – have been on my mind lately, as I stare down the
half-century mark and ponder how the hues of life’s moments are practically
impossible to pin down in any permanent way. Cycles and phases and ends and
beginnings are what make up all of life! Today, my family is celebrating one of
those beginnings, as my parents are celebrating their 50th wedding anniversary,
and soon will be celebrating an ending, as well, as my mom will permanently
retire from teaching after almost 50 years as an educator of one type or
another.

1969 was quite a year!

 * Man landed on the moon, and the microprocessor was invented.
 * “Suspicious Minds,” “Sweet Caroline, “A Boy Named Sue,” “Oh, Happy Day,” and
   the Beatles’ “Abbey Road” album are just a few musical gems from that year,
   and of course Woodstock happened.
 * Nixon was elected president, the first troops were withdrawn from Vietnam,
   and Gold Meir becomes prime minister of Israel.

And in north Mississippi, my parents crossed the state line on a Wednesday in
March and got married by the justice of the peace in Hamilton, Alabama. My dad
was finishing his studies at Mississippi State University and my mom at nearby
Mississippi University for Women when they made that drive. And, as they say,
the rest is history!

 * Mary Carolyn Baker Turner
 * Patrick Henry Turner

After I was born, my mom completed her degree at “The W” in Columbus, with a
sitter coming each day to watch me at the mobile home they had bought. They then
relocated to property owned by my dad’s family outside of Fulton, where his
Harden ancestors first settled in the mid-19th century.

Map marking my parents’ homes – both at “the end of the road” in the Harden’s
Chapel community of Itawamba County, Mississippi: 95 Wilson Road (1970-1980),
and 5 Turner Road (1980-present). A creek bottom separates the two properties,
resulting in a circuitous road route between the
two. There is now a house past the Wilson Drive location, but I assure you 
there is NOT a house past theirs on Turner Road!

In 1971, my sister Samantha was born, and our family settled into life in that
mobile home at “the end of the road” on what is now Wilson Drive. Mama was a
teacher at the local elementary school and Daddy – who can build anything –
added a porch and two rooms onto the back of the trailer. Samantha and I rode
our bikes, explored the pasture and woods, played for hours in the playhouse
Daddy built us in the backyard, cut out paper dolls from Sears catalogs, and
learned how to keep house and cook in the trailer’s little kitchen. Throughout
all of those early years, we attended Harden’s Chapel Methodist Church, then
Southside Baptist Church, where we learned more about Jesus and attended
Vacation Bible School and sang in Christmas and Easter programs. We didn’t have
much, but we didn’t really know that!

 * Turner Family, 1975
 * “Sammie” and me, 1972
 * Hobo birthday party, 1977
 * My mom was my first grade teacher! I am in the first row, third from right.

In 1979, Daddy begin building Mama’s dream house on the other end of their
property (which is now the “end of the road” on Turner Road). They tried to save
as much as possible, and Daddy built every bit of the house with his own two
hands! We spent many afternoons and summer days at “the new house,” Samantha and
I helping out by watching our new sister, Mia, who arrived in May 1979 and
entranced us all! Within a year or so, the house was finished enough for us to
move in, but Samantha and I used a ladder to get to our second floor bedrooms
for quite a while. Daddy wanted to get the stairs just right!

 * With Mama on the “new house” porch
 * Samantha, Mia, and Robin -1982

The 80s came to a close , then the 90s dawned with the birth of our precious
youngest sister, Kaitlin, who was born when both Samantha and I were in college!
Their first grandchild, Adrienne, was born four years later in Pullman,
Washington, where Anthony and I met and where we were living at the time. Mama
retired from teaching in Mississippi several years later, and began several new
ventures, including homeschooling Kaitlin, teaching GED classes, and starting to
accrue years of teaching experience in Alabama so she could qualify for a second
retirement.

 * Kaitlin’s birth, March 1990
 * Adrienne’s baby dedication, July 1994


A THREEFOLD CORD

During all of these years, Daddy never stopped moving, working, and learning. He
mostly was self-employed as a builder, landscaper, and farmer. He sometimes
jokes that he is a “jack of all trades, but master of none,” but I beg to
differ. His mastery is apparent in many ways. However, Daddy’s smile is never
wider than when he’s holding a grand baby or two! He has made two runs for the
county board of supervisors, and although he didn’t win the election, he stood
up for his beliefs, just as he always has. He is a voracious reader and I think
I probably get my tendency to grab onto and express strong opinions from him.

 * Holding Nate and Lily, 2007
 * Posing at home for a campaign shot

Those who know my mom know that she also never stops! However, her activities
were often a bit more people-oriented and public, ranging from teaching in both
public and private schools (almost all K-12 grades and many adults in GED
classes), as well as teaching Sunday school, directing Vacation Bible School for
many years, running several “side gig” businesses, supporting Daddy in his
businesses, and helping people in her community and church for decades, most of
the time in practical, immediate ways. Whether she is exhausted or at the end of
her rope (of time, energy, or money!), if she says she will do something, it
will get done!

 * Lily modeling one of many costumes/outfits Mama has made over the years
 * Loading plants for a DI fundraiser

 * Mama’s last class of students helps her celebrate her 70th birthday!
 * Mama with her kindergarten class at the pumpkin farm, fall 2018

> A threefold cord is not easily broken.
> 
> Ecclesiastes 4:12

Throughout all these years – the changes, the struggles, the moves, job changes,
four daughters, thirteen grandchildren – there are some things that have
remained constant. Above, below, and throughout all of my parents’ lives is not
only their love for each other (which, though important, is still limited by our
human foibles), but more crucially, their love for God and trust in the good
news of Jesus Christ and Him crucified. Their faith has perhaps even faltered a
bit at times, when life seemed to throw more at them than they could handle
themselves. But in the end, those moments simply proved to grow their faith even
more.


THE GOLD THAT STAYS

As this day grew closer, I began to think about the gifts my parents have given
me. No, most of those are not material things or items that will be passed on
via legal documents one day, but they are the gold that will stay after all the
dross of life is faded and gone. The gold that stays beyond all the endings and
beginnings because it’s the kind that enriches your soul, not your wallet.

I asked my sisters to help me, and we’ve come up with some pieces of gold that
we are thankful for on this monumental day of celebrating fifty years and that
we hope to pass on as best as we can to the generations to come:

 * Being spontaneous sometimes and passing that on to your children and
   grandchildren.
 * Easter dresses and memory verse stickers.
 * Freedom to play and climb trees and wade creeks (and snake-bite kits).
 * How to be confident (even when some might call it being stubborn or
   headstrong…).
 * Shoulder rides and singing songs like “Blueberry Hill,” and “Daddy, Don’t You
   Walk So Fast.”
 * Don’t use fabric scissors on paper or eat on the carpet.
 * The chance to spend time with all grandparents and great-grandparents for as
   long as we could.
 * “Hee Haw” and chicken from “Mr. Sandlin’s” on Saturdays, “Little House on the
   Prairie” on Mondays, and the importance of turning off the television as much
   as possible.
 * Teaching us to drive a stick shift, change a tire, sew, can vegetables, make
   tomato gravy and biscuits, crochet, fold laundry while watching television,
   play the piano, mix mortar, start seedlings, change diapers, respect our
   elders, and keep our word.
 * Modeling being conscious about food sourcing and sustainability.
 * Salad dressing mixed with ketchup and mayo and relish mixed in green melamine
   bowls.
 * Humbly and faithfully following Jesus and pointing others toward Him.
 * Making up silly songs and singing them to us.
 * The dangerous results of saying you are bored.
 * Being thankful for what we have, even if it’s not what others have.
 * The importance of making birthdays special.
 * Helping us learn to be comfortable talking in front of people and getting out
   of our comfort zones.
 * To not shrink back from hard physical work (especially in the winter when the
   firewood box is empty – even if it’s dark outside, or when the greenhouse has
   to be covered due to a late frost).
 * To appreciate the simple beauty of a camellia, a newborn calf, a baby’s
   smile, pine trees swaying in the wind, green grass underfoot, a toddler’s
   drawing, and family gathered all in one room.
 * Being about as opposite as two people can be yet sticking together through
   thick and thin.

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 * Planted near Reed’s Creek in the 1940s by my great-grandmother Vista H.
   Grissom
 * Planted at “the trailer” in the 1970s by my mom, Mary B. Turner
 * Planted in Madison, Alabama in 2018 by Robin Turner Dauma

These golden daffodils, planted over the course of eighty years, are symbols of
both the brevity of life and the tangible reminders of the stories and struggles
and milestones and mourning that make up life and that carry on, long past our
lives on earth are over.

Last spring, I spent a beautiful spring weekend at the cabin that my dad built
by doubling the size of those two rooms he built onto our trailer in the early
1970s. I took a long Sunday walk “down to the creek” and down memory lane,
exploring the vastly changed landscape. The cabin by the creek which was built
my my great-grandfather B.E. Grissom is still mostly standing, but the barn
nearby has fallen down. I made pictures of the house, the trees crowding the
fragile walls, the moss-covered cornerstone, wondering so many things that I’ll
likely never know the answers to. (What was the man who laid the cornerstone
like? Did he build the house by himself like Daddy did? Were there curtains in
the windows? Did their kids wade in the creek? Did they read or sing in the
evenings? What dreams did they have?)

I did wade in the creek and then dug up some of the daffodils that I assume were
planted by my great-grandmother sometime during the years she lived in “the old
house” (when I knew her before her death in 1977, she lived next door to us, “up
the hill”). This took me quite a while because of course I didn’t have a spade
handy, and the roots were extremely deep and strong. Just like mine.


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I’m so thankful for those roots.

And for the couple who – against all odds – have made things work for fifty
years. May you enjoy many more years together!

Pat & Mary Turner

Christmas 2018

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August 15, 2017 · 2:25 am


GOALIE MOM LESSONS

My oldest son left for college today. So what am I feeling? I liken it to the
pit-of-the-stomach ache, which I’ve felt on the sidelines so many times,
watching my son don his goalie gloves and take his position on the field in
front of the net.

Even though we’ve walked the college move-in path before, my husband and I are
realizing that there are some differences between this college move-in day and
that of our oldest daughter. From the time he was mobile, we knew that raising
our son would take us down different path, so it shouldn’t have come as a
surprise that the cusp of his adulthood has shaken us as much as his childhood
exhausted us. In one seven-week period during his pre-teen years, his escapades
landed him in the emergency room three times. I joked that we should just leave
his hospital bracelet on a hook inside the door and pick it up on our way in the
next time! One of the joys and horrors of watching him grow up was his physical
aggressiveness and fearlessness. Climbing, jumping, catapulting, kicking,
skating. Nothing was off limits. We watched this with equal parts admiration and
panic, and decided early on to provide outlets for the adrenaline and
risk-taking urge that obviously wasn’t going away. Don’t fight it, we reasoned.
Use it! And use it he did.

A black belt in Tae Kwon Do before he was eleven years old. One of the youngest
“regulars” at our local skate park. And, in the last few years, a few adventures
that have landed him in some trouble, yet thankfully have not resulted in him
(or anyone else) getting hurt. These things have caused us to shake our heads,
regroup and rethink our parenting, and pray like we’ve never prayed before. And
although tiring and sometimes discouraging, none of those things are enough to
outweigh the wonderfulness of having a boy whose impish grin brings us so much
joy and whose fearless individualism bring us such pride.

All things considered, though, some of my favorite moments have been at the
soccer field, watching him play goalkeeper for the majority of his fourteen
years as a soccer player. The goalie mom universe is a mysterious one that is to
be entered with moxie and teflon-like sideline posture. From the first time I
saw the glee in his eyes as he faced down an offensive player racing toward him
to the moment I saw him take off his goalie gloves for the final time as his
high school team was defeated in the second round of the state playoffs, I
walked a tightrope of nerves that only goalie moms can truly understand.
However, as I’ve had some time to reflect, I’ve observed perhaps some of these
goalie mom lessons can also apply to life outside of the soccer pitch.


FIVE THINGS I LEARNED BEING A GOALIE MOM





1 – YOUR REACH IS ONLY AS GOOD AS YOUR STRETCH. 

When you are the player standing there in the goal, there’s a lot of room for
the opponent to get past, and your body is only so wide. Learning to anticipate
so you know which way to move and stretch is an instinctive skill that goalies
are usually born with, to a degree, but which must continue to be honed.



In life, we must learn to adjust to what life throws at us and somehow learn to
stretch ourselves (physically, emotionally, mentally) further than we ever
thought possible.







 

 


2 – ALONENESS AND STILLNESS WILL COME AND GO, AND IS SOMETHING TO BE THANKFUL
FOR.



At times, the action in the game is all on the other end of the field and you
feel somewhat alone down in the goal by yourself. If you are the type to wander
far out of the goal (as my son was, to many coaches’ chagrin…), then you can
sometimes get a bit closer to the action, but you still can’t really join in.
You are watching the game, but there’s nothing you can do. Sometimes the
helplessness is overwhelming, and sometimes the disconnectedness is a relief.
Either way, it’s only temporary, and in a split second, the game may turn and
offensive players will all of a sudden be upon you, hopefully with your
teammates nearby to help defend the goal. Adrenaline pumping, you realize that
the moments you had to catch your breath were crucial, but they are over and you
must get your head – and the rest of you – fully in the game.



Similarly, we all must realize that respite (and for some, aloneness) is
necessary and when it doesn’t come often enough, we are spent and not much good
to anyone.

 


3 – ACCOMPLISHMENTS CAN BE FORGOTTEN AMID FAILURE.



A goalie often makes countless saves per game, stopping the ball from getting
near or in the goal. However, those saves are often forgotten by spectators, or
even your teammates, when you make a mistake and the opposing team scores a
goal. Your shortcomings as a player are excruciatingly visible, and even when
the ball shouldn’t even have come close to the goal and others made mistakes as
well, the spotlight is on you when the ball gets through and the other team
scores.



In the non-soccer world, this kind of overlooking happens, too. Competence is
sometimes unnoticed, or even punished, as others just assume you will keep doing
what you do well and sometimes slow down or don’t do their jobs because they
know you will step up and get the ball. However, when you mess up (as we all
do), your mistake is highlighted, sometimes unforgiven, and can cause others to
believe that you don’t even need to be in the game. Despite that unfairness,
though, we have to still continue to do what we do with excellence and
consistency.

 


4- LIFE HURTS SOMETIMES.

Being the last line of defense requires a lot of sacrifice. Sometimes that
sacrifice is painful or even humiliating. Getting kicked in the face is a
regular occurrence. Run-ins with other players, the goalposts, and the turf are
just part of the gig. It takes a lot of guts to be a goalie. You have to be
fearless.



Someone has to be there and if you have the personality and tenacity to do it,
then you are the person for the job. Sometimes other positions may seem more
glamorous, but goalies know they are where they are supposed to be and they love
what they do. (And yes, sometimes they can be arrogant.) When the pressure is
on, a good goalie sometimes even coaches a bit from the goal and keeps his
teammates motivated (even when they’d rather him just be quiet!).



Living in this world is not without pain. Sometimes we just lie on the
metaphorical ground and get stepped on by those who have no idea how much we’ve
sacrificed. Sometimes we know that’s just what has to be done. Sometimes someone
gets too close and we collide midair, resulting in an injury. We didn’t mean for
anyone to get hurt, but in the speed and hecticness of the moment, it happened.
We are regretful and wish we could change things, but we know that we didn’t
hurt the person intentionally and we hope and pray and do what we can do so that
the hurt can be healed.

 


5 – KEEP DOING WHAT YOU BELIEVE IN AND LOVE TO DO, EVEN WHEN OTHERS DON’T GET
IT!



Whether your team wins the county championship, makes the state playoffs, or has
a winless season, when you know you are meant to be a goalie, you are going to
have fun, no matter what. Putting your whole heart  – and body – into what you
are doing and leaving everything on the field is a great feeling.



Real life is like this, too. Even when you know some don’t agree with things
you’ve done, even when someone else gets the glory for your hard work and
consistency, and even when you took everything into consideration and made the
best decisions you could at the time yet still made mistakes, you can rest well
when you’ve done what you know you are called and equipped to do. Failure is
part of life. Some things we try, not knowing what the exact outcome will be,
and those are the things that change us most dramatically.

Sometimes we lean toward one side of the goal, when we should have stayed in the
middle.

Sometimes we come too far out of the goal and we can’t make it back in time to
stop the ball from going in. Dang it.



For me, this dynamic includes a spiritual component of knowing that my status as
a beloved daughter of God is not in jeopardy due to a foul called on me, the
fact that I yelled in anger at my teammate, or even a mistake that cost my team
the game or the championship. We are in the game of life for the long haul, not
the short-term. Progress, not perfection.

Even though my son’s goalie career may be over, the lessons he – and I – learned
are ones we can keep working on until the clock runs all the way out.



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July 20, 2016 · 2:38 am


22 THINGS MY DAUGHTER HAS TAUGHT ME

Twenty-two years ago today, I became a mom for the first time. Our oldest
daughter arrived via non-emergency c-section, after about 20 hours of fairly
non-productive labor. I wanted to keep going, but I started retaining fluid and
the baby’s heart rate was approaching dangerous levels, so my doctor recommended
we go ahead and do the c-section before it DID become an emergency situation. I
cried and was so angry at myself (which is kind of stupid), but in the end, we
agreed and they prepped me for surgery. My husband stayed right beside my
shoulders the entire time. (He is not a fan of needles or scalpels. However, he
can watch hundreds of people be blown to bits in a movie. Things that make you
go “hmmm.”) He saw our daughter first (because big huge curtain thing) and, as
agreed, he got to choose between the names we had previously agreed upon as our
top two choices, based on which name he felt fit her best. He chose Adrienne
Laurel. Laurel is in honor of his stepmother, one of the kindest, patient, and
most gracious souls to walk the planet. Adrienne? Yeah (or should I say “Yo”?),
that’s for Rocky’s wife (although we spelled it differently). Go ahead and
giggle, but is she not a great character? Talk about tenacious. And loyal. And
cute in hats and glasses.

Our sweet girl embodies all of the best qualities of her namesakes. I am in awe
of her sometimes. The year she was born, our income was well below the poverty
level, as I was making minimum wage teaching preschool, and Anthony was still in
college. We were not planning on having a baby quite yet, but God had other
plans. (As I tell my students, who always look mortified when I say this:
“No birth control has a 100% guarantee.”) We lived in a 600-square foot studio
apartment in the basement of fellow church members’ house. Adrienne’s crib was a
port-a-crib that our church had removed from the nursery and put on the curb.
Anthony bought some screws and fixed it. I bought cloth diapers and some
new-fangled (at the time) velcro diaper covers – at a yard sale. My church
friends gave me a baby shower and we got a car seat and swing (the latter took
up about 20% of the available apartment floor space…) and lots of little pink
clothes. My parents, in-laws, and my husband’s grandparents sent us
modest checks to put in the bank or buy other necessities. I signed up for
Medicaid and WIC and learned about how to maneuver all those systems. Then,
during the hottest July week eastern Washington state had in years, our little
black-haired, black-eyed beauty made her appearance. Were we ready? Did we know
all the things? Absolutely not. 22 years and four kids later, we still know very
little, but we try to learn.

As a teacher, I often have running mental lists of the things I want to teach my
students – and my own children – in a given day/week/month/semester. What I’ve
been amazed at (over 22 years of parenting and 25 total years of teaching) is
how much they teach ME. Sometimes I do not realized those lessons until after
the fact, or after a few attempts, but the lessons are profoundly humbling and
thought-provoking. So, I thought it appropriate to take some time on Adrienne’s
birthday to write a few of them down.

In no particular order, here are 22 things my daughter has taught me.
Please note that if a sarcasm font existed, I would have used it on some of
these.

 1.  Although it’s wonderful to have a birth plan and be educated about the ins
     and outs of childbirth, the baby being healthy is the most important thing.
     I am thankful for a wise friend who told me this  before Adrienne was born.
     She had had two c-sections and told me that if that happened, it would be
     okay. I listened and smiled politely, never dreaming that a few weeks
     later, her words would be a balm to my soul.
 2.  There should be no shame attached to being on Medicaid or WIC. I swallowed
     my pride more than once because I knew I needed the benefits in order to
     best care for my baby. Although there are certainly abuses to the system
     (any system…), most people who need this kind of aid truly do need the
     help, especially when babies are involved.
 3.  Although it IS possible to put on heels and hose and go to church for your
     baby’s dedication service when she is five days old, that plan is not
     recommended (although I’m glad we did it quickly because my parents got to
     be there… but I should have just worn some maternity clothes and been done
     with it). Do not try to be superwoman. On the other hand, you are not
     “sick” when recuperating from childbirth (usually). Once you rest and are
     able to shower and comb your hair, try to get out of the house, even for an
     hour. Let a trusted friend watch the baby while you go to the library or
     walk aimlessly through the grocery store.
 4.  If you breastfeed, it will hurt. Period. (Well, there are a couple of
     people I know who swear it never did, but I think they must have still been
     on painkillers…). But it will get better and by the time the baby is 3
     months old or so, you’ll feel much more comfortable.
 5.  If your husband offers to watch the baby while you rest/go out with a
     friend/get a pedicure, let him. But don’t expect him to multi-task. When
     he’s watching the baby, he may just do that: watch the baby. I went back to
     work when Adrienne was 6 weeks old. Anthony upped his hours at his
     part-time job on campus and I lowered mine at the daycare center, so we
     didn’t have to pay for childcare (it was horrendously expensive where we
     lived at the time). So, we swapped off midday. I got so angry for a while
     because he didn’t also do the dishes or fold some laundry during his
     “shift” with Adrienne. Then I saw him on the floor with her, laughing, one
     day as I arrived home. I realized how fortunate I was to have a husband who
     wanted to play with his child and help take care of her. And I tried to
     shut up about the dishes.
 6.  Be picky about babysitters, but do find some so you can go on date nights.
     Your husband needs your attention and you need his. One day, the kids will
     all be gone, and if you have not prioritized your marriage, you won’t have
     one left at that point. We have never had family in town, so as the years
     have gone by, we paid for sitters sometimes just to go for coffee if we
     couldn’t afford dinner or a movie.
 7.  Three-year-olds are not really humans. Birthday parties for three-year-olds
     are hellacious. That is all.
 8.  There is no one-size fits all for potty-training. I was fortunate in that
     the in-home daycare provider all my children stayed with was a pro at it,
     so she just told me what to do to reinforce her strategy (lots of M&Ms and
     peer pressure from the other daycare kids) and I followed her lead. Odds
     are, your child will not wear diapers to kindergarten.
 9.  There is nothing cuter than preschool dancers at their recital. Hilarious.
     Then, 15 years later, when she’s dancing across that stage in her senior
     recital, you will feel like your heart is going to burst.
 10. When the training wheels come off the bike, your heart will stop. Then it
     will soar. Then it will stop again (Hugs. Band-Aids. Popsicles). Then soar
     once more.
 11. You may cry when that first tooth comes out. And you will put it in a
     box (Why?) and write a cute, glittery note from the tooth fairy. You will
     probably stop doing this at some point.
 12. Even if you hated team sports (Or dance. Or asparagus.), let your child try
     things he or she expresses interest in. Except for hockey. That’s just
     craziness.
 13. Playing in a sandbox is fun. So are tea parties. But so are nights out with
     your friends. And Elvis impersonator concerts. (Okay, maybe not for
     everyone). Just do fun things, both with your child and with other adults.
 14. Putting your child on a school bus is not child neglect. Usually. Each
     situation is different, but most of the time, the kids are great and the
     bus driver takes care of them. And they learn so many life skills. And
     maybe a word or two you would have preferred they not learn for another
     year or two, but it’s okay. Really. Adrienne does not have a potty-mouth
     from riding the bus. She doesn’t have a potty-mouth at all, from all
     accounts. But if she does, it’s from Netflix. Or maybe from me. But not
     from the school bus.
 15. I almost hate to add this one because of the mommy-blogosphere overload on
     this topic… If you work outside the home, you will likely feel some
     guilt for not being there for every.single.thing. If you stay/work at home,
     you will likely feel some guilt for not using your degree, etc. All of us
     just have to get over that and do the best we can. And most of us give up
     on scrapbooking, so that helps.
 16. Studies show that if you make it to about 80% (4 out of 5 for my fellow
     statistics-challenged peeps) of your kids’ activities, they will feel loved
     and supported. So if you are home with a toddler or in a meeting or out of
     town and can’t make it to the Thanksgiving program, send your husband or
     your mother or your friend and tell them to make a video. Watch it later
     with your child and do not feel guilty.
 17. You do you. Your kids need to see this and it will help you help them to be
     themselves.
 18. When her heart is broken, yours will break, too. Have a slushie and watch a
     good movie or call a friend. Help her learn healthy coping mechanisms. (I
     am not great at this, but I do try.) Don’t try to fix things for her. When
     she isn’t given the dance part or the A or the invitation to a party, just
     comfort, don’t try to fix it. Let her learn to talk to the adults and peers
     in her life that challenge her.
 19. Buy good umbrellas and sports chairs and dental care. Some things are worth
     the money. Save money other ways so that your child can have valuable
     experiences and go places. (For us, I saved majorly on clothes. I am the
     thrift store queen and my kids ALWAYS look cute.). Note I say experiences,
     not STUFF. The stuff will mostly get thrown out.
 20. Sometimes you just have to cry. Or laugh. Or both (at the same time, which
     is actually the best feeling, as Adrienne and all Steel Magnolias fans
     know). And sometimes the crying or the laughter will come at weird times
     for weird reasons. And that’s okay.
 21. Let your child(ren) clean house and don’t always go behind them and redo
     (except maybe the toilet when company’s coming). No one is going to look
     that closely. They need to know how to do laundry and share duties in a
     household, even if they don’t fold the towels like you do. You – and she! –
     will be SO proud when you walk into her dorm room or apartment and see that
     she is taking care of her place.
 22. Let your kids live their own lives as they get older. Even when she makes
     decisions you aren’t sure about. Even when you know she might be hurt or
     disappointed. We raise them to fly from the nest, so we must trust the One
     who knit them in the womb and who loves them so much more than we can even
     dream! He has plans for them that are so much better than our own measly
     plans. This is the hardest thing ever, but it just must be so if we want to
     honor our children as individuals made in God’s image, with their own soul,
     their own “bent,” their own passions, their own interests, their own loves,
     their own hates, their own faith.

Okay, there’s my list. I could write so much more. We can never really do all
these things on all these lists with which we are bombarded. But, as my good
friend tells me often: B is a good grade. Progress, not perfection. Our children
are entrusted to our direct care for just a few years. We will mess up. They
will mess up and we will wonder what we did or didn’t do to cause them to mess
up. If we believe in Jesus, we must remember that it is HE that will author and
perfect their faith, not us.

Happy birthday, my sweet Adrienne Laurel. Thank you for teaching me all these
things and so much more.



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June 8, 2016 · 11:01 am


WE MAY NOT HAVE TOMORROW

One month ago today. At 3:15 AM on Mother’s Day, my 46-year-old, seemingly
healthy husband shook me awake and quietly, yet frantically, informed me that he
needed to go to the hospital. His chest had been hurting for over an hour and
even after taking antacids, what he thought was bad heartburn from late-night
movie-watching snacks was only getting worse. As I slowly comprehended what was
happening and searched my closet floor for clothes, I had a 30-second mental
debate with myself – should I call 911 or just drive him to our local hospital,
which is five minutes away? The decision to drive won out and we headed to the
car, leaving our three kids (17, 14, and 9) in their beds asleep. He could
barely hold himself upright as I grabbed my purse and glasses, listening all the
while to his groans of pain. As we drove to the hospital, I realized my phone
was almost dead and I almost ran off the road looking for the phone charger
cord. I made a turn going way too fast and stomped on the gas to head down the
last 2-mile straightaway to the hospital, then cursed the late
party-goer-headed-home whose vehicle I had to follow at 30 mph for the rest of
the drive. The groans grew louder as he hunched over in the passenger seat and I
prayed for God to relieve his pain. To not let him die. To give my children –
and me – more years with him. In that moment, I panicked, thinking that there
was no way our four kids’ lives needed to only have me in it, parent-wise. To
think that we may not have tomorrow was suffocating, overwhelming, horrific.

> Two years ago this month. What a contrast. Two years ago, I was ready to walk
> out. To give up on our marriage and let our children and family members and
> friends know that it was for the best. There were too many lies. Too much
> anger in response to the lies. Too much hopelessness. The way we both dealt
> with the daily anxieties of our suburban, middle-class-but-debt-filled, busy
> lives had led us down paths that were secret and heavy and destructive. We
> held things together well enough, but we were tearing each other apart. And
> the path was well-worn. We had repeated the same patterns of anger and shame
> for years. One night, he got so angry he tore the bedposts off our bed. Yep.
> (Those who know him will likely not believe that, but he did it.) Another
> night, I screamed at him for 30 minutes straight then drove to a local hotel
> to spend the night. (Those who know me will not be surprised at this…!) I was
> done. He was done. Neither of us wanted to be done. We knew God had brought us
> together, but we could not see a way out of the hurt and the hopelessness.
> 
> Thankfully, over the two years that followed we began again the very slow
> process of learning to walk by faith, not by sight, even though our steps were
> faltering, weak, and honestly, sometimes very forced. We sought help in
> couples counseling and in separate support groups. We took two steps forward,
> three steps back at times. Our circumstances – and treatment of each other –
> sometimes looked worse, not better. But God. He showed us love and hope and
> slowly, but steadily, we began to believe him and each other. Gracious,
> selfless people stepped into our mess and just sat there with us – without
> platitudes, without judgment. Most people in our lives had no idea what we
> were dealing with. Even those who knew we were “in counseling” didn’t know
> why. They still don’t. Which is okay. The details do not really matter.
> The return of God-breathed hope and our work to put our marriage back together
> do matter.

When the ER doctor turned to me that morning and said “Your husband is having a
major heart attack,” I remember looking at him and thinking “Well, what do we do
next? How do we fix this?” Because that’s how I think. I didn’t actually say
those words, but immediately the doctor very calmly explained – as six other
people surrounded the bed, pumping various life-saving drugs into my husband and
monitoring his condition – that an ambulance was on his way to take him to the
neighboring, larger hospital, where a cardiologist would be waiting. At around
3:45 AM, as he was strapped to a gurney and wheeled into the ambulance, I took
his hand and told him I loved him and I’d see him soon.

The two hours that followed were the longest in my life. After a quick “please
pray for Anthony” Facebook post and a text to my sisters and a few close
friends, I drove the 20 miles to the hospital, and made my way to the cardiac
waiting area, which was eerily vacant: no magazines or vending machines, just
some chairs and an old-fashioned phone on the wall behind a desk. I stayed off
my phone to preserve the battery. I tried to pray as I paced. I sang, sometimes
in my head, sometimes quietly echoing. I counted the tile squares. I cried. I
pleaded, “Oh God, please don’t do this when we finally have turned a corner and
we are doing better. Please give us more time together. Please don’t let his
kids grow up without him.”

At 5:45 AM, the phone jangled and the kind voice on the other end asked for “the
family of Anthony Dauma.” Yes, this is she. “He’s in recovery and is doing
fine.” I lost my balance a bit and had to ask her to repeat the directions as to
where I needed to go. As I rounded the corner and saw him there, I cannot even
explain the feeling. I felt like I was disconnected from my body for a bit. My
therapist says it was perhaps a brief dissociative episode, helping me deal with
the stress. Whatever the case may be, I tried my best to listen as the doctor
explained that a major artery had been almost completely blocked, and that the
team decided to go ahead and insert a stent into that artery, effectively
“propping” it open with a tiny springlike device. The insertion had gone well.
His heart was pumping. He was awake and while not smiling at me, per se, he was
definitely looking much better than he had a few hours earlier.

The next few hours passed in a blur. Our friends went to our house to wake up
our kids, feed them, and bring them to the hospital. Another friend arrived with
coffee. Another showed up to sit in the ICU waiting room and pray. I charged my
phone and answered all the messages. Our youngest daughter had to make do with a
FaceTime session because she was too young to go into the ICU. Doctors were in
and out of Anthony’s room explaining all the things. We called family members,
including our oldest daughter whose college graduation we had just attended the
day before.



Mother’s Day 2016



Over the next couple of days while Anthony recovered in the hospital, there were
times I just sat in shock for minutes at a time. Anthony joked about almost
everything. He was joking with the nurses who prepped him before the stent was
put in. And even though I am the serious one, I still laughed with him because
he was there to make the jokes. I tried not to cry. From the chair next to
his hospital bed, I managed the kids and wrote sub plans for my classes and
talked with visitors and read web sites about heart attacks. As the test results
continued to come in, there were still concerns, but overall, his doctor felt
like his heart was going to be back to normal function very soon. We were
exhausted, but so thankful. Every little while, I’d reach over and take his hand
and just hold on.

Our lives were changed forever that morning. At 46, this was not something
Anthony was expecting to have to deal with. But he would. We would. Together.

By late afternoon on Sunday, Anthony was moved to a regular room. I made this
picture as the kids piled on his bed. It’s my best Mother’s Day picture yet.
It’s a picture that reminds me of the hope that although we are not promised
tomorrow, we can make the best of today and not be hindered by what is behind
us.

 

> “Take My Hand” – by Russ Taff
> 
> He said “Love one another”
> 
> We may not have tomorrow
> 
> Lord help us to hold on to each other
> 
> Life’s the greatest gift He gave
> 
> And I want to share it with you
> 
> Come walk with me
> 
> Take my hand
> 
> And let’s walk together
> 
> Take my hand and try
> 
> It’s a long, long road
> 
> But we can help each other
> 
> Hold on

Back in 1991, when we were dating and got engaged, Anthony quoted part of this
song when he explained his feelings for me, saying that he didn’t want me to be
someone who just “drifted in and out of his life.” There have definitely been
times in the last 24 years when we have drifted – away from each other, away
from God. The path has indeed been long and it’s been so hard in places. But we
are both so grateful that we have some steps left to walk together on that road.
How many? Only God knows. We may not have tomorrow. But just as we walk together
at the YMCA, determined to help Anthony’s heart grow strong again, we will walk
this road together, no matter what, for as long as we can.

 



 

 

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September 17, 2015 · 12:00 am


RISING WATERS, RISING LIGHT

* Originally posted at http://blueapplemoments.blogspot.com

If you pour yourself out for the hungry and satisfy the desire of the afflicted,
then shall your light rise in the darkness and your gloom be as the noonday. And
the Lord will guide you continually and satisfy your desire in scorched places
and make your bones strong; and you shall be like a watered garden, like a
spring of water, whose waters do not fail. ~ Isaiah 58:10-11



September 2005 ~ The country was mesmerized by the images: concrete foundations
on the Mississippi coastline, littered with broken pieces of boats and trees and
Waffle House signs; helicopters with baskets dangling, carrying a man or woman
or child to safety; interstates filled with cars and buses and pedestrians all
heading north out of the devastated cities spanning from Mobile to Biloxi to New
Orleans.  We were saddened and perhaps angered. We wondered why people didn’t
leave earlier, or why they didn’t take more people with them when they did
leave. We asked all the questions, and watched the nameless faces on CNN ask the
questions, as well.


Then, we rallied. Churches and clubs and city councils across the deep South –
and the entire country – immediately went into “what can we do? what do they
need?” mode. In the midst of the devastation, compassion rose up in us, both
individually and corporately, and help was on the way.  Yes, it was also on the
way in the form of FEMA trucks and later, temporary housing, but in those first
few days, the help was primarily one human to another.

My husband and brother-in-law headed to south Mississippi to help my aunt and
uncle cut down a 100-year old oak tree that had fallen through their ceiling,
taking- along with their chainsaws – a truckload of bottled water and peanut
butter crackers.

While Anthony was gone, our local news station ran a story about Red Cross
efforts in Huntsville.  Many evacuees had come all the way to north Alabama
(some even kept going further north) as hotels along I-65 had reached capacity.
The Red Cross was asking local residents with extra space to open their homes to
families who were in need of shelter.  Temporary spaces which had been provided
by churches and schools were not ideal and these folks were not going to be
heading back to the coast quickly.  I started praying.  We had an extra bedroom,
kitchenette and bathroom in our basement. Should we offer it to someone?  I
called the Red Cross to find out more details, then asked Anthony about it when
he got home. He thought and prayed about it for a day or so, then called the Red
Cross and we got on the list of host homes, preferably for a couple or family of
three. Within hours, we got a call that a young couple from Mobile – Jim and Kim
– were looking for a place to stay.  They had been in a church gym for 3 nights,
but Kim was in the early stages of pregnancy and not getting much rest in that
setup, nor easy access to a restroom, etc. They told the Red Cross they were
interested in actually relocating to Huntsville and Jim had already filled out
job applications for a local manufacturing facility.  Absolutely, we said.  We
would love to have them.

Anthony called me at school to tell me that they would arrive at 6 PM, and after
calling on friends and colleagues, donations of groceries, meals, and gas cards
came flowing in for Jim and Kim. I rushed home after school to spruce the rooms
up a bit, just in time for the donated late-80s-model Camaro that had been
donated to them (because he had gotten the job at the manufacturing facility
earlier in the day, qualifying them for the car donation!) to come chugging down
our driveway with a very tired-looking, but smiling, Jim and Kim inside. Our
three kids were so excited to meet them and peppered them with questions over a
quick spaghetti dinner. Jim described the rising water and pelting winds in
Mobile and how he couldn’t even get to his car at work, so a bus had picked him
and his coworkers up and taken them home.  He and Kim then hitched a ride to a
bus station – with nothing but the clothes on their backs, really – and took the
first bus north they could. They slept in a school gym in Montgomery the first
night, then continued to Huntsville the next day. Kim almost fell asleep while
we were eating and hardly said anything. She smiled hesitantly and said thank
you over and over.  We got them settled in their room after dinner and we
settled in for a “new normal” that would get less and less “normal” as the days
progressed.

Over the next week, Jim and Kim spent their days gathering some donations from
local agencies – clothes and a few household items, including a TV that they
could watch in their basement bedroom. Jim was very excited about his new job,
and he was also very anxious to help out around our house to “pay us back” for
letting them stay.  He mowed the yard at least twice while they were there, and
one day I turned onto our street as the kids and I were coming home from school
and found him mowing the vacant lot at the end of our street… Um, yeah.  I
rolled down my window and waved him over… “Um, Jim, Anthony probably doesn’t
want our mower out here mowing this lot – it’s really grown up and our mower
isn’t the greatest. What a great thing for you to try to do, but yeah, you
probably should just take the mower on back to the house…”

That strange event and a few others started gnawing at me… I had tried to reach
out to Kim several times, asking her about how she was feeling and about her
pregnancy, etc. She shared little, but seemed uncertain about what was going to
happen to them, which was totally understandable.  I asked her if I could make
an appointment for her to go to a local pregnancy center so she could get some
guidance about prenatal care, etc.  Since Jim hadn’t started his job, they
didn’t have any insurance yet and she wasn’t sure about applying for medical
coverage in the meantime. I didn’t know much either – but I knew people who did
– so I scheduled a couple of appointments for her, anticipating that I might
have to take off work to take her to them since she seemed so skittish. She
didn’t much want to stay upstairs and talk to me and the kids, but spent hours
alone in the basement, watching TV or sleeping.

As we engaged them in conversation – Anthony was endlessly patient with Jim’s
chattering (I was less so, I must admit) – I noticed a few things about their
backstory that didn’t add up, a few details that seemed to change slightly over
the course of several conversations.  And then there was just a little voice of
suspicion that kept nagging at me. I couldn’t put my finger on it and Anthony
easily – and calmly – talked me out of my place of distrust by explaining why
the inconsistencies weren’t really that inconsistent.  And so we went on that
way for about 10 days.

Then, in the middle of his workday one day, Anthony got a frantic call from Jim
from a payphone at a restaurant between Huntsville and Madison, where we live.
The Camaro had started smoking and had died on the side of the road; he couldn’t
get it to restart and he asked Anthony to come pick him up and perhaps call a
tow truck for the car. Anthony was in the middle of a meeting, but he told him
he’d be there just as soon as he could. He arrived 30 minutes later, but Jim and
the Camaro were both gone. He called me at school to see if I knew anything, but
I had heard nothing. So he drove home and there was Jim, sitting in the kitchen,
eating takeout from Applebee’s.  He had waited about 5 minutes for Anthony, then
called a junkyard, who came and towed the Camaro away, giving Jim $200 cash for
it on the spot.  He then called a cab (which is extremely expensive where we
live) and paid $30 for the cab ride to Applebee’s then to our house, plus $20
for the takeout (we had SO much food in the house, so this was frustrating to me
when I found out about it later that day). Anthony – still calm, cool and
collected – called to tell me Jim was fine and home; I didn’t find out the rest
of the story until later in the day – when I became a bit perplexed to say the
least).

The next day – a Tuesday – was to be Jim’s first day on his new job.  He was
going to work the night shift (11-7). Anthony called his supervisor to let him
know about the car situation. The supervisor said that Jim needed to arrive
early to do paperwork and that if Anthony could get him there at 8, he’d bring
him home after his shift was over the next morning. This is great, Anthony told
Jim, who somewhat reluctantly agreed to the plan. He was very stressed out over
not having a car, saying he didn’t want to inconvenience us any further. Kim,
meanwhile, was retreating further and further into her shell, although she had
agreed to go with me to the pregnancy center later in the week.

We called our church because we had heard that some members had donated vehicles
for evacuees, and found out that we could probably get a vehicle for Jim and
Kim, but Anthony had to vouch for them and they had to come fill out some
paperwork and present a valid Alabama driver’s license. Oops. That was going to
be a problem, because Jim’s license had floated away in his wallet, which had
been in his vehicle while he was at work the day he was evacuated. So no
license.  The work placement program was willing to overlook that for the time
being because so many evacuees were in the same situation, but the church –
understandably – was not.  No worries, my amazingly patient husband told Jim,
I’ll get you to work tonight and then tomorrow I’ll take some time off and we’ll
just head down to the DMV and get you a replacement license. Alrighty then. A
plan was in place. Well, it was until a few hours later.  As we were sitting on
the front porch discussing the situation (outside in case Kim might have
ventured upstairs and overheard), I was in the middle of telling Anthony that I
thought I would take the day off as well so we could take two cars to the DMV in
case Kim got to feeling bad (she had already told us she wanted to go with
them), and that I also felt like I needed to go to the Red Cross office and give
them an update on everything that had been going on… when a car turned into our
driveway.  It was 10 PM. The vehicle was a taxi. Jim got out, slammed the door,
and let out a string of profanities. He had not even made it 90 minutes on the
job before his refusal to fill out some of the paperwork had forced the
manufacturing company to fire him on the spot. I was immediately filled with an
anger so intense it was physical. I got up from my chair on the porch, looked at
Anthony, shook my head, and went to our bedroom, praying for God to give Anthony
wisdom and for us to know what to do. For the first time since Jim and Kim had
stepped into our home, I wasn’t just perplexed; I was scared.

Anthony was still on the porch talking to Jim when I finally went to sleep.
Bless his trusting and generous heart, he kept on encouraging and reassuring Jim
that we would get this all figured out, get them a car, and help him find
another job. Jim was restless, but he eventually went to bed as well, and after
getting the kids off to school the next morning, the four of us headed to
Huntsville – Jim and Kim and Anthony in Anthony’s truck, headed to the DMV, and
me in our minivan, headed to the Red Cross office. The eight hours that followed
could literally be edited into a riveting hour of reality TV…


9:00 AM – At the Red Cross office, I met with a case worker and she began the
process of digging through Jim and Kim’s records.  Within an hour or two, it
became clear that there were discrepancies, the most obvious of which was that
the primary address they gave for their residence in Mobile did not even exist.
Oops…
10:45 – I called Anthony’s cell phone and found out that the wait at the DMV was
quite lengthy (surprise, surprise) and that Jim was very antsy, walking outside
every 10 minutes or so to smoke a cigarette and pace. I told him what we had
found out. His challenge? To keep a straight face while I told him that the Red
Cross was beginning a fraud investigation and would be contacting FEMA.
11:15 – I called my school to confirm that I would NOT be coming in for the
afternoon and waited for the Red Cross folks to finish their paperwork to begin
the investigation.
12:00 noon – The Red Cross case worker and I drove to the DMV and parked in a
corner of the parking lot.  I was in the back seat, and I crouched down (in case
Jim or Kim were outside) and called Anthony to find out what was going on (yeah,
this is the reality TV part). He indicated that they were about an hour from
being served.  We drove to get sandwiches for Anthony, Jim, Kim, and ourselves
and headed back to the DMV. I walked the sandwiches and bottled sodas in as
casually as I could. Gulp.  We didn’t want Jim and Kim to know anything was
going on with the Red Cross, but we wanted to stay close by.
1:15 PM – Jim’s name was finally called at the DMV. After proceeding through the
labyrinth of forms and answering questions, a state trooper called him back to
an office.  Anthony called me on my cell phone (I was in the car again) to let
me know that he was concerned about Jim.  Apparently there were raised voices
from the office where he was with the state trooper. He abruptly ended the
call:  “I gotta go.”
1:30 – Anthony walked out of the DMV and told us that there was a problem: Jim’s
application for a driver’s license had been flagged and the state trooper was
investigating why. He would keep us posted.
1:45 – Anthony called me. The state trooper had left Jim in his office and came
out to talk to Anthony, letting him know that Jim had outstanding warrants (in
at least two states, for assault and armed robbery, among other things) and at
least two aliases. The state of Alabama was contacting the other states to ask
about extradition, but meanwhile he wanted us to know.
2:00 – The Red Cross case worker and myself started making phone calls, she to
her supervisor and FEMA contact, me to friends to please pray about what was
going to happen. The state trooper met with Anthony again and let him know that
neither state was going to extradite Jim at this time, so technically they could
not do anything else at the DMV except refuse his application for a driver’s
license.
2:15 – I called a friend to see if she could pick up our kids from school…
2:30 – FEMA called us to let us know that because it was so late in the day
(almost 4:00 Eastern time, where their executive offices are, and apparently
even during a natural disaster the folks in charge of fraud do not work late…),
they would be waiting until the next day to start their investigation of Jim
(Kim’s name was not on any official paperwork, so she could not be charged).
2:45 – By this time, Anthony and I knew that Jim and Kim could not come back to
our house, but we had to figure out how we could prevent that from happening! I
called my friend Kelly, whose brother Dale is a county commissioner and who had
known about the car being sold on the side of the road (I had called him to find
out if there is any way we could get the car back!). Kelly called Dale and
within a few minutes, a Madison County sheriff’s deputy called Anthony to get a
statement. Amazingly, even with all the crimes on his record, the only thing
that he could be charged with RIGHT THEN was “theft by deception” for selling
that donated car (because it didn’t actually belong to him).
3:15 – A very agitated Jim was led by a state trooper to another office at the
back of the DMV, where a Sheriff’s deputy escorted Anthony and Kim.  The deputy
arrested Jim, and instructed Anthony to read a statement to Jim, indicating that
he could not come within 1000 feet of our property except to retrieve his
personal belongings, which would be placed at the property line.  Jim was then
led out to the deputy’s vehicle in handcuffs and taken to the county jail.
3:30 – The Red Cross case worker spoke with Kim (who wouldn’t even look Anthony
or me in the eye) letting her know that we had found a shelter for her to go to
and asking her if there were any items that she wanted me to pack for her.  She
shook her head no and just looked down at her feet.  My heart broke for her.

As the evening progressed, we began to process our shock. And as time went on,
we learned more details about “Jim” and “Kim” (not their real names): they were
not married, Kim was not pregnant, they were residents of a small town about 80
miles away, and they had both been arrested for methamphetamine
possession/production. Which made sense when we found out that their actual ages
were several years younger than we had guessed… and when I found a plastic cup
full of what I thought was rock salt in our freezer (this actually happened
while they were still at our house, and ironically I dumped it down the kitchen
drain right in front of Jim, who was sitting at the table drinking a cup of
coffee with Anthony).  When I tell people (especially my students) about pouring
his meth crystals down the sink, they ask “Did he say anything?” “Umm, no.  What
would he have said? ‘Hey, don’t dump my meth down the drain?’”

Adrienne, Turner, Alec – 2005



Jim and Kim continued to impact our lives.  A few days after Jim’s arrest, a
$5000 check from FEMA arrived for him in our mailbox. Mail continued to arrive
for about a year, despite our repeated attempts to get our address removed from
his records. We found out that FEMA did press fraud charges against him and he
went to federal prison. The only word we got about Kim was that she eventually
moved from an emergency shelter to a women’s shelter and was considering either
signing up for a local  job training program or moving home with her parents. I
cried. We prayed, thanking God for his protection.  We tried to explain to our
children (11, 7, and 4 at the time) why Jim and Kim were no longer staying with
us without traumatizing them. We took all their belongings to the dump after
waiting a week for them to be picked up.  Anthony slept very little for a month
or two – sitting in the living room at night watching the driveway. I wrote a
strongly worded letter to the Red Cross. 🙂

I know this story is really much too long for a blog post. (If you are still
reading, thank you!), but it has reverberated in my mind and spirit for the last
decade. Every time I think about those two weeks or retell the story to someone,
I ask God to help me to better understand the “why.”

Right now in the U.S. (and around the world), social media and the news is
aflutter with questions about the Syrian refugees. Who is offering help, who is
not. What are the risks? The rewards? What if someone comes into our country who
is not innocent? So many questions are beyond my scope of understanding or
influence. I do not pretend to know the answers or to equate the Katrina
evacuation with this situation. However, I know what Anthony and I felt
compelled to do. With one heart, we knew we had to help. We knew God was calling
us to help and that he would provide the means to do so. Did we hear God’s voice
wrong? I don’t think so. Did he mean for us to put our family at risk? Perhaps.
Is this in line with what I know about God? It is. He never called us to comfort
or safety or prosperity. He called us to trust him, and then to go and tell and
love with abandon. Even those who don’t love back. Even those who deceive us.
Even those who are our enemies. In no way do I have the courage of missionaries
like Jim and Elisabeth Elliot, but I often think about what my responsibility is
when it comes to the concept of sacrificial love. We have put our American spin
on sacrifice and count ourselves generous to send $20 to help world hunger or to
put our change in the red bucket or some cheap toys in a shoebox at
Christmastime. Sometimes we dig a bit deeper and give to our churches. And
sometimes we really do sacrifice materially – giving up a luxury or two to
sponsor a needy child or help a family who is adopting. Are only the wealthy to
be philanthropists? As I recall the story of the widow’s mite, I think the
answer is surely no. Are only those who don’t have kids at home to offer an
extra bed (or the couch) to those who need shelter? Perhaps, but perhaps not.

Would Anthony and I make the same choice again?  I am not sure, but we have
talked about it some and have determined that we probably would if we felt led
by God to do so. I will admit that I would likely ask the Red Cross more
questions…! However, I believe in my heart of hearts that what I have is not
mine to keep to myself or to protect. I do not believe we should be reckless or
unsafe, and we should steward our resources well, but we should hold onto them
very loosely.

In the end, what does “safe” really mean? What does “love your enemies” look
like? Does that just mean refraining from hitting them when they make you mad?
Not talking about them to others (ouch)? Or does it mean broken-and-poured-out,
risk-taking love? Even when safety or comfort isn’t guaranteed? Please hear my
heart and know I do not know what God’s will is in each and every situation
where humans are in need or what each person or family is called to do. But it
is my conviction that we are perhaps asking the wrong questions when it comes to
helping others. (Do they deserve it? Do they REALLY deserve it? Are they
scamming me? Will they use this money to buy drugs? How did they get themselves
in this situation? Will this REALLY help them? Who, me, Lord? Even though I have
so little and Dave Ramsey says I need to pay off these credit cards? Shouldn’t
*insert name here* help them instead? Will this be safe? Will they appreciate
what I’m doing?)

Perhaps the questions we should be asking are more subtle and are not ones we
can really know how to ask well or comfortably:

To whom should I offer help?

How can I help them?

                   To whom can I show love-grace-generosity today without
expecting anything in return (perhaps not even thanks)?

Who are “the least of these” in my life (or community, or country, or world)?

Where can I sacrifice a little so someone in need can benefit?

What am I holding in my fist (literally or metaphorically) instead of offering
it, open-handed, to others? (money, time, a hot meal, a listening ear)

 
As a natural introvert, giving of myself is harder than giving money (it helps
that I have never gotten used to having much of the latter, so it’s easier to
give away!).  God is teaching me – slowly but surely – what his lavish love and
grace look like. My good and generous Father modeled this kind of love for me
when he gave Jesus – his only, precious, perfect son – for my sin. He didn’t
protect, hesitate, or hold back, but gave it all. I cannot even begin to
comprehend this and know even in my most generous of moments, I cannot even come
close to the magnitude of sacrifice that Jesus made for me. I didn’t deserve it;
I cannot earn it. I can only pray that I am willing to be poured out, even
sparingly, for those who might need something I can give.



 

If you pour yourself out for the hungry and satisfy the desire of the
afflicted, then shall your light rise in the darkness and your gloom be as the
noonday. And the Lord will guide you continually and satisfy your desire in
scorched places and make your bones strong; and you shall be like a watered
garden, like a spring of water, whose waters do not fail. ~ Isaiah 58:10-11

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LESSONS FROM THE ROAD

Our family of six embarked on an epic (yes, I believe I CAN use that
word!) 7000-mile road trip/vacation this summer, traveling from Alabama to
Washington state, taking the southern route through Tennessee, Arkansas,
Oklahoma, Texas, New Mexico and Arizona then making our way north through
California  and Oregon.  I’m feeling a bit claustrophobic just remembering all
the hours in the car…!

Dauma Family Road Trip 2015 Santa Fe ~ Grand Canyon ~ Beaumont/Los Angeles, CA ~
Yosemite ~ San Francisco ~ Portland/Vancouver ~ Soap Lake, WA ~ Seattle



 

Although tempted to write a journal-type blog entry outlining our adventures, I
kept returning to the idea of the road itself and how the miles that we put on
the car and the things we encountered on the road mirror a few things about this
other journey we are all on – the one we call life.

I could have titled this blog post “The Chronicles of Stinky Feet” or “The iPad
Password Mystery.” Let me tell you, traveling with four kids for thousands of
miles is not for the faint of heart. For the love of Febreze and Steve Jobs.


Also, just for fun, I’ve included some cheesy “road song” lyrics for
your humming pleasure.





LESSON #1:


THE BEST LAID PLANS DO OFTEN GO AWRY.

Well, for all the planners in the room, this one is what we call a “no brainer.”
The packing, the Google-mapping, the Urbanspoon searching, the online hotel
bidding – all the plans. Yep, those plans.  The good ones, the mediocre ones,
the best ones.  Or, the ones that never get made because someone (your husband)
wants the trip to be “more flexible.” Whatever. You all know how those days
turned out. Sheesh.

My first meltdown (it was minor) was at 9:30 PM on day six, when we pulled up to
the cabin we’d rented just outside the entrance to Yosemite and realized that
the owners had never texted us with the security code. And we had no cell
signal. We drove a bit and got a signal, but they didn’t reply to our texts or
calls. So after an hour, we said goodbye to our perfect little cabin – complete
with a bear carved from a tree on the front porch – and headed to the nearest
town with a hotel room that would fit our family of six.  Rather than a lovely
evening in a rustic cabin, listening to the whisper of the pines, we unloaded at
midnight in a rundown motel (thank you Jesus for disinfecting wipes) with a
scintillating view of a truck stop. However, despite the disappointment and
anger (mostly at myself for not taking care of the necessary details), our drive
to the motel included a glorious view of a full moon over the treetops. A bit of
grace to edge out the crazy.

     The final hours of our trip brought the most dramatic derailing moment,
however. Because somehow, some way, two reasonably intelligent adults failed to
realize the EXACT date of the return flight home for the kids and me.  (My
husband and his buddy were continuing the road-trip madness by driving our SUV
home over the weekend while we flew home – how THAT plan came to be is a whole
‘nother story…!). A few hours before our friend was to drive us to the airport,
and in a moment that caused me to literally lose my breath, I realized our
mistake. Our flight had already flown. We were in Seattle, with the clothes on
our backs, with no plane tickets and a maxed-out credit card. The trip was
already about $1000 over budget (Because kids. And Disney.) Yeah, it was not
pretty.

     My friend calmed me down to semi-manic, and she called her hubby (who was
in the car with Anthony somewhere in Montana) who told him what I had
discovered. Good golly, Molly. For an hour, we prayed, I cried, we searched
online ticket hubs, and at the end of the day, Anthony’s calm plea to Delta
resulted in them getting us on the same red-eye flight as the previous morning.
For no charge.  Zero, zip, nada. It was a July miracle! In the security line at
Sea-Tac airport a few hours later, another mom snapped this pic of us and said
“Say ‘red-eye’!” as we grinned. I wanted to say, “Lady, you have NO idea how
happy I am to be getting on this plane!” I cried tears of exhaustion and joy as
I buckled myself into that dinky seat and looked around to find the kids (we
were scattered throughout the plane) and breathed one of the most sincere
prayers of thanks I have prayed in a long time.
   So, this lesson features the immortal words of the Scottish poet Robert Burns
and reminds me that we as human beings (and careful trip planners) can plan all
day long, but sometimes those plans are just not going to work out. And usually,
it all turns out okay. There is certainly nothing essentially wrong with having
a solid plan in place – for a vacation or for, oh, life. However, as is asked in
the book of Luke: “Which of you by being anxious can add a single hour to his
span of life?” The perfect itinerary or a list of perfect photo ops – or a
timeline for marriage and kids or a promotion – is just a setup for the
disappointment that accompanies unmet expectations.  I do not claim to have
figured out the ideal balance between structure and flexibly, but I do know that
it’s a worthwhile goal!

“Goin’ places that I’ve never been.
Seein’ things that I may never see again
And I can’t wait to get on the road again.”



LESSON #2:  


SOMETIMES THE VIEW IS BORING AND YOUR PROGRESS IS SLOW.

     Just a few things that can get in the way when you are trying to get to
your next stop or take a lovely photo out the window: fog, cyclists, slow
drivers… Arizona? Yeah, “harsh beauty” is a lovely oxymoronic description, but
that harshness looks maddeningly similar for about 200 miles of I-40. 


   I’m an impatient driver. I am not proud of it, but it is what it is. I want
to “move on down the road” and get very frustrated at those who seem to just
be leisurely poking along at whatever speed floats their boat at the moment. And
of course, when those folks come along, there are of course NO passing zones in
sight…! Construction projects were thankfully few and far between on this trip,
but still caused maddening delays.

People and things get in the way. And sometimes the chance to make that photo
never recurs.  Missed opportunities, especially those caused by someone else’s
actions, cause a burning anger down in my soul.  I am not exaggerating. But
regardless, sometimes the dream of watching the sun set over the Pacific is
foiled by fog that will. not. go. away. And there is nothing – not a darn thing
– you can do to change that. Sometimes the view out the window seemed to never
change. Some of the miles were monotonous and sometimes the roadside views were
downright ugly.

    Sometimes the roads of life that we travel are like that. And yet, we still
can keep going – one moment/hour/day at a time, even amidst regret,
repetitiveness, and rancor. And even when the road is cluttered with slowpokes,
the majestic mountain can suddenly rise in front of you and somehow the altered
arrival time on the GPS doesn’t seem to matter as much anymore.

“The road is long.
There are mountains in our way,
But we climb a step every day.”


LESSON #3:


YOU WILL ENCOUNTER THINGS AND PEOPLE YOU DO NOT EXPECT.

     From the Mad Hatter and Alice in “Tomorrowland” to the Wigwam Motel to a
dead end street at a time when we most definitely were not expecting one, our
trip was filled with surprises.

     Sometimes the surprises were breathtaking, like the rock formation we made
a U-turn (twice!) to see and photograph at Yosemite; sometimes they were
annoying, like the slow-moving pedestrian in a coastal California town we were
trying to navigate quickly. Sometimes they were just downright weird. Like this
Santa who was hanging out at a boat ramp on the Columbia River… What the
what?!?!

     In this age of review-saturated social media, travelers really do not have
to deal with too many surprises. If you want to see the menu of an
out-of-the-way diner on Route 66, you can probably pull it up on your phone from
5 – or 500 – miles away and have your order ready when you walk in the door. If
you want to plan your day at Disneyland down to the minute, you can read the
advice of thousands of Disney fans letting you know how to best do that. Folks
are used to knowing what to expect before we experience something. And there is
nothing wrong with that, really.  I’m thankful for restaurant reviews and love
finding out-of-the-way spots to dine (my rule: no chain restaurants when we
travel!) that can hopefully satisfy every member of the family.



     However, sometimes I think we are missing some of the journey’s joy. I know
I’m romanticizing the era, but I think about how jaw-droppingly amazing it must
have been for early residents and explorers of the American southwest to stand
at the edge of the Grand Canyon for the first time, or for the pioneers to walk
into the Willamette Valley, having never seen photos of the sights before them.
  One of the most eerie, yet incredible moments on the trip was when we were on
a boat cruising San Francisco Bay. Although mid-afternoon, fog had rolled in and
we couldn’t see the Golden Gate Bridge until we were right underneath it!  This
marvel of engineering and artistry was right in front of us for several minutes
and we had no idea it was there because the fog was too thick.
How often we wish for the known, the tried and true, the guarantee of success or
satisfaction, yet so often it is the unknown that brings us to the “wow” moments
in life. The instances that bring us to our knees in gratefulness and even
worship are often the ones that completely take us by surprise.  Although there
is nothing wrong with having a “Consumer Reports” mentality as we make decisions
in life, sometimes even when we THINK we know what we are getting into, the
reality ends up being different. For me, this is a chance to demonstrate that I
have faith in my Father who knows me, who “knit me in my mother’s womb.” Do I
trust him only in the familiar? Or do I demonstrate a childlike faith,
understanding that He loves me and wants what is best for me, surprises and all!

“Back to the howling owl in the woods, 
Hunting the horny-back toad, 
Oh, I’ve finally decided my future lies
Beyond the yellow brick road.”
 


LESSON #4:  


THE EDGES CAN BE SCARY. 

     I am a bit of a scaredy-cat when it comes to heights.  Therefore, I can
assure you that I was NOT in close proximity to my children when they made
these crazy-people pictures at the Grand Canyon. In fact, my heart was pounding
even though I was many yards away when I made the picture of Alec and Adrienne
(red shirt and green shirt) standing on the promontory before they made said
pictures. And don’t even get me started on Turner grabbing the camera and
RUNNING around the barricades so he could make pictures of his legs dangling
over the side.  I could not breathe. Bless his heart. It’s a good thing I love
him because Lord knows he has aged me.
     Although not as drastic, I have a significant physical reaction to even
driving near the edges of roads that hug cliffs or hint at coming dropoffs. And
if there is little or no barrier between the roadway and the cliff? Yeah, eyes
are definitely closed. Well, mostly.  I WANT to be brave, so I try to snap some
pictures and breathe (in through the nose, out through the mouth) so I can
maintain a facade of bravery.
“Goin’ back to the well, gonna visit old friends
And feed my soul where the blacktop ends.”


    The fact is, life at the edges is a bit dangerous. Beginnings and ends of
things are scary. And not just in the physical or tangible ways that typify
overprotective moms (which I really am not . . . I didn’t stop my children from
doing MOST of the risky things they wanted to do, I just didn’t want to
watch!). The edge of newness is scary.  The edge of the familiar is frightening.
The edge of “civilized” seems so risky.
Yet as we move toward the edges – perhaps even ON the sharpest of those edges –
we feel alive and alert! We have to rely on something other than our prior
experiences that brought either comfort or pain and so taught us well.
    We are in awe of the beauty of the edges on this earth. Cliffs and beaches…
edges… provide some of the most glorious and breathtaking views of this planet
we inhabit.

Therefore, it’s no surprise that some choose to – and perhaps we all should
strive to –  risk the comfort of the middle for the reward of life on the
beautiful edges.

Perhaps we should move more toward the scary edges in our everyday lives, not
just in our photo ops.


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July 24, 2015 · 4:51 am
February 23, 2015 · 5:12 pm


UPSIDE DOWN IN A DITCH

I’ve been mulling over this blog post for several months . . . since November
11, actually.  When this happened…

In a split-second, after Anthony misjudged a turn in a pre-dawn, sleet-induced
haze, we landed upside-down in a deep ditch alongside a state highway in (very)
rural Missouri as we were headed from our hotel to pick up our four kids at his
grandmother’s house, where they had been staying during our brief visit, so we
could get started on our 11-hour road trip home by 5 AM so our oldest daughter
could make it to her night class and our youngest daughter could make it to a
photo session at 5 PM for a community theater production in which she was
performing.

Amazingly, Anthony and I crawled out  with minor scratches and bruises, mainly
due to the seat belts, which caused us to hang, bat-like, inside the vehicle as
the cold silence enveloped us and we looked over at each other, simultaneously
desperately asking “Are you okay?”  Yes, we were okay.


The car, not so much.  Our travel plans, not so much.  Neither daughter made it
to her Tuesday night activity.  Because we needed a large vehicle and we were 3
hours away from the nearest metropolitan area, it took us 6 hours to get on the
road. But meanwhile, there were some inconveniences, both that day and in the
weeks to come.  And a good bit of frustration, regret, and second-guessing.
 Some blame.  Some wistful thinking while vehicle shopping. All because of a
moment in time and a decision that was made.

As the days and weeks progressed, God impressed upon my heart some lessons
related to this mishap, lessons that I am still mulling over and not even
pretending to have truly learned.


On Thanksgiving, during a round-table family discussion all the adults were
having after stuffing ourselves, I attempted to verbalize the beginnings of what
God was showing me, declaring that:

 




“When you are upside down in a ditch, you become very thankful for being
right-side-up on the road.”






On that fateful day in November, after finally finding a rental minivan, we
drove to get our belongings from the place where our SUV was towed; on the way,
we saw this glorious golden tree atop a snow-dusted hill.  Our son Alec (who is
13 but an old soul), yelled “Stop, dad!  We have to make a picture of that!”
 Because in our neck of the woods, the autumnal glory of that tree would never
be juxtaposed with the pristine whiteness of snow.  It was beautiful.  But the
antithetical elements seemed a bit unnatural.  An unbalanced equation.




Like life sometimes.  




While hanging upside down in our SUV, the world was topsy-turvy and just didn’t
make sense.  Down was up.  Up was down. Random junk that normally was crammed
into crevices and compartments was now scattered on the ceiling-like windshield,
through which smashed blades of grass – rather than the road and horizon ahead –
were visible, along with a few inches of ice-cold water that the SUV had
displaced and through which we had to wade after we unbuckled our harnesses and
crawled out of the only door that we could open.  We were not prepared for
freezing weather that morning.  I fortunately did have a coat and gloves, but my
flimsy flats were woefully inadequate, as were my Northwest-raised husband’s
shorts and flip-flops (his usual clothing choices for all days except for a few
weeks in the dead of winter)!

 

After we came to a stop in that ditch, after assessing that Anthony and I were
both okay, I started sobbing.  I cried out “God, what else? What else?”

Life gets turned upside down.  
We aren’t prepared.  
People – including ourselves – make choices that cause pain.




I began to dwell in the land of disillusionment.  And deferred dreams.  And
disappointment. In the worst moments, I pushed aside the gratitude and gave in
to the whining. I ignored the comfort of God and other people and gave in to the
self-pity.  All of these mental destinations are very easy places for me to
feel comfortable. And no, my arrival in those places and decision to “sit and
stay awhile” were not only – or even mainly –  about the wreck.  The crash might
have been the catalyst, but I’d been looking at travel brochures and standing on
the train platform for quite a while.



Devastating decisions made – both by myself and by others – over the last couple
of years had caused me to finally buy the ticket and head to this land – a
land which seemed to promise that indignant proclamations would right the wrongs
and balance the scale and get my life back on the right road, the road I
deserved.  After all, aren’t we as middle-class Americans taught that if you
work hard and pull at those proverbial bootstraps, the world is your oyster,
right?!?  Then why, after being a “good girl” (oh, and I was good, just ask my
high school classmates who dealt with my self-righteousness for years…), a
diligent student, a hard working employee, a loving (though far from perfect)
wife, a decent mother, a committed church member, and a stumbling, yet faithful
follower of Christ – why after a life well-lived did the pieces not fall into
place?  Why?  Why does debt and distrust and disillusionment seem to be the
winner more often than not?



Sometimes life just isn’t fair.  Our own bad decisions or the bad decisions of
others cause us to be upside down in the metaphorical ditches of life.
 Sometimes we know exactly how we got there – a misjudged turn, a patch of ice,
a culvert lip a bit too close to the road.  But that knowledge doesn’t really
help when the world is upside down and we cannot clearly see what lies ahead.
 And we’re hurting.  Not enough to get in the ambulance, but still hurting.  And
sometimes we can’t even share the reason why.  There are things that just aren’t
talked about.  There is a stoicism that is expected, especially when we feel
guilty about complaining.  So even if the hurt is socially acceptable, we are
loathe to share it. Partially because of our own pride. And partially because,
well, there is the friend who has a chronic health problem and the neighbor who
lost her grandchild and the fellow church member whose husband lost his job and
the couple who is dealing with infertility.  And we mustn’t complain. Because
that must mean we aren’t grateful.



We are admonished to get out our prayer journals or our thankful lists and watch
those worries dissipate and the smiles miraculously conquer the fear.  We are
commanded to “pray about everything” and “give thanks in all circumstances.”
 And in doing so, the world will be set right.


Um, no it won’t.



Here’s the thing.  I am convinced that you can feel both disillusionment and
gratitude in a moment and in life.  You can be both cooperative with and
critical of people and institutions and organizations.  Not pointless-whining
critical, but critical-thinking critical.  You can see weaknesses and
possibilities in the same entity.  You can understand the severity of the car
crash, fully living in the instant of heart-pounding fear that accompanies a
tumble into a ditch, yet also understand that a car can be replaced and be
thankful for safety, even while knowing that the financial and practical impact
is going to be huge.


It’s not an all-or-nothing prospect.  We can mourn the lost dream and struggling
relationship and the fruitless job interview and the rebellious child, yet still
be grateful and ultimately optimistic. Like Langston Hughes’ “heavy load,”
dreams deferred can sag and drag and hurt.  We mess up the trip; others mess up
the trip for us.  Do we prance, Pollyanna-like, through those moments?  Some do.
 And sometimes I am envious of them.  But I am not one of them.  I’ve been
betrayed and lied to and ignored.  We all have.  Yet I have also betrayed
others. I’ve lied.  I’ve ignored.


What do we do with the feelings that come as a result of dream-deferring
actions?  Those real, raw feelings that we try to move through and push down and
minimize with “I’m good, how are you?” responses to people in the hallways and
foyers of life. The Sunday School answer is “lay them at the feet of the cross.”
 “Give them all, give them all, give them all to Jesus and he will turn your
sorrows into joy.” His yoke is easy and His burden is light.  Right?  Right.
 Yet the lies can continue and the abuse can stay hidden and the debt can still
crush. Is it okay to grieve?  To sag a bit?  I think it is.


 

The amazing thing that God has shown me over the last couple of years is my own
weakness and my desperate need for grace. Even though I could crawl out of that
SUV, I could not set it aright and make it drive down the road again.  A crashed
car has to be fixed by a professional or sold for parts and scrap.  The driver
of the car, even with the best intentions, has to recognize his or her own
limitations and understand the powerlessness that accompanies them.  The same is
true for a crashed or dented life, no matter who is “at fault.” And even though
I can plan, and study, and work hard, life sometimes still gives lemons.  And
sometimes there is no sugar in the pantry for that proverbial lemonade one is
admonished to make.  It has to wait for a trip to the store or the neighbor’s
house.  Or the desire for lemonade just fades away and a drink of water
suffices.



 

After weeks of scouring of internet sales sites, I got a replacement for my
beloved Honda Pilot – almost the exact same make and model – just a couple of
days before Christmas. Our insurance paid off our loan and wrote us a $500 check
for the difference – enough to pay a little down payment on the “new” vehicle
and put us in a loan that we could manage.  And an SUV with 40,000 fewer miles.
 But no heated seats or XM radio.  A give and take.  A paltry complaint,
comparatively speaking.

So, all in all, I truly am thankful for both the ditches and the road.


The new year has brought some new perspective, but I still struggle in this area
and possibly always will.  I’m an Eeyore, not a Tigger.  Does anyone else get
this?  Does it mean we love Jesus less?  I know He’s with me always.  In the
ditch, on the road, walking through icy water, and sitting in the sun.  But
sometimes I cry because of the dreams that are gone, the regret of both spoken
and unspoken words, the paths taken and not taken. A rut with a myopic view of
pain and unfairness (real or perceived) is such an easy place to land, but it’s
a dangerous place to stay.

 

My classroom is on the lower floor of the school where I teach. Sometimes this
is a pain – bad cell service, ants, a boring view of a retaining wall outside my
window.  A few months ago, though, I was reminded that for the first 14 years
(out of the 20) that I’ve been a teacher, I had no classroom window at all.  One
day, I walked over to the window to get a cell signal so I could send a text
during lunch and I looked up.  It had been raining for a few days, so what a joy
it was to look up to see the sun peeking through the clouds next to
the beautiful golden leaves – the second time in the same month that a lesson
had come from a tree in its autumnal glory.


I’m so glad God is the lifter of my head.

The lessons in these two golden trees have been gifts that have touched my soul
in places that are awash in memories of the awkwardness and angst of adolescence
and of solitary walks in the woods and afternoons of creek-wading and
daydreaming and diary-writing in a Mississippi hollow.  Places that are
simultaneously bulwarks of stubborn individualism yet also bastions of
doubt-ridden self-consciousness.  Places where I am both proud and ashamed.
 Places that still pull me in and tempt me to revel in my selfish desires and
“goals.”  Goals that I have worked toward with focused ambition and ones that I
have thwarted with my own mistakes and hurtful words. And yes, some of those
places are ones that I did not choose to go myself.


Yet in all of those places – the ones of my own doing and the ones where others
have sent me unwillingly, I am known by my Creator.  And he gently whispers –
through golden leaves and laughter with friends and songs that come on the radio
just in time – that he loves me, even in my most Eeyore-like moments.


He knows about the dreams deferred.  And his Father’s heart hurts with me and
for me.  

And he lovingly picks me up out of the ditch and sets me back on the road.  And
I take a step.





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Image


THE FAIR AND THE FOUL

 

These six words – “Fair is foul, and foul is fair” – from the first scene of
Shakespeare’s Macbeth are an English teacher’s dream, embodying no fewer than
four literary devices! Perhaps more important than providing fodder for the
perfect test question is the fact that this one line summarizes what could be
considered one of the main themes of this disturbing drama:  things are not
always what they seem.

As the lazy days of summer come to an end for me as a teacher, this idea has
become clear to me lately through some unlikely circumstances. The concept of
dichotomy has shaken me to the core as I’ve considered things that can be both
good and bad.  Much great literature – and so many amazing true stories – are
great because of the tragic beauty that is only revealed when the good and bad
are juxtaposed. The hero that wouldn’t be quite as heroic if it weren’t for the
villain. The wedding wouldn’t be as romantic if it weren’t for the pre-wedding
angst experienced by the bride and groom. I try to explain this to my students
when they want to know why we can’t just read “happy stories.” (Whatever that
means…)
So, in keeping with the Bard’s theme (one also presented by many other great
writers, including the greatest Writer of them all), here are a few of my
reflections on things that are both “fair” and “foul.”




RAIN 

We’ve had a rainy summer in Alabama this year. This definitely has its pros and
cons! I love the (safe, dry) feeling of being inside on a rainy afternoon with
nowhere to go – the air conditioner running, the air outside displaying a
greenish tint, tree branches bowed with water hitting the front porch roof,
sodden crepe myrtle blossoms fluttering to the patio. Those moments mean there
is no pressure to take anyone to the pool or park or to work in the yard and a
feeling of safety and comfort pervades as the thunder rumbles in the distance.
If the rain continues on through the night, sleep is blissful.



However, being out and getting caught in that same rainstorm is a whole ‘nother
story (as we say in the south)! Depending on the age of any accompanying
children, possession of rain gear, the severity of the rainstorm and the
location at which we are caught unaware, momentary – or even sustained – chaos
can definitely accompany the rain, not to mention muddy floors, and in our case
(because our basement sometimes leaks during torrential downpours), an evening
of wet-vac fun! On a more global scale, rainstorms can be catastrophic as
opposed to just inconvenient, bringing floods and deadly lightning strikes,
ruining crops, or causing mudslides.

So we take the good and the bad of the rain. The ruination and the rainbows.
“[R]ain falls on the just and the unjust”  (Matthew 5:45). Literally and
metaphorically, this truth is displayed. As residents of planet earth, we must
have actual rain in order for our lives to be sustained. But sometimes the rain
comes at the most inopportune times (wedding days, photo shoots, outdoor
barbecues, beach outings). We must have it.  Across the globe, it is both prayed
for and desperately prayed against. Similarly, we also need the metaphorical
rain in order to most fully enjoy the sunshiny, rainbow moments.



STUFF


Yes, I know my super-informative heading may overwhelm with its philosophical
depth (sarcasm font needed here)  . . . but I believe that we can all agree that
the “things” of this world can be mixed blessings. As middle-class Americans, we
set our goals and get our diplomas and do our “thing” so we can buy the next
“thing.” And some of those things are great. I sure am thankful for my electric
appliances and comfy mattress and cell phone. In the summer in Alabama, I am
especially grateful for air conditioning! There is absolutely nothing wrong with
wanting our child to have nice clothes, a snazzy bike, or an X-box; or for moms
to want some lovely-smelling lotion, a stand mixer, or a new pair of earrings.
 
What trips us up sometimes is the striving for the newer, the better, the
faster, and the containers to put them in (jewelry armoire, anyone?) and the
(low-key) worrying about what color we should paint the walls that the
containers are pushed up against.  We are so proud of the curtains and
bedspreads and tchotchkes and garages and condos and houses that have more
bathrooms than residents and we spend much time decorating, rearranging, and
cleaning all of them. Interestingly, the current “simplify” movement seems to be
a backlash against all this stuff, with people purging their homes of hundreds
of items so that there is not so much to clean and organize and move from place
to place. I think there is wisdom in this. Sometimes stuff is comforting,
though. Grandma’s china evokes good memories. Full bookshelves impart knowledge
and provide an entertaining escape. Toys occupy energetic hands and stimulate
growing brains. So much balance is needed on this one because the good and the
bad of stuff is almost a daily challenge. As a die-hard yard sale and thrift
store shopper, I have to hold myself to the “one bag out for every bag in” rule
or else we’d be overrun!

Stuff that can seem innocuous can become an infestation that destroys and causes
us to chase after a substitute comfort that will never truly satisfy. Without
moral boundaries (or with a willingness to ignore them), the innocuous can
become horrible. Lady Macbeth thought that once her husband succumbed to his
ambition, all would be well, but of course, it was not. The ambition fueled
selfishness which fueled more horrible deeds, and she herself concluded that
“nought’s had, all’s spent, […] our desire is got without content.” All she and
the king had left was overwhelming guilt and regret, even among all the riches
in Scotland. Every time I teach this play, my students discuss the concept of
“going after your dreams” and what they are willing to give up to get what they
think they want. That discussion always makes me think about my stuff and the
contrast of blessing and curse that it can bring. And I try to remember those
lessons, although I certainly succumb to the striving more often than not.



LOSS

Divorce. Death. Adultery. Broken friendships. The death of a dream. Debilitating
sickness. Dishonesty. Unemployment. Crushing debt. Rebellion.

Bad, bad, and more bad, right?  On the outset, yes. In our human eyes and
hearts, absolutely. But the more I experience these or witness others do so, the
more I learn that a grace-and-gospel viewpoint concerning loss is the one that I
must consider, elusive as it may be. And I must admit that sometimes this seems
humanly impossible and I only see “in a mirror darkly” and always will.

So what’s the upside of loss?  Sometimes we can see it. The loss of one job can
eventually lead to a better job. A rebellious teen can drive parents to their
knees and eventually result in a beautiful reconciliation (even years later).
But sometimes we cannot see the upside. We just can’t. And that can frustrate
and destroy faith and cause bitterness. I am there more often than I want to
admit and it is not a pretty place.

In 1984, my paternal grandfather was killed under horrific circumstances due to
his own sin. My family was devastated. I was confused and sad and embarrassed
and worried that I’d get kicked off the cheerleading squad or be otherwise
ostracized due to small-town gossip and prejudices. At fourteen, I couldn’t see
God’s hand in this story at all – not in my father’s anger or in my
grandmother’s loss or in my disillusionment. And at forty-four, I sometimes
still find it hard to see. But his hand is there. It has helped me eventually
understand that grace is not found in a “good family name” or in being a member
“in good standing” of a local church. For a while, because of my grandfather’s
sin, I felt that God’s hand on me meant avoiding a long list of supposedly
corrupting activities and subsequently judging those who didn’t avoid them. That
was the path of holiness he wanted, right? Perhaps in some circumstances. But I
was on that path for the wrong reasons.

More recently, I have experienced the loss of some precious summer days due to
sickness (not debilitating, but definitely inconvenient and frustrating), as
well as the death of a couple of dreams I’ve held onto. I do not yet see how God
is going to redeem these losses, but I must hold tight to his promise that he
will. I have to.
Otherwise, all I have to depend on is my own human understanding and that gets
me nowhere fast. God knows this and he loves me anyway.  He watches my striving
and my sullenness and my silly complaining and he draws me closer and calls me
Daughter and he tells me to be still.
And that is the beauty of loss – all we can gain when strivings cease. When
worldly pleasures – even the American-dream-wrapped ones – are forsaken. When
our finagling stops and our resting in his provision begins. Grace is greater
than we can even imagine. We only see a tiny corner of it and still declare it
amazing.

The fact that grace is needed is a bad thing. That it exists and is extended to
all who believe in Jesus’ redemptive work is the best thing. Grace is the
ultimate dichotomy, requiring the ugly to show its infinite beauty.




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July 24, 2014 · 4:24 pm
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