Rebecca Greebon
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A River Runs Through Us

7/6/2017

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As many of you know (and the rest of you can probably guess from the blog name), our family spends a lot of time outdoors – most specifically in or near the Guadalupe River.  My husband’s family has owned property on the river for over 50 years.  It’s a gorgeous five acres with 300+ feet of riverfront, rapids across from the sprawling yard, a duplex of two cabins and even an old-fashioned molasses press in the front yard.

We spent many a summer there during our college and dating years, as work and school allowed.  My first tubing trip down the river was quite the ordeal, especially as I was the only girl on this journey.  Without going into too much detail about our misadventures, let me just summarize the lessons we each learned.

Me:
     1) It is not a good idea to go on a river trip with a group of boys if you are the only girl. Ever. This only ends well in the movies. 
     2) A strapless bikini is not the best wardrobe choice when tubing down rapids.


Him:
     1) In a full out, head-over-heels tumble down the rapids, never choose rescuing the tube containing the beer cooler over the tube containing your girlfriend.  That, too, only ends well in the movies.
     2) Trips with girls are more work.  Period.


See?  College kids can learn outside of class….

Over the years, the groups that joined us on our river adventures grew and changed.  Couples broke up and new couples formed, people moved into or out of our lives, weddings changed the rules for some, graduations happened and grown-up jobs were sometimes less flexible in their understanding of our need for river fun than were our previous positions as wait staff or personal trainers.

The river changed as well.  Drought years made it slow and sluggish, making the trip long, hot and (in rare cases) boring.  There were years it rained all summer, and we shivered in tubes and rafts, determined to hold fast to tradition and float in spite of the unpleasantness.  Some years it flowed faster and fuller than others.  I will never forget the summer it overflowed its banks, and after the tragic drownings of some kayaking tourists, was closed for the season.  Far be it from us to let a little thing like safety in prevention of serious injury or death stop us from having fun.  We spent that trip body surfing the rapids.  While it was one of the dumber decisions of our lives, guardian angels worked overtime and in spite of a couple of close calls, we all made it home.  It also provided one of my favorite pictures of my husband, so I’ll share it with you.
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Those are five foot swells he’s shooting out of….

When I think of Gregg, the boy I fell in love with – who introduced me to the river that was to become our first home together and who opened my eyes to a new and crazy brand of fun, I think of this picture.  I see this portrait of the man who would ultimately become my soul mate and partner, the father of my children and head of our household, and it makes my heart smile.  What a great definition of freedom and fun and in-the-moment living!  It’s a beautiful reminder of a time before parental worry and career stress, the weight of heavy expectations and shouldering the responsibility of providing for a family.  Back then, we were invincible, no matter what anyone told us to the contrary.

Lady Antebellum has a song called We Owned the Night.  I love these lyrics: “And for a moment, we made the world stand still. Yeah, we owned the night.”

I loved those days.  I loved the innocence and freedom we had.  I love the stories and relationships that were born from them.  I love the growth and changes we experienced through them.  I love that we survived them.  And, let’s be honest, if I catch our kids pulling even half the stunts we did up and down this river, I will skin them alive.  If I’m being totally realistic, knowing my kids (especially the younger two), I should also know they will probably come up with even wilder and crazier stunts to pull.  They are made up of half their father’s genes, after all.

And that’s okay.  Because my little river rats deserve their day in the sun.  They, too, need to create memories that make them alternately cringe in shame or laugh until their sides hurt.  They need their time to make the world stand still, to have mental and/or literal snapshots to look back on and cherish with a smile in their hearts.  They need to know how it feels to be young and free and invincible, and to find the beauty in the joy that brings.  Because there will come a day when remembering how it felt to be that alive, that full of energy and hope, will be all that sustains them.  There will be moments in their adult lives when looking back at the shenanigans of their younger, brighter, braver selves is what it will take to shore up their walls and replenish their reserves as the weight of the world crushes and drains them.

This river is in their blood.  They need to form their own relationships with the entity that is so much a part of their lives and heritage.  They are starting early, beginning a kinship and comfort level from such a young age.  They have many years of escapades ahead of them.

And when my daughter goes on tubing trips with her college boyfriend, she’ll be the one rescuing the tube with the cooler as she calmly navigates the rapids.  Of this, I have no doubt.


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Solidarity, sisters.  At one time, we each owned the night.
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Lessons from Mrs. Carson

7/21/2015

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My dear husband has this habit (we’ll call it “quirky”) of picking out the most obscure movies to watch in the evenings.  He scrolls through Netflix, finding enigmatic westerns or war flicks (generally starring one or two A-list actors supported by a cast of actors I’ve never seen or heard of), and since neither of these genres are remotely interesting to me, I tend to come in and out of the room while doing laundry (because, let’s face it, this house is the black hole of never-ending laundry), cleaning the kitchen, or, on nights when both of those options are just over my capacity for functioning at that hour, curling up on the couch next to him with a book, so that we are actually spending time together in the same general vicinity (funny how our definition of “hanging out” changes over the years, isn’t it?).
Last night was no exception to this rule, and laundry made my preferred function list (Ok, not preferred….but necessary.  The pile was getting embarrassing).  This time, however, his choice caught my attention, and before I knew it, I had become wrapped up enough in the story to set the laundry down, run and get a notepad, and return to the couch to sit on top of the clean clothes pile while watching and writing (Apparently, I have now picked up the sit-on-the-laundry-instead-of-folding-it habit from my family, which is unfortunate, because it gives me fits when they do it….and I yell at them for this.  Luckily, the kids were in bed and didn’t witness my lapse.).  And, yes, I was taking notes during a movie.  Don’t judge me.  I already had to ignore the raised eyebrows and snickers from the other end of the couch.
Moving on….
The movie Gregg picked was Gifted Hands: The Ben Carson story, and it was based on his autobiography, which has the same title.  I don’t know if you are aware of who Dr. Benjamin Carson is – I wasn’t until last night.  I am now fascinated with his story, especially his earlier history.
He was born in 1951, one of two brothers, and raised by a single mother from age eight years old.  His is a story of early struggle, redemption and triumph over any circumstance to burst through the other side a shining star.  And while this is impressive, the theme that caught me was actually the backstory and fortitude of his mother.
Her scenes were my favorite, and I was in some degree of tears throughout most of them.  She was a hard-working African-American woman, fighting to give her boys every opportunity for success in a time when her race hindered her as much as her lack of education.  She had only attended school until the third grade, and had been raised in foster care until she married her husband at the age of 13.  She was unable to read and had no special skills, yet had to find a way to feed and clothe her sons after her divorce (He had another family and children on the side.  How’s that for a devastating blow?).  In one heart-wrenching scene, she walks to a Psychiatric Hospital and stops an exiting nurse with this cry for help:
“I’ve got a darkness inside me I can’t control.”
My tears flowed so freely at that declaration.  They continued pouring down my face as she sat across from the kind doctor who met with her and poured out her story; a mother, terrified for her children’s future, doing the best she could while knowing deep inside it wasn’t nearly enough.  Plagued by self-doubt and regret, she rocked and wrung her hands, while stating, “I’m so dumb.  I can’t do much – just clean houses and babysit.  I’m not worth enough.  I’m nothing.  And I’m terrified my boys will end up the same as me, in a place like this.”
I sat there and cried, because her statement was so heart-wrenching, and so loudly echoed the doubts and dark places, not only of my mind, but of the minds of so many of my friends and sisters out there.
And because when I watched her, the incompetent woman she described was not who I saw at all.
I saw a warrior, a fierce lioness who refused to give up.  I saw a woman who, while not very educated, was extremely intelligent and resourceful.  I saw a woman who personified some huge lessons we all could use in life.
 
Lesson 1: Comparison truly is the stealer of all joy
       When her sons would pop off about what everyone else was doing, her response was, “Don’t you worry about everyone else.  The world is full of everybody else’s.”  She refused to bow to the expectations of the social and political climate of the times, and she refused to allow her sons to settle into comfortable or careless routines.  She had goals and plans, and she stuck to them, dragging her reluctant boys along with her.  Her every action, every step was aimed at the achievement of her goals and the vision she had for her sons…not the movements or fortunes of her neighbor.
 
Lesson 2: Emulate those who have achieved success
            Mid-way through the film, she began a new job, cleaning the house of a college professor.  She was amazed by the number of books in his home.  They were piled everywhere in his study, reaching to the ceiling in walls completely covered by bookshelves and covering the television set.  When she asked him if he had read all of the books, his reply was, “Most of them.”  From that day forward, her boys had books in their hands.  She went home, turned off the TV, and set strict rules about what and how much they were to watch (and this in the days before the endless blogs and lists and studies about whether too much TV is good for or harms our children).  She encouraged (ok, forced, initially) a love of learning and study patterns that changed their lives forever.
 
Lesson 3: Know when to ask for help
            When her depression got to be too much, when she could no longer control the darkness, she went out and got help.  The right help.  She put aside her pride, shared her story and accepted the necessary treatment; going so far as to check into an inpatient facility for two weeks so she could get herself pulled together.  And when she came home, she came home – recharged, reset and ready to hit the ground running again.
 
Lesson 4: Have faith
            She raised her boys in the church, as believers, and taught them to pray.  She opened their eyes to the fact that God is out there and miracles do exist, telling them, “You just gotta see beyond what you can see.”  She stuck to that, no matter what, and never lost sight of God’s hand in her life….even on the dark days.
 
Lesson 5: Be an encourager
            She was a genius coach and cheerleader, who used emboldened statements as she spurred her sons on to new heights of achievement.  Never once did she express her doubts or concerns to them, choosing instead to fortify their spirits and energize their minds, while guarding their hearts from the lowering comments or mindsets of others.  She pushed them, with love and discipline, to become the men her heart dreamed of and that her God had created.
 
They would go on to become successful, educated men – one an engineer, the other a doctor.
Ben, her baby, proceeded to gain notoriety as a world-renowned pediatric neurosurgeon; performing the first ever successful separation of craniopagus twins (Siamese twins joined at the head) in 1985, and later becoming the Head of Pediatric Neurosurgery at Johns Hopkins Hospital.  Today, he is a bestselling author, speaker, political commentator and outspoken Christian with a beautiful wife and three sons of his own.
Quite a legacy from a humble and unschooled mama, don’t you think?
I admire her.  Her story touched my heart and humbled my spirit, while inspiring the woman and mother in me.
I’m going to post the list of these lessons in plain sight, and remind myself of them daily.  They are clear and simple and profoundly truth-filled.  They are possible.  They are proven.
Who’s with me?
 
Solidarity, sisters.  Our circumstances don’t have the power to define us.
 

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Taking Notes From a Soldier

5/28/2015

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Picture
Courtesy of Steven Sheppard
I’ve had this post floating around in my head for months…just haven’t found a way to let it out. You know how that happens? You get a thought or idea or epiphany rattling around in there, bouncing off the sides of your skull, but it’s stuck and loses it’s impact or point when you try to explain it out loud or on paper.

So, I started to think maybe I shouldn’t try, even though I keep hearing echoes in my head; whispers, if you will, of a concept that needs to be explored.

It came to me several months ago at church, when I looked up and noticed the section in back.  This row had the distinction of housing several of my brother’s co-workers – all of whom happen to be former military members of varying experience.  They filled the seats, crammed together like a line of well-muscled birds, with their backs straight and their eyes focused, drinking in the sights and sounds and words coming from the stage.

They maintained this intensity throughout the service, never fidgeting or looking away from our pastor as he delivered his message.  Their in-the-moment focus and patience was a sight to see.  It grabbed my attention, and I’m sure caught the eye of many others in the congregation.
It has stayed with me since.

It’s an impressive thing to watch, the functioning of the heart and mind of a soldier.  It’s unique, and in many ways inspiring.

Memorial Day was this past weekend, and even so I was unsure of whether to share my thoughts on this topic.  People feel strongly about patriotic holidays and subject matter, and military references evoke a variety of reactions in all of us.  I am not one to be overly concerned with what others say or think, but soldiers are near and dear to my heart, and matters involving them strike a raw chord with my family.

Two things happened to make me pick up a pen:

1) I saw a post on Facebook in which someone made disparaging remarks to those who would thank a soldier over the weekend. He went on to explain that Memorial Day is not about veterans or GIs, it’s about the ones who have been lost, who never made it home.  Thanking a these men/women is inappropriate behavior, according to Mr. Opinionated, and he was happy to correct us in this.

Let me go on record to say that thanking a veteran (or active member of the military) is never inappropriate.  Period.

2) I am writing the draft of this post in an emergency room, surrounded by the sights and sounds of machines beeping and medical staff coming in and out, as I sit by my unconscious brother.  My baby brother, lying in a bed, with a tube down his throat allowing a machine to help him breathe.  His arms are strapped down to keep him from tearing at the tubes should he wake up.  Every so often he twitches, or grimaces in pain.

I have lost count of the number of times we have sat like this over the past eight years.  It’s a way of life for our family.  This time didn’t require a helicopter ride…so that’s something.
He’s only 37 years old.  He is a veteran of the United States Marine Corps.  And Memorial Day is most certainly about him.
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Because while he did come home, miraculously, after many deployments and engagements, we did not get him back, not completely.  We got him back broken and fragile, with pieces missing or shattered or irrevocably changed.  We got back his nightmares and PTSD and brain trauma and horrific scars, both seen and unseen.

​The boy that left for boot camp, shiny and new and excited to serve did not come home.

He was lost years ago.  We mourn him every Memorial Day, and every time we sit in a hospital surrounded by machines and unanswered questions.

The man who survived, who continues to fight his way back from every single this-could-be-really-bad episode would do it all again….with pride, and without hesitation.  We celebrate him every day.
We celebrate the others like him, who come in and out of our lives with stories and nightmares and survival battles of their own.
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We mourn with them for the losses of their brothers who never made it home.
We are humbled by their ability to serve with every fiber of their being.

It begs the question, when was the last time we did so?

When was the last time we believed in something enough to sacrifice everything?  To create and maintain a lifestyle around turning ourselves into a protector and advocate?  To know that it’s worth dying for?

We talk the talk about being soldiers of God, of fighting His battles with Him, of spiritual warfare.  Do we walk the walk?

1 Thessalonians 5:8 – But since we belong to the day, let us be self-controlled, putting on faith and love as a breastplate, and the hope of salvation as a helmet.

There are lessons to be learned from the ideals of the American soldier.

1.  Believe in the calling, no matter what
They fight for our freedom, even when it’s not pretty, or easy, or popular.  The entire group has but one aim – the protection of America and its people.  They don’t argue this point.  They don’t debate its validity.  They don’t vacillate.  The purpose is the point, not the individual.  Forge ahead with everything you’ve got, whether anyone sees, or cares, or hears about it.  Many won’t understand – do it anyway.  There will be blood, sweat and tears – wipe them off and keep going. Cry when you need to.  Scream if you have to. Know that it’s worth it, and your part will make a difference.

2.  Stay focused
Once the objective is made clear, they move towards it.  There is a plan.  There is a goal. There is no other agenda. There is no time for rabbit trails or distractions or besides-the-point stress. There is no time for pettiness or in-fighting.

3. Create strong relationships
Ever notice how tight these guys/gals can get? They are a unit, bonded my multiple layers of commitment and experiences. They are aware of the risks, and know that there is a very real chance one or more of them will be lost along the way. They form the relationships anyway. They love fiercely and without limits, forging bonds and brotherhoods that seem disproportionate at times. They don’t let the fear of being hurt or losing a member weaken their attachments or decrease their enthusiasm. They know when the pain of loss comes it will be crushing. They don’t let the anticipation or anxiety of this win over the importance of trust and human connection – the strength of this union may make all the difference in a tight spot.

4. It’s a lifestyle
There’s no such thing as lip service to a battle field.  They’re all in.  They live, eat, sleep, breathe, read, hear, experience and learn throughout the military experience. Every space points toward growing into the role, training each individual for the part he/she will play in obtaining victory. It’s not put on the shelf when inconvenient.

5. Live, and find your joy
Soldiers, perhaps more than any other, understand the fleeting nature of life.  They have an uncanny ability to find laughter in the oddest places, and celebrate at every opportunity (sometimes in rather over-the-top ways).  They know their days are numbered, so they grab life by the horns. They embrace their place in the grand scheme, accepting the byproducts to the best of their abilities.

They are human, and imperfect…and that’s okay.  They make mistakes, some more costly than others. They can be broken, or derailed, or put out of commission.
It does not diminish them. It does not negate their contribution to the fight. It does not make them less deserving of love, respect, or a place in the pages of history.
What if you and I did Christianity this way?
What if we took the lessons as ideals, and put them into practice?  If we treated the battle for true freedom and the redemption of human souls as a life or death issue, instead of a topic to banter about while mouthing platitudes?
What if we served with every fiber of our being, and seized the chance to love our neighbor with ferocity and fervor?
What if no amount of blood, sweat, tears or ridicule could sway us from our goal or distract us from the face of our Father?
Would our lives look different than they do now?
For most of us, the honest answer is yes.  So, what are we going to do about it?
Solidarity, sisters.  It’s never too late to join the fight.
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Life's a Dance

4/15/2015

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​Wouldn't it be great if life were a musical?  Pause here.  Read that line again.  Let it sink in.  Humor me on this one - just for a few moments.  Hear me out.  And admit that somewhere inside you a song has started.

The impact of a good musical cannot be overstated.  And life lends itself to this tendency.  We constantly refer to it in artistic terms - the rhythm of life, the timing of a situation, wait a beat, the flow of a conversation, the staccato of heels on pavement, a clap of thunder, rain song, all the world is a stage...... You get the picture.  We are such auditory and visual creatures that we use those kind of descriptors in our written and oral language.  We respond emotionally to sound, rhythm and movement.  It's why music is such a huge part of our movie and television experience.  We run (ok, that's a generalized "we") or exercise to it.  We hum or play it to soothe our infants.  We turn to it when we are happy, sad, or overwhelmed.  We clamor for the artists who create it, travelling far and wide to see them.

It touches us on a visceral level, evoking tears or laughter, and many times vivid memories of where we were when we first or last heard a song.  I still catch my breath every time I hear Guns N Roses' "Sweet Child O Mine".....and not for the reasons you would initially think.  It was playing on the radio when I received the news that my mother had been diagnosed with cancer, and would undergo emergency surgery two days later.  I still can't listen to the whole thing.  And I love me some 80's hair bands.......

But I digress.  Back to the Musical of Life.

Can you imagine?  How great would it be to randomly (or with beautifully timed intentionality) burst into song and movement in moments of heightened tension or joy?  To be fair, I generally burst into song at random moments throughout my day on a regular basis, but seldom does anyone join me, so it doesn't count as a musical, per se.

If you've never been in a musical production (or moment of any kind), I don't know that you can fully appreciate the stress relief that occurs from a rousing dance and song number that releases energy and emotion with total abandon.  Seriously!  Think back to the last tense or angry interaction you experienced and imagine how much more quickly and effectively you could have let it all go and reset yourself by participating in a Broadway-esque jazz routine (think "Cool" from West Side Story) or perhaps an aggressive tango (since I mentioned WSS, I now have "A Boy Like That" in a constant mental loop. Crap).

We've had a really rough week around here, trying to get through our first broken arm (Drew, who else?).  After the scare, first ER, x-ray, ambulance ride to the second ER, more x-rays, multiple doctors and news of pending surgery (three pins through the humerus, thank you very much), both Gregg and I were totally past our limit by the time we were admitted for our overnight stay in the frozen meat locker hospital room to wait on the early morning procedure.  I am sitting here actually laughing out loud at the mental picture of one or both of us jumping up from our chairs in Trauma Waiting and exploding down the hallway in a rendition of Ren's frustrated dance number from "Footloose".  Can you even imagine?  I can picture the mad rush of nurses, med students and residents scrambling to get out of our way!  If only I could still do a back handspring.....or convince Gregg to do a dive roll...

And reflect back on your last argument.  I mean, could you really stay truly mad at someone after a full out sing-off/dance-off?  You're winded, you've gotten to fling your arms around, you've done phenomenal harmonies together..... What's left to hang on to?  Issue solved, or at least decompressed a few levels.
Ta-da!  And if that doesn't do the trick, you just say, "And...scene" and walk off.

Then there's the mental flash-forward, backward or to an alternate present.  I want one of those!  You know, where you jump into an entirely different scenario, complete with costume and hair change, band, back-up dancers, situation of your dreams and to-die-for vocals and choreography.  Fantastic!  Some days, all I really want is a five to seven minute escape from reality.  In a designer dress.  And fabulous shoes.

Group numbers would be the ultimate.  Don't roll your eyes!  If you've ever You-tubed a flash mob you have no room to mock me.  Picture your co-workers or Bunko group snapping, clapping and hopping their way through a situation together.  Bet it made you smile.

And we could totally spice up boring circumstances.  Board meeting?  Alternate tropical universe!  Never-ending homework?  Fact-filled song!  Tedious yard work?  A hip hop extravaganza!  I was especially struck this past weekend as Gregg was engrossed in the Masters tournament.  I cannot even handle that much golf. Or any golf....no disrespect - shout out to Bubba Watson.  But it must be noted that I spent the last half hour of the event choreographing the players and their caddies in my head.  Think "Fame" with nine irons.

As if I weren't going overboard enough (and possibly frightening some of you with my ludicrous incidentals), Luke just walked by wearing a robe and declared, "I'm going to read like an Englishman, Mom.  Where's a pipe?"  I have no words.  That apple plopped right at the base of its tree.  And now I find myself propelled into scenes from "My Fair Lady".  I wonder what he would do if I threw his slippers at him.....

So, I challenge you all this week.  Sing a little song, do a little dance, find a bit of music in an unexpected place.  You might surprise yourself with what it does for your heart.  At the very least, you'll get a good laugh (or someone around you might).

Solidarity, sisters.  All the world's a stage.
 
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Open Letter to My Future Daughter-in-Law

2/25/2015

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Hi, love:
You don’t mind if I call you “love”, do you?  After all, you’re about to be a part of our family now, which makes you a person of great importance in my life.  As such, please know that I really do love you and truly have your best interest at heart.
I know you haven’t asked, yet, but I’d like to give you a few pieces of advice.  Before you roll your eyes and prepare to ignore every word I write (or say), please consider my qualifications:
I raised your husband, and know him incredibly well. I’ve managed to stay married to his father for a not-so-insignificant amount of time, so have experience in this matter. I am totally, 100% vested in the success of your marriage, with no agenda other than the happiness of my son and stability of my grandchildren’s home. There are just some basic principles I’d like to review – some dos and don’ts, if you will.  Ready?  Here we go:
 
Don’t be crazy
It’s not cute.  It’s not cool.  It’s usually manipulative and sometimes cruel.  No one likes that girl, believe me.  They may tolerate her, but they don’t like her.  He’s in love with you.  It’s that simple.  He wants to spend the rest of his life with you.  Trust in that.  Playing with his emotions or trying to control him via tantrums, or threats, or hysterical crying fits will eventually lead to more problems than you can handle.
Contrary to the proclamation of Miss Taylor Swift, boys do not only want love if it’s torture.
I’m not saying you can’t ever have an outburst, or meltdown, or bad day.  He’s lived with me (and with his sister) for many years.  The boy can handle some drama, let me tell you.  I’m just saying save it for the really necessary or special occasions.  He’ll just learn to ignore you if you overuse the melodrama and mood swings.
 
Please, for the love of all things everywhere, don’t be a Bridezilla
No one is disputing that you are the Princess of Your Wedding.  You absolutely are.  You’ll be the prettiest, best dressed, most sparkly focus of the entire event.  We will all bow to your wishes and carry out every one of your ideas with enthusiasm and smiling faces, no matter what our true feelings may be.  After all, you’re one of the two most important people of the day.
The groom is the other one, in case that isn’t obvious.
No matter what the bridal magazines or your girlfriends say, it’s not actually all about you.  He’s sort of a big deal, too.  Without him, there wouldn’t be a wedding.
Marriage is about two individuals coming together as one in the most sacred relationship you can have with another person on this earth.  The wedding is the celebration around your formalization and public proclamation of love and commitment.
This is one of the happiest days of your life.
Focus on that, and don’t let anything else take precedence.
Your groom may have an idea or two as to how this looks. 
Listen to him.
He comes from a family that loves music and parties.  We are all hoping to enjoy ourselves at this, his most important party.
FYI – there may or may not be a Mother-Son breakout dance number in the works.
Just saying…..
 
It’s not a competition
You win.  By definition, as his wife, you have officially displaced me as the most important woman in my son’s life.  Believe it or not, we’ve spent years ingraining this mentality into his way of thinking  – through Biblical teachings, in talks we’ve had, by example in our marriage and way of life.
Ephesians 5:31 – “For this reason a man will leave his father and mother and be united to his wife….”
You don’t have to wonder if he loves you best.  He does.
You don’t have to wonder if you come first.  You do.
You don’t have to test him or make him prove it to you over and over by declining invites to our house, or haggling over holidays, or announcing that your cooking is better than mine.
There is no contest.
I know my place, and I will do my very best to respect it.
That being said, this is probably going to require patience on both our parts.  Just because I know the new order of things doesn’t mean I like it.  It’s going to take some getting used to.
I’m working on it.
 
Love him most
It’s a simple, three-word sentence, and it will change your life if you can embrace it.  Love him most, as in more than all else.
            More than Facebook (or whatever social media is in vogue now)
            More than your job
            More than your house
            More than being right
            More than your pride
            More than your agenda
            More than anyone else on the planet, including your parents, your siblings, or your best friend.
Love him with all your heart, and watch him bloom.  He’ll become more than the man of your dreams.  He’ll thrive in every area.  He’ll treat you like the Queen of the World, and give you the moon.  Trust me.  He’s his father’s son.  I know this to be true, because I’ve lived it his whole life.
 
Keep the main thing the main thing
You are getting an incredible guy, which I assume you know.
He’s breathtakingly handsome (I may be a bit biased, but still…..truth is truth). 
He can cook.
He can dance.
He’s smart and creative and motivated.
If he’s stuck with the lessons we pay so much money for, he’s a great musician by now.
He hunts and fishes, and cleans his own game (mama started that from the beginning).
He loves me, and adores his sister, which means he is tolerant of and sensitive to women.
He is a hugger, and loves to make other people laugh.
I am aware, my dear, that he is not perfect.  Unless miracles have occurred, he’s got some things that may very well drive you crazy.
He leaves his shoes out.  Constantly.  You will always trip over them.
The hunting/fishing thing means camo everything all over the place – and it has to be washed with special, non-scented detergent or all hell breaks loose (you can thank his dad for that one).
It also means you will spend your life fighting for vacations that do not revolve around those two activities (again, go see your father-in-law…not my area), and finding bait or bullets in weird places.
He can’t hear a word you say if the TV is on.  Ever.
He has no concept of time when he’s distracted.  Which is often (that one may be on me).
Love him anyway.  Pick a hill or two to die on.  Three, max.  Then let the rest go.  Come see me when it gets to be too much.  We’ll sing the song together.
 
Find God
Wherever you go, whatever you do….seek God with all your heart.  You’ll find Him, I promise.  He’s there.  He’s already got you in His arms, you just need to discover Him for yourself.
And once you encounter Him, keep Him in your sight. 
You’ll wander a little, I can almost guarantee it.  That’s okay.  You can never go so far that He can’t find you and bring you home.  Remember that.
 
 
Pray
You’re so young.  Currently, as I write this letter to you, you may not even be out of elementary school.
I’m already praying for you.
 
I’m praying for your health and well-being.
I’m praying for your growth and development.
I’m praying for your strength and purity.
I’m praying for the day you meet my son, and for the life you will build together.
Talk to God.  All the time.  The sooner you learn to do this, and the better at it you are, the easier your life will feel.  Your paths will be clearer.  Your heart will be lighter.  Your steps will be more secure.
There is no truth stronger than this.
 
We’re excited to meet you.
I know we’re a loud bunch, and can be a lot to take in.  We love big, we laugh big….we’ve got big hair.
We’ve also got big hearts. 
And we’re really fun.  I promise.
We’ll always have your back.  And we’ll all be dancing at your wedding.
 
Just know that in my head, he’ll look like this that night, because he’s my baby even though he’s your man.
 
 
 
Solidarity, sister.  Welcome to the family.
 
 
 
 

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Followers and Flu Victims

1/26/2015

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I have a dream.  I do.  It’s not as profound as the one the phenomenal Dr. Martin Luther King shared in his history-making speech.  I don’t aspire to such lofty goals.  My dream is much simpler.

Are you ready?

I have a dream that someday, some way, my plans for the day or event or task or even hour, will actually pan out the way I envision them.  That is all, good friends.

Some of you are completely underwhelmed by this vision.  Others of you are nodding as though you are competing for Bobble Head of the Year.  You are thinking to yourself, “She is singing the song of my people.”  Good.  That means we belong to the same tribe. I had a plan for today.  It was a great one.  I was all aflutter at the thought of wrapping up our wonderful online Bible readings/sharing time with The Blog to End All Blogs, completing our journey with a literary masterpiece that would enter the category of Things I Could Never Have Imagined Missing Out On to all who beheld it.  Ok.  That’s probably pushing it.  I really did have a great idea, though.  I took notes and everything.

As usual, that was not to be.  My first clue should have been the fact that Gregg left town yesterday, and we all know how well that goes for me.  For any of you just tuning in, my stints as a temporary single parent generally involve plague, pestilence or weird disasters.  It’s gotten to the point that’s just past funny and rounding the corner to enter borderline scary (like, truly scary….not just tossing the word out there).  My second clue should have been my pending trip.  I rarely travel, and I never travel alone for something that involves only my “stuff”.  I have this incredible opportunity to attend a Women’s Ministry training in Nashville, so bit the bullet and booked myself a shot at learning how to do this right.  I have been on pins and needles about this trip, alternating between excitement and intimidation (this is totally unfamiliar territory for me….and I don’t know anyone else in the group, including my roommate, who I’ll meet when we check in).  I have incredible Mommy Guilt about leaving kids, and Work Guilt about taking off.  Plus, I hate to fly.  Like, really hate it.  I won’t go into details on how much or why because that would take pages of explaining and result in me having an anxiety attack right here and now.  Just know it ain’t pretty.  And be glad you don’t have to sit by me on a plane.

Despite having trouble sleeping because of all the lists swirling around in my head, I was feeling pretty good about the whole situation.  So, naturally, Drew woke up with 102 fever the morning before I’m supposed to leave.  For the love….. I can’t type the words that came to mind because this isn’t that kind of blog.

I made the necessary calls, cancelled my work day, and waited for our pediatrician appointment.  Sure enough, the verdict was flu.  I knew it would be.  The poor child looked positively terrible.  Plus, Gregg’s out of town, so plague.

And now the crushing weight of additional Bad Mommy Guilt versus Flaking on a Marvelous Event Guilt. I sat in the car with my sweet, sick boy and cried the whole way to the pharmacy.

Because, despite everyone’s assurances he will be fine (grandparents, friends, his doctor, his daddy) and that we got the Tamiflu early enough to help, and both grandmothers managed to keep his parents alive so should be able to pull this off……I just felt totally deflated.  I’m his mother!  I shouldn’t pick anything over him!  I should be there for every sniffle, every tear, every fever or need for a hug.  Yes, I feel called to pursue this path….but I’m called to be a wife and mother first!  Maybe I’m hearing the wrong calling.  Maybe I’m totally off.  Maybe I suck at this and God decided to knock me aside for someone better suited.

I bet the women who do this really well don’t have sick kids and disasters pop up when they try to leave.  God probably sets rainbows up to pave the skies for their planes. Yes, that is ridiculous.  I can, on occasion, be ever so slightly melodramatic.  Shocking, I know. So, I pulled John 21 for our final reading, and for my reality check to myself.  It’s pretty amazing.  You should read it if you haven’t in a while…or ever.

Jesus is super clear.  He says, “Follow me.”  And when Peter looks at another disciple and asks, “What about that guy? What’s he doing?”, He basically tells Mr. Nosy to mind his own beeswax.  If the path for the other guy is longer or shinier or full of rainbows, “what is that to you? You must follow me.”  I love a good Savior Smackdown (when it’s not aimed at me, of course).  Because once we hear His call, we’re out of excuses.  The detours and obstacles are temporary.  We’re supposed to follow Him.  Period.

In spite of our fears.  In spite of our egos.  In spite of our distractions, disappointments and devastations.  He has a plan, and we should fall in line.

The final verse in the book is John 21:25, and it was like a dagger to my little writer’s heart.  It says: “Jesus did many other things as well.  If every one of them were written down, I suppose that even the whole world would not have room for the books that would be written.” Perhaps what I envision isn’t quite the point, eh? Perhaps my musings and ramblings aren’t the issue as much as my ability to listen, and then obey.

So, I’ll be boarding a plane soon.  I’ll be staring at my baby’s picture and lifting him up to the One who loves him even more than I do…and who is actually the Great Healer of all.  I’ll be humbling my heart and opening my mind to learn from those who know way more than I do, and I’ll be bustling down the path that leads me to my Father’s plan.

I’m sure I’ll be derailed plenty more times.  That’s ok.  I know a great book that was put together by an inspired team of writers for just such an occasion. I’ll be clutching it tightly during take-off and landing.
​

Solidarity, sisters.   You are now free to move about your destiny.
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It's How You Play the Game

11/18/2014

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We had an incredibly full sports season this fall and I, for one, must admit to being less than devastated at the thought of having it wind down as we finish up seasons and break for a bit.  All three kids played a sport that involved evening practices and Saturday games – it nearly killed us.  The most excited one of all was our little Bug.  She joined a soccer team with enviable enthusiasm to finally get her turn on a field of play.  Enough watching her brothers from the sidelines.  It was her turn to shine.

And shine, she did.  Seriously.  I have to take a minute here to do a little obnoxious mommy bragging – my apologies in advance……but I gotta say it.  Little sister is ridiculously talented in this sport.  I mean, like crazy good. This summer, we let her try things out at one of those British soccer camps.  This is not my first rodeo. Before I sign anyone up for something that involves a multiple month commitment, I want to be sure they’re in. Ain’t nobody got time or patience for the whining or complaining of a reluctant participant.  They outnumber us. So, we tried out the soccer camp, and she loved it.  Her coach at the camp was adorable (and had an accent to boot, sigh) and quite impressed with our little princess.  She won every game of Sharks and Minnows, thank you very much.  She just has this single-minded intensity of purpose with moving the ball from one end of the field to the other.  And she’s wicked fast, even dribbling.  When her season began and she met her new team, that skill carried right over.  Her whole thought process was, “You want me to put this ball into that goal?  No problem.”

So she did.  Quite consistently.  Her goal count at each game ranged from three to nine.  She just gets the ball, breaks away, and flies down the field.  It’s a blast to watch.  And precious, because she’s so small (we’re hanging solid at the 25th percentile on the growth chart).  We cheered and encouraged, hugged and high-fived. Her father was completely amazed.  He just kept saying, “the boys weren’t like this at all this early”.  True. She’s running circles around their younger endeavors (don’t tell them I said that).  Comments from parents of other teams range from fascination to amusement to (sometimes) a little irritation.  The game in which she scored nine goals, we beat the team we were playing 13 to 2.  Five of her nine goals were scored in the first four minutes of the last quarter…. She likely would have kept running up the score, but her coach pulled her out to “rest” – she was quite irritated by this, seeing as how she wasn’t actually tired.

The rest of her team was just as adorable.  As the season progressed and the girls got more comfortable with each other and the sport as a whole, they became quite a force to be reckoned with.  Emry’s speed and aggression soon had company, and we had an undefeated, forward-charging, in-your-face lineup and season.

Until our second-to-last game.

That game day started like all of our others.  Emry and I had our “How many goals are you going to score today?” chat on the way.  We listened to her get-pumped-up Game Day music in the car (her most-requested choices are Mr. Roboto by Styx, Bang Bang by Jesse J and Ariana Grande, and ABBA’s Money, Money, Money – she’s very eclectic, I know….it makes my heart sing).  Reading this, I realize I sound slightly psychotic and overly “sports mom”-ish, seeing as how my little angel is barely five years old.  Remember, she’s my third kid.  She has spent her life watching and listening to her older brothers and their teammates.  Plus, she thinks she’s 15.  So, there.

Back to The Game.  The whistle blew to start, and we began pretty much like all the other games.  This team had girls bigger than ours, as usual (almost every one of our players was petite, it was hilarious; Emry actually wasn’t the shortest one on the team).  No problem.  I was recording the game for Gregg (who had to be at football), and laughing because over all the cheering and chatter, one of the dads of the other team kept repeating, “Watch that little one there.  Yeah, that one.  Wait until she gets going.  She’s a bullet.  She’s just a bullet” (referring to Emry).  And she was.  The bullet took off on one of her break aways and scored within the first few minutes of stepping onto the turf.  We cheered and clapped as she smiled and cartwheeled her way back to her spot (this has also been her signature move throughout the season), preparing to go again (her personal goal number was seven for this game).  The whistle blew again, the girls ran and kicked and chased the ball. Emry got a foot on it, kicked it away and prepped to take off.

She couldn’t.

I watched through the lens of the video camera as one of the opposing team members grabbed her by the collar and held on,  This was super effective, since the child was a good four inches taller than Em.

I put down my camera, clapping and calling out to her to shake it off and keep going.  She did, until the next play, when the same girl grabbed her, this time shaking her back and forth by the collar of her shirt.  When it happened a third time, Emry left the field in tears.  She was done.

My heart sank as I watched her coach walk her to the sideline and help her climb into his wife’s lap, where she curled up and wept.  I could see her tiny shoulders shaking from across the way as I jogged around to the player’s side.  As I gathered her in my arms, I was surprised at the intensity of her tears and her fear of the other girl.  She absolutely did not want to go back out and play any more.  By the time the half ended a few minutes later, we had two more players in tears.  The opposing coach and mother of the child finally got onto her about her behavior, but the damage had been done.  Our girls had lost their mojo.

The second half wasn’t even a game.  We convinced them to get back out there, but they couldn’t pull it together.  Every time that particular opponent got the ball, they all backed away and let her take it, all the way to the goal.  They just couldn’t bring themselves to get in front of her or challenge her in any way.  They were completely deflated, utterly undone.

It was so sad.
It was so surprising.

I mean, Emry fends off and/or reciprocates way worse attacks from her brothers on an almost hourly basis.  She never backs down from anyone, and can handle a take-down or battle over any object like a boss.  To be honest, she’s a little scary at times.

So, why on earth did this flatten her?  How come she couldn’t shake it off?
I’ve thought about that a lot, reflecting on what made this situation so intimidating and overwhelming in the mind of my spunky daughter and her teammates.  And I think the answer is twofold.     

     1) It was unexpected, and caught them totally off guard.
     2) It was unfair.


They simply couldn’t reconcile the “cheating”-type behavior on a playing field that, up to that point, had been safe and fun and civil.  They didn’t know how to behave in response, perceiving that in a battle of aggressors, the smaller girls didn’t have a chance.  Plus, they get in trouble for being mean, so there’s no winning there.

And while I was frustrated by the events, and by Emry’s inability to blow it off and still play her game, my primary feeling was one of sadness.  Because, unfortunately, this is just the beginning. This is a life lesson, as well as a sports lesson.  It’s one I wish she didn’t have to learn.

I wish she didn’t have to learn that being talented will sometimes make her a target.
I wish she didn’t have to learn that there will be people who, once they realize they can’t catch up to her, will try to drag her down.
I wish she didn’t have to learn that, intermittently, the person who cheats or pulls down or intimidates those around her may actually score the most goals and get the win – at least, in the short view.
I wish she didn’t have to learn that there are days when the game you love isn’t fun or fair.
I wish she didn’t have to learn that there are times in which safe arenas aren’t protected or just.
I wish she didn’t have to learn precisely how hard it is to do the right thing, no matter what anyone else is doing, or that being the bigger person stings more often than not.


I wish she didn’t have to learn these things…..but I desperately hope that she does.

I hope she learns these lessons quicker than I did, and with less denial.
I hope she learns that none of these things can break her, and that every time she gets back in the game she wins, no matter what the scoreboard says. I hope she learns that her worth is in no way tied up with what others do or say or think.


I hope she learns that to shine brightly is a gift and a calling, and that no one can ever dim her light without her permission….and even then, she has the power to shrug off negativity and criticism whenever she decides to do so.


I hope we all can keep learning and living all of this.  Because if we can’t, if we allow a harsh and critical world to overwhelm and minimize and change us…..we won’t allow ourselves to live the way we’re meant to.  We’ll become cynical and insecure and unhappy, constantly seeking approval from the wrong sources as we allow fear of failure or judgement to keep us out of the race.  Where’s the freedom in that?  Not to mention fun…. Where’s the fun if you never get back in the game?  That’s not the point at all.  It’s definitely not how we’re supposed to live. Or what we were created to do.

One of my favorite verses is Hebrews 12:1 – “Let us throw off everything that hinders and the sin that so easily entangles, and let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us.”

My little soccer star didn’t like being shut down that day. She was not satisfied with her one goal only game. She came back the next week to score four, despite rain and really cold weather.

We talk about the unfortunate game often, and while she’s still not thrilled about the concept of ever facing that team again, she’s less fearful and more determined each time we discuss it.

She’s excited to play again in the spring.  They all are.

The next kiddo that grabs her uniform better watch out.  She won’t be taken down that easily again.

​Solidarity, sisters.  It’s how you play the game that matters, and you’ve got to jump in to play.
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When the Crazy Comes

10/16/2014

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Have you ever had those moments in life in which you are so ludicrously out of control that, in the midst of your words or actions, your inner voice is yelling, "Stop! Stop it! Stop it right now!", but you can't, so you just keep going, spiraling farther and farther down the path of social awkwardness with no way out?  If your answer was "no", you may not be able to relate to this post at all.  You will, however, get in a good laugh at my expense.  Here we go....

It all started a couple of weeks ago.  Some of you may know exactly what week I am referencing, since everyone I spoke to around that time was having exactly (ok, not exactly, but a relatable version) the kind of week I was having.  It's like a dose of insanity powder was released into the air and made all hell break loose everywhere it went.  Yes, I did just throw that out there - airborne insanity.  You're welcome.  Monday of said week, I had what can only be described as a total breakdown.  I mean, to the point that I looked at Gregg through my tears and said something along the lines of, "Something is wrong with me.  I'm broken.  I think I'm actually broken."  Considering I had just done six cycles of alternating crying -> laughing -> crying (and not smiling with a gentle chuckle to choking up a bit; I mean full on laughing out loud to sobbing...it was incredible) in under 30 minutes, I think this was an accurate assessment.  Gregg was horrified.  He is also terrified of having to raise our children alone, so instead of agreeing with me and perhaps driving me to a facility that handles these situations, he just kept repeating, "Stop saying that.  Don't say that."  I'd like to think that his reaction was more love than fear....we'll leave that one for now.

The funny thing is, this kicked off a week that wasn't as crazy as some, coming off of a weekend that had been relatively calm (for us, which I know is generally not the definition for the rest of the world).  So my meltdown was quite unexpected.  Except for one circumstance.  Friday and Saturday of that week was the women's conference for one of our local churches.  This group of amazing ladies is generous enough to include me in many of their events and studies, and this weekend was no exception.  I had a small role in helping out at this phenomenal event, and was so excited to do so I could hardly stand it.  Naturally, by the time things were in full gear, I was emotionally and spiritually beaten up to the point that I was seriously questioning whether I should go.  Which means, of course, that I absolutely was supposed to.  Even in my hysteria, I knew there was something I needed to hear or experience there, and the worse my week got, the more that thought crystalized.

Did I mention the speaker?  Oh, not yet?  Yeah....the other reason I know things were blowing up is just how excited I was to hear this amazing woman live and maybe even get to meet her (gasp). I'm not sure exactly what the etiquette is in the blogging world on mentioning names, but let's be honest, she's never going to read this and I didn't use her picture and none of you are paying money to humor my ramblings, so I think it's okay.  The keynote speaker for the event was none other than the incomparable Jen Hatmaker.  I know!  How awesome is that?!?  I simply adore her, and truly admire her work.  I know, just know, that we are supposed to be lifelong friends and have many hilarious conversations in our future.  I wouldn't call myself a super fan (is there even such a term?) - I have her HGTV episodes recorded, but haven't managed to watch them, yet (because I don't actually have time to watch TV, but it's on my to-do list), and I don't read everything she posts (again, time factor), but I have read several of her books and am in the midst of one of her Modern Girls' Guide to Bible Study books (if you've not done one, I highly recommend it).  So, I feel like I have a fairly good grasp on who she is, and can say with some certainty that we would get along famously (I share that sentiment with countless other women, I know).

That being said, I have to say, I've never been one to get overly starstruck.  I don't have a history of crying at concerts or freaking out over the chance to chase down a celebrity.  I stand next to Bruce Bowen every year at the Buddy Walk (he MC's, I sing the National Anthem....we're buds) and joke with him about all the people who walk through or over me to shake his hand or ask for autographs. I've run into one or two famous people in my life (not a ton, but, you know...it happens), and it's not been a primary focus of mine.  For some reason, I found myself really caught up in the fact that this woman was going to be our speaker and in the same building as me (and about 400 other women, but whatever) and would I get to meet her or get her to sign a book or ask her a question or..... It was a little ridiculous.  So, I made myself a deal.  Obviously, I was missing the point of the whole event if this was my focal point.  It was time to change focus.  As I drove to the church Friday, I gave myself a stern talking to - and decided that on no uncertain terms would I seek to meet her.  I was there to serve in whatever capacity they needed me to, and to learn from a fascinating teacher.  Period.  The end.  Let it go.

Amazingly, as I pulled into the parking lot, I felt totally calm, like the crazy powder had dissipated.  I walked in, asked where I needed to go, and got to work.  At some point, I noticed there were more than enough helpers to greet and direct attendees in my area, so I headed to one of the ladies in charge to ask if they needed help in another space.  That's when I noticed the very nice camera sitting next to her with no one to man it.  My offer to roam the venue taking pictures was met with enthusiasm, and off I went to record the event for posterity.  It was so fun!  I took shots of every conceivable area and got to meet so many beautiful and interesting ladies, chatting with anyone I could.  My heart was so grateful and happy to be there.  There is nothing quite like a building full of women who are excited and relaxed and anticipating an inspiring occasion.  I headed to the "green room" area to get backstage candids of the worship team and MC, and to do a little more chatting.  I love this worship team - they are such a talented group, and at intervals I get to sing with them, so I know most of them relatively well.  It was quite the party.  The MC was a lovely lady whom I had met at a previous event in which I was an MC, so I was excited to see her again and play a bit of personal assistant.  She had a question about door prizes, and with a promise to find the answer and get right back to her I rushed out of the door on a mission.

And that's when it happened.
The Game Changer Moment.

Before I go any further, let me set this up by reminding you that I was on an adrenaline high, happy to have survived my week and make it to an event I had been looking forward to....a lot.  I was moving quickly, with my mind racing ahead to the person I needed to find and information I had to get.  And I am basically always super high energy, even more in social settings.  Also, I was in the back of the church, in an area that was not part of the main setting.  As I burst out of the doors, to the right was the hallway leading back to the venue and to the left was a short hall, then entryway with double doors that open to the back parking lot.  These doors are locked and require a code to open from the outside.  Stay with me.  I'm about to land this plane.

I rushed out of the room, prepped to turn right, and something to the left caught my eye and I heard a light rattling of the doors.  I skidded to a halt and turned to look left.  There, locked out of the building not 30 feet away, stood none other than Jen Hatmaker herself, waving and smiling.

The longer I live, the more I am convinced that God has an unrivaled sense of humor.  And sometimes, when He's throwing us a bone, He decides to get a chuckle out of it.

Girls, what happened next is indisputably one of the most embarassingly unrefined social interactions of my adult life.  Actually, my entire life.  I completely flipped out.  Like, to the Nth degree.  It's like I was possessed.

In the history of doors, there has never been anyone as excited to open one as I was in that moment.  I cannot believe I am even going to describe this..... Mid-swerve, I flung my arms up in this L shape (you know how cheerleaders do that move with their arms fully extended, one up and one out? That was me, but with completely open jazz hands) and opened my mouth....the only word to describe the sound that came out is "trill".  I trilled this "Ah-ha-HA-ha-ha!" pattern, then took off for the door at a speed that any character on The Walking Dead would envy.  Seriously, the way I raced for that entryway you would think that she was escaping a zombie horde as opposed to standing in the afternoon sunshine at the back of a church simply because she couldn't open a locked door.  As I was running, I was literally telling myself to "calm down right now, you idiot!", but I just couldn't.  I was already laughing (out loud, which I'm sure made me look even more 'sane') when I got to the door. I ripped the door open with a resounding "HI!" and let her get almost all the way into the building before stepping just a little too close as I chirped, "Of course!" in response to her thank you.  I then opened my arms and asked, "Can I just hug you?"

Oh my gosh!  Oh my gosh!  Make it stop!  Who does that?  Who accosts someone that way?  A crazy person, that's who.  I am a crazy person.

And apparently, awkward hugs are my go-to move.  I'd love to say this is the first time this has happened, but it isn't.  Last year, at a school board meeting, I hugged the assistant superintendent. It was only the second time I had ever seen or spoken to her.  In my defense, I used to work for the school district, so am often hugging people when in that building.  And she did walk towards me with one arm out to the side (she was carrying a folder and trying to hand it to the person next to me, so I may have misinterpreted that a bit).  And, in addition, I was really tired and saw her out of the corner of my eye, so reacted before the identity of the person I was reaching for had fully registered.  At that point, it would have been more awkward to try and stop myself, so I just went all in and wrapped her up in a big ol' bear hug.  I believe her startled reaction was, "Oh! Okay.  We're doing this."  To which I replied, "What can I say?  I'm a hugger!"  Shanie, who (bless her) is a Director for this district and has to work with these people, so I had to promise not to let on that we're friends, was beyond the ability to breathe through her laughter when I sat by her and explained what had happened.  She looked at me in confusion and asked, "Are you a hugger? How did I not know this?"

No!! No I am not a "Hugger"!!  That's not a descriptor I would use at all!  I just couldn't think of anything else to say in that moment to help excuse my weird behavior.  I only hug people I know well.  Or, apparently, that walk up to me in professional settings.  Or for whom I open doors.  Yeesh.

Back to Jen.  I did redeem myself a bit when I directed her to the bathroom, I think.  And I cheerfully took pictures of her and anyone who requested it.  We had a lovely discussion on gardening and eggplants and recipes, which may have helped her not feel the need for a restraining order - though I did kick off that topic with the pronouncement that I would bless her by sharing the knowledge of my favorite thing about her.  When I said that I was sure she heard that all the time, her answer was, "Actually, I don't.  No one ever says that to me."  Fabulous.  Glad to be the first.

You'll be happy to know that my favorite Hatmaker fact is that she quotes Bon Jovi lyrics to her garden plants.  I know.  I am so deep.

Through tears of mirth, one of my friends to whom I related this story was commenting on how Jen would never believe that I actually lead worship or speak in public or write.  Yes, of this I am aware. Thank you for pointing that out.  I'll just stay categorized as the insane fan with no social skills or restraint who did a spirit dance then attacked her in a doorway; and out of the profound lessons in Seven, came away with 90s music references.  Stupendous.

After meekly asking for one pic of the two of us on my phone, I stayed away from her for the rest of the event, with the exception of walking her to her car Friday night.  It was late and she was parked back there alone (obviously I knew where she had come in).  Even crazy people have some manners and safety awareness.

In case you are wondering, the lesson/topic of the weekend was phenomenal and punch-you-in-the-face convicting.  Over 400 daughters of  the King laughed and cried and learned.  I am still processing her material and doctrine, and actually have many thoughts that I will share in a later correspondence.  Because, let's face it, none of you could take me seriously at this point.  I can't even take myself for real.

It's humbling to know that, at any age, you can geek out with the best of them.  Gregg's next national sales meeting is in Hollywood, and we have plans for me to join him there for a few days of getaway time.  I am already praying that we don't experience any celebrity sightings.  I obviously cannot handle it.

Solidarity, sisters.  Everyone loves a hugger.

Ok, maybe loves is a strong word....tolerates...
 
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Lessons from Mexico

9/1/2014

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As I mentioned last post, we did a fair amount of swimming and snorkeling on our vacation. Our kids are part fish, being river rats and all, so this was no surprise. 
Our first snorkeling venture was not a smooth one, however. As much fun as we had jumping into the river, the freezing water and lack of visibility made our little Bug very nervous. The mangrove trees were overpowering, the water was dark, and the designated swimming path was quite narrow. Little One was not happy at all, and was ready to be done before we even started. 
When she refused to be comforted or cajoled into embarking on this new adventure, her daddy swam over and placed her on his back. As you can see by her expression, she tolerated it....just barely. Patiently, he swam at a steady pace, despite the challenge of a little passenger. She looked so adorable, perched like a tiny turtle on his back with her blue goggles and serious expression.
About halfway down the canote ( the name for the part freshwater, part saltwater rivers that run from inland to the lagoons), Gregg said he felt her begin to relax a little. Her death grip loosened, and she sat more comfortably. He felt bad that she was missing out on the action, since her view was limited to trees and the water line, and the fish and other creatures were down below. So, he raised his head and explained to her that they were going to implement a system. He would swim on as she rode, looking below for interesting things to show her. When he saw something, he would raise his hand on the side she was to look, and she could duck her face into the water to see.
I got to witness their teamwork in action as they came down the final stretch into the lagoon. The boys and I had reached the end faster and were waiting on them to catch up. I stood watching, along with a fair number of other guests and tourists, as the pair of them swam into sight. Suddenly, Gregg raised his left arm, finger pointing up. Without changing expression or pausing for more than a quick breath, Emry leaned over and stuck her face in the water on the side of his raised hand. After a few seconds, she sat back up, repeating the process several more times to either side.
It was one of the most precious things I've ever seen in my life.
I had tears in my eyes even as I laughed - as did more than a few others who witnessed this display of a nurturing father and trusting child.
Looking at the picture later, I couldn't help but contemplate on what a great literal representation of God's love this anecdote is. 
Matthew 
It's such a simple, yet profound concept, isn't it? 
When we're tired, or scared, or can't see clearly enough, all we have to do is reach for Father, and He will carry us.
He doesn't mind a bit. We're not too heavy for him. He knows the way, and will get us there safely. It's what He does.
And when we begin to relax, when we finally figure out that He's got us and it's all under control, He'll know we're ready for His signal. He'll start giving us a sign or two, here or there.
He'll point out when and where we need to look, because He doesn't want us to miss the good stuff. 
He's all about letting us in on the good stuff. We just have to trust Him, then allow Him to do so.

Solidarity, sisters. There's no shame in hitching a ride.


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Lemons vs. Limes

7/14/2014

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So, let me begin by expressing my need to come to you, my friends, in confession of yet more of my fallacies.  I feel I owe some penance, seeing as how I have managed to go a ridiculously long time without writing (not a global tragedy, I know, but still….), thus once again proving how easily distracted I am and how much I suck at my whole “word of the year” thing – that word being discipline.  Um, yeah….not so much.
Summer just throws me off completely.  The constant lack of structure and changes to daily schedules makes my brain hurt and leaves me, at times, incapable of rational thought.  On the flip side, we are having an incredible fun-filled and active summer season, so there’s that. 
For example, last week, Gregg and I got to have an impromptu date night – on a Tuesday!  I wasn’t as fascinated by the day of the week as much as he was, but he kept saying, “It’s a Tuesday evening,” so I thought it merited mentioning.  Maybe there’s a marriage or date night clause of which I am unaware stating what an exceptional circumstance this is.  He may know something I don’t here.  If any of you are aware of such a distinction, please feel free to enlighten me.  I’m always up for learning something new.
I digress.
Back to Tuesday Date Night.
Both boys were unexpectedly invited to last-minute sleepovers at friends’ houses, so I called my parents, wrangled a grandparent slumber party invite for the Bug, and texted Gregg to be ready for a date night extravaganza (ok, I didn’t use exactly those words – he rolls his eyes at overly-flowery phrasing, and let’s face it, extravaganza sets the bar a bit high for a week night dinner date……unless it’s in Paris.  Then extravaganza is exactly the right word, don’t you think?).  We got all the dependents to their respective locations, changed clothes (I even wore a dress), and headed to a lovely local restaurant downtown.  It’s one of those places we rarely go because, well, kids.  After a few stuttering starts at attempted conversation (it always takes us a few minutes to warm up and get going in the cadence of normal adult conversation.  We’re so used to all of the start/stop interruptions and distractions that it takes us a few tries to string together multiple complete sentences.  Sometimes, I just stop talking in the middle of a story, like there’s a phantom interruption.  Which, to be honest, I don’t think is a real thing.  Like phantom limb pain – that’s a real thing.  It is, trust me.  My thing is probably just more proof that my attention span is ridiculously lacking….a fact made more obvious when there are no children around to blame).
That may be the single most ridiculous rabbit trail of my life…..I apologize.  Especially to any phantom limb pain sufferers.  I really wasn’t trying to be flippant.
And now I’m lost.  Oh….dinner conversation.  Hang in there.  I promise I have a point.  Or at least an end to the story.
We were thoroughly enjoying our evening out – drinks, appetizers, a bubbly waitress named Candy (I jest not – she was delightful, even though I couldn’t stop singing under my breath, “My name is Candy and I taste so sweet; you get a cavity each time we meet…” Anyone? Other children of the 80’s and 90’s?  Anyone at all?).  I even held on to enough self-control to order salad instead of steak smothered in blue cheese (discipline finally kicking in).  Not only did I order salad, but I chose to forgo the dressing and just asked for lemon slices.  My self-control knew no bounds.  Then came the hiccup.  Candy looked at me with the sweetest (ha!), most helpful expression and asked, “Is lime ok?”  She stood there, pen poised above her tablet, anticipating my affirmative response, ready to bounce back to the kitchen and place our simple order.
So, now I had a quandary.  Because lime is actually not ok.
It’s not the same, not really, and if I had wanted lime on my salad I would have asked for it.  Just like on the rare occasions I order a Coke, I want a Coke….and, no, Pepsi won’t work.  And when I introduce myself as Rebecca, that’s my name.  The one I answer to and have my whole life.  So, no, you may not call me Becky (I’m always surprised when people ask this.  It makes no sense.  Do you want people to substitute for your name?).
I sat, mentally arguing with myself.  Do I refuse the lime substitution?  Do I change my order to a less healthy dressing choice?  Do I forget the whole salad thing and order the steak?  Or do I just settle for something I didn’t really choose, accepting it this time, thus making Candy’s job easier and preventing any more time out of date night conversation?  This particular restaurant does not have lemons, something I learned on a Girls’ Night a couple of years ago (and actually still get made fun of for when someone remembers it, because that time I did make it a hill to die on, engaging in the Unacceptable Substitutions lecture with our poor waitress that night), I had just forgotten that fact since we hadn’t eaten there in so long (which, now that I think about it, may have been intentional on the part of my girlfriends or the restaurant itself, given the intensity of my lemon tantrum.  If memory serves, I think one of them actually ended up popping down the street to the store to sneak lemons in to me.  Not one of my best moments, I am aware.).
You’ll be relieved (or perhaps bored) to know I took the road less argued this particular evening.  I smiled pleasantly, nodded at Candy, and decided I could survive a lime-sprinkled salad for once.  It’s date night, after all.  On a Tuesday.  Why rock the boat?
Why indeed?
How many times have we dealt with the substitution crossroads?  Have you had those days?  Those times when you had your heart set on something, or your path set a certain direction, and time or circumstances or people derailed you with an offer of something….less, and the expectation that it should be ok.  Sometimes, we need to bend, and to give someone else’s suggestion the priority.  But other times….. There are hills to die on and expectations we should hang on to no matter what.  There are days when the search for the genuine trumps a surrogate every time, and when generic isn’t going to cut it.  Our hearts beat for true love, joy and fulfillment, and nothing else will do.  Our souls are made for legitimate relationship – with Father, with others who have a positive presence and with intimacy that cannot be faked…..not for long, anyway.  Our hope is built and our faith holds strong when we refuse to settle for imitations or seek counterfeit comfort. 
Candy skipped off to the kitchen, pleased with uncomplicated table service.  I was a little disappointed, but also proud of my decision to be an adult and accommodating.  I looked across the table at my handsome husband, and before I could speak, he lifted his hands up, shrugged his shoulders and said, “What’s that about?  Why do they assume lemons and limes are interchangeable?  I mean, it’s like Pepsi and Coke.  Not the same.  Not the same at all….” Followed by, “You should write a blog about this, babe.  Seriously.  Lemons vs limes and all the annoying substitution attempts out there.”
I fell in love with him all over again.  Just when I think he can’t surprise me…..BAM!  The power of Tuesday Date Night manifests.  He totally gets me.
Plus, it’s the first time he’s ever weighed in on a blog.  So, naturally, I was inclined to acquiesce to his request.  Please tell me someone got that reference.

Solidarity, sisters.  Ain’t nothing like the real thing, baby.

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