Monthly Archives: December 2014

11 days: Pa-rum pum pum pum

Leave a reply

Well, yesterday was our annual Christmas pageant, and I am happy to announce there were no Herdman moments to report.  So in terms of memorable programs, this one will go not go down in the record books for mishaps.  If I were truthful, I would say the mishaps really belonged to the director known as me.

When I agreed to return to directing, our church’s Christian Education committee asked me if I had a script in mind.  I spent some hours researching and discovered two that I liked.  One especially grabbed my attention and did so for the committee members.  We all perused the marketing materials, and I was given the go-ahead to purchase the set.

The date was chosen, the rehearsal schedule set, a couple co-directors came on board, and finally the box arrived. Like a child on Christmas morning, I ripped the packaging open and began digging through the box.  I found the sets of cd’s and DVD’s, but I kept digging for the actual play itself.  Eventually, I dug until I reached the other side of the box and no script could be found.

After a frantic dash to the website to figure out what went wrong, I discovered the problem was with me (and the other adults who looked over the original materials).  There was no script.  Only curriculum and some really jazzy music videos were what the group promised.  How in the cat hair did we all miss that?  When my daughter got home, I lamented our job as co-directors just got harder.  She was a better sport about it than I, saying “Mom, we’ve got this!”

She gave up four hours the next weekend for the two of us to intertwine the curriculum materials and the videos into a script.  It really helps when you attend a smaller church and when you are somewhat familiar with your actors’ personalities.

As rehearsals progressed, it was amazing to watch how everyone worked together.  This included one mom who stumbled across some amazing choreography for one of the songs.  Since we are simple servants open to input, we jumped for joy for such a great suggestion.  Our other co-director added amazing touches that added so much to the final performance, but what completely blew us away were the ideas the kids themselves added to the show.

To use up some nervous energy, we went around the room before the service allowing each one present to share their most favorite part.  My heart melted when a few chose to say their favorite part was a way another child did their part. What encouragers! Our curtain call came just as we wound ourselves back to me.  They inquired my favorite part. Honestly, I told them all my absolute favorite part was getting to work with all of them.  The sighs of contentment said that was not the answer they expected.

The pageant went beautifully with perfectly said lines, adorable cuteness in preschoolers who always steal the show, as well as  great songs and dancing.  However for me, there was a pre-pageant moment that stuck in my heart. As we waited in the wings to enter, I went through the line high-fiving each one, telling them how awesome they are and how proud of each one I was. We could hear the offering song, and that was when my eyes could no longer hold in my emotions.  Those sweet little angelic voices were singing along to “The First Noel”.  It was the most beautiful sound I had ever heard before a pageant because they sang with unhindered joy.  It would not have mattered if everything else had gone wrong because I could bottle up that moment to savor forever!

noel

christmas cactus

12 days: It’s a Wonderful Life

Leave a reply

One of the classes I taught on my recent blog hiatus was Anthropology. Since I am a chemistry and mathematics teacher, social studies was a stretch because outside of required courses for liberal arts I had not really studied these areas in detail for quite a while. I am well read and a lover of history which helped, but I still spent hours in the evening reading all sorts of material that I thought would benefit the students in my classroom. The final unit for the Anthropology class was a cultural anthropology project where the scholars would study their own families and traditions. As I was outlining the expectations for the unit, the students asked for examples for each one.

When we got to favorite family memory, I honestly choked up a little bit. I explained that I had many as a child, but my most favorite memory as an adult occurred on the day my youngest child was born. I told them about the magical moment our family shared that first night together, but my storytelling didn’t include the background of why it is my most precious memory.

Our family lost two babies between our two daughters, and one of those babies is the twin to the little girl celebrating her tenth birthday. Our daughter Erin’s birth was so traumatic that we weren’t sure if we wanted to have more children, but God certainly had other plans. Yet losing two babies within 6 months of each other was more than all of our hearts could take. Following the second loss, I became very ill at school and passed out. When I was at the doctor, they asked if I could be pregnant. Reminding them that 6 weeks previous we had a miscarriage, there was no way I could be pregnant. Imagine my shock when I learned that indeed I was still pregnant with a second baby.

We waited to tell our children because of their brave, but tender hearts. When we finally did, they were excited, but after we put everyone to bed that night, Reed came with tears in his eyes asking us the question heaviest on his heart. “Mom and Dad, are we going to lose this baby too? Because if we do, I just don’t think my heart can handle it.” There was nothing we could do beside hug our redheaded boy and cry and pray with him.

Five people held their breath until that beautiful December day when on her own terms she came into the world. But if there is one thing true about the members of Team Stevens, we live life. We celebrate the big things, but we specialize in the little stuff. Because the big kids were in school at the moment their baby arrived, we decided to get some sleep ourselves (having been up through the night) and our meet-n-greet would occur as soon as school was out.

The moment was joyous. We all breathed a collective gasp of relief, as we prepared to be a family of six here on earth. My sweetie and I had a plan long in the works for how we wanted to spend the evening. The big kids were ecstatic when they learned the details. In addition to the hospital bag with necessities for momma and baby, we sneakily had a bag packed with favorite Christmas movies.

Although it took some coordination with hospital staff, we requested no visitors so we could simply bask in the glow of happiness and joy at receiving one of God’s most beautiful blessings. We had food brought in; shut the door, and all four kids snuggled into the hospital bed with me, daddy tucked in the rocking chair bedside. Our first team huddle was under blankets while watching Christmas favorites on the OB floor; all six of us snuggled so close because we didn’t want to forget one moment.

When I was little, I only wished for two things when I grew up – to be a momma and a teacher. I never imagined the journey either of those dreams would take me. Nestled under cotton blankets, I breathed in every moment of the way God made that happen (once again) at our baby’s very first movie night.

My biggest accomplishment!

My biggest accomplishment!

13 days: Come they told me

5 Replies

For the last month and a half, I have been volunteering in my church with another mom and the Girl Awesome to direct the children’s Christmas pageant. Herding cats is a term someone used when I told them I couldn’t do something because of our dress rehearsal today. There may be some truth to that, but I LOVE this job. I will say that we are definitely not dealing with the Herdman’s (as in the book, The Worst Best Christmas Pageant Ever), and believe me, I am thanking God for that every chance I get.

pageant

On Friday, I received a very sweet call from our youth pastor (who also serves as our music coordinator). He wanted to make sure that what he set up for worship (think: mics and stands) would not interfere with my pint-sized actors. I assured him that we were flexible as a troupe, and no matter what the show would go on!

I confess I had to learn that the hard way. The tone of his voice revealed that he was a little perplexed. To clear up the confusion, I shared that I could write a book on all the things that could go wrong. For many years, the pageant was co-directed by one of my best friends and me. Our very first pageant was definitely the one that broke in rookies like us.

Our church’s tradition is to have an advent reading (replete with the lighting of candles) at the beginning of the service during the season. As we waited in the foyer for the performance time, we were completely oblivious to the miracle known as the best pyrotechnic show on earth waiting at the altar for us. On cue, we entered with our kiddos. We were so proud. Remember pride goes before the fall.  We had worked for months on sets, costumes, lines, and now was our big moment to shine. And SHINE we did! During our first song, one of our preschoolers (who I swear his parents fed him sugary cereal that morning) smacked the column holding the lit advent wreath.

Y’all the whole church gasped collectively, holding their breath while watching in what appeared to be moving in slow motion the lit wreath flip over and over, complete with a somersault over the organ. Thankfully the organist had already taken a pew seat. At that moment, my friend and I mouthed, “Ohhhhhhhh nooooo!” Both thinking there must be a special place for women who were responsible for burning down the church. In what could only have been God’s divine intervention, the flames suddenly extinguished themselves right before the wreath hit the carpeted floor. I was scarred forever and now have a personal rider in my volunteer contract that states all advent candles WILL BE BLOWN OUT BEFORE MY CHILDREN TAKE THE STAGE.

Lest you think that was the worst of it. It was not. Our church service is broadcast on the local access channel. Thank the good Lord it is not syndicated. Otherwise, one year we might have been confused with a Las Vegas wedding chapel. Even if everything in the world went wrong, the parents and the grandparents cheer for the performers much like the parents in “The Music Man” musical. The uproarious applause drowned out the live mic left in the hands of one of our middle school kings. While taking their bows, this young man was doing his best Elvis impersonation saying, “Thank yaaaa!. Thank ya very muuuch!” He was the king bearing frankincense not the King of Rock and Roll. Imagine my surprise when I decided to tune into the broadcast and heard his interesting ending to our performance.

But I think the most memorable was the one we included some adults in the program. In addition to directing, I sang a duet with my son, Reed. While we were singing our song, one of little angels (in costume not in behavior that day) got a little too much in the spirit. He started a-wiggling and a-jiggling. I could sense some movement behind me, and the next thing you know, all I could hear was a big kerplunk, followed by tear inducing laughter. A quick glance over my left shoulder revealed that our little angel had fallen off the raised altar area and was wedged upside down between said altar and the piano. All I saw were his little legs frantically trying to help him break free which only made matters worse. Meanwhile back at the mic, I was faced with the moral dilemma of do I keep singing or rescue this kid. I saw his dad making a beeline to the piano; so, I did what any professional would do. I kept singing. Not my proudest moment, but like I said, the show must go on.

After hearing a couple of my stories, the sweet pastor said. “You know those are the parts the audience loves the most, right.” I assured him I knew that to be the case which has made the job much better over the years. I am going to bed tonight knowing something can and will go wrong tomorrow. I will be laughing right along with everyone else, soaking in the memories we will hold most dear.

But if that involves fire trucks, I may be retiring.

14 day: Angels among us

Leave a reply

One of the things I miss most about Reed is the adventure known as going to zoos or aquariums. A favorite picture of him was snapped after the touch tank experience with stingrays. Sawyer and Erin participated in the touch tank, but not Reed. For him, it was a full on immersion experience. In the picture, the younger two barely have a wet spot on their clothes. Reed’s shirt looks as if he bodysurfed with stingrays rather than used the tips of his fingers to touch their skin. Most moms would have been upset because we didn’t have a change of clothes. Not this mom! I loved his sense of learning and interacting!

Zoos were always another experience altogether. If there were small animals, he would lay on his belly to get eye-to-eye with them and to “speak” their language. His methodologies always got more than one eyebrow raise, but when you are raising a pint-sized Dr. Doolittle, you learn to ignore the naysayers.

In all of Reed’s years, only one other time did I witness one of his siblings react to animals the same way. On a girls’ trip to Chicago, I took Erin (age four at the time) to the Shedd Aquarium. When we got to the area with the stingray floor – literally a glass floor with stingrays below – I turned around, scanned the area, and discovered Erin was not standing next to me. A quick pan of the room revealed her sprawled out with her tiny face mushed up to the glass, telling me the stingray was the most beautiful of all the sea creatures. Again, more raised eyebrows! I did the only thing a mom of future scientists can do, I acted as a bodyguard making sure no one interrupted her exploration or stomped on her.

Even though we dressed our boys for years to look like Chris and Martin Kratt, my other kids never really showed any evidence of sharing the animal fanatic gene. Oh, we have had various pets, and by various I mean crickets, ladybugs, butterflies, moths, frogs, toads, newts, rabbits, pigeons, fish, cats, and dogs. Even with that eclectic menagerie, no one else has ever run out with sandwiches in their hands on the North Shore to lure in the shorebirds. This adventure was highly successful if you really, REALLY like shorebirds dive bombing you at six years old.

I had pretty well resigned myself to the fact that I would never get to witness the joy of animal interaction (Reed-style) until I get to heaven. Like I said, just one of the many things I miss. But sometimes, I believe the veil is lifted, and a little bit of heaven touches the earth.

While cooking supper a few nights ago, I heard my sweetie summon me to come quickly. I had a few pots on the fire (literally); so, it took me a bit to find where he was located. Outside the closed bathroom door, I inquired, “Are you in there?” wondering what in the mayonnaise was I getting myself into. An urgent “yes” and “you’ve got to see this” had me even more baffled.

My eyes filled with tears when I walked onto the marble floor. There on the floor sat Sally Gal with the most relaxed hamster I had ever seen. The best way to describe the scene is he was splayed out on his belly, looking like a tiny “bearskin” rug. My husband then urged our littlest one to show me what happens if she put him down. She complied by moving Lord Business (our tiny furry friend’s name) to the floor. He swiftly and promptly scurried up her seated leg and went onto her outstretched hand where he repeated his relaxed stance.

There we were, all three (well four if you count the hamster) cooped up in that bathroom. I know Reed’s spirit was there. His animal whisperer tendencies breathe through every song she sings to her little buddy. His gentle and humble spirit was there when in their first few days of knowing each other she showed her new pet that despite their size difference, she would never harm him. I could almost picture Reed, glasses askew, red hair a mess with his nose right down to her palm to get the best view in the room.

It is in these moments that I vividly remember this is exactly why God sent his son. Those sacred places where we get a glimpse of our loved ones through a whispered memory. Because of God’s son, one day I will see my son again. When I look at it that way, heaven doesn’t seem so far away.

And every day Reed feels closer when I look in the eyes of one special little girl.

Really being camera shy!

Really being camera shy!

15 days: The blonde-headed baby

2 Replies

Each month, I have the honor of speaking to our church’s AWANA kids. I try to coordinate my talk with the theme of the night, but that is not always possible. Last night’s theme was “dress like a mess”. While I have spoken at women’s groups on “making your mess your message”, I didn’t feel kindergarteners through sixth graders had enough life experience to really make a go of that talk. So I did what I always do when preparing a speech (for any audience), I waited for God to spark my heart and thoughts.

About four days before AWANA, I felt that old nudge as to what my talk should be based upon. It took some coordinating, but after digging through countless Rubbermaid totes in my storage room, I found the object I needed . . . although I kept her hidden until mid-way through my allotted time last night.

Next week, the kiddos will be celebrating Jesus’ birthday; so, I opened with telling them about when I was a little girl. In some ways, I feel sorry for them because a beloved part of my Christmases growing up is completely foreign to their world. The face of every adult in the room travelled back in time when I told the kids about how my brother and I would wait and wait and WAIT some more for the Christmas catalogs to arrive. We would spend hours perusing through the wish books picking out just the gifts we hoped to receive. I heard a few chuckles when I said the Montgomery Ward catalog was always my favorite.

I told the AWANA clubbers about a Christmas when my whole view on toys changed. So unlike the world these kids live in, back in the day, brunette baby dolls were virtually non-existent. One year, my beloved MW catalog had a tiny baby doll with (Yep! You guessed it) brunette molded hair. Oh! I wanted that baby! How I wanted that baby! I wished and wished and could not wait to wake up on Christmas morning, assured she would be there waiting.

Only that is not what happened. There under the tree was another blonde-headed baby doll. I was heartbroken, and though I tried my best to love the little blonde baby, she was never going to be in the league of the Bye Lo Baby.

My precious Bye-Lo Baby surrounded by an almost 70 year old quilt made by my Mama.

My precious Bye-Lo Baby surrounded by an almost 70 year old quilt made by my Mama.

The baby of my dreams made another catalog appearance the following Christmas and eventually made her way into my loving arms.

I have been busy helping to direct this year’s children’s Christmas pageant at our church, and each week we have a lesson, detailing the different gifts of advent, that corresponds to a portion of our script. One week I asked my sweet kiddos to name five gifts they received last year. After a period of time, I had them list all the gifts they would like this year. Even though I could have predicted the outcome, the actual results of my experiment were startling.

Reassuring them all, I confessed that a gift I had been dreaming of for many years which still sits in the box in came in. The lust and lure of gifts are not only appealing to children with visions of sugarplums in their heads.

Unlike the baby doll I never wanted (but who grew into a nice member of my childhood pretend family), there is a baby who once came into the world who will never and who has never disappointed me. Though, I cannot say the same about myself to that baby. I have done plenty of things that have made him sad throughout my life, but his steady presence in all I do has been the best present I have ever received.

I would be lying if I told you I wasn’t pining for more this Christmas. I truly do want more: more of the peace that comes from spending time with that baby, more of the joy that comes from being content, more time to be a blessing to others, and more love to share. I realize that to get more there will need to be less: less hurried, less focus on things that don’t truly matter, and less wishing for things of this world that don’t truly satisfy.

If I can (with God’s help) do that, then I will have MORE than enough Christmas.

Author’s note: On the lighter side, I love to laugh. I can always use MORE of that in my day. I knew the subject of today’s blog a few days ago, and I always wonder how much of what I teach or speak on actually sticks with an audience. This morning, God gave the answer to that question as well as a joyful bowl of laughter. Our little Sally Gal recently was given a hamster. He is a delightful little creature whom she adores, and it appears the feeling is mutual. He rests in her hand as soon as she takes him out to play. Of course, every day she serenades him multiple times. Her little angelic voice can be heard singing all sorts of tunes and melodies. The rest of us really like “Lord Business” (named after a favorite character from the Lego movie), but he does really put an impact on our sleeping. Erin says she believes he is training for a marathon as he runs on his wheel ALL NIGHT LONG. Alternate names of “Squeaky McGoo” and “Lord Busyness” have been floated around by the big people in our house. On our trip to the college tour, we stopped by a huge pet store and invested in a whisper quiet wheel. Let’s just say we have a sad hamster today because I think the wheel is too small for him. Downtrodden and heartbroken for her buddy, Cloie told me at breakfast, “Mom, I think that new hamster wheel is his blonde-headed baby doll!” She was listening all along!

16 days: We bring you good tidings

2 Replies

I have a group of young girls in my life who are having a rough go of things. From the outside looking in, their collective suffering is in one aspect of their daily world. The emotions of joy and despair are never far from the surface. So much weight on such young shoulders!  For now – only for now – their hard work has not proven meritorious. This is what the world sees.

But I know about what has gone on where very few eyes have watched.

Underneath proudly worn jerseys live some of the kindest hearts you will ever find.

Upon hearing the news of a family hurting, they hatched a plan to give back. They plotted, they schemed, and they executed one of the nicest things I have ever seen a group of teen girls do.

In a season when it is so easy at their ages to listen to the roar of the crowd of “I want”, “I wish” or “I’ve just gotta have it”, they listened to the quiet still voices inside of themselves. Those voices said give generously because love conquers most everything.

That alone is something to be proud of.

But there is a little more to the story. Their actions reflected the true spirit of the little baby who was humbly born in a manger because for most of these girls the family was strangers. They gave anyways, knowing that for that little baby family includes anyone you chose to love. Bringing good tidings of great joy was for more important than any other measure anyone could ever use.

To me, they are winning in all the ways that matter.

Photo found at www.npr.org

Photo found at www.npr.org

17 days: Christmas far from home

Leave a reply

Today we went with the Boy Wonder on a college tour as he is narrowing down his choices for next year. Door decorations on one door stopped me in my tracks. In bold black and gold lettering, the suite door read, “MY AIRMEN IS CURRENTLY DEPLOYED!” Below the lettering was a small chalkboard with “148 days left” written in beautiful penmanship. The village (which is the name for the building) was absolutely stunning, but those holiday decorations made my eyes fill with tears.

During my blog’s long hiatus, I was filling in as a long-term substitute teacher at a school I hold dear for a teacher whose family had recently gone through a trial eerily similar to the one my family has walked. My heart was to help in any way I knew how – even if it meant I had to stretch. And stretch I did as I was teaching Social Studies (which I love but which is not my area of expertise). Science and mathematics – like riding a bike, I tell you.

In my first hour of the day, the last unit we studied was World War I. On a few of my final days, we reenacted the Christmas Truce of 1914 when German and British soldiers not only held a cease-fire for 24 hours, but also celebrated Christmas together by entering No Man’s Land. They exchanged rations as presents and sang carols in native tongues as well as collaboratively in Latin. So far from home, yet a piece of home was present in their hearts in the humanity and generosity of the moment.

From The Illustrated London News of January 9, 1915: "British and German Soldiers Arm-in-Arm Exchanging Headgear: A Christmas Truce between Opposing Trenches"

From The Illustrated London News of January 9, 1915: “British and German Soldiers Arm-in-Arm Exchanging Headgear: A Christmas Truce between Opposing Trenches”

A year ago, my family was “support staff” to our dear friends while their Captain was mobilized far from home. We prayed, encouraged, called, texted, e-mailed, visited, and prayed some more while our soldier was away from his family. I don’t know if it was his recent and safe return home that made my eyes a little more weepy when I saw this door or if it was the reminder of so many families who too were paying an often forgotten sacrifice to keep my family free and safe. The families on the home front pick up the pieces left by the absence of a dear one while serving on active duty while all the time hoping that their loved ones are safe. Life doesn’t stop back at home.

Families soldier on.

It is not easy. It is not fun. It is dang hard work. It is emotionally exhausting. It is physically, mentally, and sometimes spiritually draining.

There is no other choice except to keep living.

The families of our military service men and women do IT every day – without recognition, without fanfare, and without hoopla.

This Christmas, I am asking each of you to do something kind – boldly, bravely and courageously, for a military family. If you don’t know of one personally, I am including the link for Holiday Mail for Heroes (which is now completely organized by the Red Cross).  If you think that a card doesn’t matter, I personally invite you to my house for a glass a sweet tea and a trip down memory lane with my husband, who for over twenty years has saved every (I mean EVERY) card, letter, or drawing he received when he was on active duty during Desert Storm.

Be Brave! I know me and my peeps will be!

18 days: a blue Christmas

Leave a reply

Before the darkest day of my life, I thought the title of today’s blog was just a schmaltzy holiday tune. After experiencing profound and tragic loss, it became more of a realistic sentiment. A rural church in my area annually hosts a Blue Christmas service where grieving families can come to remember lost loved ones. I have never attended, but I do think the ceremony could bring comfort to many.

I have written before about my struggle with hanging stockings because I should have seven children’s stockings to hang instead of three. I DREAD that day each year. On my part it involves a lot of stall tactics and general avoidance.

I am so thankful however that my friends do not utilize those same tactics. Employing aptly timed visits, phone calls, or texts, they seem to sense a gentle nudging from our Father above that I am feeling down. The blessing of their friendship works EVERY single time.

Every day, I exchange daily prayer requests with a dear one in my life. Today, she told me about a small act that she did over the weekend. Feeling worn and weary from her own life’s struggles, she just needed to do something to bless someone else as a way to pick up her own holiday mood. As she was telling me the story, my mind was racing around the thought that I SO get it when you feel you have used up all your goodness and mercy. When everything seems to be going wrong, the only thing that makes sense is to find a way to reach out and brighten someone else’s day.

She went to the store and bought a small bag of treats and delivered the gift to a grieving mom. Her retelling the story made me choke up, because I understand how one small act, at a time when everyone else is anticipating Christmas day with great joy, can be transformational. A small kindness reminds me and every other grieving person that our loved one hasn’t been forgotten. A simple token whispers directly to the soul saying a name we long for no one to forget.

My friend’s story reminded me of all the acts (big and small) that friends (near and far) have done for me and my family. Each kindness changing the hue of a blue Christmas by pointing us to the true author of hope – a tiny baby wrapped in swaddling clothes!

 Blue Christmas

19 days: We shall never forget

Leave a reply

Please excuse a short momentary break from all things Christmas.

Two things hold constantly true for me. I am always a keeper of stories, especially those passed down by family members. I am also a burden bearer. My heart hurts when others hurt, even historical hurts. It isn’t exactly rare when those two constants collide, but when they do, I hold what unfolds tenderly and dearly in my spirit. Such was the case when I had a phone call with my Mama the other day.

I call my ninety-year-old grandmother fairly often because I know someday I won’t have that opportunity, and I do not wish to miss any chances to savor time with her, even if she lives twelve hundred miles away. Over the years, we have talked about everything under the sun. Most stories in her collection, I have heard more than once before. This held true until that phone conversation when she told a story I had NEVER heard before.

She commented about seeing her namesake on the annual family calendar I give as a gift for grandparents and great-grandparents. She reminded me that the little Cloie had an upcoming birthday. Teasingly, I said my family had another birthday, our dog’s, to celebrate first. Her retort was, “Well, how could I forget it? You put it on the calendar!”

The mood shifted a bit when I said it was always easy to remember our Huckleberry’s birthday because it coincided with the anniversary of the bombing of Pearl Harbor. The moment those last two words left my mouth, the old memories came spilling out. It was as precious a moment to me as it reconnected me with my Mama’s family.

She said everyone should remember that date and hold it sacred. She remembered the day as if it were yesterday. In east central Alabama, the Cunningham’s (my Mama’s birth family) were getting ready for church. In a sharecropping family with twelve children, that was no small feat. The radio was playing gospel music in the background before the normal programming was abruptly interrupted. The choked up announcer relayed the information as best he knew it at that time.

The United States at Pearl Harbor, Hawaii had been attacked by Japanese forces. The toll in terms of lives taken and property destroyed was indescribable, but the vulnerability felt for the first time by entire generations of Americans was even greater. Just the retelling of the story, one that had a significant impact on her life, left my Mama choked up.

“It was the first time I had ever seen my Daddy cry.”

As soon as he heard the newscaster’s words, he sat down at the kitchen table and wept. Mama Cloie described it as sobbed. There they stood as young children and teens, surrounding their loving Daddy, not fully understanding what they were witnessing. He had lived through the Great War, World War I, something his generation never wanted to relive. As the patriarch of his family, he knew, without a shadow of a doubt he knew, what would happen to his young sons and his brothers-in-law as America regrouped and dealt with one of her darkest hours.

His knowledge of past hurts proved to be prophetic, my great uncle Preacher (his nickname) and my great-great uncles Arly and Hef were all sent away to fight for America on foreign soil. Their lives changed forever.

Tonight as we drove by a city building on our way to a banquet, we saw the flag being flown at half-staff. I wanted to call my Mama and tell her, “We remember. But more importantly, we shall never forget.”

Photo found on www.nbcnews.com

Photo found on www.nbcnews.com

20 days: Peace on Earth

Leave a reply

There are days. You know the kind of days when nothing goes right. It seems like on those days my kids ability to get on each other’s last nerve is in perfect form. They have simply used up all their goodness and mercy. I will also tell you that on those days I cry a little. All three of my kids have lost a sibling, and all three have regrets of something they wish they could have said or done differently. On those days when everything is going wrong, I just want to scream, “It’s like you’ve all forgotten what it is like to lose a brother!”

Friday night’s basketball didn’t end the way we wanted in more than one way. The scoreboard truly didn’t reflect what our beloved Lakers are capable of doing, and in the last five minutes of the game, our #32 went down with a buckled knee. Scared and hurt – we watched seven months of hard work recovering from an injury seem to go down the drain. We didn’t know if this was a career ender or just a minor set-back. It currently seems to be the latter.

Early Saturday morning, found our Erin doing exactly the homework the coach had given them in the locker room. She was icing and elevating her knee while watching Huddle and taking notes on the game. Meanwhile upstairs our little Sally Gal was getting dressed to go to her own basketball practice. I didn’t realize that they had received their jerseys already, and I was shocked when she came out ready for team pictures.

Sheepishly, I asked her to turn around because I wanted to see what jersey number she got. The one she requested is not guaranteed. When I saw what number was printed, my throat contained a heart sized lump. I whispered to Clo to go show her sister because she was feeling pretty low, and this might be the thing to turn her morning around.

I could overhear their conversation. “Aww, Cloie did you get to pick your own number?” Her affirmation made another throat in our house suddenly feel a little lumpy. So even if it only lasted for a moment, there was peace on earth at our house.

Both of my #32's!

Both of my #32’s!