McBlog

Respite

2010-03-15T15:36:00.010-04:00

I wasn't planning on going. It seemed like too much trouble. Then Lynn called.

Lynn is a precious woman who homeschooled her 2 boys at a time when she was one of the few, the brave, and to most people who didn't even know such an undertaking was legal, the weird. Now, those of us who have taken the plunge into educating our children at home are lucky enough to reap the benefits of those courageous mothers like her who went before and showed the world that it could be done, that homeschoolers could not just survive, but actually excel in the world, and that they don't all wear clothes straight from the latest Little House on the Prairie Fall Collection (I said all which would imply that some do, and for those that do, I applaud the hutzpah they possess to buck the culture. That is not my spiritual gift.) After navigating the treacherous waters of homeschooling 2 boys with a very small support system, Lynn has now committed her life to encouraging moms whose pupils are their progeny. She does this a variety of ways, from teaching a class for moms in the homeschool co-op I 'm a part of, to leading Bible studies out of her home, to stalking young moms and leaving harassing messages on their phones about why they need to come to the Whole Heart Mom's conference she helps organize.

And this is what she did to me . . . and my sister.

Now it is a lot to ask a stressed-out man who has been working his fingers to the bone all week (or something like that) to come home Friday night and care for two raucous boys all weekend long who are too young to put out the back door and tell "Get back 'afore it gits dark, ya hear?" So I didn't. I played Lynn's message for him.

Not only did this beautiful man tell me to go, he willingly agreed to let me stay in the hotel, even though the conference was within driving distance, and to stay Saturday night as well, even though the conference ended late Saturday afternoon. His kind gesture was either a testament to his extreme self-sacrifice or to his extreme fear for his wild-eyed wife's sanity or . . . maybe both.

Sally Clarkson, the homeschool mom of 4 who started Whole Heart Ministries, regularly extols the wonders that "sleeping on crisp, clean sheets that no one else has slept (or ate or puked) on" and eating chocolate can do for a worn-out mom. So my sister and I threw all caution to the wind and did just that. We laughed, cried, dyed my hair, and ordered room service. We also heard some incredibly inspiring and encouraging talks by Sally and a cast of extraordinary women who are human, just like me, and love God. Did I mention that I cried . . . a lot? And yet, I was so comforted and relieved to feel my Heavenly Father pursuing me, calling softly to me, warming my often cold and hard heart, and reminding me that He loved me. He loves me.

I still don't understand why some things are the way they are. I still lost my temper with my precious kids when I got home (apparently, crisp, white sheets and chocolate can only do so much). But I do think I was meant to be at that conference. I think God used and is continuing to use it in my life, and I hope that someday He'll see fit to use me like he used Lynn to be a conduit of his love to a hurting heart, even if that means leaving a badgering phone call or two.

Welcome Back

2010-03-05T00:01:00.009-05:00

As the apple (or acorn - depending on what part of the country you were in) dropped at midnight on December 31st of 2009, I breathed a sigh of relief and said "good riddance" to a year that has been one of the most trying of my 29 years on this earth. If you walked through this year with me and know the details of the drama that played out in my life, this is no surprise to you. If you don't, I'll try to make this post relevant to you as well with as few details about the extremely personal nature of what my family is going through as possible. Maybe someday when I know my words will be used to heal and not hurt, and I'm finally able to write with complete abandon and freedom, I'll sit down and tell the story. Maybe I'll be ninety-five then . . . and maybe there will be a happy ending. Maybe while I'm still on this earth it will all make sense and I will be able to sit back and marvel at the priceless work of art that was crafted from a pile of ashes. And maybe not.

It is amazing to me the pain with which people learn to cope and function and go about their lives. There is cancer, the death and illness of loved ones, abuse, financial hardship, mental illness, broken relationships, and __________ (fill in the blank with your own personal tragedy.) There are trials that I've walked through before and even in the midst of them, I could see God's hand and could hear the tiny voice of hope, humming softly - sometimes very, very softly. But lately, I don't hear much of anything.

Don't let me scare you. It's not that I think God's not there . . . or here, with me. I am, after all, really good at being melodramatic. My sister says that on the way to school when we were young, I would often let out a scream of horror that would be so disconcerting it could have easily sent my mom off-roading in our red and silver Pontiac Transport. The scream would be followed by something like, "I left my Hello Kitty Pencil Sharpener at home!" This type of over-reaction was commonplace in my youth, and now I have the distinct honor of being at the receiving end of melodrama from my eldest, Locke. "Mooooooo-ooooom, they forgot to include the stickers again in my lego set!" This completely unfounded assertion happens almost every other time my sweet boy opens a new lego set. To back up his claim, he plunges into a diatribe against Wal-mart and it's evil conspiracy to leave out the stickers from lego sets.
And then I find the stickers.

But unlike Locke's lego stickers and my Hello Kitty pencil sharpener, this has been a bonafide, life-altering trial. It's not only changing the future, it changes the past, as odd as that sounds.

We've been studying the book of Ruth at church, and it is such a beautiful story of hope and redemption, of God taking the worst sounds imaginable - the most heinous screams, screeches, banging, clanging, hacking, and moaning, and using them in concert to make the most beautifully awe-inspiring symphony ever written. What has happened to me personally is no where near what happened to Naomi or Ruth. It's just that some days, that whole "bitterness" thing that Naomi talked about makes a lot of sense, and I walk around with this fear or dread of what other things God might see fit to allow to enter my life, and sometimes I wonder if I know who God is at all.

I know this is where you want to tell me to hang on. I know exactly what you want to say, because not only have I said those things to other people in similar circumstances, sometimes, I can even say them to myself. Not to mention the fact that God has given me so many blessings, like my husband and these two precious boys, that I'm ashamed for complaining at all.

So where does that leave me . . . or for that matter, this blog entry? I have to have some sort of satisfactory concluding paragraph that outlines the next step I will take or explains why, ultimately, it will all be okay. And we both know that it will. God is still God. Our time here is so short. One day it will all make sense. But today, it doesn't. And I think that's okay too.

Sheppie (yes - we actually call him this)

2009-05-05T23:31:00.006-04:00

So I've already failed my own challenge. But I'm not giving up. Tonight I told my spouse that "part of life is killing plants." Perhaps the same applies to blogs . . . or something.

Shepherd is adorable. He is at such a wonderful stage. He is crawling everywhere and pulling up on everything. He watches his own little chubby hand in wonder as he turns his fat wrist to wave (in my family we refer to this as rubber band wrist). It's as if he is discovering that that this thing at the end of his arm is connected to him and he just might have some control over it. In fact, he reached into the toilet recently and pulled out his first wad of dripping toilet paper. Yes, I know, he's a genius.

He and Merle the girl are becoming buddies. She is immensely patient with his "petting," and he has learned to scrunch up his face as tightly as possible when she comes near, which offers him little defense against the licking that ensues. We often look at the two of them and can't believe there's so much cute in one house.

Shepherd is a lover of music. When he decides he has had enough running errands for one day and wants to politely let his chauffeur (ahem - mwaaa) know exactly how he's feeling by giving a healthy wail, he can usually be calmed down by some well-chosen tunes.

He is babbling away. His vocabulary includes "ba ba ba," "a ba" "ma ma ma" and "da da da" as well as a cacophony of other non-phonetic sounds that I think are found only in Swahili.

Locke is a wonderful big brother. He is very helpful, usually kind, and has only once or twice told me that he wants to trade Shepherd in for a girl. He is anxiously awaiting the day when Shepherd is old enough to engage in a little brotherly wrestling. Locke's attempts at making this happen thus far include him laying on the ground holding Shepherd on his chest while Shepherd cries. WWF - here we come. Shepherd does, however, love to grab those curly locks. In fact, he loves grabbing pretty much any hair. Friends have joked with me that instead of a security blanket, I should give the kid a wig. My hair ends up twisted around his fingers and has even made appearances in his diaper! Apparently, hair makes a lovely appetizer.

I took him outside recently to try to capture some moments for the camera that seem all too rare with the second child, but after my "little buddy" ate approximately a pound of grass, I realized outdoor baby photography is a two-person job. About the only thing we got out of the shoot were some very dirty socks.

2009-04-10T00:02:00.006-04:00

My boy is reading. It is beautiful, really. I never knew that I would be so enthralled by Mutt, Pup, Tag, Rag, and their gang of monosyllabic friends. I am slightly embarrassed to say that he is actually "Hooked on Phonics." This reading program always seemed like some sort of practical joke - a commercial legend that existed solely for the purpose of snarky t-shirts and comedic catch-phrases. Who knew that any parent so-inclined can actually head to the local Wal-Mart and pick up a little kit that will literally change their child's life. It really works, and it's been fun.

Locke has been asking for some time to be "hooked on phonics." He even told me that when he turned 5, he would "be able to do phonics gooder." Oh the irony. My sister used the program for both of her boys, and she graciously passed down the cardboard box to me, filled with colorful little treasures called HOP books and a slightly worn bright yellow workbook that is so self-explanatory, Locke may be able to use it to teach Shepherd the ins and outs of phonics. Of course, we may not have to teach Shepherd to read.

Last week, my grandma, who, incidentally turns 84 tomorrow and is always on the cutting edge of pretty much anything, presented me with a set of videos and flashcards called "Your Baby Can Read." The premise is that after watching a series of 20 minute videos for several months, your diaper-clad darling will move on to perusing the New York Times. Okay, well, almost. Our first video-watching session was less than successful. Shepherd fussed, looked around the room, then fell asleep. I think Locke was secretly relieved. "Shepherd's too young to read," he informed us in his best big brother voice.

I haven't given up yet. Although I must say that if my baby really does start reading, there might be a small part of me that's sad. I've discovered that parent types don't just say "they grow up so fast" to have something to say. There is the idea that trite sayings are often overused because in them lies a profound truth that we feel compelled to share, and I have to agree.

The aging and subsequent independence of our children makes us yearn for the days when they needed us, when they relied on us for everything from feeding them to wiping their bottoms, and when we could spell words around them like "C-A-K-E," "B-E-D-T-I-M-E,' and "M-O-V-I-E" without them having a clue as to what we were saying. Locke's new found skill will change way we communicate around here. Spousal disagreements in front of the youngsters are made significantly more challenging when you can't spell things out, so this may be the dawn of a new spiritual exercise for me - learning to shut my yapper. Good thing my Spanish is sub-par.

Blogophobia

2009-04-04T13:20:00.007-04:00

I refuse to chalk up this blog to the list of abandoned projects in my life. There is a mandolin that was going to aid me in world-blue-grass domination that looks very artsy on top of the book shelf in the study, but hasn't had its strings plucked in, er, a while. Then, there is my too-expensive camera that was going to make me the next Anne Geddes. It recently sacrificed its batteries to one of Locke's robotic playthings. Unlike the other electronic devices that actually get utilized in the house, my camera's batteries were fully charged (besides, I "borrowed" the batteries from one of our remotes a few weeks ago for a lifeless toy, much to the chagrin of my husband.)

I have blogophobia. I can't write just a little. I am extremely critical of what I do write. The two little hobbits (not to mention the giant) who live with me don't give me ample amounts of time to sit around pontificating about my next post. Therefore, I do not write. And no, procrastination has nothing to do with it and neither do any of my other personality flaws.

I am exceedingly envious of my friends (most are also mommies) who have tons of posts on their blogs. They put up a recent picture of their child doing something adorable and praise-worthy, write an interesting, informative, and succinct paragraph, and move on to other momerly duties (I think I just invented a new word), while I'm still trying to come up with a title that conveys the perfect mixture of humor and angst. I'm sure, with them, there is no rough-drafting, re-writing, nail-biting or other nonsense going on like there is with some of the, ahem, other obsessive people I know. These blog-happy maniacs even have multiple posts in a month!

So as therapy, I am beginning a challenge for myself to post weekly, even if it's just a line or two or just a picture of my child doing something adorable, praiseworthy or heck, something not that exciting at all. I will do this for 3 months.
"Jessie," (this is where I talk to myself).
"Are you sure you want to do this? You're just making this decision on the fly. You haven't counted the cost, weighed the pros and cons, or even imagined what failure might feel like."
"No, self." (This is where my more optimistic self answers my pessimistic self.) "I will conquer my blogophopia. I will post. Yes, I will post. (Cue dramatic music.)

Shepherd Lane McLaughlin

2008-09-17T16:35:00.028-04:00

Well, he's here! And no, he's not a month late (talk about a nightmare!), I'm just a month late posting! It seems the past 4 weeks have been high on hectic and low on sleep.

Our sweet Shepherd arrived 9 days early on Thursday morning August 21st at 6:50 am, weighing in at 6lbs, 15 oz at a length of 20 and 1/2 inches. I told Rhett on Wednesday that he should finish up everything that had to be done at work, because I thought our boy was planning on coming into the world very soon (he had been asking me to hold off on the whole labor thing so he could tie up some loose ends, and I kindly obliged until absolutely necessary.) I laid on the couch all day and my sweet sister took Locke. Every time I got up I felt enormous pressure. When Rhett got home that night, I sent him to vacuum out the car, since every baby deserves to come home in a freshly vacuumed car.

For some reason, I have this fear of going to the hospital too early, so it wasn't until around 4:30 in the morning that I told my husband we needed to go . . . and then I made the bed.

When we arrived at the hospital, the nurses told me that I was only 1 cm dilated, and that they could not admit me. They would let me walk around to see if I could get this thing going. All I knew was that I was not going to allow them to send me home, and that I wanted that epidural.

Then my water broke. Suddenly I was 6 cm and my contractions were . . . well, let's just say, painful. The nurses called the anesthesiologist and my doctor, neither one of which made it in time. I told the nurses that I needed to push. They grabbed some guy from the hall who they said was a doctor (he was awfully quiet for a doctor) and tried to get my shocked body into the baby-having position. This is when I started the yell. This was not a high pitched "there's a spider in the bathroom" scream, it was a guttural, almost tribal call, like I was about to jump off a cliff, or kill a wild beast, or as Rhett said, "be in a head-on collision."

At some point it hit me that they have classes for this stuff and maybe I should have taken one, and that perhaps my vocal gymnastics were scaring all the other women on the floor. But these were just fleeting thoughts, so I continued the yell.

Later, after we introduced ourselves to our second offspring, my wise husband told me that he thinks that my natural childbirth experience was not only the more entertaining of our children's births, but that it is more indicative of what is happening, in that a person is coming into the world. The birth of a person, should, in his thinking, be accompanied by some "fireworks" i.e. screaming, and oh, wasn't I happy that I could now identify with the 99.9% of women throughout history who have had a child this way?! I'm so grateful that after watching 2 births he has come up with an exhaustive theory on the pros of natural childbirth. I, however, remain unconvinced.

What I am convinced of is that God has given us the unfathomable gift of being stewards, otherwise known as parents, of a precious life. I am unworthy and ill-equipped, but God is full of grace. The Good Shepherd "gathers the lambs in his arms and carries them close to his heart; He gently leads those who have young . . . (Isaiah 40:11)."

Welcome to the world baby Shepherd. With every day that passes, may you grow to know and love the Chief Shepherd. We love you like crazy.

Our New Addition Has Arrived!

2008-07-17T16:48:00.010-04:00

No, not baby #2 . . . our dog.

Of all the things I've wanted to get or get done before our little guy makes his entrance into the world at the end of August, a dog didn't make the short list . . .or the long list. In fact, if a person had told me at the beginning of this year that I would be bringing a canine into our home right before our baby was born, I can only imagine that my answer would have been accompanied by denial, disgust, horror, tears and some sort of physical violence against the messenger or myself. What could possibly make someone with such an aversion to dog ownership take in a good-for-nothing mutt?

One seemingly benign word - Rosie.

My parent's 8 year old dog went and got herself pregnant. I've always known the dog had it out for me. They got her right after I left for college and I couldn't help but to have that eerie I am being replaced by something half as smart and twice as cute feeling (okay - a quarter as smart.)

Throughout the years, in spite of Rosie's all-too-often neighborhood frolics, she never came home with a bun or uh - dog biscuit - in the oven. We thought she was either content with the single life or just unable to bear offspring. Apparently though, the right man never came along, until . . . Sparky.

If you ran across Sparky in a dark alley, you might think he was rabid, which would be frightening, except for the fact that he's slightly larger than a squirrel. On the other hand, nobody likes a rabid squirrel. Needless to say, he's a ferocious little Chihuahua/Terrier mix and about half the size of our Heinz 57 Hotdogish tramp, Rosie. And so, by some act of Divine intervention or sheer meanness on Rosie's part (she just couldn't let me be the only pregnant one) and never to be outdone, she became pregnant at 56 years old with 4 little hybrids (what I've been told is the 2008 version of the mutt). My parents were made aware of her delicate state only after the vet told them that she was sick and going to die. The doctor called back the next day to say that she had simply misread the x-ray.

Now here I sit, 8 months pregnant staring at a little fury 4 legged creature asleep on my white couch. This couch has made it virtually unscathed through 4 and 1/2 years of Locke McLaughlin, and yet I'm not sure it will last 1 month with Merle. That's right. I said Merle. She was named after my husband's all time favorite artist, Merle Haggard, who happens to be one of the few musicians for whom we don't share an affection. And although I don't love the man (Merle, that is, not Rhett), the dog, Merle The Girl, has gone and used her big brown eyes to make me fall head over heels for her. In fact, learning to deal with fleas, doggie poo, and chewed up, well, everything, might be just the therapy an OCD girl like myself needs to loosen her up before the birth of her second born.

But I'm still mad at Rosie.

Momminess

2008-05-03T21:28:00.005-04:00

As if I wasn't emotionally fragile enough, I had to go and become a parent.

Recently, Locke got lost in the mall. Without rehashing the gory details, I will simply say that he is sleeping peacefully in his own little bed across the hall right now, and I have a very grateful heart.

There's something really good about doing a thing and feeling capable, like you are equipped. You feel like you do it well, like you've mastered that thing, like you are in charge of that thing. You're the go-to-girl on that thing. It's good for the self-esteem, you know. Okay, so honestly, I can't think of anything that actually falls into this category in my life, but for the sake of the argument let's just say that I actually am the go-to-girl for something, like, homemade ice cream cakes. If, on a capability scale of 1 to 100, making homemade ice cream cakes were a 95 (nobody's perfect) then my parenting would have to be like an . . . okay, I'm actually going to refrain from giving myself a grade here because that could end up really scaring either me or you. But let's just say I don't think I'd be on the dean's list. Then again, I have this sneaking suspicion that maybe parenting is one of those things at which we're never supposed to feel gold-star worthy, at least, for more than an hour.

Since becoming the mother of a curly-headed little enigma over 4 years ago, I have become painfully aware of how little control I actually have, not only over my child and my surroundings, but over myself. I have, at times, lost my focus, my patience, my temper, my sanity, along with my keys, cell phone, and wallet, of course. I know what it's like to have a room full of eyes on you as everyone waits to hear what tale your child has resolved to announce to the world, and in a few sentences thereby allowing the world to decide how you rate on the mommy scale of well, momminess.

As Locke grows, the questions of how to raise him seem to be getting more complex. What a precious gift he is to me! Yet sometimes, the best way to protect, discipline, and nurture that gift isn't always clear or easy. A friend once told me that she thought 90% of parenting is actually about what God is doing in the parent's life, not necessarily the child's. There's no question that God has chosen to inextricably link parents and children in each other's journeys of becoming more like Christ, and that often we parents are amazed at the truths He conveys to us through these pint-sized teachers. My parenting of Locke is just as much about God's parenting of me.

Our second boy is due in August. Locke is bursting at the seems with excitement. We talk about the baby a lot - how it won't do much but eat, sleep, cry, and make dirty diapers. Locke seems to be okay with that, and I think I am too. It's hard to get lost in the mall before you can walk.

Me and Thomas (or Thomas and I)

2007-12-24T08:16:00.000-05:00

Much of my life, I have struggled with a profound sense of doubt. I used to be guilt-stricken and cut to the core almost every time I heard an "altar call" or invitation. Since I have lived in the south my whole life, and attended a Christian school that required its students to attend chapel twice weekly, this doubt usually swirled around questions of my own salvation, and often these questions came at 10:30 on Tuesdays and Thursdays. I will never forget a chapel speaker who, regarding our salvation, confidently told the auditorium full of students that if we were, "99 percent sure" we were "100 percent lost." That one haunted me for a while.

As I've gotten older, my doubt has shifted more to an emphasis on questions of whether or not this whole Christianity thing was just made up by a band of slightly confused and overly zealous social outcasts two thousand years ago. A girlfriend and I love to talk about one of our favorite Bible characters - the father of the boy with the unclean spirit in Mark 9 who said,"I believe; help my unbelief." I can relate to this guy. Because of my dubious heart, years ago, Rhett and I came up with a kind of proof we could do with each other for times of intense doubt. I won't share it here, but I think it's pretty good, so maybe I'll write a really short book about it one day.

I was recently talking with another friend about a miraculous healing of a paralyzed man she witnessed with her own eyes in a remote South Asian mountain village. She told me that when she recounted the story in her journal, she wrote to herself,"I know you are going to doubt that this really happened later, but IT REALLY DID HAPPEN!" I was comforted by her admission.

There are numerous books by Christian authors about dealing with doubt and about the overwhelming evidence of the Christian faith (Chesterton's Orthodoxy is not an easy read, but well worth it.) When I am a good student of the evidence and am reminded of the many reasons I have to believe, I am comforted and reassured that the world and everything in it speaks to the reality of this faith. However, I have a sneaking suspicion that at least in part, my struggles with doubt aren't about finding that missing piece of evidence that will assuage my fears, or coming up with a proof that will once and for all slam shut "Jessie's Book of Doubt." What's happening here isn't merely intellectual. There is something in human nature that tends towards doubt, that bucks against the complete vulnerability of believing in a God upon Whom we cannot lay our eyes. Locke occasionally asks me, "Mom, why is God divisible?" (This is not a math question. He is asking me why we can't see God.) I answer, "Because he wants us to have faith, Locke." That answer is good enough for Locke, and when I hear it coming out of my mouth, it feels simple and true enough to make all the sense in the world.

But what does a girl do when she's lost that child-like faith, when her faith seems paper-thin, when she feels as though she's dangling over the edge of a complete loss of belief? She can throw herself on His mercy... I can throw myself on His mercy. I can allow my lack of faith to turn me towards the only Faithful One. I can remember it's never been about me having "what it takes" in the first place.

Hebrews 12:2 ". . .fixing our eyes on Jesus, the author and perfecter of faith, who for the joy set before Him endured the cross, despising the shame, and has sat down at the right hand of the throne of God."

Hebrews 4:16 "Let us then with confidence draw near to the throne of grace, that we may receive mercy and find grace to help in time of need."

Psalm 103:14 For he knows our frame; he remembers that we are dust.

A Blog At Last

2007-08-23T19:20:00.000-04:00

It's August. I am ashamed. I have not written a blog since May. I've sat down to write blogs, but because of my perfectionist tendencies I can't seem to finish one. So I'm going to post whatever I end up getting on the page. This is not going to be very profound. In fact, the three of you who read this should probably stop reading right now and go do something more meaningful with the next five minutes, like organizing that junk drawer.

The older I get the more I realize that my perfectionism and fear of failure have kept me from doing a lot of things. Life is messy. Houses are messy. Kids are messy. Trying to do new things is messy. Marriages are messy. Relationships are messy. Burritos are messy. Yards are messy. Desks are messy. That crack where the counter stops and the stove starts is messy. This is all a problem for someone who has some control issues, who's got OCD, and who is, in general, way too concerned about other messy people's opinions of her.

I'm also realizing that I'm an over-sharer. I don't mean that I'm really giving and love to, say, share my messy burrito with the guy at the table beside me. What I am is someone who will tell the waitress at the Mexican restaurant each painstaking detail of my most recent therapy session. I'm not exactly sure why I do it. Is it some insatiable need to be known? Is it that I'm simply self-centered? Why am I so trusting? Why do I feel the need to emotionally vomit on people? Why am I even blogging about this?

It's almost as if, if I recognize my messiness (or at least pretend to), then no one can say I didn't warn them - hence, organizing that junk drawer.

I think most of my struggles boil down to me believing I'm in control.

Today, Locke asked me to please get him "a God costume at the store." That crazy kid. The funny thing is, I know grown ups who wake up every day and dutifully pretend to take control of their destiny. They slip on their gold-sequined God costume and walk out the door. Then one day they look down and realize it's nothing more than a costume.

So I guess I need something new to wear.

My Anonymous Life

2007-05-02T14:58:00.000-04:00

I watched Spiderman 2 last night for the 2nd time. Since marrying a man and having a man-child, my eyes have been opened to the super-hero world, and I'm actually beginning to understand why people are so fascinated with the whole thing. One of my favorite non-mushy scenes in the movie occurs when Spidey saves the railcar full of people from certain demise after Doc Oc picks a fight with him. Public transportation happens to be the unlucky bystander. In the shuffle, our friend loses his mask. There is something so gratifying and equally unnerving about these people seeing who he really is. And who can forget the scene in which MJ finds out that Spiderman and Peter Parker are one and the same? Suddenly it all makes sense to her, and we all breathe a sigh of relief because she knows that Peter really does love her (and that he's not all nerd - that's got to count for something.)

So it got me thinking about this whole anonymity idea. I think I could do some pretty amazing things if nobody knew who I really was. I would try things I was afraid to try before for fear of failure. I would say whatever I thought I should instead of saying the thing that would offend the fewest people. In fact, I'd probably even start using some super power I didn't even know I had. (I don't know what that super power is yet, because I'm not anonymous, and when I become anonymous, I won't be able to tell you what it is because you won't know it's me. We could come up with some sort of secret password or signal so you'll know it's me, but that might be breaking the rules.) I also haven't decided exactly how I'd be anonymous. Maybe I'd have a really cool costume and mask, but I don't think they sell those at Wal-Mart, except for kids, and then I'd have to be a super hero that already existed. My nephew has a teenage mutant ninja turtle costume, but I'd look stupid in that. Plus, it would be too little.

The more I think about it, the more I think I wouldn't be very good at being anonymous, because, when I did something cool, I'd want everyone to know it was me, or I'd at least want Rhett to know. Like, if Rhett said, "Did you hear about what amazing thing Squirrel Girl (it could work - some squirrels do actually fly) did today? I might say casually," No, I didn't, but I'M HER!" That would ruin everything. If there's no mystery, people are either uninterested or every time you run down the street, they mob you for your autograph and say things like, "Had any good acorn sandwiches lately?" or "You know, braces could fix those."

So I guess I'll just stay me.

Sincerely,
Anonymous

Miscarriage

2007-01-02T15:52:00.000-05:00

"My frame was not hidden from you when I was made in the secret place. When I was woven together in the depths of the earth, your eyes saw my unformed body. All the days ordained for me were written in your book before one of them came to be."
The book of Psalms, the 139th chapter, the 15th and 16th verses

Growing up from an early age being taught Scripture, learning about the life of Christ, and being challenged to have my own deep and meaningful spiritual life, I had read the above passage numerous times. I had mostly thought about this passage in context of myself-because that's my favorite thing to do-to make something about me. An author I was reading recently said we're only interested in spiritual things if we think they have a direct correlation to us. I have to admit, I'm still thinking about this psalm as it relates to my circumstances, but I do believe my view has broadened.

On November 16th, my dad's birthday, Rhett and I found out we were pregnant with our 2nd child. On December 18th, my birthday, we found out that child had gone home to be with God. That Monday, as Rhett and I sat in the doctor's office waiting to find out if the symptoms I had been experiencing for about a week were indicative of a problem, I told Rhett I might throw up if the doctor told me the baby was not okay. I didn't. I just cried. When the ultrasound picture came up on the screen, the sweet sound of our baby's heartbeat that we had heard at our last visit was missing, leaving just a perfectly still picture of a tiny baby. We walked out of the doctor's office, past large collages of hundreds of moms beaming as they held their newborn babies.

I was listening to a speaker recently when they read the above Psalm. For a minute, my mind shut off. "I know this one," I thought. But I've never "known this one" after losing a baby. The words began to jump out at me. God ordained the exact number of days that my baby would live. Just 9 weeks in my womb-that's all. God created that baby to live inside me for just 9 weeks. He "knit. . . together"(v.14) my baby for a purpose, and when that precious baby was finished fulfilling it's purpose, it went home.

One of our coworkers lost both of her parents and her only 2 brothers in a small plane crash on New Year's Eve. I can't begin to wrap my brain around how you even start to process and grieve after a tragedy of those proportions. I don't know how it all works - good and evil, freewill and predestination. I know that there is unfathomable suffering in the world. I know that God is good. I know that nothing can happen to me that God doesn't allow. I know that God's love for me is deeper and more perfect than any love I could ever feel for my own children. I know that I'm not in control, and especially in the face of loss, my only hope is to trust the One Who Is.

So blue

2006-12-11T08:43:00.000-05:00

Recently I was engaged in a riveting game of Candyland with Locke and 2 of my nephews, Eli and Micah. At the time, Locke was still referring to the game as "Candybar", although he has since, much to my disappointment, seen the error of his ways. Before we ever got started, he announced that he wanted to be "blue." I took this to mean he wanted to be one of the blue gingerbread gamepieces, so naturally, I obliged. What I did not realize was that Locke's love of blue went far beyond the desire to be the blue gingerbread man. Blue was actually Locke's philosophy on the game of Candybar, or Candyland, that is. Each time Locke's turn came around his only hope was to pick a card with either a single or double blue square on it. (In case you've forgotten, this is basically the extent of the game, pick a card with a color on it and go to that color space, unless, of course, you happen to draw a Mr. Mint or Gramma Nutt, then things get wild!) Locke did not care about the object of the game, whether he or anyone else was playing by the rules, or if he was actually moving along on Rainbow Trail, all he wanted was "blue." When Locke didn't get blue, the tears would flow like hot chocolate down gumdrop mountain. When my nephew, Micah, got a blue card, he was so moved by Locke's antics he actually offered it to Locke. Shortly thereafter, I realized that reinforcing my son's little addiction to blue would not do anything for teaching him how to actually play the game of Candyland or . . . the game of Life (sorry about that.) I couldn't help but think about the spiritual analogy here. How many times do I beg and pine away for something that I just have to have, often with little regard as to how it will affect the spiritual outcome of my life and whether it is actually part of the eternal goal. Sometimes, God must, like a loving mother, hold us in His lap as we mourn the loss of that thing we wanted or dreamed of, while quietly and patiently teaching us that this life is about much more than simply getting "blue."

My little Theologian

2006-10-15T23:19:00.000-04:00

Recently my boy and I were walking through one of those big supermarket parking lots (the kind of store that you have to have a special membership to in order to buy really big boxes of cereal from) when I said to my child, "God gave you to me." It was at this point that he looked at me with his daddy's big blue eyes and said in his most angelic voice, "I love God." My heart began to swell. I must have the most spiritual two year old around. All of our hard work had paid off. My child loves God! I AM a good mother! I began mentally filling out Locke's application for divinity school ie. Locke proclaimed at two that he loved God and by 3 was preaching sermons and officiating at weddings . . . At this point my son announced in the same angelic tone, "I love batman." Apparantly, I still have some work to do. Somehow, though, in Locke's own special way he actually highlighted a curious facet of our humanness. He's obsessed with superheroes. In fact, the box office might suggest that we all are a bit. We want somebody to rescue us, somebody who will come when we call, somebody who's stronger and kinder than any of the bad guys and even more powerful than the forces of nature themselves (Superman actually turned back time to save Lois Lane with some fancy flying trick I'm still trying to get my physics-challenged brain around.) It's almost like we all want some kind of . . . Savior. Maybe Locke's a theologian after all.

Lemilem Oh Pee!

2006-09-07T21:26:00.000-04:00

This week has been a challenging one. As I write this line Rhett is putting Locke to bed. He interrupts my train of thought with, "Mommy, there are no sheets on Locke's bed. What do we do? Daddy's at a loss." The sheet is balled up beside Locke's bed, on the floor, with a precious little pee spot on it. We're potty training. We started on Monday - Labor day - and boy has it been (laborious that is!) We've been talking about it for weeks, nay months now. "Soon you won't need diapers. Soon you'll peepee in the potty like a big boy," I would say in my most enthusiastic voice. We went to the store and Locke picked out special treats as a reward - "lemilems" (aka m&ms.) We bought stickers for a potty chart, a little potty seat (he has had the unfortunate experience of falling through before), and an array of Buzz Lightyear, Thomas the Train, and Spiderman underpants. When the big day arrived we dressed one of Locke's stuffed animals in a pair and demonstrated how to peepee in the potty with the sounds and all (Rhett surreptitiously poured water in the bowl for sound effects as the anatomically incorrect frog doll did his business). The first time my little angel realized that underwear do not hold the same absorbent super powers as diapers, he exclaimed, "Oh my goodness, it spilled me!" A puddle on the floor proved him right. After going through about 5 pair of underwear, I was exhausted. It wasn't until my neighbors stopped by and Locke had an audience that we finally had a break through (he's a performer just like somebody else I know!) Each day has steadily improved since then, but we have stayed at home much more than normal. My downstairs bathroom has become an altar to potty training with a sticker-laden chart taped to the wall (it goes perfectly with my shabby chic decor) and a blue potty seat that makes it almost impossible for adults to make use of the loo. Celebrities' lives seem even more appealing than usual this week, and I think my house might actually be shrinking. As Rhett calls me in to say our nightly prayers with Locke, a little figure looks up at me in the dark and says, "I need you." All the pee-free sheets in the world aren't worth that.

Gray at 25

2006-08-27T23:09:00.000-04:00

It's official. I'm getting old. I was at a birthday party the other night when my sister graciously began picking at my head like those monkeys on the discovery channel who bond by eating bugs off of each other. "You've got a gray hair", she announced. (Maybe she was trying to get back at me for all those times I pranced into the room where she was hanging out with her pimply boyfriend and started belting out showtunes. She wasn't a fan of showtunes.) I have to admit-I wasn't convinced. "Are you sure it's not just blonde?" I was hoping maybe there was one blonde holdout hair left over from my higlighted days. So what that the last time I got highlights was 7 years ago? It could happen. Ashley then attempted to do what any loving sister would do in the face of a lonesome suspect gray hair - pluck it out. (Ashley's always been pretty good at plucking things. She was the first one to pluck my eyebrows. She was always ahead of the times. In 7th grade she shaved one of her eyebrows down the middle to look like CrissCross.) Of course, she couldn't manage to get this gray hair. It kept "slipping" out of her fingers. After about 3 attempts (now I'm not only gray, but bald as well) she presented me with the culprit. It was short, wiry, and . . . gray. There was no denying it. I was the owner of a gray hair. I gave out a little scream in disbelief, then began lamenting this new era. I stared at the hair as I contemplated what I would do with it. Should I frame it, put it in a little envelope, take a picture of it, or burn it in defiance? Just as I'm considering the hair's fate, Ashley knocks it out of my hand and says something like, "Oh,it's not that big of a deal." Talk about jerking my emotions around. I needed closure. I needed some alone time with that gray hair, and now it was gone. So I'm left to ponder my mortality. Who was it that said we start dying the day we're born, and why is it that 1 gray hair makes me feel that much closer to death?
I still feel like a kid myself. I'm married and have a child, but I often see myself as a teenager. My mom says that there are ages we just get stuck at. It doesn't mean you act that age, shirk your responsibilities, or don't absolutely love the current stage of your life. But somewhere inside you there's this thing that stopped at a certain age because there was just something about you at that age that makes you want to remember yourself there (this is all very scientific.) Anyway, gray hairs screw that up. Gray hairs are gentle reminders that we actually are aging and that each day is one day closer to our own postmortem appointment with God. He's the only one who doesn't age.

My uh-hum "sectional" sofa

2006-08-21T15:47:00.000-04:00

We have a sectional sofa - sort of. It's actually a couch and a love seat put together. When we bought the furniture I slightly misjudged the size of the couches in relation to the size of the room. Sure, I could have measured the room, then measured the couch and loveseat, made a to-scale model on graph paper like my organized sister-in-law does, and realized beforehand that the 2 pieces would take up 3/4ths of the room. But that just makes too much sense. Where's the excitement in that? Where's the intrigue? I chose to take the much more adventurous route. I like having to sweat it out when the Rooms-To-Go truck arrives and wonder, not only if the couches are going to even make it through the doors of my cozy cottage, but what the heck are we going to do with them once we get them into my walk-in-closet sized living room. Speaking of Teressa, my sister-in-law, she and my mom were the ones who talked me into creating the fake sectional. The arms are low profile enough that you can disguise them with a well-placed throw (that isn't "thrown" in place at all.) It's actually become a bit of a joke to watch unsuspecting visitors throw themselves with total abandon onto the couch only to be met with a hard and hidden couch arm in the rump. To complete the ruse, My sweet grandfather, "Papa", made a brace that fits up against the wall so that one can lean up against the newly arranged pillows without falling over the arm. He went home to Jesus last summer, and yet he continues to serve our family as we reap the benefits of all the special projects he completed around here. The funny thing is that my grandfather's father-in-law, "Big Papa" (who actually wasn't that much bigger than regular Papa - just older and therefore - bigger)wouldn't have even sat on my fake sectional. He was convinced these couches were actually called sexual sofas - and there's only one thing a sexual sofa could be used for! So there you go. My couch is laden with family history - all because I refused to bow to the rules of conventional wisdom and the . . . tape measure. And now Locke has discovered another use for our sectional. He squeezes his slender, limber body into the crack between the two couches then screams in distress, "I stuck!" That boy - he's a genius.

Oh Scrap

2006-08-15T22:03:00.000-04:00

I'm not a Scrapbooker.
It's taken me years to come to terms with those powerful words. In an attic somewhere in Chapel Hill sits a perfectly blank, yet nifty "High School Senior Memories" scrapbook - which sits in a box that contains . . . my high school senior memories. Then there's the beautiful wedding scrapbook that someone gave us as a nuptial gift. It's pages remain unblemished,untouched by time or - me. It's destined to live a life of solitude on our closet shelf beside Rhett's old baseball cards and his "Wax Paper Dogz-Live from Harnett County" videos. The problem is now-I'm a mother. Mothers are supposed to scrapbook. Occasionally, I'll happen upon my girlfriends' scrapbooks when I'm over at their house. Every detail of their child's life from conception to their afternoon snack (today) is detailed in purple passion glitter paint and baby booty borders. While trying to take in the kaleidoscopic work of art (and by the way how does she get her handwriting to look like "Ravie" font?) my eyes glaze over as my two chums, jealousy and self-loathing enter the room, followed closely by pity. No, not pity for myself. Pity for my child who will grow up without any clearly chronologicaled and fabulously decorated record of his life. His baby book is only half filled out- and it was not the kind with vast pages of white that go on as far as the eye can see. No, it had small spaces for writing and simple little instructions like "place picture here." Perhaps I'll tell him we couldn't afford a printer to actually get the digital pics off the computer. We were too busy buying diapers and saving for his college education to be printing off pictures. Or maybe I'll just say, "I'm sorry honey, your mom's not a scrapbooker."