'Cause there ain't no doubt I love this land . . .

My birthday is the 4th of July. How cool is that?! My family managed to keep the whole “Independence Day” thing a secret from me until approximately age 7 . . . until that time they were devoted in their conviction that the entire Country was celebrating my birthday. I suppose they thought that I had reached the age at which it was embarrassing when each year I profusely thanked the proprietors of the local fireworks stand for supplying the masses so that they could celebrate me on my birthday. They tried, oh yes they did, to crush my dreams with stories of Founding Fathers and Declarations, but I’m having none of it! I still believe! Light those sparklers and send a bottle rocket soaring, my people – it’s my birthday!

 

Maybe for that reason I love this Country of ours. My heart swells when our flag is raised over triumphant athletes at the Olympic Games; my voice catches when surrounded by children reciting the Pledge of Allegiance and meaning it with every fiber of their little being; and Lee Greenwood can still make me tear up with “God Bless the U.S.A.” (though I was probably 16 before I realized that it was hills of TENNESSEE and not TRIPOLI – enunciate Lee, enunciate!). Oh yes, I worry and complain and commiserate (I love that word!) over the sorry state of affairs we’ve gotten ourselves into, but I love this land of opportunity, this melting pot, this pursuit of happiness.

 

Last week the children and I joined several other families at our church to participate in a “mini mission”. We assembled 400 sack lunches that were to be distributed to children who would normally receive lunch through the school system’s free lunch program during the school year. Wait! Don’t waste an “awww, how sweet” on me just yet. I struggled with this, my friends, man did I struggle. I struggled because it seems that as each July 4th comes and goes I am a little more jaded than I was when last year’s fireworks illuminated the night sky. I couldn’t just approach this as an opportunity to fill little tummies that might not otherwise be filled. I knew too much. My mind shouted its opinions on entitlement and abuse of the system. It smugly reminded me that some of those children would be driven to pick up those sack lunches in cars that were newer and nicer than mine; that the brown paper bags would litter the street because the children had never been taught to respect their community and to take pride in their surroundings; that, should the bag actually be picked up and thrown away, it would be picked up by fingers with perfectly manicured nails – fingers that just moments before had been texting on the latest smart phone. My mind grumbled and complained so loudly that I almost didn’t hear my heart whispering. . . 

 

It took the sweet innocence of childhood to silence my mind. My children chattered excitedly about what we were going to do. Excitement twinkled in their eyes at the thought of helping others. They laughed at the fact that they weren’t sure what bologna tasted like, and listened intently as I wondered aloud what ever happened to the red ring that was once bologna’s signature. They prayed with each bag that they packed for the child that would eat that food. And, ultimately, because they are wise and wonderful, they got around to the sad realization that this would be lunch for ONE day – “what will they eat on the OTHER days, Mommy?” – and their hearts hurt and they prayed harder. My children, who have never known hunger, who have all that they need and most of what they want, hurt and prayed and loved and wished and hoped and BELIEVED that they could and would make a difference. My children told my head to “SHUT UP!” (and we don’t say” Shut Up”) and let me, in all of my jaded brokenness, listen to my heart’s whisper.

Was my mind wrong in its assessment of things? Certainly not. Does abuse and entitlement run rampant in the social programs of our Country? ABSOLUTELY. Did each and every lunch find its way into hands that were truly in need? Probably not. I have much to say about entitlement and the mess of things that we’ve created in this Country, but my soapbox is on vacation at the moment because . . . If just ONE of those children that opened those 400 bags was hungry, was it worth it? AB.SO.LUTE.LY. I was hungry and you fed me; I was naked and you clothed me . . .

Too often I watch the news or read the headlines and catch myself shaking my head and commenting on “how scary” our world is becoming. In groups of my peers I nod in agreement and mourn the fact that I brought my children into such a sorry state of affairs. Shame on me. Shame on us. We are selling our wise, wonderful children short. If we do our job, if we do all that we can to build them up and to grow their big, beautiful hearts ; if we teach them to count their blessings, to love God and their neighbors – ALL of their neighbors; if we coach that still, small voice into an insistent shout that will not go unheard; if we teach them to first ask “What would Jesus do?” before allowing their hearts to become hard and jaded and judgmental; if we hurt and pray and love and wish and hope and BELIEVE . . . If we do all of that, this world shouldn’t be scary anymore – it should be SCARED.

 

I love this Country. My parents raised me to love it in all of its brokenness. I want my children to love it too. I want their hearts to swell with pride and their voice to catch. I want them to be PROUD to be an American. On Thursday we’ll celebrate big around here. There will be fireworks and cake and presents (hint, hint). And in the midst of that crazy blessed day we’ll talk about freedom and sacrifice and patriotism. We’ll remind our little people that they live in one nation UNDER GOD and we’ll tell them how very, very lucky they are.  

 

Happy 4th of July, Sweet Friends.

 

God Bless America.

 

Sparkling!

amy

 

 

Sometimes You've Just Gotta Jump

Our neighborhood pool has two diving boards.  They delight my children in their mere existence.  They exude some sort of invisible, yet amazingly powerful magnetic field that draws little people time and time again to their bouncy tautness.  They are the Sirens of the pool deck, singing their song . . . luring the sun-baked to jump from their safety to the watery depths below. 

I hate them.

With each trip up the steps, with each run from start to end, with each bouncing spring into the air, I cringe.  Every nerve in my body stands on end ready to send my body springing from my lounge chair into action as I anticipate what is sure to be a tragedy of Greg Louganis proportions.  I hold my breath every. single. time. that the little toes I have so often counted and kissed and wee-wee-weed all the way home leave the solidity of the board.  I didn’t realize that I was doing it at first, but even now that I’m conscious of it, I’m powerless to stop it.  I don’t breathe again until that head pops out of the water, and together we gasp for the air that our lungs crave.  And so the cycle repeats itself, again and again, as I pray for the point when exhaustion overtakes their little bodies, and the safety of the lap pool becomes “enough” if only for a while. 

I’m afraid.  A lot.   If ever Hollywood needs someone to dream up and write those unbelievable, worst possible scenario scenes for soap operas, I’m their girl.  It’s a glitch I have, this fear, this worry.  If I love you, chances are, I’ve imagined your horrible demise at some point or another.  It’s a compliment really – it means, in my extremely odd way, that I care.   It’s not just diving boards that evoke my terror; bicycles and skateboards (actually anything with wheels), stairs, careless drivers, uneven pavement, and brownies with nuts all have the power to send me to my knees.  If only I could have you each fitted with a protective bubble. . . Let the number for the children’s school show up on my caller i.d., and I’m at the hospital watching as the cast is put on before I even hit the button to answer the call.   Let my mother call at an odd time, and I’m wondering if my black “funeral” dress has been to the dry cleaners before I’ve even heard her voice.  If I’m in the grocery store parking lot and a fire engine screams by headed in the general direction of my home, I look down at what I’m wearing because surely it is my address that they are headed to, and all of my other clothes are but ashes. 

It’s ridiculous.  It really is.   But then I don’t think that I’m alone in my fear – over the top, maybe, but not alone.  It’s actually quite biblical – we, people, seem to have always been afraid.  Time after time the Lord had to repeat Himself, and even today I stubbornly ignore His whispered “fear not”.  Inventors of helmets and seatbelts and life jackets and the little hammer gadget that you put in your glove compartment so that you can cut your seatbelt and break your window should your car plummet suddenly from a bridge and become submerged underwater (oh yes, I’ve played that one out in my mind a time or two) all count on our fear for their livelihood.  And you sir, you genius you, working tirelessly in your garage inventing the protective human bubble – keep up the good work; I’m counting on you!

Life is scary.  But it’s such a precious gift intended to be enjoyed and shared and LIVED to the fullest.  This world we live in, that our children live in, is scary.  But it’s also big and beautiful and wonderful and so full of possibility.  If we get too busy being afraid, and I’m talking to myself here, we miss out on all the wonderful.  If I hadn’t endured the children jumping off the diving board, I would have missed the pure, innocent joy on their faces as they broke the surface of the water.  And I can’t help but think that, despite its allure, the protective film of the bubbles I so long for would dim the brilliant blue of the sky or seal out completely the sweet smell of blooming honeysuckle.   

I’m afraid.  A lot.  I don’t know that I will ever be “cured” of it.  I won’t stop telling the children, over and over like a broken record, to “be careful”.  It is highly unlikely that I will fall in love with the diving boards, take the hammer-thingy out of my glove compartment, or encourage hang gliding as a hobby. I will, however, try my very best to temper my fear with the joy that is living.  I will recognize the gift of each sunrise I’m given and refuse to let one single day pass by safe and unwrapped just because I was too afraid to rip the paper. 

This weekend I fell down our stairs.  The very stairs whose dangers I have repeatedly professed to the children in hopes that they would “be careful”.  My right ankle is stiff, and I have an impressive bruise that shares a remarkable resemblance to the state of California on my behind.  It could have been much worse, but it wasn’t.  I could have been seriously injured, but I wasn’t.  I’ll go up and down those same stairs a countless number of times in the years that we call this house our home.  I may fall again . . . but then, I may not.  At the end of the day, Greg hit his head and it was awful and terrible and scary, and my heart hurts for his poor mama if she lived to see it.  I imagine that she hated diving boards too.  But I bet she loved gold medals. 

amy

You oughta be in pictures . . .

And they are!  I'm just a little behind in posting them.  So, no deep, meaningful prose today.  Just a big photo dump to get you all caught up on our "goings on".  In other news, many of you have asked about the house - a progress report of our projects thus far complete with photos is coming soon, so stay tuned. 

We celebrated another wonderful Easter at the Grand Hotel in Point Clear

 

 

 

 

And then on April 5th . . .


Grace turned 11 . . .
 



. . . and got her ears pierced . . .

 

. . . and ate it all gone!

 

We spent a beautiful day at Stone Mountain

 

 

 

Cooper's class went on a fun field trip to the Aquarium

 

 

Grace dressed as a firefighter for her presentation on the Oklahoma City Bombing

 

Nana & K.K. came to visit for girls weekend, and we saw Sister Act at the Fox
(Grace's 1st Trip)

Cooper celebrated his 1st Communion surrounded by family & friends

 

Say cheese!

amy

 

 

 

 

Soak

Recently my grandmother gave me a tablecloth that she made some years ago.  It is lovely with patches of lace and delicate hand-stitched flowers - glimpses of her talent that I will always treasure.  Pinned to the corner of the tablecloth written in her heavy, curling cursive was the “recipe” for her famous “Soak”.  She explained that there were a few stains on the tablecloth; the soak would “remove any stains and yellowing that you don’t want but will be kind to the color”.  That same soak has permeated so many significant memories of my adult life . . . she mixed it to remove the yellowing from my mother’s wedding dress before we cut the lace to fashion the pillow that would carry our rings at my wedding; years later it delicately whitened my grandfather’s fragile gown as I prepared to bring my new babies home from the hospital wearing it; Cooper’s raw silk Easter jon-jon would soak in it following a particularly horrendous carseat “blow out”, and, thanks to the soak,  Grace’s flower girl dress from K.K.’s wedding would let go of the stains that were evidence of the big time she had at the reception.  I hung the tablecloth in my linen closet with the recipe still attached.  In the days that followed the idea of “soaking” would dance repeatedly at the edge of my consciousness, whispering the thoughts that I would ultimately share with you here in this little space of mine. 

. . . “will remove any stains and yellowing that you don’t want but will be kind to the color” . . . Growing up soaking was often my mother’s answer to cure what ailed us.  Cramps – soak in a hot bath.   Itchy mosquito bites or rashes – soak in a warm baking soda bath.  Irritable teenage girl drama – soak until your fingers prune so that I don’t have to be around you for a little while.  Reflecting, I spent a good portion of my teenage years in the bathtub – thinking and reading and reaching up with my toe to turn the hot water on again when I started to catch a chill.  I soaked – removing the stains and yellowing that I didn’t want but being kind to the color.  It worked – things always seemed a little better after a nice, long soak. 

I have no doubt that Grandmother intended no hidden meaning or grand revelation when she pinned that recipe to the tablecloth, but despite her lack of intention, I managed to find meaning there.  In the days since that tablecloth came to live in our home I’ve made a concerted effort to “soak”.  Spring, I find, is a wonderful opportunity for soaking – to sit back and quietly take it all in as the gray of winter fades into the Crayola box that is spring – my favorite season. 

I’ve soaked in all the changes that our family has experienced in the months since Christmas – removing the stains and yellowing that were the fears and hurts that came with the move and being kind to the color that has found us crazy blessed each step of the way. 

 

I’ve soaked in the fact that Grace will start middle school in the fall and that she grows more gorgeous and independent with each passing day – removing the stains and yellowing that is my hurt at watching my baby grow up so quickly and being kind to the color of all the possibilities that her amazing future holds. 

 

I’ve soaked in Cooper’s big, beautiful heart as he prepared and received his 1^st Communion – removing the stains and yellowing that were our heartbreak at leaving Sacred Heart and being kind to the color that is our new parish family here at St. Brigid. 

 

 

I’ve soaked in the family and friends who have traveled to visit us in our new home. 

 

 

I’ve soaked in the beauty of our first Atlanta spring and the fact that it is becoming more and more natural to refer to this place we live as “home”. 

 

I’ve soaked in the sore muscles and sometimes utter exhaustion as projects were started and completed because those were signs that I am healthy and able to work on this house that God blessed us with.  I’ve soaked in my husband who provides for us so completely.   

 

Soak after soak the stains and yellowing of the past few months faded as I was kind to the color of every beautiful thread of this crazy blessed life of mine. 

It’s so important, soaking.  Just taking some time to take it all in – to quietly reflect – to reconcile heart with mind - to remove the stains and yellowing that you don’t want while being kind to the color.  Cooper’s 1^st Communion Mass was beautiful – we sang “This Little Light of Mine” & “This is the Day” . . . Let it shine, my people!  Rejoice and be glad!  Soak, sweet friends of mine, soak!

 

being kind to the color,

amy

Always 4.24.99

That's what is inscribed in Michael's wedding band . . . Always.  I meant it then.  I mean it now.  I mean it . . . always. 

 

 

I could write pages and pages about my husband - a love story for the ages -  a Prince Charming that would make lesser women swoon - a big, strong, kind hearted hero. . .  but for those of you who know him, you know that he wouldn't like that.  So, Happy 14th Anniversary to my best friend, my heart.  I'm so thankful for you and this Crazy Blessed life of ours.

 

 

Peas & Carrots,

Amy Lou

Eleven

4.5.13

Grace,

   This weekend you beat your Daddy in a sprint for the first time.  He stood, bent over double at the finish line trying to catch his breath, and the first words he said were, “I just can’t believe it”.  He always knew that you’d be faster than him one day, but it was hard to believe that day had arrived.  I stood at the end of your makeshift track and couldn’t take my eyes off of you.  You run effortlessly on those long, lean legs.  You take off like a little blonde rocket and never look back, grinning with every stride.  You are amazing.

This morning I’m hit with Daddy’s same disbelief; it’s my turn to think, over and over, “I just can’t believe it”.  Today you are eleven.  We’ve been blessed with eleven years packed slam full of amazing thanks to you, little girl.  You’re head strong and independent and have more confidence in your little pinky finger than Mommy has in my entire body.  You never meet a stranger and could strike up a conversation with one of those silent guards in the big, funny hats at Buckingham Palace if you set your mind to it.  You may just be one of the bravest people I’ve ever met.  The first time I laid eyes on you I remember thinking that you must be the most beautiful child that was ever born; I become more confident of that fact with each passing day. 

Don’t run too fast, little one.  Life passes too quickly all by itself without any help from us.  It’s not always a sprint, and you don’t always have to push so hard to finish first.  Take time to stroll every now and then.  Slow down and just be little for a little while longer – you’ve got plenty of time to be big.  Be silly and carefree, and let Daddy and me handle the heavy stuff for now.  Take time to notice this big, beautiful world God gave us – sometimes the sky is exactly the same color as your eyes.  Stay confident, but remember to be humble.  Love your brother; in his world you hung the moon and stars – being a hero is a big responsibility, don’t let him down.  We love your independence, but we’ll always be here for you, like it or not.  We’re your biggest fans, Daddy, Cooper, and me.    When you do run, run towards what is good and right and true.  Look back over your shoulder once in a while just in case you need to go back to help someone who stumbled and fell.  Always, always remember that Jesus loves you even more than we do, and don’t let one single day go by without at least stopping to whisper “thank you” for all that He’s given you. 

Happy, happy birthday sweet girl.  Eleven – I just can’t believe it.  Here’s to another year of amazing!

More than you’ll ever know,

Mommy

Celebrating G

My family gathered in Dothan on Saturday to celebrate my maternal grandmother’s 80^th birthday.  In a lovely venue on a beautiful March afternoon, her four children, four grandchildren, six great-grandchildren, and more extended family and friends than we could count surrounded her and sang Happy Birthday as she looked on and smiled.  In that moment I was struck not by how terribly off-key we sounded, but rather by how seldom we stop to celebrate life.

My beautiful grandmother celebrating "80" 

 

Grandmother is rarely celebrated – by choice.  She does not seek out attention nor take kindly to being coddled.  More often than not she is a quiet, sideline observer,  taking everything in only to deliver one of her famous one-line zingers just when you least expect it.  She is the best seamstress I know even as the eye of the needle becomes increasingly difficult to find, and I treasure the fact that she is ever-present in my home’s draperies and tablecloths.  She is famous for M&M cookies and never forgetting a birthday.  Consulting her meticulously maintained calendar she can tell you exactly when a person came into this world and when they went out.  She loves shoes and has the softest hands.  She can pray heaven down into our midst in the few minutes that it takes her to bless a meal.  She is tough as nails and always says exactly what is on her mind.    She loved one man with all that she had and raised four phenomenal children.  She has that “mountain moving” kind of faith.  She is one of a kind.  She is wonderful, and she deserves to be celebrated often and much.

 

We enjoyed each other Saturday.  We laughed and ate and caught up on the “goings on” of everyday life.  We soaked up the sunshine and commented on how much our beautiful children have grown since we were last together.  We watched them as they played silly games and remembered when we were just like them – cousins, carefree and happy to be together if only for a day.  We celebrated G-Mom; we celebrated each other; we celebrated this beautiful, wonderful life. 

 

Happy, happy birthday, Grandmother.  Can’t wait to celebrate 100 and everything in-between!

Celebrating!

amy