Roots

 

Yesterday for the first time in a long time I headed outside to pull weeds.  It was hot.  Too hot.  But the unwelcome little green visitors popping up between the red brick of my front steps were starting to hurt my feelings.  At first, I pulled absentmindedly aggravated at the heat and the task itself and the heat and the bugs and, did I mention, the heat?  But then I noticed that some of the little suckers were harder to pull than others, and when I stopped to pay attention, I marveled at how tenaciously some of the roots grew and reached for their life-giving source. Against all odds, a seed had somehow found itself in a tiny, mortared crack, sandwiched between unyielding masonry, and the roots of that plant stretched and strained and anchored themselves so that the leaves that were exposed and stretching for the sun could be beautiful.

We moved Cooper into his dorm at Auburn 19 days ago (but who’s counting).  Eight days later Grace had her last, first day of school.  We blinked, and she’s a senior.  And suddenly, as so many people seem to delight in reminding us, our “nest” is empty.    Now THAT will get you thinking (mainly because it’s quiet and there is SO MUCH LESS laundry to do and sometimes you can just have cereal for dinner and it’s ok which frees up SO MUCH thinking time).  And the “think” that has been most often on my mind is, “did we do everything that we could to make sure that they are ready for what comes next?”. 

And I think that’s why I paid such attention to those weeds.  Because that’s what it’s all about - giving them strong roots so that when they are exposed and stretching for the sun, they can be beautiful. 

So, once the weeds were eradicated and my body temperature returned to normal, I settled into my quiet, laundry-free nest, thanked the Lord for my little birds and then prayed for their roots. . .

That they never stop reaching for their heavenly Father, the ultimate life-giving source.

That they always remember where they came from and have the confidence, determination, and work ethic to get where they are going. 

That no matter what storms rage around them, they stay anchored in their faith, what is right and true, and our unwavering love.

That they stretch and strain and leave their comfort zone and look for ways to make this world better than they found it.

That when they are pulled in all different directions, they stay true to themselves.

That they remember that not everyone has roots that are cultivated and strong, so they should always, always be kind.

And that they find rest, shelter, and shade when they are weary and never, ever forget that they are beautiful.

Eighteen

 

A few days ago, a friend and I were discussing our children’s approaching birthdays.  Both were about to turn 18, and we agreed that it felt somehow anticlimactic.  It SHOULD be a really big deal, and yet there would be no new car parked in the driveway nor would the bouncers suddenly welcome them into the local bar with open arms.  The more I thought about it, 18 felt a lot like middle school – too old for a pirate party with goody bags but too young for the Vegas strip.  

Basically, 18 gets a bum rap. . .  Congratulations, you’re a whole adult today.  WooHoo – you can now vote for people who will either grossly abuse the use of self-tanning products or store classified documents in their corvette, and, by the way, don’t forget to register for the super-fun draft!  Cue the balloons and confetti.  

So, because I suddenly felt bad for poor 18, I set out on a quest to boost its image.  

I was going to make 18 go viral.  

It didn’t go well.  

On the periodic table 18 is the atomic number for Argon; there’s nothing exciting about Argon.  I could have worked with Titanium, and even Neon has potential.  There are 18 holes on a golf course.  18 is considered a lucky number in China.  It is also the legal drinking age there.  Coincidence?  I think not.  

And then the stars aligned and google did its google thing, and there was this:  18 pertains to great wisdom and compassion, the kind that comes from experience. This number also often symbolizes endings and indicates that you’re entering a time of closure in your life. When one phase completes, another begins, so it also brings hope and a view to the future.  

I love it.  Hope and a view to the future.  For those of us who have long since left 18 in the rearview mirror, isn’t that just exactly it?  18 isn’t anticlimactic.  It’s hope and a view to the future, and that’s something to celebrate.

Cooper,

You’ve never liked when things come to an end.  You cried your way through kindergarten graduation because you “just didn’t want it to be over”.  You love life so big, and you mourn every completed chapter with your whole heart.  18 must feel pretty big, huh?  Childhood – done.  I’m right there with you, buddy.  It hurts my heart too.  Saying goodbye to something SO WONDERFUL is hard.  But it’s not gone.  We’ll always have it – that magical growing up time of yours - it’s one of my favorite movies to rewatch.  

According to the google number guys, you are now supposed to possess “great wisdom and compassion” that you’ve gained from experience.  I think they’re probably right.  I see you.  Thinking before you act or react or speak or decide, reasoning, weighing options, evaluating consequences, anticipating outcomes, considering others – that’s wisdom.  I wouldn’t label it as “great” just yet, but you’ve got lots of time to work towards that.  And compassion?  You were sent here with that; you’ve just had 18 years to shine it up a bit.  Hold that one tight; a heart for others can fix so many things.

You’ve got a lot of big change coming your way.  Put that way it sounds scary.  But call it a time of “hope and a view to the future”?  Sign me up!   You’ve had 18 years of training wheels to get you ready for what I know with absolute certainty is going to be the ride of your life.  Don’t be in such a hurry to reach your destination – find the joy in the journey.  With every hill you top, stop for a minute to soak in the view – you worked hard to get there.  And when you blow a tire, rest confident in the fact that you have every single tool that you need fix it – we’ve spent 18 years filling up that toolbox.  

A whole adult.  Unreal.  Happy happy birthday, baby boy.  18 never looked so good (at least not since Grace turned 18, because we both know that she’ll read this and it will be a thing if she thinks that I meant that 18 looks better on you than it did on her, and that is NOT what I meant, geesh).  Now take that newfound hope and view to the future of yours and go buy a lottery ticket just because you can.  Wanna meet for a drink in China?  

I love being your mama.

Win one for the Gipper?

 

This will come as a big shock to many of you, but I am not an athlete.  I know!  I’ll give you a minute to process.  In fact, the closest I came to having an athletic career was my time as the statistician for my high school football team.  And that little foray into the wide world of sports was just because I was good at math and had a genuine appreciation for the art of the male form in a football uniform.  I did, however, have a great uncle who was a successful coach, and that fact coupled with the countless hours that I’ve spent seated in bleachers cheering on my offspring practically makes me an expert. 

Our current football season, it’s just not good.  At least not when you look at the stats and the record and, I’m guessing, the film on Monday morning.  Not. Good.  With that said, there is MUCH about the game of football that I don’t even pretend to know. I wouldn’t know a jet sweep from a flea-flicker (although I do love a good flea flicker).  When to throw the ball or when to call a running play.  And does ANYBODY really know exactly what “ineligible receiver downfield” means?!   I don’t even pretend to know what needs to change or how to fix all the things.  But I do know a thing or two about the players; it just so happens I have raised one with some measure of success.  And if ever given the opportunity to deliver the team-rallying half-time speech (somewhere Cooper is making the sign of the cross and thanking the heavens that this will NEVER happen), I’d climb up on that locker room bench, and this is exactly what I’d say. . .

Ouch.  That was ugly.  Like, REALLY bad.  But you already know that, don’t you?  I was just watching it.  You were the ones getting thumped up and down the field and scratching and clawing for every yard.  Losing stinks.  It’s just not fun, and it gets old.  Really, really old.  You don’t need me to point out what you already know, but you do need to hear me say this.  No matter the final score, you, Knights, you have already won.

What we don’t remind you of is the fact that out of your ENTIRE STUDENT BODY, you are the only ones who get to wear that uniform and represent your school out on that field.  That is an honor and privilege no matter your record; don’t forget that.  You are one of the handful of people in this entire world who know what it feels like when you run out of that tunnel, onto that field, under those lights.  That feeling.  That “there is nothing I cannot do” feeling that you have before you’ve even played a single down?  Don’t ever forget that feeling; it is precious and rare. 

Those Heisman Wannabes with the dad bods up in the stands have forgotten that the view from field level is a lot different from their cushioned stadium chair vantage points.  Reality is that they had to buy a ticket to get in and would need IV fluids after one practice, oxygen after one down, and a hip replacement after one good hit.  What sounds like spirit-crushing criticism is really just super-frustrated love because they know how incredible you are and just wish that everybody else had the opportunity to see it too.  You keep your chin up and tune out the noise. This is your time; they’ve had theirs.  Listen to the voice inside of you.  Play the game for your school, your brothers, and yourself. 

Does your coach screw up?  ABSOLUTELY.  A lot. Show me a grown-up who doesn’t.  But he also shows up.  For you. A lot.  I certainly wouldn’t want an entourage to follow me around at work and publicly shame me in front of my peers and subordinates every time I made the wrong call.  We as parents spend your entire childhood reminding you to be respectful.  We should probably take a page from our own playbook, and save a bit more of our ESPN level commentary for the car ride home. 

Now I’m running out of time here, so one last thing, we’ve not been honest with you.  We’ve told you that “these are the best days of your life”.  They’re not.  Don’t get me wrong, these are AWESOME days.  But the BEST ones?  Those will come later, when you’re sitting in the stands watching your heart out on that field.  These?  These are the learning days.  These are the days when you realize that the numbers on that scoreboard mean nothing (even when they are in your favor) if your character is lacking.  How quickly your knee hits the field when a player, any player, is injured.  How you watch your language around the cheerleaders because they are young ladies.  How you offer your hand to help an opposing player up.  How you seek out your friends on Monday morning and thank them for dressing up like Goodwill cowboys and showing up, for you, Friday night after Friday night.  How you build up a teammate who just botched a big play.  How you show up for practice, early and late and hurt and tired and when you just really don’t want to.  How you respect your teacher in the classroom and your parents at home.  How you’re humbled by the National Anthem and the sacrifices that you’ll never fully understand.  How you feel pride every time you pull that jersey over your head because you know that representing your school is a privilege.  How you admit when you are wrong and recognize that you have much still to learn. How you thank the band for their energy and the trainers for their support.  How you leave everything you’ve got on that field because that’s what you signed up to do and you know that commitments are important.  That.  All of that. Those things.  That is how I know that you’ve already won.

Look around you. This team.  It’s yours.  These are your brothers. And this moment, it’s fleeting.  Play for each other.  Have fun.  Soak it in.  Dance it out.  Shake it off.  This is your time.  The haters?  They’re just jealous.

Now, stand up straight and fix your face.  Dig deep and find some energy.  You look like a bunch of saggy shouldered quitters.  Not everybody gets a trophy and right now you look like you don’t even want one.  There is football left to be played.   Play to win.  Don’t accept defeat until the very last second ticks off.  Go out there and hit somebody.  And after you hit him, go up in the stands and hit his mama.  DANCING is a contact sport; football, well, it’s a hitting sport. 

And then, after it’s all said and done, when they’ve wiped those red numbers off of that scoreboard, stop on the way to the bus and hug my neck because, my precious boys, I’m so damn proud of you.

Who more than Self their Country Loved

     Yesterday in church a couple of sections to my right and a few pews back, two gentlemen sat straight and tall in full military dress.   They immediately drew my eyes, my heart, and my respect.  Now admittedly I’m a sucker for a man in uniform, but this time my gaze quickly wandered from the dashingly handsome soldiers to the lady who sat sandwiched between them.  I don’t know the family, but I’m guessing that her rank is wife and mother.  She was beautiful in red, white, and blue and while her outfit might have lacked bars and medals, she was the one who I couldn’t look away from.  The men at her side projected dignity and strength and honor, but that Mama?  She oozed pride from every pore.  I’d venture to say that she is the strongest of the three.  How terrifying it must be to offer those you love most up in service to our Country. 

Every year on Memorial Day I look for the words and pictures posted by a dear, forever friend who lost her husband way too soon.  I didn’t have the privilege of knowing him, but the legacy he left behind in his children speaks volumes as to who he was.  My favorite picture that she shares shows a larger than life, grinning guy in a flight suit standing in front of a plane with his arms flung out around little people who clearly adore him.  There is such love and joy in that picture.  And I’m taken aback every single time that I see it.  It’s not every day that you come face to face with a hero.

At the end of the service yesterday we sang “America the Beautiful”, and my eyes watered up just like they always do.  I love this Country and am ever aware of the fact that the ability to call it home is both an honor and a privilege that I have done absolutely nothing to earn.  The debt of gratitude that I owe to those who made the ultimate sacrifice to ensure that I can attend that church and sing that song and vote my conscience and type these words. . . it’s one that I could never even begin to repay. 

O beautiful for heroes proved

in liberating strife,

who more than self their Country loved,

and mercy more than life!

America! America!

May God thy gold refine

til all success be nobleness

and every gain divine.

Who more than self their Country loved.  If that doesn’t just knock the wind out of you.

Back pew Mama, may our heavenly Father always surround your guys with a hedge of protection and may they feel and know the love of a grateful nation.  To my precious friends for whom today is about so much more than cookouts and pool parties, may the God of the broken-hearted wrap you in a comfort and peace that we cannot even begin to fathom.  I’m so sorry that they didn’t make it home.  Thank you for your service and sacrifice.  I promise to never stop remembering.

B Positive

 

Cooper Warren Dulion arrived via emergency Cesarean section on a Wednesday morning 17 years ago.  It was chaotic and terrifying . . . for most of us.  I didn’t get to see it, but they tell me that Cooper arrived completely unphased, looking calmly around the OR as if to say, “Why the panic, everyone?  It’s all good.”  He was an 8 lb 2 oz, 21 ½ inch bundle of pure perfection.  There was no distress, no worrisome Apgar score, no need for the NICU nurses who stood ready to whisk him away.  He greeted this world and its people as if he knew that he was exactly where he belonged, and that hasn’t changed for 17 years. 

Last weekend Coop donated blood for the first time.  He liked the idea of being able to help people.  He did NOT like the idea of that help involving a needle anywhere in his proximity.  Despite his anxiety, he charmed the ladies responsible for the needles, ATE all the snacks, and somehow managed to get a tour of the back processing area.  He left a pint lighter but gained a t-shirt, gift card, and some kind of multi-tool.  He had such fun that he spent the ride home googling how often you can donate.  Weirdo.

A few days after his super-fantastic experience Cooper was notified of his blood type . . . B Positive.  Imagine that.  I couldn’t make it up if I tried.  B positive.  It’s funny because it’s true.  He is and always has been.  Positive that if you look for the good, you will find it.  Positive that it really will all work out exactly as it should.  Positive that if he tries hard enough, he can do it. Positive that all people are his people.   And positive that he is EXACTLY where he belongs. 

Happy birthday my beautiful boy.  I know that you are the one who gets to make the wishes today, but if I could borrow a candle or two, I’d wish that you always . . .

. . . be positive of your ability to make a difference.

. . . be positive that kindness counts, and the good guy really does win in the end.

. . . be positive that He knows the plans He has for you.

. . . be positive that your big, big heart is your most beautiful feature.

I absolutely adore you, Cooper Warren Dulion, from the top of your head to the tip of those big, hairy toes. Of that you can always be positive.

More than you’ll ever know,

Mommy

If You Give a Boy a Cookie . . .

Cooper has a nut allergy.  The scary kind that EpiPens and ambulance rides were created for.  When he was little class party days were the stuff of nightmares for me.  So many edible things from so many different places so completely out of my control.  I made it my life’s work to make sure that he didn’t put ANYTHING in his mouth without being absolutely certain that there were no nuts lurking within.  By age six I don’t know that he had ever had a whole cookie – one that I had not broken in half, examined, smelled, and probably taken a bite from.  We trained like Navy Seals on all of the sneaky places, like banana bread and brownies, where nuts like to hide.  We learned that crisscrossed fork imprints are the telltale sign of a peanut butter cookie, but not always, so don’t just assume so!  And somehow, by God’s precious grace, a cautious little boy, and a paranoid mama, he survived that treacherous life stage known as elementary school.  I can remember my sense of accomplishment – he was listening!  He got it!  Done and done!

But not really.

A couple of weeks ago, my baby boy was at a friend’s house and ate the cookie.  No breaking in half, no sniffing, no bringing it to me to take a bite first, NONE of it.  He just ate the cookie.  And then, just for good measure, he ate five more.  What had looked like his dear friend the traditional chocolate chip had turned out to be its contaminated cousin, peanut butter chocolate chip (didn’t we cover that in SEAL training?!).  That night when I finally felt confident enough to let him go to sleep, as I sat and listened to his steady breathing, I thought “Oh well, I just thought we’d mastered that.  Was he even listening to anything we taught him all this time?”.

And then I stopped and thought about this boy of mine.  OF COURSE he was listening all that time.  He shows us that every single day.  He messed up.  He was having fun, let his guard down, and made a mistake.  He ate the cookie.  And it scared him, and he knew exactly what to do, and he learned from it.  What in the world more could a parent ask for?  That isn’t the last time he’ll eat the cookie (let’s hope henceforth they will be mere metaphorical nut-free cookies), and I hope that every single time, without fail, when he has messed up and is scared, he will do the exact same thing.  He’ll call us.  Immediately.  He’ll trust that we’ll be right here and that, no matter how upset or disappointed we may be, we will love him through it.  And then, after the initial freak out, when the swelling has gone down and our blood pressure has returned to normal, I hope that he’ll learn from it.   If that can happen, then we will have done our job.  

The baby boy turns 16 today.   He is 6 foot 4 inches of pure wonderful.  There is just absolutely nothing like him, and being his Mama is one of the greatest honors of my life.  On his 10th birthday I wrote these words, and while “Green Team” has long since been replaced by football mornings and basketball afternoons, I’m still captain of the Cheer Squad, and that won’t ever change. . . 

This week we talked about decimals as we waited in car line, and then you kissed me before you got out to start your day.  I watched you as you hurried to the door, anxious to be the first Green Team member signed in so that you could get the best hallway.  But then it happened, despite your hurry.  It took mere seconds.  No one else noticed it, but I did.  You stopped at the door, held it open, and glanced over your shoulder to make sure there was no one behind you before letting the door swing closed.  That heart for others wouldn’t dare let it close on someone, wouldn’t dream of not holding it open for the next person.  “There he is!!”  “That’s my boy!!”  “That’s what I’m talking about!!”  You didn’t hear it, but your cheering section went WILD.  It just took a glance over your shoulder to make my heart swell.  Why?  Because I live you.  And when you shine, I feel it with every fiber of my being.

Happy, happy birthday, my Cooper.  Instead of cookies, today let’s eat CAKE!

More than you’ll ever know,

Mommy

Tune My Heart

 

There are those rare, perfect mornings when you have the luxury of opening your eyes not at the insistence of a beeping alarm, but rather just because they are ready to open.  When the sun is slanting just perfectly through your blinds, and the tip of your nose is chilly while the rest of you is snuggly warm.  When rather than rushing straight to the laundry list of “to do” items that will crowd your day, your mind has those sweet few minutes to wallow and wander and wake.  This morning was just that kind of morning, and in those sweet moments of waking, the only thought that flooded my mind, the sole all-consuming and overwhelming greeting to my day was a resounding “thank You, thank You, thank You”.  And I knew, even as I said it over and over and over again, that somehow “thank You” was an incredibly lacking sentiment for a morning, a day, a life like this one. 

Later as I dawdled around the kitchen, the air in the house still kissed with the chill from the night before and the view through the window above the sink absolutely picture perfect, I landed on what I’d been reaching for earlier.  It filled every part of me as if someone were right there next to me at the kitchen sink singing it . . . tune my heart to sing Thy grace.  THAT.  Not just an occasional “thank You” when I stop long enough to remember my manners, but rather all all-consuming, never ceasing, overflowing, overwhelming state of absolute gratitude for ALL THE THINGS, ALL THE TIME. 

I couldn’t put it out of my mind.  It echoed there as I grabbed for the words that someone else had already said so well . . . streams of mercy, never ceasing.  It was one of those rare, beautiful, “stop what you are doing and write this down because this is important, and you need this” kind of moments that are so incredibly precious to me.  One of those times that I’m reminded that He most certainly is talking to me if I will just have the sense to be still and know.  A make your heart beat fast because your fingers can’t keep up with your thoughts, and remember to breathe because now that you’ve stopped to think about it for a minute, His love for you just takes your breath away kind of moment.  I googled the words and just soaked them in . . .

Come, Thou Fount of every blessing

Tune my heart to sing Thy grace

Streams of mercy, never ceasing

Call for songs of loudest praise

Teach me some melodious sonnet

Sung by flaming tongues above

Praise the mount, I'm fixed upon it

Mount of Thy redeeming love     (Come They Fount of Every Blessing, Robinson)

Now, stop reading here if you don’t want to have your toes good and stepped on.  We are, my sweet friends, a bunch of spoiled, whiney complainers.  Sometime after Mr. Robinson penned those words back in 1758, we exchanged our Praise Pants for a more comfortable pair of Bellyaching Britches.   Why is it so easy to focus on what’s wrong rather than to shine the light on the good?  Why has that become our default?  Please note that I’m intentionally using “we” and “our” because I am talking LOUD AND CLEAR to the Negative Nelly in the mirror.  It’s so easy to blame it on “our current situation” or 2020 or a horrible virus or an election year, but at the end of the day, it is a CHOICE.  And I’ve been choosing to let that mess get all over me, draped around my neck like an albatross, weighing me down like concrete boots, and wearing it like a fur coat in August. “It” has been sitting heavy on my head, and I couldn’t put my finger on what it was until this morning when my precious Father whispered in my ear.  Yes, work is hard and life is hard and the world is hurting and broken and no child should ever be sick or hungry or scared and mediocrity is rewarded and the evil squeaky wheel seems to always get the grease and cancer is the very cellular embodiment of Satan himself and college professors who are too smart for their own good try to make us doubt our faith and our team loses and loses and loses and our drive-through order is never correct and the mask gives us chin zits and there just aren’t enough hours in the day to do it all and sometimes it takes a lot of effort to even see a tiny flicker of good, BUT here I am.  There is Me.  And My mercy, it’s never ceasing. 

Last night at Cooper’s football game a group of fans from the opposing team came to the game with one purpose, to whole-heartedly heckle our players.  And boy, did they deliver.  They rattled our guys without even really trying very hard.  Michael commented that every time they started up, our band should start playing.  Just drown them out, he said.  And that, precious ones, is the answer.  Found right there in the bleachers of a high school football stadium.  Songs of LOUDEST praise.  It’s not going away.  All of the ugly?  It will all still be there in our periphery trying to rattle us, and, just as sure as I know that not every morning will start like this morning did for me, I am far too realistic to think that our band will always be able to play loudly enough to drown it out.  But, we sure can make a conscious effort to at least try.  To be sensitive to its creeping in, to know when its weight starts to drag us down.  To know that then, at that moment, THAT is when it’s most important to toot our flute or bang our drum and just drown it out.  Tune my heart, Lord.  When the world is heckling me and it’s just too easy to add to the ugly, teach me the melody of Your mercy and grace.  Remind my heart to sing.  Isn’t it a beautiful thing to picture?  Our all too often whispered faith turning into songs of LOUDEST praise.

And just in case our current state of affairs has your heart’s tuning fork just a little rusty or if perhaps the language of the 1700s doesn’t resonate strongly with you, I took the liberty of adding a new verse to Mr. Robinson’s work (expecting a call from the Hymnal company any day) . . .

Shut my mouth, stop my complaining.

Fill my heart with gratitude.

There is good, help me to see it,

even when someone is rude.

Remind me when in traffic.

Always kind help me to be.

Tune my heart, let others see it.

More of You and less of me.