The Truth Hurts Until You Realize It Is Helping You Get Better

Tonight, the Alcorn Central Elementary School first graders, along with Mrs. Tina Price Downs and her Music Makers, presented their Thanksgiving program.

Dinah was very excited as were we as we took our seats in the stands. We smiled at the eagerness in their faces as they waved to their families. We laughed when a child squealed as the program began. After a couple of really cute songs, they began their small skit. The point of it led them to list the things they were thankful FOR and Who they were thankful TO.

Well, I never expected to bawl my eyes out at the 1st grade program, but I lost it. Tears rolling down my cheeks--all I could do not to sob.

The Music Makers got me really going with their "Count Your Blessings" hymn. The 1st graders followed with the song "God Is So Good" with the things they were thankful for in the lyrics.

I couldn't quit crying. My eyes were a river let loose.

There are so many times that I feel that my "thankfuls" might be by rote instead of an true overflow of my heart. Well, tonight, my heart filled up and over-flowed through my eyeballs.

The program was quickly concluded and I still had not got a hold of my emotions. I got some strange looks, a few "are you ok?'s", and Dinah's confused query, "Why are you crying Mama? It's just a program."

I hugged my own Mama, Mrs. Tina, and Jennifer Marshall and tried to explain myself through blubbers and sniffles.

After most of the folks cleared out, Tina sat beside me and checked to make sure something else wasn't going on. I told her I was ok. There really was something else going on. In explanation, I said, "I'm coming out of some very dry years and it's good now. It's just good." She nodded that she understood.

Over the past few years, when someone asked about how I was, and I attempted to be honest in my response, I would say things like, "I'm feeling low" or "I've got a black cloud over me" or "I'm just exhausted". Those things were true but I was just avoiding calling things by their real name. I have been depressed. Not "the blues", "in the dumps", or "bummed"

--DEPRESSED--

I wrestled with it until I became so overwhelmed I succumbed to it. All my smiles and cheer were used in the effort of work and social occasions I couldn't avoid. My family and home suffered most because I had no desire to leave my bed the morning and nothing left to give them when I came home at night. When I woke, I counted to hours until I could sleep again.

My God and I had a steady dialogue but terms were strained at best. So many deep struggles, so many questions, and ultimately I threw the blame His way.

A few months ago, fed up with myself, desperate for something different, I did something I had put off for years. I went to my doctor and I asked for help.

I know I'm a nurse but that just means I don't take medicine. I love a good supplement. I'll swallow Apple Cider vinegar, swish coconut oil around in my mouth, and soak my feet in salts, but I don't take "maintenance" meds.

But there came a point where the potential side effects, the trouble of it, or the cost, were small things
compared to what I was losing.

My doctor listened carefully to my symptoms and my concerns. Then she outlined what she thought would be the best approach. I moved another step forward.

The first med I tried helped me become more steady, but I didn't become any more energetic. After a few months (and 20lbs), we re-evaluated and changed it. I made more of an effort with my diet and exercise.  Small steps, but steps just the same.

It took a bit, but these past few weeks, I've felt like a person again--not just a slug on the carport of life.

I don't dread after work and school activities. I want to be around people. I wake and feel the need to work or clean or move with purpose. My time with my family isn't endured with later pain and regret, but enjoyed and soaked up. These small things have been so foreign for so long.

Best of all, my conversations with my Maker have changed. There are still questions but I don't question Him. I'm eager to spend time with Him instead of trying to avoid facing my truth with His.

I share these things because you may be like me: struggling. Or you may think I've got it all together--you need to know I don't. Or you need reminding that God helps in many different ways, and we only cheat ourselves when we don't feel we to accept that help in the way He wants to give it.

I know medicine isn't a cure-all. Believe me, I see every day what it DOESN'T cure. But I also see and have experienced how the body needs some extra help sometimes and there isn't shame in getting it when you are willing to do your part too.

Back to the Thanksgiving program:

Those tears tonight were my water after the desert. Nothing makes you more thankful for wealth than times of poverty.

I am rich with the gifts from God that those children sang of and I weep in thankfulness.

Anna Becoming

Therein Lies the Silence

I'm at my computer again two years after the last time I stared at this blank blogger page, tapping out letters that made words, words that made sentences, and sentences that didn't make paragraphs that made sense or conveyed how I felt. I typed and back-spaced over and over until I gave up and a blank page stands in draft status reminding me of the futileness I felt in trying to put my heart into words.
I've put off this attempt because the emotional toll it takes is exhausting and time consuming. Silence is easier in some ways but it leaves me feeling misunderstood and to be understood seems to be one of my greatest desires in life.

***If you are pregnant or "planning" to be, or are a loved one of someone who is, you may not want to read this. I wouldn't hurt you for the world, but I can't apologize to you for writing it, if you chose to read it.***

October is Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Month. The 15th of that month is considered a remembrance day, wherein candles are lit at 7pm across the world in what is called a "wave of light" in memory of the babies. Many banners mention "breaking the silence". Just like any other awareness project, those of us whom have experienced pregnancy and infant loss don't need any reminder. We are painfully aware. It is for those who haven't dealt with it in some way. We don't think our grief or pain is greater than anyone else's. Some of us have great support systems in which we can share. I am one of them. But outside that system, it is just not "comfortable" for people to talk about.

Therein lies the silence. 

"I didn't just lose a baby. My child died."

I remember saying, "Jack is dead. My baby is dead." nine years ago when we found out that he didn't have a heartbeat. No one wants to hear it this way. I still say things like, "the baby we lost" instead of saying that he "died". We didn't lose him. I know exactly where he is. If you could stand with me though and see the reactions on the many faces of people when I mention him, and see them recoil when I speak of him in that way, you would understand the tendency to find a softer way to say it.

Therein lies the silence.

"If you ask me if I have kids, don't be surprised if I tell you about the losses."

I think I need a t-shirt printed with this on it. It isn't "normal" now-a-days, is it though--to hear about baby death? Thankfully, so many are saved because of monitoring, careful lifestyle choices, prenatal care, medical testing and advances. But sadly, statistically, out of 4,058,000 live births, there are 26,000 stillbirths, 64,000 ectopic pregnancies, and 600,000 miscarriages. 50% of the time there is no explanation. In 2014, there were 582 infant deaths for every 100,000 live births. My son was a stillbirth. He was born still, but he is my son. Please let me talk about him without making me feel like I breached propriety in mentioning him.

Therein lies the silence.

"For those who understand, no explanation is needed. For those who do not understand, no explanation is possible."

I know it is different for different people, but for me, I'm glad when someone mentions my son, Jack, and includes him when they speak of my children. It gives me a feeling of relief to know that you are mindful of him. I have a friend who had added children to their brood and was expecting another. I know that he didn't mean to hurt me and was just being friendly when he smiled, teased and said, "Y'all need to have another one so you can have 5 like us." My heart literally squeezed in my chest and there was a pain when he said it. I have 5 children. One just isn't here on earth. I pray neither that friend nor any other ever has to experience what we have gone through losing a child. I get that there is no way to explain it to someone who hasn't had it happen to them. I'm not angry, but it hurts just the same.

Therein lies the silence.

"You were unsure of which pain is worse--the shock of what happened or the ache for what never will."

We drive past a cemetery on our route home every day. Recently, when Dinah (my 6 year old daughter) and I drove past it, she asked, "Is that the place that my brother is buried?" (She has only been to his graveside a few times. I don't find it a place of comfort and don't go there often but when I do, I mostly go alone.) I shook my head.

"He is buried in another cemetery, Dinah."

"What is he wearing, Mama? Is he still wearing his baby clothes? Or is he big? Do we need to get him some new clothes that are bigger?"

I tried to explain a little but I ended up just changing the subject. How do I tell her? How do I explain to her the facts of burial and what happens to an earthly body after death? It is something that I have always avoided thinking about. He's my BABY.

I remember going to the graveside the day before he was buried so that we could see where he would lay. The crew was there digging the hole in the ground. When I saw it, my breath was taken away. I literally couldn't breathe for a moment. Do you remember when you fell out of a tree and had the "wind knocked out of you" as a child? It was like that. Just like so many things I had never thought about, because no one ever plans to have a child die, I hadn't thought about how small the grave would be. I stood for a moment while I waited for the world to stop spinning and I tried not to think about it. The next day, his tiny casket was covered in sprays of tulips. They were removed I saw the box that held him. A box so small that my petite mother could carry her grandson from the funeral car to the place where he would lay.

Dinah asks often of what he is doing and if he gets to talk to her Grannies. She wants to know how old he is and if he runs and plays or if he is a baby still. I don't know and I tell her that I don't know. All I know is that I believe that his soul is in Heaven with God. That is where my mind must rest.

I see other friends children who were born around the time that he was. I smile at their toothy grins and their fun-loving, care-free play. They are at the age where the opposite sex still has cooties and they don't care if their clothes match or are wrinkled. It flashes in my mind that he would be doing the same things those children. He would probably look just like Ty did at that age because he sure did when he was born. Then I stop that train of thought because I don't want to go there--to what might of been. "What might of been" hurts. I try to think of what was and what is--how I loved him, how I still do.

I don't talk about these things.

Therein lies the silence.

"For sale: baby shoes, never worn"

This phrase is credited (and subsequently discredited) to Ernest Hemingway. The story goes that the words came from a ten-dollar bet he made at a lunch with some other writers that he could write a novel in six words. After penning the famous line on a napkin, he passed it around the table and collected his winnings. Whoever wrote them, they are still powerful, aren't they? So much is said with so little.

There seems to be a baby boom around me. It has been such a joy to watch bellies grow, plans made, and little ones arrive. I like to crochet and try really hard to make a blanket for each of those precious infants. As I stitch, I stop counting long enough to pray for them and and their family. I pray that they are born healthy and strong. I pray that their adjustment to life will be as seamless as the Lord can allow. I ask that the Lord would guide their mamas and daddies and grandmas and grandpas in their raising. I mention their siblings and ask that they are accepting and loving to the new invader into their space.

Recently, I excitedly explained the progress of a laboring friend to another mother who has long stood beside me through my walk in grief. I stood beside the expectant mother. I saw the belts across her belly. I heard the swoosh-swoosh of the heart-beat. I watched the rate for steadiness. I pointed out the contractions on the monitor for her and her loved ones. They were impressed. They thought my knowledge came from nursing. My friend made it known that I had labored a "few times" before. They asked as anyone would, "How many children do you have?" I had that split second to decide whether or not to mention a dead child in a birthing room. I took a breath and determined again (as I have had to do on numerous other occasions) not to betray his memory out of fear of what someone might think or say. I relayed that I had delivered 5 children and that 4 were living.

After I had told her this, she asked me, "Aren't you afraid for her?" She explained that deliveries made her anxious for the birthing mother.

I thought for a moment and honestly replied, "No."

I continued to explain that I had thought about the fact that it could go wrong. It became something I was more aware of after I had experienced it. I told her that I prayed that I could help her if she needed me, but that I wasn't nervous or distressed for her.

If you are a mom, you know that the delivery room brings out all the birthing stories of the women present. Mostly, I tell about the "favorable outcomes" but my mind relives them all.  I remember when they only put one belt on, instead of two. I remember a room so quiet, only whispers from the staff, muffled sobs and simple prayers of "Please, help me, God." No swoosh, swoosh. No laughter and excitement.

------------------------------------------------

Another friend, had a baby shower and she was telling of how she loved washing and folding the new clothes, putting together new items and decorating the baby's room. I know how she feels. It is a precious time of preparation. But as I smiled with her, my mind was thinking of the time I had all those new things around me and they brought me pain. How I couldn't see them without weeping but couldn't remove them and pack them away either.

I keep my stories to myself.

Therein lies the silence. 

"I carried you every second of your life and I will love you every second of mine."

Tomorrow, I will attend another Pregnancy and Infant Loss ceremony, so lovingly and thoughtfully put together by a dear pediatrician and friend in our town. Thousands of ceremonies much like it will be held in other places around the world. In memory of my son, Jack, those cherished babies, their families and loved ones, I have broken my silence. It isn't for pity or for attention.  It isn't to make anyone feel guilty or contrite. I share with the desire that others don't feel so alone in their feelings and experiences. It is also with the hope that with newfound awareness, you might be able to make easier the path of the sufferers of these overwhelming sorrows.

"We remember all the babies born sleeping. Those we've carried and never met. Those we've held but could not take home. The ones who came home but could not stay."

I praise God for those who have been my listening ears and strong shoulders, through out my journey of love, loss and mourning. You have wept with me and reminded me of Truth when I was overwhelmed with despair. I am forever grateful for you love and affection that has been literally life-saving.


Anna Becoming

Our Jack-Chapter 2

The past few days have been made so special by all of my wonderful family and friends remembering our Jack with me. Thank you, thank you, thank you for checking on me, sharing your remembrances, and showing your love for all of us. I still long for my baby and that longing hurts sometimes but God has allowed my earthly pain to fade as the light of eternity shines brighter and brighter.

Over and over, since Jack's passing, as the Lord has poured out His grace on me,  I've thought, "This must be it. God has healed me totally now." But then, mercifully, He keeps on making me better than I ever could have imagined long ago in those days of intense pain and mourning.  I realize that there will be no neat bookends to my mourning. There will just be steps forward into Jesus's loving arms until I see Him and my sweet child face to face.

So today, another step forward, chapter 2:


I got up from the sonogram table to move to another room to wait for Dr. Jack. Stacy, the sister of one my best friends (Kristen) had been in the sonogram room the whole time. She was a radiology student. I had not known that she would be there that day. She spoke to me as I left and put her hand on my arm as I walked to the next room.

I called Eric at school to tell him. At first he didn't understand. I had to repeat what I said. He told me that he would come to me as quickly as he could. I can't imagine how long that car ride felt for him. I called Rachel again to tell her that we knew for certain now.  She arrived shortly after.

Dr. Jack came back visibly shaken. My heart ached for him too. I could tell he was in just as much shock as we were. He struggled as he told me some of the possible reasons for his death, but that we might not ever know. He explained that they would run tests at the hospital. Because I was a nurse, he asked questions about anything I might have been exposed to while working.

We had many questions. I confessed to him that I had not felt baby Jack move over the weekend. I knew that something was wrong and that I didn't want to believe it was true. He told me that by the time I couldn't feel him move it would have been too late anyway. He explained that I would need to deliver the baby, just like I would if he had been alive and that he would induce my labor.

He wanted to send me to the hospital right away but I told him what Amber had said about the birthing ward overflowing with patients that day. He went out to call the administrator and came back and confirmed that it was still very busy there. I told him that I would rather go home and get my things together anyway and tell the older children and the rest of our family. I was booked for an induction the next morning and he made me promise to come back if I began having pain or was just upset and needed to come.

Eric arrived. We relayed what we had learned to him and sat for a while absorbing what was going on. Rachel took my van with her and I went home with Eric. The staff at the clinic helped us out the back way so that we wouldn't have to go through the waiting rooms.

There were many phone calls on the car ride home. Over and over, we called. I would start with, "Jack's gone." The recipient of that information was always confused. No one saw this coming. There was no buffering between health and happiness and the loss of it. I would repeat my words but would end up saying, "He's dead," because no one seemed to understand until I said that. That harsh 4-letter word that should only be heard on crime dramas or to describe car batteries had to be uttered about my baby boy.

I remember holding hands with Eric and praying in between phone calls. We were quiet. Every so often I would pray out loud, "God help us." I prayed those words at least a 1000 times in the next 72 hours. Eric kept telling me how sorry he was that I had to do this hard thing. I would waffle between telling him that we could do it together and then crying and pleading, "How am I going to do this, Lord?"

We went to pick up Tess and Ty at the elementary school. Eric had called ahead and Mrs. Janet had them ready for us to bring them to our car. Sweet Mrs. Janet. The children didn't know what was going on at this point so they asked a lot of questions. We tried to be chipper and put the news off until we could get them home.

We stopped at Eric's dad's house to tell him. When we got there, we realized that he already knew. Most anyone who knows us, knows "Papa". Papa's birthday is February 19th.

My mom heard the news from my stepdad, Phil, after Rachel called him from the doctor's office. She was now at the airport in Florida, trying to get to us as soon as possible.

My other sister, Emily, left school where she was teaching to go get Amelia from day school and brought her to meet us at home. Eric and I sat the children down on Ty's bed and told them that Jack would not be coming home like we had hoped and planned.  We hugged them, held them and cried with them. Ty was 8 years old, Tess, 6, and Amelia was 2 1/2. We told them the truth as best we knew it at that time and tried to put it into words that they would understand. They had many questions but the one that sticks out the most is one that Tess asked.

"Mama, how come God can't just make him be back alive? Jesus raises people from the dead."

How could I answer it? I wanted to ask God the same question. I knew He is a healer. I wanted my baby back. I answered it the only way I knew how and as honestly as I could.

"I don't know, baby. I know that He could but I also know that sometimes He doesn't do that. Sometimes things happen that we aren't able to understand."

I began to move about packing for all of us. Emily was there helping and I remember having to stop and nearly doubled over in pain with a contraction. After experiencing a couple of those a few minutes apart, I decided to call the hospital to let them know that we would be coming on to Tupelo that night. The supervisor knew who I was when I called and assured me that they were not as busy now and had a room ready and waiting for me.

We hugged and kissed the children and made our way south with uncertainty and trembling.

Our Jack-Chapter 1

When our Jack died, I was not familiar with obituaries. I did not know that to have what you would like printed for your loved one you must pay for it. We would have gladly done so but no one told us--not the newspaper, not the funeral director. So instead of the words that we had written for our boy, the newspaper's words were published. There was almost nothing there. It was an obituary for a person who had lived no life outside of the womb. No extracurricular activities. No church attendance. No place of employment. You wouldn't know by reading it that he was even a baby. There was only a date and his relatives listed.

He had no birthday really because he was dead before he was born. We just have the day that we held him in our arms for such a short time before they took him away. We have no birth certificate of "live birth". (I never noticed that it said "live" before Jack.) We have no death certificate because he was never alive to the State of Mississippi.

I haven't ever shared that day with you. I have written down forms of it in journals and on my computer before in attempts to find words to describe that day and all the feelings, emotions, and events it held. I feel inadequate when I write about it. I usually just quit trying because it hurts and is so hard. Before now, I didn't want to dwell on the details because it could be so easy to slip into "what might have been". In the days, months and years since it has happened, most of my time has been trying NOT to think of him constantly, lest my longing for him become unhealthy and harm me or those around me.

At this time, though, six years later, I find myself almost desperate to remember. I don't just want to generally look back. I want to almost relive it in my mind so that I can put down every detail. It sounds mad, I know. But those days are all I have of him. The mound of evidence that he even existed is so small. I cringe to think that if I don't summon up those thoughts and feelings and fine points that my memory of him might become as generic as that horrible obituary.

Some of you won't understand why I want to go through all of this here, on my blog, and that's ok. I'm thankful for your readership but if you check out for a while because of this I get it. Some of you will read because it is like looking at the scene of a car accident. You know you don't want to see but you can't stop looking. There are some of you that really want to know about this time in our lives because you love us and want to understand us more. It is my hope though, that this "therapy" for me will be helpful in some way to another that grieves. It may help those that mourn alongside them, not knowing what to do or say. If it gives some insight, I'll be thankful.

I don't know how I will do this or how many blogs it will take. I know his small life and his influence on me won't fit into one entry. I don't want this to be a project I start and quit like I have so many times before so I may formulate an outline of a sort but for now I think that to begin is the most important thing. "Well begun is half done" as Mary Poppins would say.

A shadow box that my sister, Rachel, made for me as we excitedly awaited his arrival.

February 19th, 2008. It was a Tuesday morning. I know that without looking it up. I can't remember most things like that. I would be hard pressed to tell you the day of the week any of my other children were born on. I guess I remember because it was empty of more pleasant things to dwell on. I can't fill my brain up with the happiness of the day so I fill it with details that don't matter to me as much with my other LIVE children.

Eric and I had decided that he would stay at work and I would go alone for this visit to the OB. Because Dr. Jack induced me early with my deliveries, we knew that we would have an induction on Thursday morning if I didn't go into labor before then. Since Eric would have to be out of school for those days, we wanted him to not miss for such a routine visit.

I drove to Tupelo like I had many times those past 9 months. I always laughed about driving an hour there and an hour back to see the doctor for 15 minutes in between. I loved Dr. Jack though and would have driven further for him to deliver my babies. As I passed the McCullough boulevard exit, I remember talking with my sister-in-law, Amber, on my cell phone. She had called to check on me. She worked as a nurse at the women's center and she half-jokingly warned me not to go into labor that day because they were full and women were having to labor in the hallways. I laughed with her and said that I would wait.

I arrived at the doctor's office, signed in and waited for my name to be called. When it was, I went back, cringed as they weighed me and let them check my blood pressure. My heart rate was high that morning--over 100 beats per minute. The nurse commented on it. I went to the patient room assigned to me and waited for Dr. Jack. He came in after a few moments and had me lay back so that he could use the doppler to hear the our Jack's heartbeat.

After a full minute of searching, I knew. All we could hear was a distant whoosh that was pretty fast and regular but not nearly as fast as the baby's heart beat should be. He said that was probably it. That he was just laying differently. I relayed that my heart rate had been over 100 when they checked my vital signs.  He frowned. He said that he wanted me to go to the ultrasound room so they could check. He didn't think there was a problem. That they would just look and make sure. I was silent and felt my world begin to spin.

The nurse asked me if there was anyone that we could call. Rachel, my sister, worked nearby in Tupelo. I called her on my cell phone to tell her they could not find his heartbeat and that we were about to do an ultrasound. I walked back to the ultrasound room knowing that everything was not ok.

The sonographer began and a beautiful profile of our baby appeared on the television screen. A beautiful, perfect picture that was perfectly still. I heard someone sobbing and groaning loudly. After a few moments, I realized it was me. She knew and I knew. She got up to go get the doctor. Dr. Eric Webb was the physician that came and sat in the chair beside me. Dr. Webb introduced himself apologized that Dr. Jack wasn't there. Dr. Jack had to go to the hospital to check on a patient. And then he relayed to me in words as gently as he could what I already knew in my heart and head.

Jack was "gone". His body was right where it should be, but his spirit had left us.

Come Fly With Me

I haven't posted a blog since September.  I've taken long breaks before. Oddly enough, my blogging hiatuses usually occur when I have the most to say. Its just that I can't find a way to put my feelings into words in a way that would do justice to them. With all those months and words floating around in my head and heart, I in no way imagined that this would be the blog that I would break my small silence with. But here you go:

The other day as I readied to leave the house, I reached up into the top of the coat closet to grab a shawl. The weather was much warmer than the frigid days that we had been experiencing. The shawl was a beautiful navy wool one that I received as a gift from a friend. She had been to Scotland and thoughtfully brought me this souvenir on her return. 

I threw it over my shoulders, grabbed Dinah and hurried out the door. I had a couple of bags on my shoulders and because of them I didn't think much about the awkward way the wrap fell around me. I just thought I hadn't placed it right. I drove as quickly and safely as I could to drop Dinah at Papa's house so I could head to work. 

Time was of the essence because I was late. I deposited Dinah at Papa's with a whirl of hugs and kisses. I turned into work parking lot on two wheels, flew in the back door and hung my wrap on the coat hook in our office.

I worked productively all day long. Making a difference. Saving lives. Loving on folks. Doing paperwork for Jesus.

With happiness and fulfillment at the end of the long day, I put my purse on my shoulder, take my shawl from the hook, wrap myself in it again, say goodbye to my co-workers, and exit the building. I climb into my van and I start the ignition and sit to wait for it to warm up. I sigh with contentment and glance down at my cloak. I begin to really look at it for the first time that day. The quality of the material was poor. Huh. The wrap from Scotland is of the finest wool.

I pull the fabric around in front of me to inspect it further. I find a tag in the corner. It reads "Continental Airlines".

I had been wearing an airline blanket for warmth and style.

I guess that's what I get for taking it without the Airline's permission.

We Only Cut Paper With Scissors

She looks so sweet here. She's cutting up index cards and saying, "We cut paper with scissors. We don't cut nofin' else with scissors", to herself.  

It's really all an act though. She knows I'm in the room. I have a feeling when I'm not watching she wears a sinister smile throws back her head and cackles, "We cut EVERYTHING with scissors!!! Hahahahaha!!" And then proceeds to cut everything in sight. 

Then she pulls out the little innocent face when I find that she has cut a whole in her Matilda Jane shirt or and inch off of her hair or the bathroom rug. "Dinah! We only cut paper with scissors!" 

Her perfect little mouth forms an O and she tilts her head and says, "Oohhhhh". Like she's never heard it before. If she had only known...

She passes the scissors to me as if they are offensive to her and she can't bear to hold them another second then clasps her hands in front of her. She stares at the floor with her precious, sad face only raising her eyes and flattering her lashes to peek at me occasionally as I rave on. 

"We only cut paper with scissors, Dinah," I say in another futile attempt to make her understand. 

Why don't you just keep the scissors from her?

Thanks for the suggestion. You are too kind.

I'VE TRIED!!

Believe me, I don't know where she gets them. I have a scissor stash out of her reach and she always finds another pair. She might as well be Edwina Scissorhands.

They are just things, aren't they?

But for heaven's sake, "WE ONLY CUT PAPER WITH SCISSORS!!"

Could You Define Miss America For Me?

I was not able to watch the Miss America pageant last night because we don't have television service in our home. I logged on to twitter before I went to bed and read the tweet by tweet commentary by my pageant watching friends. After the kids and Eric left for school, Dinah had breakfast and began watching a movie. I grabbed my phone to see which contestant won.

What I read made me sick to my stomach.

No, I'm not upset that the winner, Nina Davuluri, is of Indian descent.

I'm grieved because some of the comments I read essentially said this:

The Miss America pageant winner should be representative of the all-American girl and because Miss New York is of Indian descent, it basically disqualified her from this.

Just go to twitter and search #missamerica. You'll see what I mean.

REALLY, PEOPLE? REALLY?

Per the Miss America website, Miss America is required to be

• Be between the ages of 17 and 24.
• Be a United States citizen.
• Meet residency requirements for competing in a certain town or state.
• Meet character criteria as set forth by the Miss America Organization.
• Be in reasonably good health to meet the job requirements.
• Be able to meet the time commitment and job responsibilities as set forth by the local program in which you compete.

I don't notice anything in that statement that specifies a skin color or country of ancestral origin.

"Miss America represents the highest ideals. She is a real combination of beauty, grace, and intelligence, artistic and refined. She is a type which the American Girl might well emulate."

Those words were spoken by Atlantic City Chamber of Commerce President Frederick Hickman more than 75 years ago, and they still ring true today. Miss America is a role model to young and old alike, and a spokesperson, using her title to educate millions of Americans on an issue of importance to herself and society at large.

I could take the Miss America pageant or leave it. I haven't watched a broadcast of it in about 10 years. I didn't aspire to be her and I don't necessarily want my girls to be Miss America even though God made them VERY beautiful on the outside. (That's another blog post in itself.) There are many women who can have the qualities of "beauty, grace, and intelligence" or be "artistic and refined" and still be ugly on the inside, so forgive me if I'm not overwhelmed by pretty packaging and performance.

BUT,

I can't sit back and be silent when people bash a woman for not being the right ethnicity in the country that is made up of immigrants. We all came from somewhere else a few generations back except the Native Americans.


I'm going to leave you with a few quotes but first I congratulate Nina Davuluri, Miss America, 2014.

When asked by an anthropologist what the Indians called America before the white man came, an Indian said simply, "Ours."  ~Vine Deloria, Jr.

Only Americans can hurt America.  ~Dwight D. Eisenhower

Not merely a nation but a nation of nations.  ~Lyndon B. Johnson

It is the flag just as much of the man who was naturalized yesterday as of the men whose people have been here many generations.  ~Henry Cabot Lodge

Quotes courtesy of www.quotegarden.com and www.missamerica.org

Photo credit 

Louie's Itchy Twitchy Feeling

This week we had a first. I am the one who got to take Louie (our new cocker spaniel) to see his new veterinarian for the first time. It was very much like taking a new baby to the doctor for the first visit after they are born.

We introduced ourselves to the receptionist. She handed me a clipboard so that I could tell them everything I knew about Louie. He was busy darting about undeterred by the fact that his collar and leash "clotheslined" him every time he did it.

Despite my reassurances and cooing that he "is a good dog, yes he is" while giving his coat a good rub, he did not feel the need to sit for longer than 2.5 seconds. How am I supposed to be able to fill this paperwork out? I kept thinking I should have brought help. The same thoughts I had taking a newborn to the doctor for the first time.

When the excitement of this new adventure wore off just a tad, he was still enough that I could consider the form.

Name:______________________

Whose name? My name or his name?

I moved on to the next blank.

Spouse:____________________

Well, as far as I know, Louie isn't married. So I just put mine and Eric's names in those blanks.

How will you pay for this visit?________________________

That is the same question I am asking myself, sister.

Is your pet ____part of the family___a child's pet____backyard pet?

Ok. I have issue with this question.

We adopted him. So I guess part of the family? He's our children's pet too, though. Does the fact that a pet is a backyard pet mean that he isn't part of the family or can't be your child's pet? Why don't they just go ahead and ask what they really want to ask?

Do you see your pet as a species of animal or a human with fur?

Do you love our pet more than your family members?

When Sarah McLachlan sings on the SPCA commercial, does it make you want to cry or does it make you a little bit nauseous?

I completed the form as honestly as I could without writing anything I have noted here in the margins.

After we had waited for a bit and listened to a long conversation between the vet and a farmer (who could win a literary prize for his description of his calf's diarrhea), the receptionist asked, "Why are we seeing Louie today?"

Ummmm......."Well-dog visit? We need a heartworm pill also."

She stopped flipping through the file that was in her hand, looked up at me and her face (not her words) kind of said, "That isn't a very good reason." Her voice said, "So, you want him tested for heart worms?"

"No. I don't think he has them. He was treated by a vet before. I just need to get a monthly medicine for him. It has been a month since he had his last dose." She continues to study the file. I followed up quickly with, "He's been itching. He scratches all the time. Even cries while he's scratching."

That did the trick. She was all ears now. Her face became animated and she gushed over Louie. "Poor Louie, bless your heart, yes, bless your heart. We will help you today, Louie."



Louie was weighed. He is a little bit heavier than he should be but I know how that is so we commiserated together in the exam room after the trip to the scale. I explained again why he only got half a scoop of food instead of a whole one like Charlotte. I think I could almost see that he was wondering why he hadn't seen me half-ing the scoops on my plate. Point taken, Louie. He inspected the room and after a bit settled in to wait for whatever came next.

The vet came in and asked a few questions. I called home to ask Teresa what the main ingredient is in his dog food. It was chicken. So that is good. Apparently.  (Our outdoor "backyard pet" Charlotte eats whatever we give her without a problem. It's really neat to see how she leaves nothing but perfectly shining, black olives out of the pile of mexican leftovers we give her. Licked clean except for olives. Amazing. But as evidenced by the fact that she is a "backyard pet" and according to the form, not a part of our family, you can see why we wouldn't know that she might be allergic to beef or dairy.

Louie was a star in the examination room. He didn't bark, bite or run away. He's following the good example set forth by all of the other members of the family. (It is interesting that he got a more comprehensive examination from his doctor that most adults have received from their doctor in years. And it didn't cost nearly as much. Just something to think about.)

He is a bit older than we were told by the people we adopted him from. We had noticed that his hair was turning grey and that his teeth were very worn to have been a 2 year old (as the the previous vet records noted). It's okay though. We may have adopted a grandpa dog but we love him for all his grandpa qualities. He never has accidents. He likes to lay around and just hang with you instead of bouncing from floor to chair, chair to floor. He's still spry but he's mature. We like that.

Back to the itching. Evidently, it could be any number of things so we are going to treat them all at the same time so we won't really know which one it is when it gets better. Then if it happens next time, we'll have to do all of it over again because we still won't have singled it out. I'm just a human nurse though. What do I know?

The doctor and the assistants were very kind and took a lot of time with Louie. That helped calm my nerves about handing him over to them and leaving him for a couple of hours while he got a Lime-Sulfur dip. Because he was not with us and around all manner of pets from unknown environments, it seems that the itching could be caused by a. mange, b. scabies, c. parasites. (If it isn't just an allergy.) It makes me, oh, so glad that we let him rub all over us and the furniture and bedding for the last couple of weeks.

The doctor and staff assured me that I didn't want to stay around for the dip because of the smell and they began questioning where he sleeps. In all likelihood the odor will linger for quite some time and he will need to be sequestered away from our loving, very hands-on children.

I gave Louie some love and explained to him that it was all for his own good. I let him know that sometimes we have to go through difficult things to get better. He wagged his tail in confirmation and was a brave dog as he went off with the assistant.

I wandered around town for 2 hours and then went back to pick up our newly stinky, middle-aged Louie. The doctor explained the medicine for Louie's ears (cockers have trouble with ear infections), the yeast medicine (cockers have trouble with yeast) and he noted that we would need to come back in one week for another Lime-Sulfur dip (cockers have trouble with their skin). (I would like to note that none of these tidbits of information were brought to my attention when I specifically asked the folks at the rescue if Louie had any health problems.)

I was pleasantly surprised that the fee for the day was less than I had speculated and that Louie did not stink as bad as I had prepared myself for. (We are used to the paper mill smell so I'm fairly tolerant.) He rode home with me sitting in the front seat (that was covered with a tarp), and did not seem traumatized in the least. I gave him a treat for being so brave and explained to him that the next few days at home would be different that his previous ones. He would have to stay in the kennel a lot and could not wallow on the beds.

He has been brave and patient so far. He whines a little bit and it upsets me to make him stay put. I called the vet yesterday to see when we could let him out and he said not until after the next dip. Everyone is really sad about that but we all want to do what is best to get Louie better as quickly as possible. He does seem to be scratching less. That is some comfort when the poor boy whines about his present situation.

If he was just a "child's pet" before he's officially "part of the family" now. The medicine bag from the vet made it so.

If It Feels Good, You Ain't Doing It Right

Football season is now upon us. In 2010, around this same time of year, the University of Alabama had a series on ESPN that gave an insider's look at Coach Saban, the players, and the practices. My husband is a really big Bama fan so you know that we watched these not once but twice. My little ones absorbed more of it than I thought they would. They went around the house repeating some of the motivational lines to each other.

It was so sweet.

Made us smile.

Our children are so cute.

Fall not only brings football but it usually brings the school beauty review with it as well. We didn't normally let the girls participate but Tess had been begging for a while and I had a job that let me be off on Saturdays for the first time in years, so we acquiesced.

One of the things that the girls do for the pageant is fill out a form that has a few questions on it. For example: Who do you most admire? What is your favorite color? etc. She was to pick answer at least 3 of the 5 questions. Unbeknownst to me, Tess filled out her form at school and turned it in without me seeing it.

After I found out that she had already handed the paper over, I asked about what she put on it. She most admires her nana (how precious) and her favorite color is blue (I knew that one already. I'm such a good mom.). One of the questions asked, "What is your favorite quote?" When she told me what she wrote there, I can tell you all the fuzzy feelings left me and I think I almost passed out.

She wrote: "If it feels good you ain't doin' it right."

If you would watch this clip (which was part of the ESPN series I was telling you about) you will find at 0:46 the strength coach of the University of Alabama football team screaming this sentence at the players. (I know you might not like Alabama but watch it anyway, or you won't get the post. I'm not trying to convert you.)

In the weight room, it makes sense.

On a elementary school beauty pagaent participant's form, it does not.





I quickly requested another form. We filled it out again and left that answer blank. I thought all was handled and crisis averted.

We found a dress on sale that suited her perfectly. Despite having to hold a crying baby in one arm and fixing Tess's hair with the other, hair and make-up looked lovely as well. We got to the gym, dressed her and pinned her number on. Amelia, Dinah and I made our way up to the stands to watch the review.

Tess's turn came around and she floated out onto the runway smiling and sparkling. I was so proud. That's my beautiful baby. Big smiles. As she promenaded and turned the MC read off the interesting facts from her form.

Then it happened.

In the calm cadence that the master of ceremonies adopted she read, "Tess's favorite quote is 'If it feels good, you ain't doing it right.'"

Without the context of a sweaty weight room and a man screaming it into the face of a football player, it sounded absolutely vulgar.

I wished for a black hole to come and swallow me up. All I could hear was the blood rushing into my head. THEY USED THE WRONG FORM! I couldn't tell if anyone else noticed. I was afraid to open my eyes and see a bunch moms staring at me, shaking their heads in disdain.

I got the courage to open my eyes and I even was able to whisper an explanation to her shocked Nana at my side.

Tess kept on smiling and the pageant moved on. They didn't disqualify her (there was a moment that this possibility crossed my mind) and she was awarded 2nd alternate. She was (and still is) very beautiful. I really think she would have been just as happy if she had not won any prize because she enjoyed dressing up like a princess so much. I was proud of how she behaved that day.

We fussed over her as much as we could without letting it all go to her head.  I held myself together about the quote until I was able to talk with Eric about it that evening. He was the only one who could really GET IT. He had seen the video that it was taken from. He knew about all of the mimicking around the house. He knew how I had taken it off the form and turned a new one in. I recounted the story and tried to convey how time seemed to slow as I felt the urge to throw myself at the podium shouting, "NOOOOOOOOOOoooooooo!!!!"

After it was all over though, all we could do was laugh.  It was either that or cry so we laughed and laughed.

Until now, Tess hasn't been in another pageant. We filled out her form for this year's review the other day. Thankfully, there was no section that asked for quotes and I helped her fill out what I hope was the ONLY copy.

As I think about all of the things we do to achieve the world's idea of beauty (false eyelashes, pancake make-up, hot rollers, straighteners, tanning beds, Spanks, liquid diets, waxing, high heels that hurt our feet, etc.), I believe Tess had it right any way. If it feels good, you probably ain't doing it right.

Simple Faith and Plain Truth

Last Sunday morning was the 2013 Homecoming Service at Union Baptist Church. My mom asked all of us (her kids and their families) to be her guests. It is the church that we attended as children with my parents and my Granny.  For most of my life, I lived just down the road from this house of believers.

I was so glad to be able to be a part of this service. We were the last of our family to enter so we got to sit in the row closest to the front. My mom's offspring filled 3 pews. 

The couple we sat behind were the owners of the pregnant cow that I hit with my car in high school. (That's a whole other blog.) That put a smile on my face that the service began. I helped my children with their hymnals as we sang "Brethren, We Have Met to Worship". They didn't know how to use them. Eric jokingly leaned over and said, "Where's the big screen?" We sang the 1st, 2nd and 4th verse, naturally. 

As we sang songs that I knew so well that I didn't need the hymnal, I began to cry. I'm sure that the choir members probably thought that I hadn't taken my medication or something because I continued to pretty much bawl through the entire service. 

Tears ran down my cheeks as I was full of thoughts of my Granny. Of how she loved going to church and how I loved going with her. She had her spot with her lap afghan because the air conditioning vent blew onto our pew. We sat beside her, used her pen (always an erasable pen-remember those?), twirled her jewelry, leaned on her shoulder or her lap as she tickled our arms. 

I choked up when the pastor talked to the people in the congregation and they talked back to him. There was an atmosphere of family instead of formality that I hadn't experienced in a long time. I couldn't get the words of the doxology to come as we stood to sing after the offering because of the lump in my throat. I cried some more when "Amen!' and "Yes!" rippled through the pews as the preacher gave his sermon.

The thing that got me the most, though---the thing that kept me weeping even when I thought I would stop---was the altar. If you saw it, you would think it ordinary. What made it extraordinary to me were the scuff marks. On both sides of the pulpit, where the people of the church would kneel when they went to the front to pray, the baseboards were worn and marked. 

I thought of all those that had knelt there over the years. Those that were faithful to God's vision for this church and the community surrounding it. They knew the people who lived in the houses around them. A REAL COMMUNITY. You didn't have to go to the church to be loved on by the Church. 

In second place after my home, it was here in this place that I was taught about Jesus. The One who would MAKE my life. It was with these people that I saw His teachings lived out in this locality. Imperfect people trying to practice what they learned. 

There were no big screens, bands, or big VBS productions. Their terminology would now be criticized. Their methodology a bit antiquated. The order of worship might be considered old fashioned. But what I learned there STUCK. And I am thankful for it.

"Onward Christian Soldiers", the pledge to the flags and the Bible, macaroni art, hymnals, and the potluck dinners that we had pale in comparison to some of what is offered in church houses today. Don't get me wrong. The church we attend with people we love has the big screen, the band, and the programs. We have a large beautiful building that we are thankful for. They in themselves aren't bad. They are quite nice.  It's just that we need to be vigilant so that the flash of it all doesn't dim THE LIGHT.

My brother sang a song that morning and I would like to share some of the words with you:

A pastor stands before his congregation

Once a mighty army for the Lord

But now he stares into the lifeless eyes

Believers leading carnal lives

He wonders what they’re fighting for

But driven by a calling on his life

He spoke God’s word like he’d done a hundred times before

But this time he comes broken and weeping

With tears of a broken heart

And he cries out to the Lord

Oh Lord, send Your wind into this valley

And breathe the breath of life into their souls

And raise them again a mighty army

For soon these arisen warriors will battle again

For they have been filled with the Spirit Wind

                       

It doesn't matter if our churches are filled with 2 people or 2000, whether we have a beat up piano or a full orchestra.  It isn't the package that matters but The Message we live and tell. Dear God, help us remember what we are fighting for. I pray our legacy is a generation that is a reflection of You.

1 Timothy 2:1-10

The Message (MSG)

Simple Faith and Plain Truth

2 ^1-3 The first thing I want you to do is pray. Pray every way you know how, for everyone you know. Pray especially for rulers and their governments to rule well so we can be quietly about our business of living simply, in humble contemplation. This is the way our Savior God wants us to live.

^4-7 He wants not only us but everyone saved, you know, everyone to get to know the truthwe’ve learned: that there’s one God and only one, and one Priest-Mediator between God and us—Jesus, who offered himself in exchange for everyone held captive by sin, to set them all free. Eventually the news is going to get out. This and this only has been my appointed work: getting this news to those who have never heard of God, and explaining how it works by simple faith and plain truth.

^8-10 Since prayer is at the bottom of all this, what I want mostly is for men to pray—not shaking angry fists at enemies but raising holy hands to God. And I want women to get in there with the men in humility before God, not primping before a mirror or chasing the latest fashions but doing something beautiful for God and becoming beautiful doing it.

Spirit Wind, Casting Crowns

www.biblegateway.com

Restore, Chapter 8--Thankfulness (Semi)Wordless Wednesday

There aren't really words to describe how thankful we are for all of the special people that helped and prayed and supported us throughout the Restore process and event. So since it is Wednesday, I'll do a semi-wordless post dedicated to those who are such kind and loving friends. Not everyone is pictured here but your faces are forever in our hearts. 

                    

Louie, Louie

We now have an INDOOR dog. We already have Charlotte, a very OUTDOOR dog, but the children wanted a pet that they could cuddle with on the couch in the evenings or to take for a walk on a leash. I think they may be envisioning some film version of child and dog with soft music in the background and lots of slow motion scenes of playful pet bath times.

After the Gold Fish Incident, you all will think I've lost my mind. Actually those are the exact words of my niece when I told her about the dog:  "You have lost your mind." It isn't that she thinks having pets inside is a bad thing. My niece has several indoor dogs. She loves them. But, she has heard me (on repeated occasions) adamantly object to a dog in my house.

The kids have been pleading and as we considered the adopting a dog, instead of pondering all of the reasons NOT to get one, we tried to think of reasons that it would be good to get one.

Dinah has had all summer with her siblings and with them gone to school everyday, I feel it is a bit lonely for her. I can't take her outside to play or to town for a diversion when she wants or needs it because we have to work around Granny's schedule. A dog would be a playmate for her and we could provide a home and love to a pet that needed it.  The older children are (somewhat) responsible and caring for a pet would only foster qualities of dutifulness and dependability. And it would make them all terribly happy.

My mom and I looked at the Corinth Animal Shelter and on Petfinder.com to browse pets that needed homes.  We had decided that an older dog would be better because we wanted one that was more settled because of Granny. We didn't want an excited puppy getting under her feet. We found a Cocker Spaniel in Madison, Alabama at the Animal Rescue Foundation that we thought would be a great fit for our home. He was 3 years old, neutered, house trained and good with kids. I showed Eric and Ty. They agreed that he was wonderful. I e-mailed to get particulars and we readied ourselves.

Then....

We got a call from my niece to tell us that a friend of a friend needed to find a new home for their dog, Honey, because they moved to a leased condo and didn't need to have the dog there. We reasoned that it would be better to get the pet closer to home and this dog was going to be free of charge. So I emailed the Madison foster-owner to tell her that we wouldn't be getting the cocker spaniel. We contacted Honey's owner and planned to pick the pup up on the following Saturday. Through that week, I felt a bit disappointed about the dog in Alabama. I kind-of bonded with his picture. I knew that it made more sense to get Honey but I was sad for the dog that I would never meet. I called Honey's owner Friday night to plan our meeting.

Guess what?

The owner changed her mind.

Surprisingly, I felt relieved. I was so thankful that I had not shown the picture to the girls or told them anything. I quickly e-mailed my new friend at MARF (Madison Animal Rescue Foundation) and let her know that our circumstances had changed again and that if our dog was still available, we would be coming to get him on Saturday. He was still available. Teresa came to sit with Granny while Mom and I drove to the outskirts of Huntsville.

Meet Louie.

Louie was very excited to see us and had no qualms about leaving his home state to travel with us.
He sat in my lap half of the drive home.

(Now all you pet lovers may find this next part a bit cruel. But I have held to a rule of honesty in all my parenting and I felt that I should hold fast to this as a pet owner as well. I wanted to be up front with Louie so that he would not be disappointed.)

I reminded him that all this cuddling with me was only temporary because he was the kids' dog and not mine. I explained that he and I would be friends but that is all. We would not sleep together. I would not let him lick my face. I would not be referring to him as my child. I told him that he would have at least 4 others that would love him sooooo much that he would be glad that I kept my distance. By the time we arrived home, I felt we had achieved an understanding.

We are masters at surprise. The kids were delighted. (As you can tell from the picture above.) Louie loved the attention and got busy sniffing out the house. (He's going to be very useful because he found a moldy tortilla with refried beans in it behind the dining room buffet table within an hour in residence. No. I do not move the buffet when I clean.)

Louie was walked and fed and watered. He had as much love and attention as any dog could want or stand.

There was only one problem.

He kept following ME.

All my speeches and honesty did not have any affect on this sweet dog. He didn't seem to care that I kept pointing him to the children. He didn't notice that I was changing seats around the living room after he came to sit with me. He didn't even get the hint when I went into Granny's room to lose him. 

I wanted to call the foundation and ask if he had any hearing problems that they didn't tell us about. Remember what I said about him not sleeping with me earlier. He must not have heard that. This is where he settled in that night when I went to bed. 

Yes, that is a pillow and the head of my double bed. He apparently thinks the doggy pillow we bought him is only for daytime use. I roused him from his comfy place and sent him packing to Ty's room.

On Monday when the children were gone, he assigned himself to help me with the housecleaning. He licked the silverware that I placed in the dish washer to clean. I must not have rinsed them well enough? He sat in my dirt as I swept the floors. Maybe to keep it from scattering? Dinah kept shouting, "Wouie! Get out of her dirt!" (I say that a lot to the kids while I'm sweeping. They always walk through the pile I've made.) He made sure he sat in front of the dryer as I tried to put the wet clothes in. Maybe he thought he would help pass them over?

I reminded him of the 7 day trial period the rescue foundation had written in the form I filled out and I may have mentioned the words foster-care a few times.

All in all, he's a great dog though. He's wonderful with the children. He revels in their affection and tolerates it so well when they try to put sunglasses on him before I can tell them not to. He hasn't had any accidents in the house. He is eating away at my defenses with his constant devotion. Any being that can love me like that is pretty special.

The trial period was over yesterday and he's a keeper.

(I may or may not have referred to myself as his mama yesterday.)