Today is a day of rejoicing in my blessings far more than it is a day of rejoicing in me. It was not always this way. Back when I was still pretty stupid, I expected a lot. Perfect church behavior. The perfect after-church restaurant experience. A present that was clearing a home-run off eBay.

Brother.

I’m glad I got over that. It’s exhausting to be such a pain in the neck. Trust me. Today I am reflecting on four little people; four love letters from God.

The best way I can share how thankful I am is to post a few thoughts I have written over the years.

Thursday Morning in May, 2010
Dearest Son,
Happy Birthday. Happy.Birthday. When we brought you home nine years ago and spent 5 full days staring into your face, I couldn’t have imagined I’d still be staring in awe in 2010. I thought I’d eventually get over you. I haven’t. Tonight you were coughing so enthusiastically that I was afraid you might lose something you were going to later need, like a tooth or your uvula. So I kept you home from church. As you began to settle in for sleep, I rubbed your buzzed little head and said, “I am so lucky to be your mom. So lucky.” You opened your eyes and said, “Why, Mama?” As I told you then, I am telling you now. There are hundreds of reasons. You were the first best thing to happen to our family. You were chosen. You are the perfect oldest brother in a family who needs you. You love to read. You love animals. You love the outdoors. You’ll eat absolutely anything. You have a smile that captures hearts even when you are trying not to capture anything! You reach for your baby sister’s hand during the mealtime prayers and she squeezes you across the table. You try hard. You are everything I ever wanted. When your eyes pop open in the morning, it’ll be all about the anticipation of gifts and after school swimming. Right now, in this moment, it’s all about the God who brought us together and a life that is nothing short of spectacular.
Happy Birthday, Boy.
Love,
Mom

My third child bears a name that means “Bringer of Light” and never has anyone been named more appropriately. She’s a darling that I couldn’t describe if I tried. She is very different from her brothers in her interactions with me. Though I consider the boys to be sweet and affectionate, it is rare that they are still enough to be attentive and receptive to a serious snuggle. This girl likes to be swaddled, even at 18 months, after getting out of the bath. I wrap her in a towel and cradle her until she is ready to get into pajamas. At this point, she just looks into my eyes and talks. It’s a special type of communion that only happens after a bath when she’s wrapped in that towel in my arms. And it’s a special time that only happens because she’s willing to be still and quiet and because she so enjoys this time with just me. It made me consider the difference between her and the boys. It made me consider my own relationship with God. So often, I am like the boys. They love me, but they are racing through the house at break-neck speed with pirate swords, too busy to stop and look into my eyes and take anything away from me. I love God, but how often do I stop and rest against Him so that we can share REAL time? I think the crazy pirate games are great and most of life is made up of such things. But there’s a place for quiet communion. I need to resolve to swaddle myself away from my distractions and let God speak. Thank you, girl, for the lesson.

2011

Dear Baby,

I have written you so few letters in your 3 years of life and yet you are everybody’s darling.

I remember and relish your birth like it was a free trip to Disney with a stay at the Grand Floridian. Though you were extracted from my body through surgery and my accommodations included mu mus and catheters, it is still one of the greatest times of my life. There was a singularity of purpose to it. A peaceful wash of “this is exactly what I should be doing right now.” For a brief 2 days, there was no pull of guilt that I wasn’t spending enough time with your brothers and sister. There was no thought of what I should cook for dinner. I just knew a French dipped sandwich would be steaming and soggy under a tight plastic wrap, alongside a cup of apple sauce.

I didn’t wonder any of that. I did wonder who you’d be. You were perfect. I also thought you were normal and very quiet. I thought perhaps, by some stroke of chromosomal luck, your dad and I had canceled each other out and had a nice, normal baby. This is clearly not the case. We’ll talk about that later. Right now I’m praising you. 🙂

In those early peaceful moments between just you and me, I marveled at the perfection of you lying swaddled in my arms under a dark head of curls and got a chill up my spine as I thought about anything that might have prevented me from arriving at this moment. I’m so very thankful that God always knows what we need and when we need it. We needed you. Happy Birthday, Dear One.

I love you,
Mom

On this Mother’s Day in 2013, I can only say humbly and simply: Thank you, Lord. It always was and still is Your doing.

It’s hard to believe that one week ago exactly I was biking through Central Park, stopping to pop into the Met, and not sweating even a single bit. That was a lifetime ago. It was a beautiful 4 days. I still have more to say about it. I know I say this a lot. But now I have a planner. One that I actually enjoy writing in. I am so on top of life right now. And it’s been two days! ha. So, I guess there’s still a little time before I prove the concept. I have written the word “Blog” on 3 days for next week. Don’t hold your breath, but do write down in your own planner, “Check Missy’s Blog.”

Today I biked in a very different world from Central Park and enjoyed it about 66% as much. It wasn’t QUITE as pretty as a blooming 65 degree canopied sidewalk and it wasn’t QUITE as cool. But it was nice. And it afforded me the time to write the book that has been in my head for about 60 days now. Will I write it? I don’t know. But I see the beginning, middle, and end and I have never been able to do that before.  Where is Keri when I need her. Oh, yes. Mississippi. And there are phones, so I guess it will be okay.

Here is the first couple of paragraphs. I don’t plan on sharing it piece by piece. But I feel like sharing this.

Target Audience: probably 12 year olds. So if you hate it…and you aren’t 12….don’t tell me.

__________________________

I live 25 feet from a Rottweiler that bleeds constantly from the mouth. Well, it may not actually be blood.  But when he shows up in my dreams at 2 a.m., there is always blood. I am never quite sure if it is his or mine, but it’s enough to make me want to never leave my driveway.

I almost didn’t.

Days rolled into weeks before I got up the courage to pedal past the Death Hound. Little did I know he was only the first of my obstacles. I would see 16 more just like him before I even broke a sweat.

It became a part of my daily routine; part of what I did and who I was.

It was summer. And pedaling and sweating was my new normal.

This is my story.

I am the Watcher.

The most notable thing about this post is that I’m posting. Lately, this is a rarity. The second most notable thing about this post is that I am posting from the plane. The third most notable thing about this post is that the first two notable things are all I have to say.

Just kidding.

Sort of.

I am flying back from 4 days in New York City. I liked the city before I visited. Now I am obsessed with it. OB-SEessed. I want to post my reflections in a couple of days when I am slightly less fatigued. It is exhausting being a New Yorker. I know, because I am a Yorkie now. I am developing a list of helpful hints for the Yankee-impaired of How to be a REAL New Yorker.

1.  Master the crosswalks.Know the traffic patterns. Move quickly and confidently. Do not take pictures of cute dogs on the sidewalk or M & M guys on the Times Square jumbotron. Keep moving.

2. Do not accept pamphlets. Just don’t. You’re a New Yorker now. They would never accept a flyer about a city bus tour. Sheesh, man.

3.  The answer to ‘Are you a stand-up comedy fan?´ is always no. Todd took this a step farther when the 5th guy to ask us this rephrased it. The guy said, ‘Do you like to have fun?´ Todd, over it like a true New Yorker, said, ‘No, thank you.’ ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ the man replied in horror. Of course we like to have fun, salesguy. We live in New York now.

4.  Don’t say ‘No, thank you’ to strangers. That’s distinctly Southern.

5.  Do NOT eat at Auntie Anne’s pretzels unless you really, really like them, in which case you can secretly purchase a pretzel and eat it in a dark alley. Throw out the Auntie Anne’s bag.

6.  Don’t pose with ANYONE dressed in a costume in Times Square. They will charge you and likely kill you. Do you want to be killed by a weird-looking Pooh Bear? I don’t think so.

7.  Don’t like pigeons. It is VERY anti-NewYork to like, or even tolerate, the pigeon.

8.  Be super nice to your cab driver and don’t talk so much. They hate the talkers. They can SMELL the talkers.

9.  While not talking in your cab, pick a window to your right or left and stare that direction. If you try to read, you’ll probably vomit….which is way worse than talking…and if you watch where you’re going, you may gasp aloud in fear…also worse than talking.

10.  Make $3,000,000 a year to support your New Yorkish lifestyle, or go home.

Shoot. Guess I’m going home to work on Plan B.

It was magical. And I’ll be back.

 

I need to preface this very quick post by saying that I only slept 2.5 hours tonight…from 12:30ish till 3. At 3, I woke up with my left eye fusing shut and my nose wouldn’t stop running. As I laid there in the dark at the end of a king sized bed where my daughters were also sleeping, with my nostril plugged by some kleenex and my eye freaking out, I thought to myself, “This must be what youth and beauty really feel like.” Actually, I did think that. But in a very sarcastic thinking tone.

I only say all of that so that if I misspell the word ‘tree’ or say something uncharacteristically stupid, you might forgive me.

Forgiveness is what this post is all about.

Late last night, a friend posted an article on her facebook wall about an incident I do not remember in the news. But I read the article and then I clicked a link within the article to a video slideshow. That moment felt like it changed my life just enough to matter. Certainly enough to share.

Most of us have been taught the fundamentals of forgiveness. We know we are supposed to offer it when needed. We know what it is supposed to look like. We know it is good for us and for others. In some cases, it is easy to offer…when what was taken from us or handed down to us in abuse is not so bad or so personal.

But what do we do when the very worst is done? When the very worst is stolen away? When what is taken cannot be given back…ever? What then? We rank the world’s grievances and wrongdoings. The little white lie barely registers. Stealing from an employer…maybe a little higher. Betrayal. Abuse.  Murder. It all has a ranking.

What happens when a dude gets stone drunk, gets in his car, and drives like a man possessed until he slams into the car carrying my daughter and her friend? What would I do then? How would I react? Would I hate him? Curse him? Teach my other family members to be bitter? Or could I have the strength to forgive him? To give back to a world that stole the most precious thing on earth from me?

I hope I could find that strength. Jesus taught me to–Jesus led the way–but the real world examples can be so very hard.

This woman absolutely amazes me. Read her story. Where the article references “screens this video,” click that link and watch the slideshow. If you have teens, even really good ones, show it to them.

I hope no one reading this will ever be faced with such trauma. But if you are, I hope you can find a lighted path in the world, like this amazing woman. It really is the way to healing.

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2012/04/20/renee-napier_n_1440809.html

It is 1:13 a.m. on Wednesday morning and I have a thousand things I should be doing. But at this moment on this night, I am sitting under the soft light of a single lamp and listening to “Never Saw Blue” by Shawn Colvin. I almost can’t listen to this song without getting weepy, because in one instant I can travel back almost 12 years to a life with only my firstborn boy (that’s Calvin Fletcher to you now, people. Get used to it. :D). He slept in a nursery upstairs that I poured my heart into for months. He came as a result of much praying, many heartbreaks, and years of searching. And as he would sleep upstairs, I would prop up in bed at night with an ancient laptop and download music that made me think of him. Those were the days of free music and I was a Napster expert. Propped up in my bed late, late at night, I would listen to these songs, think about my tiny baby upstairs, and cry.

And the most amazing thing about music is that it can utterly transport you into another place in time. Tonight I am 30 and my boy is a month old and these are the lyrics of a really great song. Before Cal, I never saw blue like I see it now.

I hope I’m still 30 in the morning…

Never Saw Blue Like That by Shawn Colvin
Today we took a walk up the street
And picked a flower and climbed the hill
Above the lake

And secret thoughts were said aloud
We watched the faces in the clouds
Until the clouds had blown away

And were we ever somewhere else
You know, it’s hard to say

And I never saw blue like that before
Across the sky
Around the world
You’ve given me all you have and more
And no one else has ever shown me how
To see the world the way I see it now
Oh, I, I never saw blue like that

I can’t believe a month ago
I was alone, I didn’t know you
I hadn’t seen or heard you’re name
And even now, I’m so amazed
It’s like a dream, It’s like a rainbow, it’s like the rain

And somethings are the way they are
And words just can’t explain

Cause I never saw blue like that before
Across the sky
Around the world
You’ve given me all you have and more
And no one else has ever shown me how
To see the world the way I see it now
Oh, I, I never saw blue like that before

And it feels like now,
And it feels always,
And it feels like coming home

I never saw blue like that before
Across the sky
Around the world
You’ve given me all you have and more
And no one else has ever shown me how
To see the world the way I see it now
Oh, I never saw blue like that before

There’s a lot to be known of someone or something just by what it is called.
For instance, a scalpel cuts your scalp off. A fireplace is a place where fire goes. The KIA Soul has SOUL and I want one. A minivan is a very small van.

For this reason, names were a huge topic of conversation in our house from Day 1 of our marriage. Unfortunately for the children we’d end up having, we didn’t much discuss their upbringing. We did, however, talk incessantly about their names. We always knew what we’d name our first boy. There was never any question. There were many questions about the others. On this blog, many of you know me and know my kids. Some of you may not know me at all and don’t care to. I decided from the beginning that if I was going to tell all their horror stories, I wouldn’t tell them by their accurate names. So we’ve been calling them by AG, Mama’s Boy, Beloved, and Snuggle Monkey. These are nicknames that all mean something. Beloved is not more beloved than the others. But her dad called her that from the beginning, so that’s who she still is.

I’m bored with all of that now. It sounds awkward as they age. In thinking back to the hours of name screenings we went through, I think to the names we argued over the most. The husband is just a little bit crazy. Just a tad. And due to the insanity, I was forced on occasion to shoot down his first choice. It’s what I do best. That and tripping pigs.

As we were going through the adoption process with our first, he began to pitch me the name, “Calvin Fletcher.” Really. What? That’s horrid. That’s a presidential name. Or a fat guy. Or a guy with two glass eyes and and hook for a hand. No. No Calvin Fletcher. I’ve since learned it was a joke, but for the sake of this blog, when I refer to Numero Uno Boy, I’ll call him Calvin Fletcher.

The second born came out clinging to my skirt and clung tighter as the years passed. I unfortunately made that worse one night while talking in the driveway to a neighbor. I thought he was dead asleep in his bed (he was about 3). Instead, he had gotten up and was searching the house for me and screaming. It was a terrible scene and I’m not sure he ever got over it. After that, it pretty much took the Secret Service and a gospel choir to convince him to leave my side. So he was named Mama’s Boy. But while he was a mere bun in the over, he had many names. The favored name that we both loved but knew we couldn’t use was Simon. Too english. Too Simple Simon. Too Simon Says. But for now, for here, Mama’s Boy is becoming Simon.

Oh, come on. It’ll be fun. Roll with me.

Beloved is a funny one, because her dad was DEAD SET on Evelyn for her. This one, unlike Calvin Fletcher, was not a joke. He loved the name Evelyn. I don’t mean to offend and this is not an insult. I only raised the point that I had never met an Evelyn who wasn’t convalescing. They were always quite wrinkly…and not baby wrinkly. I shot it down. But today on this blog, Beloved becomes Evelyn. Maybe the husband will get his fix. As if he reads this fluff.

The final baby ought to be named Miracle, because that’s what she was. But that’s neither here nor there. Todd wanted Mary. How could I have a problem with Mary, he asked? She’s the mother of Jesus. Yes, I said. That’s true. And I will never utter a foul word against the character of the mother of Jesus. But do I want that name? No. Sorry. When I looked it up in my books, it meant “bitter.” I didn’t need to curse the child with such a meaning. Knowing Snuggle Monkey as I do now, I can’t see her as a Mary. But she will be called Mary here for now.

So Calvin, Simon, Evelyn, and Mary (WOW) have taken upon themselves the business of naming our chickens. The first go-round, this made sense. There were only 4 original chickens and then 2 babies. All six, when fully grown, looked entirely different. It was easy to name them, get attached to them, and let them be pets. They did struggle to name them anything feminine. We have Silver, Phantom, Panther, Summer, Goldilocks, and Prime. Of those, only Prime was a boy.

The second batch of chickens was almost impossible to name, because (1) there were 10 of them, and (2) they all look alike.

All but one. One chicken stands out in the pack of awkward teen hens we are raising. She is blonder than the others. She has always been Evelyn’s chicken and Evelyn named her…wait for it….Eeknit. Yes, Eeknit. Pronouced EEK-nit. No idea where she came up with that or why she stuck with it. I only know that there is SOMETHING in a name, because Eeknit is as strange as a normal person at a Star Trek conference. And though I have managed to grit my teeth and get through it every day, she almost always flies out of the darkest corner of the coop and attacks me when I go in to feed them. Oh, she tries to make it look like an accident. But I know better. She’s looking for a role in a creepy bird-of-prey movie. She’s not right, that one. Today she flew out of nowhere and landed on my chest. Try that sometime, if you never have. Allow a mentally deficient teenage chicken to land just below your face and dig her talons into you. It’s fun. It’s what we do when we don’t have neighbors.

Yes, I believe in names. And I sleep with one eye open because I have a pet named Eeknit. If you never hear from me again on this blog, don’t assume I’ve taken one of my regular hiatuses. Don’t assume I’m too busy.

Assume the chicken got me.

You never do know what you are going to see in the country.

Lately, the roadkill buzzard activity has been a whole lot more interesting. Instead of your standard racoon/possum menu, this past week has brought me a wild hog on the side of the road and a coyote…all being feasted upon by the vultures. The wild hog was huge and lasted for days. It was like Thanksgiving for them. At the end, all that was left was the rib cage and part of the snout. It was a beautiful viewing for the drive home from wherever each day.

But yesterday brought something different.

There were extra kids at my house, helping celebrate freedom, Martin Luther King Jr., and a day off of school. We had decided, since it was below 80 and actually not going to be hot, to build a little campfire that we’d keep going a lot of the day. S’mores, chatting, etc. It was going to be nice. So I was out in the yard gathering my fire supplies when my oldest boy ran to me breathless and said, “Mom, there’s a bald eagle in the yard. Come quick. There’s an eagle.”

I’ve been down this road before. This is the “There’s a shark!” when it’s actually a porpoise. Or a “Coyote!!” when it’s really a house cat. So I moved toward this bird sighting at a relaxed pace, still in my pajamas, waiting to see one of the aforementioned buzzards, hopefully chewing on a filthy, beastly raccoon. I walked around the fire pit where 6 children were yelling and pointing and bouncing and flailing and I looked toward the bird.

Hmm. That’s interesting. What IS that thing? I wasn’t sure. I did think it merited a closer look, though, so I told them to stop the yelling and flailing while I ran in for the binoculars. When I returned, there was just as much flailing and bellowing and the bird was watching us. I couldn’t believe it was still there. Just sitting there at the back of the yard by the treeline. I raised my binoculars to my eyes while Mama’s Boy begged for the next look. What I saw shocked me. It was a stinking bald eagle.

And T was pouring salt into our water softener, not paying one lick of attention to any of it. That’s because it couldn’t be America’s bird. There was no way. But it was. And it was staring at me in my own yard. It was one of my favorite moments at home and I will remember it forever. Because the eagle stayed long enough for us to pass those binoculars to every child. It stayed long enough for us to get a poor quality picture and some video. And it stayed long enough to confirm my theory that a hawk is eating my chickens.

As we watched in awe, the eagle launched into the air and we watched his huge brown wings beat the sky. He circled around once and flew back toward us again. At that moment, from the opposite side of the yard, the hawk swooped in and actually started harassing the eagle who was twice his size. Twice the hawk descended upon the eagle. And finally the eagle flew away.

If that hawk will attack a bald eagle, I’m pretty sure I’ll never have free range chickens again.

But it sure was cool to watch.

 

 

• Got up right at 8. That may sound late to you, but I felt pretty good about it.
• Made breakfast for 4 famished orphans, for myself, and for 13 chickens.
• Worked on bible lessons and memory verses before 10 a.m.
• Worked out with 7 of the fittest people on the planet. They kept saying things like, “Keep your tummy tucked in nice and tight” while I responded, heaving, “If I could do THAT, I wouldn’t be doing this stupid video!” My million dollar idea that I will not actually carry out is an exercise video variation of Mystery Science Theater 3000. Instead of you having to work out to those 7 super fit snobs, you could work out with me (working out with them) as I mock them for the dumb exercise-elitest things they say. Instead of wearing tight black pants and a sports bra, I’d be wearing my floppy cut off gym pants and a large t-shirt. You’d like working out with me.
• Did 5 loads of laundry and actually put it away.
• Changed my own sheets. Such joy in clean sheets.
• Facilitated the kids’ chores. I did not actually have to do them for them.
• Walked around downtown antique shops and bought a bunch of black and white photos that made me laugh.
• Got suckered into buying carwash products at a gas station.
• Used all car wash products upon arriving at home, just to see how stupid I truly am. I fully expect the van to have no paint in the morning. Or be dirtier than it was to start with. But actually it seemed to do a pretty good job. Maybe this time, I will not end up beating myself about the head and neck.
• Ate the finest meal I’ve had lately, compliments of the male chef who lives in my home. Tilapia with some sort of dreamy sauce drizzled on it (even MAMA’S BOY ate and liked…you have NO idea what this really says about the fish!), steak, potatoes au gratin, and cabbage plucked from our garden this morning. If you add enough bacon to something, even cabbage can taste like heaven.
• Did more laundry.
• Hunted racoons. Did not get one or even see one. You know what they say, “a hunted raccoon never shows up…”
• Questioned my decision to raised 10 extra chickens. Tried to remember what my initial thought was. There is an 80% chance that this experiment will end in utter catastrophe.
• Made people take baths/showers.
• Walked 20 more minutes on the treadmill, out of guilt over what I ate for dinner.
• Blogged.

This was a super full, extremely satisfying day. I am bone tired. And happy.

I think 2013 is my year. I haven’t written down my resolutions, but I have been living them so far. I think the reason I haven’t been blogging is that I’ve been trying to take living a little more seriously. My general goal for the year is to be a better, truer me. To keep my promises, which means promising more carefully. To remember important events and people. To focus on what matters and let the little stuff go. To read the bible. To create…not people, but words and art and anything that comes to mind. Definitely not people, though. To get fit, even if it means suffering through hours and hours of really annoying people who think everyone can salsa dance as easily as they can. To live without regrets.

So far, so good.  But the chicken thing is still out there.

 

It’s probably worth noting, because it adds to the insanity, that I moved my car AND sat on my butt in the yard to shoot this photo at just the right angle for the antlers. Prior to the moved car and butt-in-yard, the antlers were getting lost in the trees. Much like an actual hunt, I imagine.

27 Days until Christmas. Do you have your Car Reindeer Kit? Just embrace it. Trust me.