The Best Night of My Life

Life holds several great moments. Memorable vacations, holidays and birthdays. Graduations. Engagement. Your wedding day. The births of your children. My personal highlight reel is pretty spectacular, despite my desert years. So maybe the other night wasn't really the best night of my life, but it was pretty darn close.

Jesus had me like...

I don't remember how many people I've led to the Lord. Not that many, but enough to lose count and no one recently. On Monday, August 1, 2016, I had the indescribable privilege of leading both of my children to the Lord.

Bet I don't forget that.

The moment took me by surprise. For several reasons. First, I was tired and kind of grumpy. Ten minutes prior, Micah had thrown a fit because I let Sara lick a drop of honey off my finger and not him. So like any good descendant of Juanita Chapman, I lectured him on the general unfairness of life--I may or may not be guilty of having mentioned starving kids in Africa--and reinforced my refusal to be held hostage by a standard of equality.

Ain't. happenin'.

So Micah didn't even like me when we sat down for our bedtime reading and devotional. Fortunately, Shel Silverstein loosened things up a bit before we got into real things.

But there's also my whole deal with the famous "sinner's prayer." Before my Baptist friends cry heresy, let me explain. 

I've seen way too many people pray a magic "save me from hell" prayer, go on like nothing happened and convince themselves they're Christians. The ABCs saved them. Once saved, always saved. Nothing to worry about.

While there's nothing inherently wrong with the ABCs or the sinner's prayer, unless there's friendship with God which leads to genuine transformation from the inside out, there's a decent possibility that nothing happened. At least, nothing that lasted. 

For myself, I don't believe I had a moment of salvation. Rather, it happened in stages and is--arguably--still happening. 

"But he who endures to the end shall be saved." ~Matthew 24:13

Thus, I've always encouraged my kids toward relationship with Jesus and operated under the assumption they belong to Him unless proven otherwise as they exercise their free will over time. While I encourage prayer, I've never encouraged "asking Jesus into your heart." But what do you do when your kids realize they're sinners and want to be rescued?

Apparently, you revisit your roots. But I'm getting ahead of myself. 

God's gonna do what God's gonna do. 

 

God loves to prove me wrong. He loves to surprise me, and he loves to give me good things in spite of myself. (Not too different from that husband of mine.) So despite the fact I was far from a suitable frame of mind, the Holy Spirit dropped in my living room Monday night. 

We opened our copy of Thoughts to Make Your Heart Sing* to the entry entitled "Friend of Sinners."

 *Seriously, if you have littles, get this book.

The following conversation went something like this--

Sara's brow furrowed. "Why does Jesus love sinners, Mama?"

I straightened. They don't usually ask questions about the Bible story. I love questions. "Well, he loves people and all people are sinners. God made us all to be like Him. To be His friends. But we disobeyed Him and ruined everything. Thankfully, God sent Jesus to live with us and to die to pay for our sin so we don't have to. When we believe in Him, we aren't sinners anymore. We're the righteousness of God. Because I count on Jesus for salvation, I'm the righteousness of God."

Micah stretched his body forward and looked at me intently. "Are we sinners?" He pointed to himself and Sara.

I smiled. My son was having a light bulb moment and there was a holy weight in the air. "Yes. Until Jesus lives inside of you."

Micah blinked tears from his big brown eyes. "I want Jesus to live inside of me. I don't want to be a sinner anymore."

Sara's eyes grew bright and she bounced in her seat. "Me too! Me too!"

So I led them in a carefully worded prayer. Never mind that I almost broke a sweat trying to accommodate my personal biases. (Feel free to laugh. I'm ridiculous.)

When it was over, I sang hymns which celebrate salvation. The kids leaped from the couch and danced joyfully to the thin melody sounding from my hot and swollen throat.

Immediately after, Micah wanted to tell his favorite person in the world--his Nona.

This, my friends, is the Gospel. 

 

The Gospel tells the truth about our sad state, but with hope. It convicts, but doesn't scold. It doesn't condemn, but woos. It's about love, not fear. The motivation is less about avoiding hell and more about enjoying heaven on earth through right relationship with our Creator and Savior. It's about discovering the greatest Beauty of the universe and telling everyone so they can appreciate Him, too. It makes us dance for joy because we were once lost and are now found.

Micah and Sara invited Jesus into their lives because they want to be His friends. They want to know Him.

Before heading to bed, Micah asked me, "Mama, will I be able to hear God now?"

"Yes, Baby. When you read the Bible, when you pray, when you listen for Him, He'll speak and you'll hear."

Again, tears filled his eyes. (I love that boy's tender heart.) "Do you hear from God?" he asked me.

"Yes, Love. All the time. And you will, too." Then I laid hands on him, asked God to fill Micah with his Spirit and to give him all the gifts He gave to me.

Seeds Sown

 

For years, I've sat with Micah and Sara day after day, night after night telling them of my Jesus. I've read the stories, sung the songs, praying all the while that it would matter. I've asked God time and again to help me live in such a way that they would want a life with Jesus for themselves. What an honor to lead these precious ones to Him.

I now can see the first hint of green peeking above the soil. And I know--my real work has just begun.

Baptized in the Buffalo River

For nearly 20 years, I canoed the Buffalo River almost every May/early June--usually the week after Memorial Day--until my illness made an apparent end of the tradition. My last trip was in 2011. That year a long-time family friend died on the river--an event which hurt me in a way I can't quite explain.

The Vision

My family and I made plans to float last year. That trip was supposed to be a sort of redemption, and I was looking forward to it, sick and all.

A few days before we left, the Lord gave me a vision during my time with him. I saw myself baptized in the Buffalo River. By Brandon.

I knew the vision wasn't purely symbolic. It was something God wanted me to do. But in typical Melissa fashion, I argued with him.

"That's crazy. I'm not doing that."
*Nudge*
"Why? I've already been baptized. Twice."
*Nudge*
"It's weird. It doesn't make sense."
*Nudge*
"That water's cold, God. And you know how I react to the cold."
*A warm flood of peace*

Then I recalled Namaan. The leper who was healed by dipping in the Jordan seven times. Who wouldn't do it at first because it seemed too strange. And then like Peter I exclaimed, "Okay! I'll do it! Feet, hands, head and all!"

But the rains didn't stop last year and the river "came a flood." No one was allowed on. Basically, last year's trip was the story of the previous four years. I remember my disappointment. Another to add to the pile.

"Next year," I said to comfort myself.

Little did I know I'd experience radical, miraculous healing in every part of my being a few months later.

Making Sense of What I Saw

I have this insatiable drive to understand things. Even things I know are mystery.

Since the vision came, I've been trying to reason out why God would want me to be baptized again. Why, God? Why now? Why here? Why this way?

I mean, I've always been a believer. I can't remember a time in which I didn't love God or believe in Jesus. Belief has been a constant in my life.

That being said, there has been a seismic shift in my faith in the past few years. No one who knows me well could miss it. The entire landscape has changed. Everything looks different because of what's happened underneath the surface. But isn't that what's supposed to happen in times of intense sanctification?

Is the baptism some kind of symbol of redemption? To wash away the rubble of the last few years? Why be baptized in the Buffalo River by Brandon with only a handful of witnesses as opposed to in a church before a congregation by a pastor? I have several pastors in my life. Why not have one of them do it?

Washed in the Water of the Word

In search of answers, I plunged into the Word and early Church history. What I found is that the early Church treats baptism very differently than people of my church tradition.

Throughout the years, I've heard the metaphor that baptism is like a wedding ring. "The ring doesn't make you married. It's just a symbol of the marriage that's already happened."

After my research, I find the explanation a little...insipid.

Keeping within the marriage metaphor, I would like to submit the idea that baptism is less like a wedding ring, which is a mere symbol of marriage, and more like the marriage ceremony itself, which is more like a sign. A sign defined as a visible expression of a spiritual reality. Something to help we humans understand something important is happening in the spiritual realm.

A ceremony doesn't make you married any more than baptism makes you a Christian, but it's definitely something more than a symbolic bauble. In a marriage ceremony, something real happens. Vows--whether verbal or non-verbal--are exchanged between husband and wife, the couple and God, and the couple and the community. The action seals the reality.

The way I see it, baptism isn't a wedding ring. It's the wedding itself.

Why I Believe This Way:

1) Old Testament law presents us with ceremonies which point to ultimate salvation in Jesus Christ. These ceremonies include ritual washing in order to be "clean." Proselytes were initiated into the Jewish people by baptism as a symbol of "cleanness." Ezekiel  mentions a washing for cleansing which God performs as a sign of His covenant with his people (16:6-14). As part of the law, symbols are important. God gave them to us to help us recognize the Christ. But in Matthew 15, Jesus clearly states what goes on in the heart is far more important than the outward symbol.

(Unfortunately), we all know people who have run around on their spouses with their wedding rings on. That's what the Pharisees in Jesus' day were trying to do. They looked married but didn't act like it, which is why John the Baptist threw a hissy fit when the Pharisees came to be baptized in Matthew 3. They wanted to wear the ring without making the commitment.

2) Scripture is clear that believer's baptism is categorically different from Old Testament symbols. For example, the flood in Noah's day is the accompanying antitype to baptism (1 Peter 3:18-22). Noah and his family were "saved through water."

We know from Romans 10 that baptism isn't a prerequisite for salvation, but it has to be more than a simple symbol. 1 Peter 3:21 says, "There is also an antitype [of Noah's ark] which now saves us--baptism (not the removal of the filth of the flesh, but the answer of a good conscience toward God), through the resurrection of Jesus Christ..."

According to scripture, baptism isn't the means of salvation, and yet it saves us by answer of a good conscience toward God--a mysterious paradox which kind of makes my brain explode.

3) Baptism wasn't considered optional in the early Church. You don't see believers professing without baptism. It goes hand in hand.

4) In early Church tradition, baptism was a very big deal. New believers weren't immediately baptized. Baptism was an initiation into the Church which took place some time after the believer professed faith in Christ. For Romans, to be baptized was treason. The act was a statement that they were willing to die for their faith.

Before believers were baptized, they were educated in the Christian faith and received deliverance ministry. Time tested their commitment. The primary reason this practice was lost is due to infant baptism, which I don't care to argue for or against here. (For more information, read McDonnell and Montague's Christian Initiation and Baptism in the Holy Spirit: Evidence from the First Eight Centuries.)

5) John the Baptist described his baptism as a baptism of repentance--the action of turning from sin toward God, resulting in forgiveness. Baptism for the forgiveness of sins is already something more than Old Testament washing, and John says, "I indeed baptize you with water unto repentance, but [Jesus] who is coming after me is mightier than I, whose sandals I am not worthy to carry. He will baptize you with the Holy Spirit and fire" (Matthew 3:11).

I believe this verse indicates something major is happening at the moment of baptism. Something invisible to us and very visible in the spiritual realm.

My Conclusions

 

I concluded from my research that my baptism was about something more than redemption. I believed something would happen at the moment of my baptism. I wasn't sure what. I'm still not entirely sure. But here are a few of my thoughts:

1) It was about redemption.

In the years since my last trip, I went through fire and water, but God brought me out to rich fulfillment (Ps. 66:12).

If you look at the background in the photo, you see signs of a flood. The flood that kept me from being baptized last year. Devastation that swept away everything which wasn't firmly rooted in the soil.

When we came to this place on the river, the Holy Spirit leapt inside of me. I knew it. I'd seen it. Had there been no flood, this picture would be the exact match of what I saw in the vision last year.

In my life, had there been no flood, there would've been no baptism. Because there would've been no death. And without death, there's no resurrection.

2) In that moment, I fully identified with Christ.

I identified with him in a way I couldn't at ages 6 and 10. I took on his name. I took on his person. I made a cosmic declaration--"For better or worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, forsaking all others. Even unto death."

In short, I got married.

3) He laid me low and raised me up something new (2 Cor. 5:17).

Y'all, I'm different. I'm alive in a way I've never been. Let the whole world know. I. am. new.

4) When my Superman baptized me, I received his blessing upon my ministry. 

When I first told Brandon he was going to baptize me--see how I did that?--he looked at me as if I'd lost my mind. "Me? Baptize you?" he asked.

Silly boy. He still has no idea how powerful his spiritual authority is. He has no idea how his words sink into my skin. How his gospel love saves me every day. How his prayers change the whole atmosphere of our home. How when he prays for me and the kids, things happen.

God is calling me to things bigger than either of us. If I'm going to do them, I need more than Brandon's reluctant approval. I need his blessing. It isn't optional.

 (Don't you just love Sara's enthusiasm in the background? So sweet!)

Here's the bottom line--I believe God led me to do this in this way, and I obeyed. Period. The end. At the end of the day, I can only guess at the reasons he wanted it done. 

I felt his approval as I rose up out of that icy water, and I now feel ready for this next season of my life. Whatever it looks like. 

P.S. The trip was loads of fun, by the way. Truly, the Lord is restoring the years the locusts have eaten (Joel 2:25). 

My little handsome.

"Dis is da best day eva!"

"I'm bow-wed." (I'm bored.)

It had been too long. Major thanks to Superman who let me fish all day while he paddled. 

I caught a good one, y'all. And I'm not talking about the fish. 

Brandon taught me to always give the first fish of the day a smooch. 

That day I caught 5 smallmouth and 3 sunfish. Fun day!

Missed Kicks, Flower-Pickers, and Dingbats

I was 17 years old when I "surrendered to the ministry." 

My reformed friends have no idea what I'm talking about.

This was a Baptist kid thing. And as a Baptist and a female, my options were limited. I could either be a missionary, a Sunday school teacher, or a minister of women. (Deaconesses and lady preachers are the unicorns of the Baptist church.)

I was under the impression you had to a be a professional Christian to really be used by God. I had yet to learn that God uses mothers and fathers, teachers and artists, plumbers and computer engineers, businessmen and farmers to advance his kingdom.

In my mind, you were either a star player or a flower-picker. There was no in-between.

A lot of us think this way, which is why us ordinary folk are content to stroll along the outskirts of the action. Leave the SportsCenter highlights to the pros. Am I right?

Don't answer. It was a rhetorical question.

Last Saturday, I watched my son play his first soccer game. I honestly thought he'd be a flower picker.

Just keeping it real. He's new to the sport and--like his mama--he kinda lives in his own little world most of the time. And well...doesn't he look like a flower picker to you?

Imagine my surprise when the whistle blew and I saw this...

I never thought I'd be that mom, but I was jumping up and down, clapping, and whooping. Not because he scored a goal. He didn't. And not because he got it all right. He didn't (see above photo). But because he threw himself into the fray.

I wasn't nearly as proud of Micah's success as I was his effort. His willingness to try. Did I care that he missed the ball on a couple of kicks? No! I had the time of my life watching him miss those kicks.

May I submit that God feels the same way about us? And that maybe he has a way of using our missed kicks?

As I mentioned before, I'm a flower-picker type. A frequent flyer to La-La Land. And don't ask me to multitask. More often than not, it goes wrong.

I know, I know...women are supposed to be phenomenal multitaskers. Blah, blah, blah. Yeah...no.

Last week, I attended Project 41's monthly Worship Night. It was an amazing night. I just love it when the Holy Spirit drops. There's a holy weight to the air. A sweetness in the atmosphere. It's good stuff.

Anyway, one of the worship leaders dedicated a song to "two very special ladies" and encouraged us all to sit back and soak it in. But as I closed my eyes and settled back onto the sofa, my friend nudged me and asked me to pray for her headache. I was happy to.

But I could only give the song a half ear at best. For whatever reason, the song I heard was "Just a Closer Walk with Thee."

My friend's headache improved, but hadn't completely gone away when we moved into a time of prayer. So I announced her headache to the group. (Beware of being my friend.)

She sat in the chair in the center of the room, and I took a front row seat from which I watched God love on her through the people around her.

In the midst of the outpouring, I had a vision of Jesus walking her through a garden, pointing out the flowers, showing her how beautiful they were. With the vision, he gave me a song to sing for her.

My pulse raced and heart pounded. I may be a singer, but this kind of thing always makes me nervous. So I asked everyone to join me as I sang, "In the Garden."

The following day, my friend thanked me for the song. She said, "When they sang it the first time, I wasn't sure it was for me. I thought they meant two other ladies. But when you sang it, God showed me it was for me."

I blinked. Wait, whaaaa????

I had no idea the worship leaders had already sung that song. At first, I argued with her. "They sang 'Just a Closer Walk with Thee,' not 'In the Garden.'"

A third friend and the worship leader who'd led the song confirmed it. With droll grins.

Nope. "In the Garden."

Awkward. All I could do was laugh. I can be such a dingbat. 

I'd committed the musical equivalent of a missed kick. (A difficult thing for a musician.) But that "missed kick" made my friend feel more loved than she would've felt otherwise.

There are a lot of ways to live surrendered to the ministry. 

 

The key is to live more surrendered to God than to self. To be more afraid of someone missing out on God's love than of looking like an idiot.

Some of us are star players who get paid to score goals and get kicked in the shins. Most of us...aren't. I'm not. But that doesn't mean I should leave all the work to the pros. We're a body. A team. There's a place for us all.

Which means there's a place for flower-pickers, too. Pick flowers to the glory of God! There's a time and a place for that ministry. I should know. Just be ready for the ball when God sends it your way.

Engage. Take risks. You may miss a few kicks, but God is an ever-proud papa. He cheers every effort in His name. You may be a dingbat, but His laughter is kind. And you can trust Him to turn even your failures for good.

This Little Light of Mine

Original image via Flickr Creative Commons courtesy of Herr Olsen

"No one, when he has lit a lamp, puts it in a secret place or under a basket, but on a lampstand, that those who come in may see the light." ~ Luke 11:33

Last week was a big week for me, and I wasn't quiet about it. Almost every day, I posted (to Facebook) some major event, a mile marker on my road to recovery.

On Tuesday, I took a walk in the cold with my little man while Sara was in her dance lesson. Within 25 minutes, I developed a headache and felt I was on the verge of a "crash." I hadn't really planned on a crash or what I would do in the event of one. It was just me and the kids a full half hour from home. But as I warmed up in the car, I said a quick prayer. The headache cleared. I could move my arms again with ease. As a bonus, on that same trip I was exposed to Lysol, and didn't have a major reaction. Believe me when I say this is BIG.

On Wednesday, I pumped gas. I couldn't remember the last time I'd done such a thing. Nor could I remember which side of the car the gas tank was on. Nor how to operate the credit card machine at the pump. But I figured it out. Brandon had admonished me to wear my mask and gloves. I did and had no problems. It made me feel like a grown up again.

On Thursday, this happened...

Nope. Not kidding.

The last movie I had seen in a theater was Les Miserables in December 2012, and I left that feature violently ill. Fast forward to January 7, 2016. We see STAR WARS, and I leave the theater in perfect health! I wore my mask on the way in and out of the theater and during the first half hour or so while people were eating. The theater wasn't crowded, it being the first showing of the day during the middle of the week three weeks after the movie's release. With plenty of space between me and my fellow movie goers, I was able able to enjoy most of the film mask free.

Only a few months ago, I doubted I would ever enjoy another movie in the theater. Which was a shame because before I got sick, movie dates were "our thing."

What I didn't post to Facebook is what happened after the movie...

Original image via Flickr Creative Commons courtesy of Daniella Segura

An Encounter with my Arch Nemesis

 

Several triggers have tried to kill me over the years, but nothing has come as close to success as "The Peanut." 

Back in 2013, I tried to make a healthy peanut butter for the kids. Big mistake. That little experiment sent me to the brink of death. I struggled to breathe, my blood pressure dropped, I couldn't think or communicate, and my body temperature plummeted to 94.1 degrees. I thought I would meet Jesus that day. 

Since then, I've had a couple of freak reactions to peanuts. Once, when I went through a frozen custard drive-thru. Another time when I kissed the kids after they'd eaten frozen custard. (Custard became a cuss word in this house, as you can imagine.)

Peanuts don't mess around. They carry a fine dust which easily disperses in the air and settles on things like napkins, custard cups, and hard surfaces. Trace amounts are enough to trigger the sensitive and allergic, and the reaction can be severe. Bad stuff goes down when peanuts and I are in the same room.

When it became clear that God was healing me, Brandon and I agreed we wouldn't experiment with triggers which have caused shock reactions. Secretly, I asked God to allow an accident to occur with each shock trigger, but only when my body was ready for it. 

God answered my prayer sooner than expected. 

After the movie on Thursday, B went into the hardware store where we buy local honey. At the entrance is a massive drum of peanuts in the shell. The honey shelf is right next to it. As are the paper bags.

Brandon returned to the car and placed our paper bag of honey in the backseat. Five minutes later, my face and tongue began to swell and my thinking went all...swimmy. 

I swore. Because I knew what it was and I thought it was going to be bad and we had just been on our first date in three years and it was going to end in an emergency. Or so I thought.

Brandon pulled over. I took my rescue meds. Brandon treated me. And I was fine. 

Usually, peanut reactions continue to worsen over the course of a half hour, and it takes me a week to recover. Brandon skipped hunting that evening to keep watch over me. I kept smiling at him, assuring him I was okay. I told him about my secret prayer. 

God wouldn't have let that happen before I was ready. He doesn't give good gifts just to yank them out of our hands.

The timing of this little accident was so perfect. It happened before I shared a meal with my prayer group last Friday, which gave me extra confidence even though they were careful to accommodate me. More importantly, it happened before the White As Snow Gala for Project 41, which I will attend on the 22nd.

 (Purchase your tickets here.)

Now we know--even if the worst case scenario happens I'm not going to die. Brandon will be able to relax and enjoy instead of worrying about me the whole time. To an extent. And I'll be brave enough to try the food after all these weeks of asking God to allow me to eat it without issue. 

(I'll let you know how that goes.)

Sharing the Light

 

I realize my constant praise reports may annoy some of my FB friends. I get it. Ecstatically happy people can be irritating. My sick friends may think to themselves, "What about me?" Been there, done that. I know exactly how you feel. 

But after carefully cataloging the descent, it would be seriously neglectful not to document the rise. Don't you think?

My heart is to encourage. For four years, I've been a walking reminder that life can go terribly wrong. That joy can be found in the midst heartache when you lean into Jesus. Now I'd like to be a walking reminder that God hears and answers prayer. I want to be a parable of resurrection. So I continue to display my candle on a lampstand that others may see the light. I pray others will join me with their own healing stories.

Original image via Flickr Creative Commons courtesy of Esteban Chiner

Healing is Contagious

The people who have walked with me through the darkness are the most affected by the light. Maybe more so than me. When you've watched your wife/child/mother/friend fighting for her life against a supposedly incurable, progressive disease, it does something to you when the tragedy is rewritten with hope.

My doctor and friend, Carolyne Yakaboski, often shakes her head in wonder. My parents grin over my latest experiments. Fear loosens its grip on my Superman as he learns to trust and believe. Sara asks me to take her to Sonic so she can play on the playground. 

"Soon," I say. 

But Micah...oh, man. 

Micah is a sensitive kid. He doesn't always show his emotions (as opposed to Sara who wears her heart on her sleeve and wants everyone to participate in whatever she's feeling at the moment). But he feels deeply. Mom reminded me the other day that Micah was adjusting to a baby sister when I got sick. That's a lot of life change for a sensitive little guy. 

Micah has only a couple of memories of me when I was well. He has lots of memories of me in bed. Of being passed around from caretaker to caretaker. Of my absence. He'll be seven next month. I've been sick for over half his life. 

The other day when I told him I would start picking him up from school some days, a gap-toothed smile spread across his face. Tears filled his eyes until one slipped out and ran down the side of his freckled nose. "You made me cry, Mama."

"Does that make you happy?" I clarified. 

He nodded, and I kissed that little nose.

Not long ago, he told my mom with wide, serious eyes, "God has finally heard our prayers."

Lately, he's been praying for other sick people we know with confidence. He believes. And he's been...I don't know. Happier. Almost as happy as when he was a baby.

Mom and I talked as we watched the kids play one day last week. "This is going to stay with him his whole life," she said. "He'll never forget what God did for you. It will shape his relationship with Him forever."

My story probably won't have the same impact on you as it does on my husband and son. But because there's a chance it will shape your view of our good, good Father...

This little light of mine

I'm gonna let it shine

"Nor do they light a lamp and put it under a basket, but on a lampstand, and it gives light to all who are in the house." (Matthew 5:15)

To My Little Man on His Fourth Birthday

Micah turned four years old yesterday. More than any other birthday thus far, this one left me reeling a bit. He's four. His baby years are over. I no longer have a toddler son. I have a child on my hands. In so many ways, he is more man than infant. The baby fat has been replaced by lean muscle. He speaks with startling sage wisdom tempered only by the speech struggles of a young one. He throws fewer tantrums and instead finds quiet mischief to occupy the wildness of his spirit. His future self now holds a shape in my mind. I see who he is becoming. I like him.

I know this is crazy talk for you mammas out there who are eking out the final senior days of high school with your baby boys. It's just that somehow this fourth birthday made me realize how soon I will be in your shoes. My realization doesn't make me sad or overly sentimental. Rather, it makes me missional. I have an important job to do here--to raise a godly man, not a good kid.

 I was feeling so many feelings, and there simply wasn't enough chocolate in the house. So, I wrote a letter which I have a wild hair to share. Enjoy.

My Dearest Micah,

You turned four years old today. Those four years went by as quickly as a breath. Impossibly fast. As the days pass away, I understand increasingly that I am doing more than raising a child. I am preparing a man to walk with the Lord. And it is an impossible job. 

The job is impossible because I am broken and flawed. I am physically weak, more so than other mommies we know. It's also impossible because I can model and share with you the Gospel of Jesus Christ, but I can’t make you believe it. I can’t open your spiritual eyes or bequeath to you my faith. I cannot do God’s work. So I find myself completely, utterly dependent upon Jesus for the most important job I will ever do, but I am at peace with the impossibility of it all because I have learned that dependence is good.

More than anything I teach, I hope you really learn dependence. May you never be self-sufficient in your own eyes.  As you grow, the world will tell you that you are strong and powerful and need no one but yourself. Do not believe these lies.  May you always see yourself as the broken, needy creature that you are, for only then can you be made whole and well. 

Many parents pray their children will be beautiful, intelligent, talented, successful, comfortable, and popular. I pray that you will shine like a light in a dark world, be wise in the ways of God, be graced by the gifts of the Spirit, be humble though mighty in Kingdom work, learn to be content in all circumstances and be rejected by the world as your Savior is, for no servant is greater than his Master. Granted, these are crazy prayers. Big prayers. But they matter.

I am appalled that you are already so far on your journey to manhood, but I am thrilled to catch glimpses of the man you are becoming. Your mind is a sponge, taking in astounding amounts of information all the time. You are brilliant, gifted and very funny. Although I never asked for it, you are beautiful, inside and out. You are grateful. You say “thank you” for things adults often take for granted. You are tender in heart toward the Lord and the people around you. Never lose that. Never.

I believe you are destined for great things, Bubs, but not by the world’s limited standards. I believe you are destined for deeds and feats that will last forever. God has magnificent plans for you—plans for your prosperity, never for your harm. In the Lord, you have hope and an everlasting future. My deepest wish is that you will embrace it all. 

I love you, Little Man. I am so proud of you. I feel unspeakably privileged to be your mother, and I will be forever grateful that our Lord entrusted your soul to my care.

Grace and Peace to you,

Mom

2/19/13

Thanks to Jolly Tucker Photography for the stunning photos!

The Magic of a Thunderstorm and a Sleepy Red-Head

This afternoon, a thunderstorm swept in during the early afternoon, and decided to stay awhile. The weather never became treacherous. Rather, the sky turned an almost friendly shade of grey, the wind tugged gently on the trees, thunder rumbled low and comfortably, and the rain drizzled more than drilled over our parched little patch of earth. The weather called me to bed for awhile, and kept Micah happily dreaming longer than usual.

I rolled out of bed in the late afternoon, and peeked my head into Micah's room to see if he was awake. He blinked sleepily, only half-awake, and reached his arms toward me. I pulled him out of bed and into my arms, and settled into the squeaky glider in the corner. He nestled his head against the blanket I had thrown over my shoulder. I cradled him awkwardly, draping him along the left side of my growing belly, and began to rock.

The room was darkened by the cloudy day, and there in the dark, I had one of those precious "Mommy Moments." I held my son as I had many, many times when he was a baby, chest to chest. He so rarely allows me to hold him this way now . . . I breathed in the faint scent of his baby shampoo which still clung to his auburn-red strands from last night's bath. I listened to his rhythmic breathing against the shrieks and groans of the glider as I moved it back and forth. I kissed his hair, his forehead, his neck, his shoulder. I closed my eyes, and enjoyed the weight of him in my arms and the kicks and rolls of my unborn baby girl.

I thought about how important moments like these really are. These moments are fleeting, and they are meaningful. Every moment in which you say to your child with your actions, "There is nothing more important than sharing this moment with you," you tell your kids that you love them far louder than if you only spoke the words. They need to be sure of that love for so many reasons. They aren't whole without it. How can a child comprehend the love of God without experiencing anything with which it can compare, however dimly? And oh, how good it feels to give that love. It makes me whole, too.

I then began to think of myself in the reverse role--as the child nestled on the chest of the loving Parent. Micah and I weren't talking, reading or doing anything other than being present with one another, and both of us were perfectly content with our state of do-nothingness. Why do I always feel that I have to be talking, reading or studying when I meet with God? What am I missing that keeps me from only being present with Him, enjoying Him in quiet and stillness?

I kissed Micah's head again, smiling when he sighed and murmured something unintelligible, yet contented.

"Bliss. This is bliss," I thought. And while I am hungry for more moments like these with my son and my daughter on the way, I am starving for them with God, my Father. It is my prayer that in the months to come, I will learn the art of quietly resting in His arms, silently enjoying Him. Only Him. Give me Jesus.

In Everything . . .

I haven't written in awhile. I could excuse myself in a number of ways, but the truth is I haven't felt like it. The plan was to write a post about our family trip to the Buffalo River which took place the first week of June. I even began mentally composing it the moment we arrived. It should have begun:

"I love coming to these mountains year after year. After better than 16 trips to and through the Ozarks, they almost feel like a second home. Each time I travel through, it's different. I've seen these mountains as a frozen world covered in a snowy blanket, and I've seen them alive with life as Spring draws to a close and Summer prepares for its grand entrance. This year, the cicadas are present and many, and as we exit the vehicle, we are met with their welcoming screeches which come at us in boisterous, rolling waves."

The post was supposed to begin this way, tell a lovely story about Micah's first float on the river, and end with a pleasant sentiment. But tragedy struck and sucked away all of my desire to tell that story. Smaller, yet significant, traumas bookending the trip left me a little dull and lifeless. I didn't quite have a case of writer's block. It felt more like writer's hangover. I had become drunk with the heavy and strong drink of bad things happening and the possibility of other bad things happening, and I couldn't quite get my head clear enough to sort it all out. After a little time--time to view the events of the past few weeks with some distance and biblical perspective--I think I'm finally ready to tell the story. I no longer feel any apprehension about sharing the story because the news and papers had no problem sharing the story, and did so incorrectly, might I add. Besides, they left out all of the good parts. So here goes--

I love coming to these mountains year after year. After better than 16 trips to and through the Ozarks, they almost feel like they belong to me, a second home. Each time I travel through, it's different. I've seen these mountains as a frozen world covered in a snowy blanket, and I've seen them alive with life as Spring draws to a close and Summer prepares for its grand entrance. This year, the cicadas are present and many, and as we exit the vehicle, we are met with their welcoming screeches which come at us in boisterous, rolling waves. I missed the undercurrent moans, forewarning me of the day to come, but I was unable to miss that the day was hot and alive.

The group joining my family was a lovely mix of old friends and new. Souls I had loved as a young child when my family attended Central Baptist Church were mixed with newer friends and brand new faces. Derek Crockett, who I had wanted to marry when I was 3 years old, had his two boys along with him. James Liner hugged my neck, and told me how much Micah reminded him of me as a toddler. My parents' long-time friend, Leo Honeycutt, was there, and as always, provided excellent food and comic relief for everyone. In all, there were 29 people with us, and the mix of people was perfect. However, the meeting of new faces would have to wait until later. Micah and I were exhausted after the long trip, and needed an early bedtime in preparation for the even longer day on the river.

The next day dawned bright and clear. The water was the prettiest I had seen it in a long time. The sunlight pouring from the heavens revealed pleasant shades of blue and green in the deeper pools, and the water was just right for carrying a two-year-old on his first float. Micah excitedly climbed in the canoe with expectant cries of "Catchy fish! Catchy fish!" It promised to be a very good day. (And allow me to interpose here that it truly was.)

The young boys and teenage girls splashed and smiled and tried to tump each other's canoes. The adults relaxed and laughed as they tried to ease into impossibly cold, mountain water. Micah enjoyed dipping his hands in the water off the side of the canoe, taking turns in our laps, and throwing rocks from the canoe into the water until he finally, after a serious effort to fuss himself out of the need of a nap, surrendered into a quiet sleep in my arms.

I watched children and adults alike leap off of Jim's Bluff, and laugh heartily as they surfaced the icy water. It was my turn to laugh when I watched my middle aged parents succumb to peer pressure, and swim out to deeper waters for this photo op.

Later in the day, our group stopped at the trail head to Hemmed-in-Hollow Falls, a beautiful feature on the upper leg of the Buffalo River. Because I was pregnant and Micah was two, our little family stayed behind to enjoy swimming and fishing as we watched the majority of our group disappear into the foliage. Micah couldn't have been happier with our choice. He found the largest rocks he could manage, picked them up grunting, "Heaby," and joyfully tossed them back into the water. He also reeled in a couple of Daddy's catches, and even kissed a fish!


While we were having a good time at the riverside, everyone else was having a good time up at the falls.

When our group returned from their hike, they all made their way back to their canoes. It was getting late. Everyone was getting tired, but we were all in good spirits. The day had been a beautiful blessing.

This is the point of the story where I want to close with a warm, fuzzy, "happily ever after" ending. This is also the part of the story where things from my limited, human perspective go wrong . . .

Brandon likes to be in the back of our canoe caravan because he likes to take his time and fish. We watched the canoes pass safely through a small set of very ordinary rapids one by one until only a handful of canoes were left. James Liner and his young partner had some difficulty with the rapids, and flipped the canoe. Brandon and I didn't see it flip, but we caught a canoe paddle and other paraphernalia as it drifted downstream. Another couple helped them right the canoe, and get back on course. As they paddled past us, I noticed a cut above Mr. Liner's eye. He had bumped his head against something. I asked him if he was alright, and he grinned, saying he was fine. There was no reason to doubt him.

Over the next half hour, Micah grew a little fussy. It was his dinnertime, and he hadn't gotten a good nap that day. Every time the canoe jarred a little against the rocks, he became uneasy. One such bump sent him over the edge into a full-fledged wail, which confirmed my decision that we would stay at the camp the next day so he could rest.

It was immediately after this incident that we saw them. We saw the three standing, performing CPR first, all from our group--a nurse and her husband, one of Mr. Liner's nieces. Then I saw other canoes from our group banked on the shore, their inhabitants sitting stock still with faces blank. And then I saw him. I knew at once who it was even though he wasn't the right color. I knew at once that he was no longer with us. And while we have no way of knowing what happened for certain, my brain quickly jerked back to the cut above his eye.

Micah wailed until Brandon shoved us to the bank. A small miracle, Micah immediately hushed himself and grew still and content in my arms. Without a word, Brandon joined the party performing CPR. Tears formed in my eyes, spilling down my cheeks. I may have been the only one blubbering there like a baby, and that is a little embarrassing, but I was hyper-aware of the fact that Mr. Liner's son and nieces were watching and what this would mean for my dad who had loved this man for most of his adult life. My heart broke for hearts breaking. Brandon called for one of my Epi-pens. I tossed it to him. It was no use.

I watched five people, Brandon included, from our group perform CPR for an hour while we waited for help we weren't sure would come. They breathed heavy, and pumped hard. I wept. I prayed. I tried to figure out how help would come. There was no place for a helicopter to land.

Micah remained calm and happy though it was well past his dinnertime and nearing his bedtime, so happy that I was sure it was a God-thing. God was good.

Tami, one of Mr. Liner's nieces, remained strong while she called out to him, hoping he could still hear her. God was good.

Eventually, help came trickling in from downstream. God was good.

There was a sense of peace that fell on all of us, and we let the knowledge that James was no longer with us sink in, yet in a silent pact, kept working and praying for the sake of his family. God was good.

Finally, a group of EMTs poured out of a tiny pig's trail that, wonder of wonders, led straight to our beach, and took over. God was good.

A lot of people sit in the camp of "death is natural" because everyone dies. I, however, see death as the ultimate reminder that all is not right with our world. We were not created to die. Death is man's greatest judgement, an enemy. All the while, it is very good to know that God never abandons us, even in death. His presence was near us the entire day, but especially near in the moments of death. I must remember, as we all should, "See now that I, I am He, and there is no god besides Me; It is I who put to death and give life. I have wounded and it is I who heal" (Deuteronomy 32:39), and I must remember that God is good.

The next day, almost everyone in our group departed for home, overwhelmed by tragedy or necessity. I was in mourning, and the words that Tami, one of Mr. Liner's nieces, spoke to someone else expressing their condolences--"It's okay. God numbers our days"--rang louder in my ears than the screeching cicadas outside. It didn't feel okay. I opened the book I was reading, hoping to distract myself from the events of the day before, the images and sounds I will never be able to erase from my memory. This is what I read--

"I know there is poor and hideous suffering, and I've seen the hungry and the guns that go to war. I have lived pain, and my life can tell: I only deepen the wound of the world when I neglect to give thanks for early light dappled through leaves and the heavy perfume of wild roses in July and the song of crickets on humid nights and the rivers that run and the stars that rise and the rain that falls and all the good things that a good God gives. Why would the world need more anger, more outrage? How does it save the world to reject unabashed joy when it is joy that saves us? Rejecting joy to stand in solidarity with the suffering doesn't rescue the suffering. The converse does. The brave who focus on all things good and all things beautiful and all things true, even in the small, who give thanks for it and discover joy even in the here and now, they are the change agents who bring the fullest Light to all the world. When we lay the soil of our hard lives open to the rain of grace and let joy penetrate our cracked and dry places, let joy soak into our broken skin and deep crevices, life grows. How can this not be the best thing for the world? For us? The clouds open when we mouth thanks." --from One Thousand Gifts by Ann Voskamp.

Out of my sadness and temptation to see this trip as, well . . . the worst trip ever, here was this call to leave behind the despair of death and find life by offering thanks. I recognized this to be not only a call for the moment, but for the long term. I also realized that I wasn't only to offer thanks for the good that had happened, but also the "bad."

"In everything give thanks, for this is the will of God." --1 Thessalonians 5:18 (Italics mine.)

I found it difficult to do so, but I thanked God for everything I could think of--Micah's safety, fish to catch, the hot sunshine, the cold water, rocks to throw, every one of James' smiles, the quick and quiet nature of his death, CPR, EMTs, pig trails and every glimpse of God I could find in the details. As promised, I felt more alive with each offering.

Learning to be thankful for everything is a scary thought for me, a thought that has kept me a little pensive and sober for the last few weeks. What if something even more terrible happens, and I am required to say, "The Lord gives and the Lord takes away. Blessed be the name of the Lord?" That thought puts a chill in the bones.

The good thing is that God knows where I am, and only asks that I begin learning to give thanks for everything, including the good and the bad, in a place where the good and the small dwell. For now, I can give thanks for fresh blueberries, the rain that poured from the heavens earlier this week, the sun that warms the world, Micah's smile and the gentle kicks of the baby girl growing in my belly.

That's right! I haven't officially stated this on the blog--It's a girl!!!


While these things are all pleasant, everyone has to start somewhere. I'm glad my Father knows that I am but dust, and brings this challenge to my door in a relatively sunny season.

What happened is still hard. I no longer think about it every day, but I think about it often. If I close my eyes and see things I don't want to see, I consciously recall Mr. Liner's smiles and laughter earlier in the day. I remember that he no longer suffers, but lives in a place where the only tears are happy ones. I remember the memories made on the river that day with my family and friends that can't be stolen away by the shadow of death. I remember that God is good, I say a prayer for the Liner family, and I give thanks . . . for everything.

Spring Break: Family Style

On the last Sunday in March, Brandon, Micah and I loaded up, and departed for the Smokies. We left at 4a.m. for a whirlwind trip of 5 days. I use the word, "whirlwind," because when you spend two full days in the car, a 5 day trip is indeed a whirlwind trip. Pigeon Forge, TN, home to a truly ridiculous number of pancake houses, was our destination. On the drive up, we admired the lovely redbuds and dogwoods in glorious, full bloom, and the colorful wildflowers gracing the sides of the road. Rolling hills gave way to softly crested mountains splashed with varying shades of green. Mountain rivers and streams added beauty and shimmer to the latter part of our 12 hour drive.

Our schedule was almost as rigorous as the drive. On Monday, we spent the day in meetings, which resulted in a time-share purchase. I know, I know, they totally suckered us in. In our defense, they work hard to make you see the value and really want their product. On Wednesday, Micah took a 4 hour nap, which pretty much ate our play time. Therefore, Tuesday was our only day to do touristy things, and we hit it hard, which may explain the 4 hour nap the next day.

We began the day at Ripley's Aquarium of the Smokies, and we all loved it! We explored a shark tunnel, a penguin playground and enjoyed the children's interactive exhibit with Micah. This place was incredibly cool, and we plan to hit it up again. We have a time-share now. Why not?

Micah and Brandon crawled through a small tunnel to get an inside look at the tank.

Micah found Nemo!

I did not care to touch a horseshoe crab, but the boys had fun.

I loved this enormous tank full of tropical fish. I could have watched it for hours.


Micah thought the spider crabs were cool. I thought they were creepy and entirely too large.


Why, hello there, Mr. Fish--
the obvious inspiration for the look of Davey Jones in Pirates of the Caribbean.

Jellyfish are beautiful when a healthy distance is maintained.


This was taken right outside the Penguin Playhouse, and is my favorite pic of the trip.


Me, my boy, and the stingray who got up close and personal.

We left the aquarium, and before we got back to the condo, Micah had fallen asleep in the truck. Brandon packed us a quick lunch while Micah and I rested in the truck, and we were off to Cade's Cove--a gorgeous, free park featuring free-roaming wildlife, nature trails, and historical sites open for exploration.

Picnic cuddles.

The stream beside our picnic spot.

We really enjoyed Cade's Cove, but we were a little limited in what we could do. Two-year olds lack the patience for looking at historical buildings, and sleepy, nauseous moms who need to pee in a place where restrooms are far too scarce and people are far too many in order to feel any sense of safety behind a tree trunk have difficulty hiking 5 mile nature trails . . . or many one mile nature trails, for that matter.

Wait a second! That reminds me!

We're expecting! Thus the sleepiness, nausea and need for a restroom.
(I'm fully aware of how unimpressive this picture is. It was taken at 7 weeks. I wouldn't have known it was a baby unless the doctor had told me so.)

I'm only 10 weeks along, but I'm already into that ambiguous "Is she pregnant or is she getting fat?" stage. I hate that stage, especially when combined with the desire to sleep over 12 hours of the day and the urge to lose my breakfast.

Anyway, we plan to return to the Pigeon Forge/Gatlinburg area in the future when we have more time, and I'm not so miserable. We've barely tapped into the treasures these quaint little towns hold. And I'm not sure you can say you've been to Pigeon Forge without visiting at least one pancake house. Seriously.

Happy Monday!

The Power of a Haircut

Micah recently acquired a new do. We are all a little amazed by the way it transformed him from Sweet Cherub to 100% Little Boy.

These "before" pictures were taken on St. Patty's Day, which Micah celebrated by wearing his kilt.


A few days later, he not only looks like 100% little boy. He's also acting like it. I was practicing the piano the other morning, when Micah walked in the studio looking like this:


After seeing the state of his face, I thought I needed to investigate the state of my house, especially since he's discovered the joys of crayoning the floors, cabinets and doors. This is what I found:


Thank the Lord for scotch guard, washable markers, Dreft stain remover, Mr. Clean Magic Erasers, and the wisdom to know that new furniture is a long time coming. And thank the Lord for precious, little red-headed boys.

Collected, Random Thoughts of a Sleepy Mom

After I wrote this post, I began to feel ill again in a matter of days. On the bright side, I've been to the doctor, and had extensive blood work done. The only finding was elevated CRP's, which could be explained by the sinus infection I had on the day my blood was drawn. My doctor hasn't said for sure, but it looks like I'll live, people. That is, if I make it through allergy season.

I find lots of sleep, a simple schedule and a healthy diet packed with 10,000 daily IUs of Vitamin D to be the perfect recipe to improving my health. And I have been feeling better.

I'm growing weary of watching television. Maybe this is because I have spent so many weeks with little else to do. I'm finding every show I watch to be boring or offensive. I find myself sitting with Brandon while it's on, but not really watching. The one show I watch alone is on the chopping block.

The sunshine and spring warmth are calling me outdoors. Micah and I have been answering the call with afternoon playtime in a sun ray, including bubbles, sidewalk chalk, and ball games in which Micah rolls the ball down the hill and laughs hysterically as I run after it before it rolls into the street or too deeply in the woods.

Tomorrow, I will enjoy the outdoors by going on a walk by the lake with a friend.

Micah had a haircut on Saturday. Now, he is thoroughly a little boy, and no longer resembles my baby. I keep meaning to take a picture to post. I will soon.

My novel is calling for me now that I feel well enough to think about it. The problem is that sleep, housework, teaching and loving two very lovable men are taking up all of my time right now. I'm hoping this 10-12 hours a night sleep schedule will let up on its own soon. I would love an hour or two a day to write. I need to "correct" my main character, and edit the dialogue. I was reading through my draft the other day, and realized to my horror that all of my characters talk exactly as I do. As my main characters are kids raised in rural North Louisiana, it doesn't work. At all. My other finding is that I like my main character so much that I shy away from telling the truth about her. She is flawed, and I need to let her be that or her story falls flat. Also, I'm getting new ideas all the time, and would love an opportunity to write them out. The only answer is to sleep less which probably isn't likely anytime soon.

On Monday nights, Brandon is late coming home. Last Monday, Micah and I sat down to eat together before Brandon made it home. I reached for Micah's hand, intending to bless the food, but Daisy distracted me. I can't remember what she had in her mouth, but it was something she shouldn't. I yelled at her, and stomped across the room, yanking the forbidden object from her jowls. I sat back down next to Micah, utterly distracted. He looked at me questioningly.

"Jesus? Pray?" he asked, reaching for my hand. My heart did a few somersaults before my lips had time to unleash my huge grin upon him.

"Yes," I said. And I prayed with him. I love that he expects prayer at mealtime.


Micah's bedtime routine is getting his bath, hugging Daddy goodnight, getting his pacifier and "awie" (blanket), and reading a book (or two). Then, I turn off the light, pray for him, and rock and sing to him until he's sleepy. I always sing, "Jesus Loves Me," and maybe a couple of others. The other night, I sang, "There's Something About That Name."As I settled him into his little bed nest of awies, he began singing the name of "Jesus" to a hybrid tune of "Jesus Loves Me" and "There's Something About That Name." My heartbeat provided percussion to his sweet baby song.


I'm learning to spend time with the Lord differently these days. I no longer find it possible to rise at 6:30pm, and I often take a nap while Micah naps, so my time with God has suffered. I decided to observe Lent this year, choosing to give up Facebook. My objective is to use the time I would spend on Facebook in prayer or in the Bible. Some days I'm successful; some days I'm not. I would appreciate your prayers that I would adjust to the demands of my new schedule, prioritizing the Lord within that schedule. I don't know what this will look like in practice, but I'm willing to try something new in spite of my ultra regulated, routine-oriented personality and preferences.

*Yawn* My pillow calls. Goodnight.

And Then He Turned Two . . .

Micah turned 2 on Saturday.

Twenty years ago, two years felt like two lifetimes. This is going to sound so cliche, but the last two years felt more like two blinks of the eyes. If I allow my eyes to remain closed for a moment, I can still feel the terror closing around my throat as he emerged into the world all purple and quiet, and the relief washing over me, allowing me to breathe again as I see him change color, from purple to pink, within seconds of being freed from the umbilical cord. I can smell his new baby skin. I can hear his indignant screams. The euphoria of having brought him into the world still makes my brain go a little hazy in the most pleasant sense, and all I can think is, "God, please don't let me lose that."

Last year on his birthday, he wasn't walking yet. His vocabulary was under 10 words. His attention span lasted about 15 minutes even with favorite activities. Today, he knows several alphabet letters. I think it's funny that the letters "B" and "S," were learned sequentially and continue to be favorites. He has favorite books, favorite television shows, and he's speaking in full sentences. He's graduated from the high chair to a big boy seat at the table, and has bidden his crib farewell in exchange for a toddler bed, which he loves, because now he can creep into our bedroom at 3:00 am, gleefully cry out, "Boo!," startling us out of sleep. Brandon can tell you, there's nothing quite like a nose to nose greeting at 3am.

On Saturday, our families gathered to celebrate all of that. Well, maybe not the 3am greetings.

Our boy loves balls, so we went with a ball theme.

It may be ugly, but you can see what I was trying to accomplish here.

Gluten-free goodies.

Emory enjoyed her gluten free cupcake.

As did Paisly.

After cake and presents, we ventured outside because Micah wanted to release balloons into the sky. He let them go, one by one, and we all watched until they disappeared into the clouds.

It may sound uneventful, but it was peaceful and happy and perfect. Micah loved his party, and we loved watching him love his party.

Our big boy is two. It happened too fast. I've been unhelpfully warned several times in the past few days that in a few more blinks, he'll be sporting a cap and gown, trying to choose a career, waiting at the end of an aisle for a girl who will be hard pressed to love him as much as I do . . . I can't think about all of that right now. For now, we will revel in his third year of life, eking out all of its goodness. I'm in no hurry to release him into the vast unknown, but when that day comes, you can bet your best chocolate chip cookie recipe that I will be watching all the while, and relying heavily upon technology if he ever finds the right cloud to disappear into.

Fields of Gold

Here's the reality--tons of writers romanticize everything. It's part of the job description. I don't place myself under their banner yet, but I hope to one day. Until I achieve something a little loftier than winning a local writing contest at the age of ten, and being published in poetry anthologies for which the published must pay, I'm still an apprentice.

I think I'm learning the ropes pretty well. I know that the topic of baking cookies with Micah is acceptable reading material, but no one really cares about the pile of dishes left in the sink afterward. Everyone likes a nice blog about the joys of summer when the season first begins, but no one wants to read about a Louisiana August, in which all of the vegetation has been obliterated by the cruel sun, in which the triple digit heat index overstays its welcome, and how the simplest tasks, even indoors, make you wonder if the shower was even worth it. If Summer had overextended its visit for one day longer, I would have rebelled. I felt so bullied by that triple digit heat index that I came "this close" to exchanging romanticism for---squeal!---realism. I would have pummeled you like a hungover John Steinbeck. Thankfully for you all, while I was involved in Curtains, something magical happened--Sir Summer surrendered to the gentler climate and richer palette of Fair Fall.

Autumn's entrance in the South is rarely distinct or official. She drifts in with a sense of serenity, and an undercurrent of humility. She has no need to announce herself. Why should she? We all know when she walks into the room. Her presence is obvious, breathtaking. She is a little frustrating in that she ambles in and out, bullied around by Sir Summer who can't seem to relinquish his rights to the year. It's no wonder that I'm not sure exactly when she was ushered in by cooler breezes and that dank, smoky smell the fallen leaves take on, but she's here now. Hopefully, she will prop up her feet, and stay awhile. I'm sorry I missed the moment the doors between one season and another flew open, but I was distracted by other good things.

Although Curtains was the dominate activity for the past 8 weeks, I was also busy with mothering, wifery, housekeeping and teaching. I know that you don't care about dirty toddler diapers, mildew growing in the shower, or that I was making dinners around the same time I made lunch every day, so I thought I would limit myself to the highlights.

I will begin with my new music discovery--Mumford and Sons. This British group creates a genius combination of folk, bluegrass, rock and piercing lyrics. I couldn't decide which song I liked best, so I thought I would share one that is pretty iconic of their work, which you can listen to on the playlist provided below if you are at a computer with speakers and no workplace firewall to block your fun.


I began teaching piano and voice lessons the last week of August, and managed to hang on by my fingernails as Curtains entered into technical rehearsals, then performances. It's always amazing to me how children grow, mature and develop over the short course of a summer. The little girls I taught last year are looking more like little women, and students who couldn't sit still for half an hour last spring are doing brilliantly in hour long lessons this fall. Brandon and I also began teaching Sunday School again at Crossroads. We are glad to be back with our class from last year, just one year older, a few inches taller and a few vocabulary words wiser!

During the weeks I was involved with the show, I worked on Micah's baby book in my precious spare time. I used Shutterfly.com to upload my images, design my book and publish it. They did a beautiful job, and I'm very pleased with the product! Shutterfly photo books are user friendly, quick, painless and reasonably priced. It provides the perfect approach to documenting memories at this time in my life. What mom doesn't like fast, cheap and awesome?

The front cover

My letter to Micah and first photo

Probably my favorite page

Back cover

One Saturday, I came home from either a rehearsal or a performance--I forget because it all runs together in my mind--to find our living space painted and redecorated . . . man's man style. You may remember the battle of wills that waged until I chose to give in, realizing that I never give in, even to the person I claim to love. I will admit that although it isn't to my taste, that it isn't the nightmare I had imagined, either. Several people have really liked it. Everyone else has found some level of appreciation for it. I just have to ignore the creep factor of having the heads of dead animals protruding from my walls. (Too much realism for you? Me, too.)

How am I doing? I'm . . . coping.

I think that pretty much says it all.

Sandwiched in between the two weekend runs of Curtains were two very important events--my first time conducting a choir in 2 years and Brandon's 31st birthday. I conducted a joint choir, which included members from Crossroads in Ruston, Christ Community Church and John Knox Presbyterian Church, for the World Communion Sunday service at John Knox. It worked out surprisingly well, but I'm not sure how much of the success can be attributed to me. I was so nervous that I was freezing for the entire service, convulsing with nervous chills and uncontrollable nervous yawning until the song was complete. I also began the piece too fast. Fortunately, the organist was very good, and followed me right into a slower tempo.

Brandon turned 31 on September 21st. His birthday was on a Tuesday. He worked all day long, and just wanted to come home and relax. He had also been working really hard for the past 4 months so I could get some stage time. Almost every day, he would come home from work, pick up Micah from the grandparent on duty, feed him dinner, bathe him, and put him to bed. That is a lot to put on a guy whose job entails holding human life in his hands on a daily basis. So, I wanted to make the evening special for him.

I cooked one of his favorite dinners . . .
went to great lengths to bake him a real, glutenous,
highly-poisonous-to-myself birthday cake . . .

bought him a video game, allowing him to unwind by mass murdering the villains . . .

and made sure he was rewarded by lots of birthday kisses,
both captured and not captured on camera.

This tightly packed bushel of events hit me line a ton of bricks. Until my third 10 hour night of sleep, I was asking questions like, "Where am I?," "What am I supposed to be doing?," "What's my name again?" because I have been so TIRED after all that has gone on. On the other hand, I had been feeling like I had missed out on quite enough Micah time. So . . . for the past few days, I have aligned my schedule with his, and basked in the sunshine, the crisp air and the glow of his tiny soul.

I remember heading outside with him the first day we were able to share alone. I wanted to etch the happiness of the moment in my memory. I knew the only way I could do it was if I provided a soundtrack to our outdoor play. I brought out my Ipod, strapped it on (no headphones, just a light buzz from the small speakers), and selected the only song that made sense to me in that moment. The breeze blew into our faces gently. Golden rays peeked down at us from the tree tops, dancing in and around Micah's curls. The smell of autumn wafted from the woods to the tips of our noses, and just like that, those precious, slow moments with my son were forever burned into my memory with the help of Eva Cassidy's "Fields of Gold." What a perfect soundtrack to that hour . . . Micah felicitously discovering the world around him, teaching me how to once again marvel at the various sizes and shapes of sticks, the indigo vastness of the sky, and the joy of holding a katydid in the palm of my hand. His squeals of delight and his baby songs of contentment are sealed in my mind and heart. I remember sighing with pleasure as I drank in creation, watching him toddle about the yard and knowing that I was living in those fields of gold.

Welcome, Fair Fall, and all of your lovely fields.

I have worn a million hats thus far this fall, but the MOM hat? It fits just right.

"Peek-a-boo, Mama!"

And I didn't even tell you that I soured three loads of laundry this week by forgetting they were in the washer. How's that for romanticism?

Where am I, again? What am I supposed to be doing?

The Island

It's difficult to describe the parts of the world that hold a little more magic than the other parts. The magic is in the air. Of course, you can't see the magic. Air doesn't have a color of it's own, although it is perfectly capable of borrowing color from other sources, as you will later see. Some of you already think I'm talking crazy, but if you have been to one of these more magical places of the world, one of those places where you are certain God must have taken a little more time dreaming it up, then you know what I'm talking about. You also know what I'm talking about if you have read The Chronicles of Narnia: The Magician's Nephew by C.S. Lewis, but magic is another blog topic altogether.

I'm trying to describe the place I vacationed last weekend. Little Gasparilla Island is a tiny barrier island off the west coast of Florida (Tampa side). Here is an aerial photo:


Little Gasparilla is about a 15 minute boat ride from the mainland. It's long and skinny, and situated very closely to Gasparilla Island, its big sister. I can't speak for that big sister, but the little sister is enchanting.

We arrived on a hot, miserable Friday afternoon. Our Little Red cried the entire boat ride across the bay because he didn't care for the heat, the life jacket or the delayed nap. As soon as we docked, the crying stopped. (I say it was the magic.) We were greeted by a flock of fiddler crabs at the end of the pier, waving their hellos to my sleepy son. We loaded the golf cart with our luggage, and took the short walk to the beach house where we'd be staying. Even in the heat, I was already falling in love.

We took it slow that afternoon. Micah napped. The boys rested. I rested and explored a little. I discovered that you can hear the waves pounding the sand from the front porch of the little house.


I discovered that the front yard was home to a fair sized gopher turtle.


I discovered that the walk to the beach takes less than one minute, and that I had more fingers than beachmates on this island . . .


and that's including the birds.

The only sensible thing to do about meals on the island is to bring them to the island. My uber smart and experienced friends began meal planning back in June. They knew they'd be planning around a daddy with Crohn's Disease, a mommy with a ridiculous list of allergens, and a baby who can be a little tricky to nourish at times. Danielle and Ryan did a great job with planning as you can see . . .

Danielle's dad graciously took my husband and Ryan out into the bay to catch the dinner you see in the second picture. Brandon loved the fishing, and there is something fulfilling in bringing home the bacon, frying it up and feasting upon it, even if it's fish instead of bacon. That dinner was shared by us, Danielle and Ryan (our sweet friends who brought us out there), Danielle's family, their friends and their college Sunday school class. Sharing good food with old friends and new acquaintances you will be spending eternity with . . . well, that's fulfilling, too.
Other magical moments include:

Feasting upon mangoes grown on the island.
Spending a rainy day out on the screened in porch, alternately reading and napping, listening to the ocean and the pitter patter of raindrops hitting the roof and sand in the background of our dreams . . . taking in the briny scent of the island air . . . the cool breeze caressing our skin.


Watching a storm approach, yell, "Sike!" and then dance around us . . .

Shell hunting in between storm cells . . .

Observing Micah as he makes peace the with the sand that threatens his balance, and as he makes friends with it later . . .Staying up late to talk with friends, and rising to a lazy morning and a big breakfast . . . .

Kurt Pendergrass's amazing vanilla lattes made out of Puerto Rican coffee and goat milk (just for me!) . . .

Micah's long and peaceful naps . . .

The outdoor showers . . .

And finally, the most magical moments of all . . . gathering for the sunsets . . .

and the sunsets themselves . . .




I wrote a poem about those sunsets, but it doesn't do them justice. I'll share it with you, anyway--

There is a certain sense of serenity
at sunset on the beach.
Splendor in abundance
from sputtering sea foam to eternal sky;
blues and greys, gold in rays
spin purple, rose, scarlet, fire in the heavens.
Fire in the heavens should not be,
but clouds and sea sing it it back to me.
Lovely echoes, the final throes of day
giving way to new music.
And with a sigh,
that fiery sphere sinks like a stone
into its bed of sputtering sea foam,
conceding into afterglow.

-Melissa Keaster 8/13/10


When you finally leave a place this magical, you carry a little of that magic back home with you. As I sit here writing this, reflecting upon last weekend, my heart beats in rhythm with the waves, and my eyes pool with sea water. And if I close my eyes, the salty drops drip down my face, but I can see that final sunset, smell the island air, hear the ocean lulling me with its steady, "hush, hush, hush," and feel the warmth of knowing that heaven will somehow be better than this.

Baking Cookies and Going Bonkers

I meant to document Micah's first baking experience the other day right after it happened, but I just didn't get around to it. I have been swamped with an equal mix of responsibility and fun. This summer, the average day goes as follows:

7-8am: Wake-up call given by Micah or Scout, the green dog.
8am: Make breakfast
8:20:Eat breakfast
8:45:Clean kitchen
9:00:Laundry, take out trash
9:15: Get ready to teach lessons
10:00: Teach
12:00: Lunch and clean kitchen
1:00: Micah naps. Mommy spends time with Jesus. Check email and FB.
2:30: Get Micah up and feed him a snack. Begin cooking dinner.
3:30: Clean kitchen again.
3:45: Play with Micah and do a couple of chores
5:00: Pass Micah off to someone else, and leave for the theater.
6:00: Rehearse.
9:30-10:15: Arrive home. Eat snack. Clean kitchen for the 4th time. Waste time or fold laundry.
12am: Go to bed, and do it again.

Blogging has been difficult to fit in.

But back to baking with Micah . . . I managed to fit it in week before last when we had an unexpected night off from rehearsing Peter Pan. We baked chocolate chip cookies, and he loved it! Well, most of it. He wasn't too interested in my compulsive cleanings in between each mess. He enjoyed dumping ingredients into the bowl and mixing them together, but his favorite parts of baking were eating the chocolate chips he dropped onto the counter, licking the bowl and consuming the fruits of his labor.
Whisking dry ingredients.



Licking the bowl.

Gluten free chocolate chip cookies made from rice and potato flour.

Yum! Yum!

Those cookies were remarkably good for being gluten free. This was the first time I have ever made them from scratch, but it won't be the last!

We are through the first weekend of Peter Pan. I have only 4 more nights to be Mrs. Darling, and then I'm back to being Mrs. Keaster full time. A hunch tells me that Brandon is looking forward to that. He is so incredibly supportive of my love of the stage, but he can't enjoy me being away from home until late every night. By being such a good sport about this play and its hours, he has given me a much greater gift than he could possibly know. (I love you, Baby!)

Peter Pan has taken a bit of a physical toll on me. I am exhausted. I'm sore for reasons unbeknown to me--What? I'm old. It takes me awhile and a few cups of coffee to help me get going in the morning, but I am having so much fun. Fun hasn't been the only positive by-product of being a part of this production. The creative waters have been stirred, and the sleeping beast within has been wakened. I am a firm believer in the old adage "creativity breeds creativity," but I'm experiencing something closer to "creativity breeds manic creativity."

Yesterday, I went bonkers. I wish I had taken a picture of the house before I cleaned it up because I had uncharacteristically large messes in multiple rooms. Stuff was everywhere! I started several projects yesterday, and began planning several more. All I really want is to do is to do, to create! So, I added several pages to my novel, framed photos to hang in our "new" home, began preparing for a hypothetical audition, began studying Dickinson again, unpacked boxes, decorated, began planning a scrapbook for Micah's life thus far, cleaned, taught, spent time with Jesus, read my book, mothered and did two loads of laundry.

For me, this is crazy behavior. I am generally a low key, low energy kind of person. Normally, if I make it out of my pajamas, cook dinner, and keep Micah healthy and happy, I count it as a good day. But today, the house is mostly clean, I am creating and possibility flavors the air. And possibility tastes oh, so good.

"I dwell in Possibility--
A fairer House than Prose--
More numerous of Windows--
Superior--for Doors--

Of Chambers as the Cedars--
Impregnable of Eye--
And for an Everlasting Roof
The Gambrels of the Sky--

Of Visitors--the fairest--
For Occupation--This--
The spreading wide my narrow Hands
To gather Paradise--"

-Emily Dickinson

A Summer State of Mind

Walking outside is like wading through bath water. It's every bit as hot, and the humidity adds resistance to the air. The heat almost has a smell, or maybe that's just the grass baking in the summer sun. I can hear the locust chorus singing from inside my living room, and no doors or windows are open. Fireflies are blinking their hellos to me as I look through the windows of my french doors into the dusky woods. It's the time of year when heat lightening can be seen almost every evening out here on Lake D'Arbonne, and the gathering clouds bring a welcome drop in temperature and a gentle breeze to kiss perspiring faces.

My refrigerator is overflowing with summer squash, crisp cucumbers, fresh peaches and juicy blackberries. Soon, there will be more watermelon available than I can eat. Oh, how I love watermelon! My grandfather and father-in-law both take an interest in summer crops, so there are more than enough delicious and non glutenous things to eat for at least three months out of the year.

Summer holds more nostalgia for me than any other season. I don't know why that is. I have an asthma attack whenever I'm near a freshly mowed lawn. My blood sugar becomes uncontrollable if I spend too much time out in the swoon inducing heat. I sometimes break out in hives if I eat too much watermelon. So, why do I love it so? I'm not sure, but I think it's because when I was a child, my entire household relaxed out of its school year tension when summer came. My dad was a school teacher, and while he's always liked his job, he's always found it a bit stressful. But each year when the school doors closed, light shone into our home, and the only thing on the agenda was to have as much fun as possible until mid August. And boy, did Dad know how to show us all--Mom included--a good time! We would go out for snow cones and play in the park. He would set up a sprinkler or a slip n slide which would provide hours of cool, wet fun. We went to the zoo, summer art camps, and Vacation Bible School. I loved staying up late watching movies, and waking up late to the comforting smells of coffee and bacon. We always took at least one vacation a year together. For several years in a row, summer wasn't complete until we had gone to a Texas Rangers baseball game, eaten one of the stadium hot dogs and spent the following day at the big waterpark in Arlington, Texas. And don't even get me started on the year we began planning an annual trip to the Florida coast! I became a beach bum for life before I was legal to drive. It's a good thing I married a fellow beach bum because that could have been a deal breaker.

The fact is . . . I love, love, love summer. I love summer so much, in fact, that one of my primary reasons for choosing to get a degree in education is because of summer vacation. It's just lucky happenstance that I like children and that I'm a gifted teacher. Here's the strange thing--I teach private piano and voice lessons, and I'm not taking the summer off. I'm primarily a stay-at-home mother of a toddler, which means seasons aren't as significant as they once were, and I am still caught up in the intoxicating nostalgia of summer. I cannot help myself. The heat is miserable, and my Eustachian tubes won't quit itching (which is super annoying because you can't scratch your Eustachian tubes), and I know I'm gonna have to cut myself off and/or down a couple of Benadryl after a slice or two of watermelon, but I am absolutely, irrevocably in L-O-V-E with summer.

Honey, it's summertime, and the livin' is easy. I have kicked up my heels, let down my hair and let the summer high take me away into the D'Arbonne sunset (which happens to be spectacular, by the way). Inspired by one of my new favorite blogs, I have compiled a summer "to-do" list. Some of these items have been checked off once, but it's summer! I'm not limited to one check!

1. Audition for a show. Check.

I auditioned for Peter Pan at Strauss Theater in Monroe, and was offered the role of Mrs. Darling. It's a perfect role, really. It's different from anything I've done before. It's small, so I don't have to give up my summer late nights with my main man. I get to sing a little and show off my British accent. I couldn't ask for more.

2. Buffalo River canoe trip. Check. I even caught a couple of nice bass.


3. Spend time with seldom seen friends. Check, but more of that to come . . .

4. Finger painting with Micah on a hot afternoon. Check.




5. "Swimming" in the backyard with Micah. Check. (But there's not much actual swimming going on. He won't even sit in the water.)




6. Cook more. Half a check. I can cook more because I'm not teaching evening lessons. I like to cook more now that I'm not teaching evening lessons. Sometimes Micah and I cook together. Sometimes, I cook, and he adds the whine. And sometimes, Brandon watches Micah while I cook, and I get to listen to awesome music on my Ipod Touch as I stir, season and create.

7. Discover great, new music through ITunes. Check! See previous post.

8. Eat more vegetables. Fruit is too easy. Check!

9. Do more yoga. Check!

Now, on to the things left undone . . .

10. A family swim in a real pool.

11. A family vacation to the beach (minus the oil-slick). To make this one happen, it will be in combo with the remainder of number 3.

12. Sing more.

13. Read more non-fiction.

14. Seriously work on the novel.

15. Make at least 3 library story hours with the little guy.

16. Rent a canoe from D'Arbonne State Park, and float around with my boys as the sun sets. Like I said, D'Arbonne sunsets are something to be seen.

17. More bass fishing. Brandon and I leave for Arkansas next weekend to make this one happen!

18. Share a popsicle with a curly red.

19. Read more fiction.

20. Take another trip out to where Grandmommy grew up, where she lived and where she died.

21. Eat figs fresh off the tree at Grandmommy's old place. Watch Micah's face as he tries one.

22. Figure out the proper amount of bug spray required to keep the horsefly hordes from attacking me so that I can play outside with my child in peace.

23. Share all of my favorite summer foods with Micah.

24. Drink a homemade cinnamon dulce daily.

25. Lay out in the sun as often as I can for as long as I can stand it or until I smell like man.

26. Watch several summer storms.

27. Take afternoon naps.

28. Finish sewing our curtains.

29. Go on a movie date with Brandon at least twice a month.

30. Go on an unplanned adventure.

31. And as I do all of these things, taking as much pleasure in life as is humanly possible, I will remember from whom all blessings flow. I will revel in His many gifts with joy and gratitude. He was the one who was clever enough to imagine and create summer, after all.

So raise your paper cup of Country Time lemonade purchased from your neighbor's five year old daughter. To summer!

Happy Birthday, Micah!

Dear one,

I want you to know that not all birthdays are as bad as this one has been for you. I am so sorry that your mommy was grumpy from lack of sleep and too many emotions this morning. I am so sorry that she thought you were just being a fussy butt when you didn't want to eat your lunch. I am so sorry that you woke up from your afternoon nap running a fever of over 100. I am so sorry that it kept going up after I gave you Tylenol. I'm sorry that we had to go to the after hours clinic, that you got your finger stuck, your throat swabbed, your finger smashed in between those chairs and that you got a mean old shot that hurt your leg (and hurt your mommy and Grandma's feelings so bad that they cried over it). I'm sorry that I didn't have a present for you today. I'm sorry that you have to wait until tomorrow to get your cake.

I am NOT sorry that you are in my life. I am NOT sorry you changed my world so much that my idea of fun on a Friday night is to give you a bath and a bottle and cuddle with you until bedtime. I am NOT sorry that I can't leave town without missing you like crazy and worrying about you every minute. I am NOT sorry that the idea of something bad happening to you sends me into a panic (because then I have another excuse to talk to Jesus), and that I would take any pain sent your way 10 times over if it meant you could escape it. I am NOT sorry that every day you wake me up earlier than I want to be awake, before I get my coffee and greet me with that gorgeous grin of yours. I am NOT sorry that your presence in my life has made me realize the urgency with which I should always pray against the terrors of Satan. I am NOT sorry that a large chunk of my prayer time is now devoted to your salvation and future walk with the Lord. I am NOT sorry that my main job is take care of you every day. I am NOT sorry that you are no longer a tiny newborn , but now a badly balanced toddler who loves to laugh, sneak Daisy your food and tell your mommy, "NOOOOO!!!!" as often as you can. And I am NOT sorry that I have to stay up tonight and bake your birthday cupcakes when I'm actually so tired I could fall out right here. Because I am truly, madly, deeply in love with a little red-headed boy's boy with two teeth and a pot belly.

Happy birthday, and here's too many more . . . HAPPIER birthdays.

Love,
Mommy

I'm Not Dead

Well, I may be brain dead. I've been walking around like a zombie for the past few weeks. I'm getting more sleep than I had been, but the mind just isn't what it used to be. That makes me sound 80. Let me explain. I never used to forget things. If there was the slightest chance I would, it didn't matter because I at least remembered to write everything down--to-do lists, a calender of events, shopping lists, etc. I'm a listy kind of girl. If something was lost, I knew where it was. If something was important, it never was lost. No longer is this the case.I now lose my lists. My information retrieve was impressive, as was my overall intellectual prowess. A few months ago, I didn't make grammar mistakes. I just didn't. I read all the time. Now, I'm lucky to read a couple of pages a day.

This week alone I left my purse in two public locations. God is good because it should have been stolen at the first location. I failed to pack my diaper bag appropriately twice. In a letter to friends, I wrote "know" in the place of "no," and "to" in the place of "too." That is very out of character. Or it was. Brandon thinks I have early on-set Alzheimer's or dementia or a brain tumor, and he worries that I should be doing crossword puzzles and sudoku instead of spending every waking moment mothering. He called my mom the other night voicing his worries to her. She assured him that my disease is common and the only treatment is the passage of time. She also assured him that crossword puzzles wouldn't help.

Nine months ago today, my life changed. And mostly for the better. However, there are negative side effects to being a mother, especially if the mother has a lot of other responsibilities, and honestly, what mother doesn't? I am a growing follower of Jesus, a motivated, but imperfect wife, a increasingly clever cook, a launderer and maid, a voice student, a chorus member, an enthusiastic music teacher, an untalented accompanist, secretary, book keeper, a Sunday School teacher, daughter, sister, friend. And I want to be a writer too. My novel hasn't made much progress because my muse refuses to return unless the apparent void between my ears is replaced with firing synapses. I need to clear out my hat closet, but which ones to throw out? As I sigh over the uselessness of my brain, I am also sighing at the speed of Micah's growth and development. Each day, he is able to more than the day previous. Fortunately, he just became mobile and he's not very fast yet. Just wait, Brain. Your entire capacity will be spent figuring out how to keep Micah from electrocuting and pulling chairs and tables on top of himself.

Check out Micah's new feats below. It's hilarious and well worth the time.

Micah's Modern Fantasia

Micah has much potential in the arena of modern composition. This is cutting edge stuff!

Things I Love In No Particular Order

Being greeted by a toothless, grinning, red-headed baby boy every morning (I will miss it when any one of these adjectives change.)

The sound a hardback book makes when you open it for the first time

The smell of ink on paper (of any age--new is my favorite)

Reading and studying the Bible with no time pressures

The tingle of warm sunshine on my skin, and the way it lasts even after I go back inside

Music

The scents of Fall--spices, dank earth, hints of wood smoke in the air

The weight and feel of a book in my hands (What? I like books.)

Halloween

New school supplies

Daisy, my rat terrier

Chocolate

A strong cup of Community Coffee with a dash of Hershey's Chocolate Caramel creamer by International Delight

Holding a sleeping baby

Being able to eat a gluten-free doughnut every morning without getting fat (This will change when I stop breastfeeding.)

Writing

The rush of adrenaline during exciting books (If you have no idea what I'm talking about, check out The Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins, a book I want to help make the New York Times bestseller list. Then, read her sequel Catching Fire.)

The feel of my husband's strong, welcoming arms and firm chest after a hard day; his smell

Teaching whatever; a student's success

Alliteration

Listening to my Aunt Mary tell stories about her childhood

Performing on stage

My church

Making new friends; visiting old ones

Talking to Mom in person or over the phone

Exchanging dry humor with my dad

Finding common ground with my sister

Reminiscing good times

My friends and family

Grace, Redemption, Mercy

The Lord Jesus Christ

Growing old with the love of my life. Happy birthday, Brandon.

Mini Me

Micah will be 7 months old on Saturday. He is physically impressive with his thunder thighs, faux biceps, tubby little tummy, box feet, cherub hands and perfect face all capped with an ever-growing shock of curly, red hair. He looks larger than many year olds that I have seen, coming in at a little over 19 pounds. He's getting to be such a big boy, and every day seems to go by faster and faster. Time is running away from me at a break neck pace and I'm too slow, flabby and out of shape to keep up! As these sweet days pass before my eyes, I fall deeper into a melancholy state somewhere close to the midpoint of bitter and sweet. Bitter because I have put away almost all of the cute clothing that loved ones purchased just for him when he was little more than a clump of cells and a great plan that only the heavenly Father was privy to. And sweet because his personality is developing even faster than his body.

His many facial expressions are beginning to mean something to me. His cries carry greater nuances than they once did. I am beginning to decipher some of the meaning behind his sweet babbling. He is revealing preferences, fears and expectations I did not know he had. For instance, he clearly prefers his jumper to his swing and avocado to squash. He is horribly afraid of loud noises such as the vacuum cleaner, the blender and the coffee grinder. He expects me to react in some way to his cries. Like his mommy, he hates to be ignored worse than anything in the world. He hates it worse than being lonely or being in the same room while I'm vacuuming. When he hollers, I better get my behind in gear or he will let me know about it! If he cries from hunger, he better see me rearranging my clothing or preparing a bottle. If he cries from boredom, I better pick him up or lie down with him and start a game. If he cries from tiredness, he better be equipped with a paci and a pair of arms that will cradle, pat and gently tickle him until he falls asleep. Speaking of sleep, Micah still isn't much of a sleeper. If I'm lucky, he'll sleep a total of 10 hours or so at night, but not all at once. Two in the morning is party time! He'll nap a little during the day. If he's napping exceptionally, I may get a couple of hour naps out of him. But that's exceptional napping. Thankfully, the amount of sleep he gets shows no correlation with his mood. He smiles at everyone, and only fusses in displeasure. As so little in life displeases him, he's not much of a fusser. Last weekend, he was coming down with an ear infection. We were up all night Thursday trying to get him comfortable. Comfort just wasn't happening for him, so I started playing a game he seems to like in which I bounce him up and down in a steady rhythm, and say "boobidy, boobidy, boobidy boo!" He began laughing out loud! The child was sleepy, uncomfortable and very upset, but he began laughing out loud!(Granted, I used a form of the word "boob," and like any man, anything containing the word "boob" probably has the power to relieve his troubles.)But hey, learning to laugh in the midst of less than perfect circumstances is an advanced skill, AND it's a piece of advice I gave him in his six month letter posted on August 19th--

"7) Find humor in everything, especially the crappy parts of life. It’s there; I promise, and it will lighten your load when times get tough."

He not only has a great sense of humor, but he's a quick learner!

I've been telling my mother about Micah's attributes bit by bit, and all along she's been saying, "You have yourself made over." I didn't really believe her until three things happened.

1) He began suffering from allergies. If the child is a copy of myself, he will be allergic.

2) He screamed at me. I mentioned earlier that he doesn't enjoy loneliness, but hates to be ignored even more. Well, he occasionally has to suffer one or two of these states. I mean, I have to shower every now and then! One day, I set him in his walker in the bathroom, left the door open so he wouldn't get too hot, and left the shower curtain open as much as I could so he could see me. I started to shower, and he started to cry. Talking to him didn't work. Dancing didn't work. Singing didn't work. Nothing worked, so I just tried to complete the shower as quickly as I could. It wasn't quickly enough for him. He stopped crying for a brief moment. I looked at him, and smiled. I was about to say, "See, it's not so bad, Angel Face." Well, my little Angel Face didn't let me get it out. My little Angel Face, stormed over, turned beet red and furrowed at the brow. He raised his arms at me to make himself unquestioningly clear. Then, the shrillest sound to come out of my sweet child thus far--"Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" Then, more crying. That was the first time he had ever screamed at me. I was doing something other than what he wanted to do, and the little bugger SCREAMED at me. That was the moment of revelation--this child is mine; he will have a strong will; he will be stubborn; he will throw temper tantrums when he doesn't get his way; I'm bloody in for it. And oh. If he inherits my gift for debate, I'm really in for it.

3) This fit lasted for some time. I had to get a quick bite to eat before students began coming in, so I sat him in the big arm chair that he sinks into so deep, he can't do much but squirm until he's nearly upside down. I got a quick lunch together, then came to check on him. This is what I found--


It's hard to see on the page, but his hair is sticking STRAIGHT up.

Not so different from this--


Maybe anger, like humidity, poofs your hair . . .

Anyway, the world better watch out--there's another one of me coming its way soon.