I Want God to Fix Me

Last week a dear friend of mine shared a post on facebook which, quite
honestly, has dominated my thoughts and kept me awake for several nights now. Her name is Dawn and, coincidentally, we share not only our name but the same birthday month - how cool is that? And for the sake of clarity, she is the younger Dawn by far!

Dawn and I met through our childrens' sports activities and have become good friends. Mikey, her oldest son, has the biggest, most heartwarming smile you've ever seen. He loves to share hugs, high fives, and french fries at baseball games. Mikey is also a special needs young man with Down Syndrome. When our families first met, he called me 'Mrs. Hood'. I laid my hand on his arm and pleaded with him, "Mikey, please don't call me Mrs. Hood - it makes me feel old. You can call me Miss Dawn." He threw his head back and laughed big and hard, then smiled and said, "okay, Miss Dawn." He now refers to my in-laws as Mimi and Papaw and has a not-so-secret crush on our daughter Rachel. {smile}

I am blessed to know Dawn and her family. All of her children - Mikey included - are fierce athletes. Their daughter Ashley has college scholarship potential as a softball player; she also excels academically. Their two younger sons, Evan and Zach, are baseball and football superstars and Mikey, although on a special needs baseball team, far exceeds the physical and mental abilities of his teammates. As I've observed their family dynamics over the years, I've learned that Dawn and her husband Mike rarely make concessions for Mikey. They hold him accountable for his behavior, his speech, and the sometimes belligerent taunting of his sister. Having never spent a significant amount of time around a family with a special needs child, it has been fascinating to watch how they treat him - literally - just like any other kid. Somewhere in my brain I wrongly assumed there would always be the 'making excuses', the 'indulging', the 'oh, I'm sorry'.

My perspective was always based on the family's and the inspiring way in which they completely and totally embrace Mikey. (Although it has never crossed my mind that they would do anything else.) But I never thought about it from Mikey's point of view until last week's facebook post from Dawn. On a regular morning, in the midst of a regular weekday routine in which two parents were preparing themselves for the workday ahead and four children were eating breakfast and grabbing book bags for school, Mikey said to Dawn, "I don't want to be a special ed kid, Mom. I want God to fix me." 

Whoa. Shut the front door. If this were a scene in a movie, the moment would freeze on the big screen accompanied by deafening silence.

My kids have said a few things over the years that have stopped me in my tracks, but what could any parent possibly say in response to a statement like this? Dawn shared that this is a recurring topic with Mikey and also bravely shared how it breaks her heart. Mikey knows he is special needs; knows he functions at a different level and pace; knows he will always live life 'differently' from his siblings. And it frustrates him. More than how Dawn responded to his statement, I've been reflecting on Mikey's simple, innocent proclamation: "I want God to fix me."

We all have things we would like for God to 'fix': finances, marriages, wayward children, jobs, physical features that we label 'too much of' or 'not enough of' or 'just not the way I want'. But when is the last time we asked God simply, 'fix me'? I have to admit, God has really been dealing with me in this area (no, actually it's been more like hammering - I do have a stubborn streak). I tend to look at what surrounds me and want those things to change. The 'If only...I just wish...why can't I...or why don't they...'  Maybe what I need to be looking at is me and what needs to change.

I heard a sermon recently by a man, well into his 70s, addressing this very subject. His text was 15 little words nestled in the middle of Psalm 37, "Take delight in the Lord, and he will give you the desires of your heart" (v.4). Dr. Hill put it this way: "if you try to delight in what you desire, your desires will never bring you any delight."  His point was this: until I delight myself in the Lord first (the result of which is a contended heart), my desires will never satisfy me. You guessed it: hammer firmly in hand, nail placed strategically right between my eyes, swing with intent. Bam!

Will God 'fix' Mikey? I don't have any idea. Conventional wisdom, the history of medicine, and DNA would all say no. But everyone who knows and loves Mikey would tell you he doesn't need 'fixing'. Is this a pat-on-the-back, "just give God the desires of your heart, son" quick fix? Absolutely not. I don't doubt for a moment that God created Mikey in his mama's womb exactly the way He planned. I don't question that His purpose for Mikey's life is of any less importance than any other person on planet Earth. Does knowing that make it easy? Of course not. Does it satisfy Mikey's desire to be more like his siblings and their friends? Probably not. Does it explain God? No more than understanding how a clock works explains eternity.

The lesson is for me. For us. Fact is, we live in a broken world. There always have been and always will be circumstances and situations that we wish could be fixed. But how would those circumstances and situations change if nothing changed except the heart through which we look at them? Thank you, Dawn, for offering me a view behind closed doors; and thank you, Mikey, for being you.

I think my Christmas list will be short this year: Dear Santa, I want God to fix me.

Water Skis, Hockey, and Ginger Ale

How do you say goodbye to someone you've known almost your whole life? He's not family (at least not by blood relation) but he's absolutely family. I met Larry Morton when I was 12 years old and he was 31. He was married to a sweet, pretty young woman named Ruth Ann. Our families become instant, lifelong friends. They had moved to the Atlanta area from Canada and my Southern family provided endless hours of entertainment for Mort as he observed our quirky sayings, behaviors, and food choices. He loved to practice his southern drawl on my name, calling me "Daaaaawwwwwwn" then flashing his Santa Claus smile. Mort lived with wild abandon, drove a corvette, rode a motorcycle, water skied, snow skied, and (fill in the blank with every other adventurous outing imaginable). I played the piano and it was not unusual for Mort to buy me a new piece of sheet music and bring it over to our house. One of his favorites was "The Entertainer", a tricky little ragtime piece that I worked hard to master. When Mort and Ruth Ann had their first (and only) child, Nicole, I was convinced she was mine.

Mort taught my brother and me how to water ski at Lake Lanier on a warm Saturday morning in early summer when I was in high school. He showed me how to put my feet in the skis, hold the rope correctly, and lean back. Keeping my knees together and pulling hard when he hit the throttle on the boat, I came up out of the water on my first try! For many years after, my brother and I could not get enough of those early mornings and long days at the lake. Mort, my Dad, my brother, and I would go very early, meeting Ruth Ann and my mom later in the day to eat and hang out at a little cove we discovered. My confidence grew and it wasn't long before I tried to slalom. That's when the fun really began! Many a boyfriend tried to survive a day on the lake with my Dad, my brother, and Mort. Very few made it back for a second one.

Mort and Ruth Ann took me to my first professional hockey game - the Atlanta Flames. I was hooked from the first drop of the puck. Going to the games with them was the only time my parents ever let me stay out late on a school night. The highlight of those games came one night after a tough win and a few broken hockey sticks. I managed to wrangle a stick from one of the crew and Ruth Ann and I walked down to the locker room, waiting patiently for those enormous athletes to start leaving. Ruth Ann stood there with me as I sheepishly asked them to sign the stick, which they all graciously did - every last one of them. With my stick covered in Atlanta Flames autographs, I sneaked it in the house later that night and gave it to my brother for his birthday. I thought Mort and Ruth Ann were the coolest people on the planet.

We introduced Mort to my Mom's hot buttered biscuits and my Dad's famous ham. He introduced us to Verner's ginger ale. It has just the right mix of sweet and burn; I love it to this day. Some of my family's favorite meals come straight out of Ruth Ann's kitchen. She had been a school teacher in Canada and I was fascinated by her stories of how they did things 'up North'. Mort and Ruth Ann were easy and comfortable to be with and Mort was the kind of man who always made you feel better after you had been around him, even if only for a few minutes.

I recently heard a Bible study teacher sharing about I Corinthians 13:13, "And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love."  He asked what our thoughts were on why love is the greatest. A few people offered up the canned answers: because God is love; because love is a choice; because you can't have faith and hope without it; because ..." And then he explained it in a way I don't think I've ever heard before. He said that faith is something we have here and now that the Bible promises will become sight. Hope is something we have here and now that the Bible promises will be made complete. But love? Love is eternal. Love is past, present, and future. Love will remain love for all eternity. Amazing, isn't it? How a simple, different way of looking at something - even a word - can open up a whole new concept of what it really means. I can't help but believe that God gave me the opportunity to hear these truths just a week before we learned that my dear friend, one of my heroes, is on his way Home.
 
Mort, even now your faith is being made sight. Your hope is being made complete. The love you gave your family and the love they gave you will go on forever. Rest, my friend. I love you.

Resting on the Same Pillows

Someone once said, "Marriage means commitment. Of course, so does insanity." Ask anyone you know, married or single, about-to-be-married or used-to-be-married, it doesn't matter: they will all have something to say about marriage. Thousands of books have been written about marriage, hundreds of seminars and workshops are held each year on the subject, contracts are written, movies are made, and therapists and lawyers make their fortunes off of it. Still, we are no closer to figuring it out than Adam and Eve after their disastrous rendezvous at the fruit tree which gave birth to 'he said, she said' and the beautiful madness of marriage.

Irving Stone's The Agony and The Ecstacy, published in 1961, is an amazing, masterfully written 'biographical novel' on the life of Michaelangelo. It is also a haunting and insightful portrayal of marriage. We see the contrast in the rich historical Renaissance era between Florence - a cultural mecca for artists, architects, musicians, and writers - and Rome, the political, religious, and educational benchmark for all of Italy.  Both cities brought their own unique value to their country, and to all of Europe as a result.  But not only in the culture where he was raised, we see Michaelangelo's own personal battles mirror that of marriage. The passion with which he pursued what he loved, the despair of rejection and/or failure, the very struggle necessary to create. And the glory of a life well lived, leaving behind astounding works of art that have touched countless millions of lives.

We've all heard 'men are from Mars, women are from Venus'. We are also from Florence and Rome. We are salt and pepper, dogs and cats, blue sky and deep green ocean, and velvet and steel. For all the ways we explore understanding and overcoming our differences, our contrasting elements are the stage of struggle on which we create things of beauty, works of art. Where would fried chicken be if seasoned only with pepper? How boring would a dog's life be if never given the opportunity to chase after a cat? Would the sky be as blue if it did not rest peacefully against a deep green ocean? And could we truly appreciate the strength of steel if we never cradled velvet against our cheek?

My husband and I will be married for 17 years tomorrow. There have been seasons of ecstacy and times of overwhelming agony. We have loved, laughed, cried, yelled, made promises, made threats, and bought and sold cars, houses, and furniture. We have three wonderful children. We've shared many more pets. We're learning to learn from others' mistakes and celebrate their successes. And we're learning what works for us. At the end of the day, for all our married ups and downs, he knows me. I know him. We draw strength, stability, and sometime arguments from each other. And at night, resting on the same pillows, there is comfort in knowing that Rome and Florence are learning to peacefully and productively co-exist.

The struggle to create something of beauty. The glory of leaving behind a work of art. The beautiful madness of marriage.

At Home...Where it Hurts

In my mid-20s, I was part of a small Bible study group which was, truth be told, probably more of a 'find your spouse' study group than anything else.  We had a lot of fun and spent ridiculous amounts of time together as a group.  Church functions, discovering new restaurants, pool parties, bowling, Christmas decorating, weekend trips, shopping, football, Spades tournaments that lasted for days, New Year's eve parties, and more than a few late night races between those of us who had fast cars (and yes, I was one of them). One particular weekend, very late on a Saturday night, we were exploring how we felt about the serious topic of life.  Everyone had to write on a piece of paper one word to describe how they felt about death. We scribbled on our papers and folded them up, laid them in a basket, and one person began reading all the words out loud.  "Scared", "dark", "alone", "final", and "trapped" were just a few of the sentiments.  Then our self-imposed leader read mine: "peace". 

Now don't get me wrong: I love being alive and want to squeeze every moment I have out of it. A friend said to me recently (in her elegant, slow Southern drawl), "Dawn, I hope when you reach the end of your life, there's no more dance left in you."  Her simple statement hit me deeply as someone who has faced a terminal illness and, praise God, lived to tell about it. I truly don't have a death wish. But as far back as I can remember, I've never been afraid of it.  Death has always seemed to me a warm blanket of rest. And letting go. And peace.

For the past several years, I've had the wonderful privilege to be part of a volunteer ministry at my church whose primary focus is caring for families as they navigate the dark waters of a loved one's terminal illness.  As one of the leaders, I am often the first point of contact for a family after they have been advised by their doctor that it's time to 'call in hospice'. Our small band of volunteers serve as a sort of liaison between the family and hospice care. Many of them have never heard of hospice and don't fully understand what it is, so we help them understand the language of 'end of life' care.  We also help with the daily tasks of life: housecleaning, yard maintenance, preparing meals, laundry, grocery shopping, and day-to-day errands, so that family members are able to focus on caring for their loved one.

There is no time or energy for hiding behind masks here. Grieving before a loved one draws their last breath takes on many faces, and we have learned that no one has the right to dictate how another walks down the path to good-bye. Sometimes they need to laugh so they don't fall apart.  Sometimes they need to vent - and there are no rules about language here. Sometimes they need to weep. Bitterly. Sometimes they need to ask questions and try to answer what is destined to remain unknown.  Sometimes they need to sit and embrace the silence. But they don't want to be silent by themselves. There is an unspoken comfort that comes from simply having a warm body close enough to reach out and touch. Even if they don't

People often ask why we do what we do - especially when they hear about us for the first time.  "You mean you go into a stranger's house and clean their toilets?" Yes.  "Why on earth would you practically move in with someone who's dying?" Because they need us.  "Wow - you guys are weird."  The families we care for would disagree.  There are many answers, and we all respond in our own way. But for me, the answer is two-fold: meeting people at the point of their need is what Jesus does. Not to over-spiritualize or set ourselves up on some kind of pedestal, but for me it is truly that simple. However, a very strong secondary driving force, and probably what drew me to this in the first place, is that I feel very much at home with people who are broken.  Whether they are broken because of their own choices or choices that were made for them or choices that were forced on them, I am drawn to them.

After being unemployed for almost a year (three days shy of one year to be exact) I've been incredibly blessed to begin working with an organization whose focus is providing a safe haven for ministers and their families in crisis. It is a comprehensive, intense program (on average from 12-15 months in duration) which offers relocation, housing, counseling, and childcare when necessary in an effort to provide healing and restoration to ministers and their families who have had to walk away from their calling - as a result of their own actions, or the actions of their home church.  I was initially thrilled about this opportunity because it meant I would be writing - and getting paid for it!  But it didn't take long for me to realize that once again, I'm submerged in an environment where people's lives have been shattered.  Men questioning their failures. Women questioning their marriage. Children questioning their future. 

The vast majority of the time, I will not personally interact with these families. Most of them I will probably never even meet.  But what we are doing is helping them put their lives back together. The 'safe haven' we provide is guiding them to an honest and authentic relationship with God, themselves, their families, and their church. It is a painful process. Peeling back years of unresolved or unexplored issues to face the core of their own souls.  And then to slowly, gently provide the balm of restoration. To help them stand again, scarred from the battle, but equipped with tools to win the war. I can't say I love my job because it doesn't feel like a job. I love what I am a part of. I love knowing that families have a place for hope.

And I feel very much at home.

Eight Years in the Attic

I cleaned out our attic this week.  It's only June - not even Summer yet according to the calendar - but the Atlanta area is already enduring temperatures way up in the 90s.  My goal was to work in the mornings before the heat soared past unbearable.  However, anyone who knows me knows that once I get started on a 'project', it's hard for me to stop.  I'm like a freight train on crack. 

So I climbed the stairs, took a few steps onto the plywood flooring and looked around. Wow. I think there must be something about insulation, duct-taped boxes, and intense heat that promotes reproduction.  Where did all this stuff come from?  I found suitcases, Christmas decorations, papers from previous school years, air filters, clothes, and toys.  It seemed easy enough to begin editing.  I started with broken toys (how did they end up in the attic and not the trash can?)  I then moved on to parts and pieces of incomplete Christmas decorations (repeat previous question).  Clothes that no one in my family will ever wear again, luggage long past its prime, and a collection of stuffed animals that would rival FAO Schwartz brought back great memories, despite the fact that I was beginning to look and feel like I was at boot camp in the desert.

Going through each box with just enough detail to make sure I wouldn't regret our Friday morning visit from the trash man, I was quickly filling the bags beside me.  Then I found it.  The box with Rachel's costume from her dance recital six years ago.  It was an adorable bright yellow top and skirt that felt something like a cross between vinyl and plastic with black taffeta everywhere (literally).  Her group danced to Rascall Flatt's Life is a Highway.  I remember her practically floating down the stairs to show her Daddy after we had the whole outfit perfectly in place, complete with slicked back her hair and makeup. She was beaming and her Daddy was speechless.

Next, I came across a collection of sports cars that Alex collected when he was much younger.  I remember the various Christmas and birthday celebrations when he received them and how he studied them, learned about the make and model, discovered all the parts that would open and close, and proudly displayed them in his room.  His favorite by far was the truck his Granddaddy gave him, a replica of his own. Alex kept a very special place reserved just for that truck and it was very often the first one he showcased when anyone else admired his collection.

With the heat sweltering and my eyes stinging from sweat running down my face, I was about ready to call it a day. My stomach told me it was well past lunchtime but I decided to go through one more stack before descending into the comfort of the air conditioned hallway. I moved a small blue blanket that a family friend had made for Stephen's crib and opened the box underneath where I saw a stack of cards and some computer-printed sheets of paper. 

And I started reading.  "Dawn, we are praying for you and your family every day"; "Please know that Heaven is being bombarded with your name!"; "Our children pray for you and Baby Hood every morning before breakfast"; "So sorry to hear that you must undergo another surgery"; "Praying for you as you begin your chemotherapy treatments"; "Please let us know if we can do anything for you"; "You and Richard are a testimony of God's strength and grace"; "I love your short hair!"; "The Lord brings you to mind several times each day and I am asking Him to give you strength and courage"; "Thank you for your updates by email...it helps me pray specifically for everyone in your family"; "You look fabulous with a bald head!"  More cards.  More Scripture passages.  More prayers.  Countless emails and notes of encouragement. 

I have no idea how long I sat on the floor of our attic reading those precious notes of encouragement, remembering like it was yesterday.  But what really made my heart swell was the realization that nearly ten years later I remain close to almost everyone who sent those cards, notes, and letters.  How it blessed me to realize that these friends and family have shared the good, the bad, the ugly, and the miracles of life with us! 

I was drenched when I slowly, carefully, came down those rickety stairs and closed the 'trap door'.  But my spirit felt uplifted. Encouraged. Strong.

Eight years in the attic.  And still so very close to my heart.

The First Man

 

I wrote this and submitted it to a greeting card company last year.  My Daddy was the inspiration for every word.  

  

Dad,

You were the first man to ever hold me in your arms
The first man whose shoulder I laid my head on
The first man whose hand I reached for
The first man whose name I called when I was scared

You were the first man to ever kiss me goodnight
The first man to smile as I modeled a new dress
The first man to wipe away my tears
The first man to celebrate my accomplishments

You were the first man to ever say to me, "you are beautiful'
The first man who ate cookies I made from scratch
The first man who wore a "hand-painted" shirt or tie
The first man who wrapped me in his arms for a photograph

You were the first man to let me go as I became a woman

And you will always be the first man I ever loved.

Thanks, Dad.

Happy Father's Day.  I love you.

To All the Men I've Loved Before...

Willie Nelson made these words famous crooning about all the girls who had been in and out of his life for various purposes (some honorable, some not so much) and for varying lengths of time.  Father's Day is quickly approaching so I'd like to share about the men who have deeply impacted and influenced my life. 

Tomorrow you will be treated to a special guest blogger - a dear friend of mine and former co-worker who, in my humble (but accurate) opinion, ought to be famously famous and hangin' out on top of the best seller list for months at a time.  But I guess if those things were true about him, I wouldn't know him as a friend.  He is as "Southern gentleman" as they come, possesses a wonderfully salty personality complimented by a heavy shot of Tabasco, and shares Biblical truths with deeply profound insight.  Not to mention he's crazy in love with his wife and over the moon for his kids.  I'm confident you will be delighted by tomorrow's blog featuring Jason Brooks.  But for now, I'd like to give you my perspective on some pretty incredible men...here they are:


My first crush: I was in Kindergarten and his name was Bruce. I really can't tell you much more about him except to say I have warm memories of my 5-year-old smile, happily swinging my shoulders back and forth, dreamily fantasizing that he was crushing on me, too.  Unfortunately, even among our small Kindergarten class of boys and girls, I'm fairly confident he didn't know I was alive.

David Cassidy, lead singer for the Partridge Family.  I thought he looked like the older, more grown-up version of my brother, and I absolutely adored my brother (more about him later).  I knew every word to every song, every facial expression, and probably the pattern on every 70s-inspired shirt he wore.  Driving down the interstate one day, my Dad pointed out that their tour bus was beside us.  It was destiny!  I just knew that David Cassidy would look out his window, see the girl (literally - I think I was 10) of his dreams and serenade me into the gorgeous Eastern sunset.  Alas, the old man driving the bus was not influenced by my frantic waving or my Dad's honking and did not sense the urgency of waking my prince from his slumber somewhere in the back of the bus.  And down the highway he went...

My Grandfathers, PawPaw and PaPa.  PawPaw was my Dad's dad and PaPa was my mother's.  PawPaw was very much like a piece of M&Ms candy: crusty and a little hard on the outside but soft and sweet on the inside.  He bragged that I was the only one of his grandchildren he ever changed a diaper for.  PawPaw was a WWII vet, a self made man, and an expert gardener.  He graciously allotted a small area of his massive back yard for a swing set where my cousins and I spent many hours sliding, swinging, and teeter-tottering on summer days while he and my grandmother harvested summer vegetables and fruits.  He was a collector of all things Coca-Cola, loved to go antique shopping, and spoiled my grandmother. I was angry with him when he re-married quickly after my Grandmother died and it was PawPaw who first taught me that no one can dictate how another person grieves.  You see, my Grandmother died of Alzheimer's and he had grieved the loss of the woman he knew and loved for so long that by the time she physically died, he simply moved through the steps of her funeral and burial.  I didn't like being angry at him. I felt as if I were somehow betraying him, but it was driven by the sense that he had betrayed my Grammie.  It didn't last long.  The first time I met his new wife and saw that big Andy Taylor smile on his face, all was forgiven.  He was a good man and I loved him. 

I loved both my Grandfathers.  But my PaPa and I shared something special. I don't know why, I don't even know how to describe it.  It simply was.  He was a perfect balance of strong and tender.  An unexpected quick wit, he could make us laugh about anything.  I remember one summer when the five granddaughters enjoyed an extended stay with him and my Grandmother.  Every morning started out around the breakfast table on our knees.  We were all too young to appreciate the prayers he prayed over us, but the love that motivated those prayers was undeniable.  PaPa had a way of making each one of us believe that we were his favorite.  He loved 'his girls' and told us at every opportunity. He approached the pulpit before every sermon with a sense of deep gratitude that he had been given the privilege and calling to impact other people's lives with the grace of God.  Losing him to cancer was almost more than any of us could bear.  PaPa lived with dignity and showed us how to die with the same.  He ran his race well and finished strong, telling everyone his greatest regret was being forced to leave his family. He loved us hard and I miss him every day.

My Dad. He was raised 'Bobby', a beautiful boy with snow white hair (even then) and crystal blue eyes.  My Mom started calling him 'Bob' when they began dating and I've heard him called several nicknames over the years, Father Time and Mr. C. among others.  He is the strongest man I've ever known.  Period.  I loved crawling up in his lap as a little girl and remember many vacations being launched into what felt like outer space as he threw me across the pool.  I was his shadow, following him around as close as a second skin any time he was home.  He and my Mom bought me a beat up old baby grand piano that he lovingly restored to a work of art.  My Dad is not openly affectionate but one look in those pools of blue and there is no question about his love.  On the flip side, those same eyes could make my blood run cold when I knew I'd disobeyed or disappointed him.  And I returned the flash of lightning only once, when he inadvertently referred to someone else by my nickname, 'Sweetie'.  No words necessary.  That is one mistake made only once.  My knight in shining armor, my manager, the calm waters in my sometimes turbulent life, my hero.  My Dad. 

My Brother.  I think I must have loved him even before I was born.  When we were young I told him I wanted to marry him.  "We can't get married," he flatly replied. "We'll have messed up babies!"  My solution was simple. "We don't have to have babies.  I just want to marry you."  Yes, we had our share of fusses and fights but nobody, and I mean nobody, other than him dared to mess with me. We had daring (and often dangerous) adventures throughout high school that involved fast cars, unchaperoned parties, and the Chattahoochee River (details intentionally omitted).  He moved home to Georgia from South Carolina when I was diagnosed with cancer and dedicated a tattoo on his right arm to my battle.  It is a sunset with the Chinese symbols representing, "Dawn, my bravest sister."  No matter how long between phone calls, emails, or visits, I know we will always pick up where we left off.  He is a terrific uncle to my kids and one of my greatest sources of encouragement. 


My Husband.  I was a tough cookie when Richard and I began dating.  Divorced and a single mom, I was bound and determined not to get hurt again.  Richard was patient, funny, a great debater, and knew the way to my heart was through my son, Alex.  After four years of dating (some great dates, some 'Hell nights' as we refer to them now), we married on a hot and humid August evening.  After a North/South honeymoon to New York City and Charleston, we woke up Saturday morning to Alex climbing up in the bed and asking why Richard was there.  "Remember Mommy and I got married last week?"  Alex propped himself up on his elbows, rested them on Richard's chest and asked, "Does that mean I can call you Dad now?" Yep.  I got a winner. Two houses, more cars than I can remember, five dogs, one lizard, and two more children later, we have had our share of good and bad times.  Richard married me for "better or worse, richer or poorer, in sickness and in health."  He has lived up to his commitment.  We have been better and we have been worse, we have been poorer and by contrast there have been seasons of richness.  And he was the rock by my side in sickness.  Every day, sometimes moment by moment, he cared for me.  He handled the house, the children, drove me to endless doctor appointments, and sat beside me for every doctor's appointment and chemo treatment.  We may never have one of those marriages that everyone looks on and says, "Oh, we want to be like them" but we are in it to win it. 

Happy Father's Day.

Overcast Skies and Shout Outs

Wednesday afternoon following the end-of-school party (see earlier blog, Summer's Dance) Rachel and I walked into the house and I was planning to start dinner - a celebration meal of one of my family's favorite dishes.  However, as I walked upstairs from the basement I was smacked in the face by the realization that the house felt extremely warm.  Here in Atlanta we were blessed with an extremely pleasant Spring and have recently entered the summer days that push temperatures into the 90s.  I checked the thermostat and held my foot up to one of the air conditioning vents.  Everything seemed to be working properly.  Stalling on dinner because I knew the oven would be involved I made a few phone calls, checked my email, and put away some laundry. 

About an hour later the house was still getting warmer and I had a growing concern that we were in for some bad news about our a/c system.  Not something we wanted to have to deal with any time, but especially with Richard and me both unemployed.  By 11pm on Wednesday night the temperature was a sweltering 81 degrees inside the house!  Then I remembered we had a cheer uniform consignment sale scheduled to begin the next morning which meant a house full of moms and cheerleaders trying on uniform parts and pieces trying to save a little before ordering a brand new uniform from the rep.

We decided to go ahead and call our heating and air guy, George, and leave a message so he would know first thing the next morning that we were having trouble.  I was shocked when he answered the phone - it was after 11pm - but very thankful.  He stayed on the phone with me while I checked a few things before concluding that, in fact, we were going to need a service call.  He was planning to be out late in the afternoon on Thursday.  I got up early Thursday morning and opened all the windows trying to move air through the house and was grateful to see that the skies were overcast. 

Consignment sale went well, temperatures stayed moderately comfortable, and the sun stayed hidden behind dense clouds most of the day.  Thank you, Jesus.  Sitting at the computer late Thursday afternoon I looked out the window and saw really dark skies moving in our direction.  Yes!  Rain is coming!  I love, love, love rainy days but it seemed especially welcome knowing that it would carry with it dropping temperatures and breezes.  Boy, was I right!  We had a whopper of a storm - thunder, lightning, lights flickering on and off, and hard rain.

George finally made his way to our house well past dinnertime.  After checking a few things he determined that the pump had gone bad.  Great. How much is this going to cost?  And how long before we have air?  George could tell by the look on our faces that we were near panic mode.  I finally bit the bullet and asked, "how much? and how long?"  He broke into a huge smile and said, "Let me tell you a story."

George then began to share with us that he had installed a brand new, several-thousand-dollar system for a customer earlier in the week.  This same gentleman had bought a new pump last year but when he opted for the new system he wanted everything brand new, high quality, and that had resulted in another new pump.  The guy could easily have sold the pump to someone else or even sold it back to George but he didn't.  He told George to put it on his truck thinking that someone else might be in a jam and need one.  Really?  Richard then asked how much the 'used' pump would be.  George smiled again and said, "you know, I could sell it but I'd rather bless you with it."  Really??  Arrangements were made for the new pump and Richard walked outside with George to pay him for the service call - we should at least pay for that.  George wouldn't accept a penny.

We have been navigating the jagged-edge State of Uncertainty for quite some time.  Our jobs (or lack of), our finances, even our housing is on shaky ground.  I have to admit I've been questioning if God is hearing my prayers or cares that my hands and knees are getting bloody.  What began yesterday with overcast skies as a gentle reminder that He knows, He hears, and He cares ended with a shout out of provision for me and my family.

In case you're wondering, yes, Jesus loves me. This I know.

Murder at Walgreen's

Last month I wrote about the mutual crush my 9-year-old son and I have shared since sometime around Christmas (see My Son's New Crush on this blog site).  Sadly, the honeymoon is over.  I know this because I endured a shameful public break-up yesterday afternoon.  Stephen and I were perusing the aisles at our local Walgreen's in search of tennis balls before he went to a friend's house.  I detoured past the toilet paper aisle (we were dangerously down to two rolls, not a good plan at our house) and then over to the wall of refrigerated drinks to grab the 3/$5 bottles of Gatorade.  It's travel baseball season and we go through Gatorade like most kids go through frozen popsicles during 'adult swim' at the pool.

Stephen and I reunited at the front of the store and headed for the cash register.  The man behind the register is the same familiar smiling face who usually rings up my purchases and is always quick to look through the flyer to see if I've missed a sale or a coupon.  He heard me call Stephen by name as we were standing there and after I ran my debit card through the machine, he looked at Stephen and asked, "Are you going to help Mom out today, Stephen?"

In a moment of in-your-face-alien-abduction my son shrugged his shoulders and answered, "Probably not."  And then, to add utter humiliation to my shock and awe, he turned and walked toward the door with his tennis balls.  "Stephen Clay Hood! Turn around and get back over here [pause for effect and lower voice before continuing]. Right. Now."  There was no mistaking the steely tone of my voice or the fiery darts shooting from my blue eyes.  It is unfortunate for me that so many people were in the check-out line to witness my son's Dr. Jekyll/Mr. Hyde moment.  It is indeed very fortunate for my son that there were so many witnesses to what could have been a horrific crime of parenting rage right there in front of the bubble gum and breath mints.

The only words I could muster after he lazily sauntered back over to the counter were, "We are still in the store young man, and I can easily return those tennis balls I just bought.  Now pick up the Gatorade and go to the car."

Ruth Bell Graham was once asked during an interview if she had ever been tempted to divorce her world-famous evangelist husband, Billy.  She wittily replied, "Divorce? Never.  Murder? Yes."  I know exactly how she felt.  Honestly, in that nano-second of anger and embarrassment I visualized several ways I could rid the free world of my son's belligerent and disrespectful attitude.  There's not a parent on Planet Earth who would convict me: we've all been there, done that, and hidden the t-shirt.

The ensuing car ride was stifling in its quiet.  Stephen dared not say a word and I was biting my lip afraid of what I might say if I opened my mouth.  By the time we turned back into our neighborhood I was able to calmly but firmly express that his behavior was inappropriate and unacceptable.  I'm fairly certain he got the message and is afraid to find out what the woods behind Walgreen's look like after dark.

It will probably be a while before I summon the courage to shop again at my neighborhood Walgreen's.  I can guarantee you it will be a long time before I walk through those doors with Stephen at my side.  I still love him and I know he still loves me.  But in a moment of stretching his proverbial wings, he knocked me off my pillar of sweetness and light.

And the crush was crushed.

My Ghost Whisperer

This past Friday evening I had the privilege to walk the Survivor's Lap during the opening ceremonies of the Cherokee County Relay for Life.  My daughter's best friend, Meghan, had joined a team from her middle school to raise funds for the American Cancer Society - the "Official Sponsor of Birthdays".  When we arrived at the high school hosting the event, it looked somewhat like the inner circle of the Daytona 500.  Brightly colored tents everywhere, loud celebratory music blasting from the speakers on the stage, and a huge inflatable birthday cake covered in blow-up candles.  It was a long drive to the school, the traffic was terrible (go figure - Friday afternoon at 5pm), and it was one of the first really hot days we've had here in the area.

I was wearing my "The Chemo Made Me Do It" t-shirt with a pink breast cancer ribbon on it.  The kids and I walked around from tent to tent admiring all the creative ways people show their support and raise funds for cancer research.  Rachel and Stephen excitedly pulled me in the direction of the Survivor Wall of Fame and helped me sign it, adding their own personal touch to my autograph. 

To say that I attend these events with mixed emotions is an understatement of epic proportions.  It is with a deeply grateful heart and tremendous pride that I call myself a 'survivor' and I have gained laser precision accuracy at spotting others in the same camp.  There's something a little different about us and unless you are one, there's no way to explain it.  We simply know each other.  But I have to admit, there is an indescribable pit in my stomach that rears its ugly head when I see a man, woman, or child walking around with the telltale ill-fitting baseball cap.  It forces me to remember.  It smacks me in the face and screams, "I almost had you, too".  And as proud as I am to be a survivor - as strong as I feel every day - it is my ghost whisperer.  An unexpected ache or pain or an unusual lack of energy always provokes the inevitable "what if it's back?" in the deep recesses of my mind.

Thankfully, my kids were with me and Meghan was happy to introduce me to her classmates/team members.  The emcee for the event called all the survivors to gather around the stage and after a beautifully patriotic national anthem, we all sang Happy Birthday to each other.  Rachel and Stephen were on either side of me and before we started the first lap we heard a couple of stories from other survivors who had joined the celebration.  One young man was diagnosed with colon cancer barely a year ago and shared about his treatments and prognosis.  His young wife and son were sitting on the grass as close as they could get to the front of the stage, obviously proud of their warrior husband and dad who was fighting hard and winning his battle.

Then we heard from a young lady (barely 19 years of age) who is preparing for surgery this week.  She has had FOUR cancer diagnoses in the last few years.  Four!  She is a beautiful young lady, full of energy and a positive spirit.  She talked about her cancer as if she were sharing with us her volleyball schedule.  I felt some very familiar emotions start to rise as she shared about the support of her family and friends, and the daily conflict of emotions.  She even made a statement that I remember jokingly sharing upon my initial diagnosis, "I'm too stubborn to let cancer beat me." 

As I was standing there I met two other ladies, Donna and Laurie, who less than a year ago were photographed at the lake together enjoying each other's friendship, their families, and life in general.  And here they stood this night, both diagnosed within weeks of each other, currently in treatment, and bald.  I briefly shared my story with them and introduced them to my little hero (Stephen) and my private nurse (Rachel).  We chatted as only survivor sisters can and then Laurie looked at me and said, "can I ask you a question?"  "Sure. Anything."  She looked at me for a few long seconds and asked, "Is that your real hair?"  I smiled.  "Yes, every single strand of it."  Smiles.  Hugs.  Hope.

We walked the survivor lap, my children and I, arm in arm.  To see several hundred people standing on the inside track clapping, cheering, and waving was incredibly moving.  Tears.  I couldn't speak, and my kids don't see me like that very often.  Rachel held my hand a little tighter.  Stephen put his arm around my waist.  And then I rounded that last curve and looked up.  Meghan was standing there with her team, clapping and cheering like crazy.  It got the best of all of us and as I started to run to meet her, she and the others broke away and ran right towards us.  We met in a huge circle of hugs and cheers and smiles.  And we walked that final stretch together.   I turned around and looked back through the crowd of other survivors.  A few paces back, Donna and Laurie were walking arm in arm surrounded by their circle of friends.  Our eyes met and we exchanged a 'thumbs up'.  New friends.  New heroes.  And a fresh reminder that beauty is often found in the most unexpected places.

Norman Rockwell at the Kitchen Sink

Some time before Thanksgiving last year my dishwasher went kaput.  I opened the door one morning to unload the previous night's dinner dishes and noticed detergent baked onto the bottom of the dishwasher floor.  Along with last night's dinner baked onto my dishes, glasses, pots, and pans.  Apparently the tube thingy that comes out of the middle to spray water everywhere had snapped.  So instead of actually washing the dishes with hot water, it simply baked at high heat everything I hadn't rinsed off.  Note to self: Mom was right - rinse the dishes thoroughly before placing them in the dishwasher.

After fiddling with it a few times, we determined this was something a little more advanced than a do-it-yourself superstore fix.  I called a reputable appliance guy in our area and after his assessment and estimate, we realized we could replace the dishwasher for about the same price as repairing the existing one.  One problem: with my husband and I both unemployed, it didn't matter how comparable the costs were - neither repair or replace was an option.  Now, let me say I love to cook.  I really do.  But I love it a lot more when I can stuff all the evidence into the dishwasher, press a couple of buttons, and walk away.

So it was with mixed emotions that I began washing dishes at the sink.  And let me just tell you, a sink doesn't hold as much as a dishwasher.  It seemed like every time I turned around the sink was full again.  Yes, I enlisted the help of our kids to gather dishes, help rinse, and put away (I'm very particular about the washing part).  But it's still a time consuming process and something about standing over the sink really bothers my lower back.  Not to mention, I have dropped and broken more dishes from slippery dish washing liquid than I care to admit (maybe a Freudian way of justifying less elaborate meals?)  Anyway, after a particularly big meal one evening - roast in the crock pot, potatoes, carrots, green beans, biscuits and gravy - Richard half-heartedly said, "I'll do the dishes tonight.  You cooked a nice, big meal.  It's my turn."  Woohoo!  I was out of the kitchen before the kids took their last bite of biscuits.

A few minutes later, feeling a little guilty about taking such great delight in my mini-vacation from the kitchen, I walked back to the sink and began rinsing the growing pile of now soapy dishes and glasses.  At first we just stood there, side by side, my husband washing and me rinsing.  And then Richard, never one to be quiet for long, started making small talk.  Nothing major, simply news of the day or something he had heard on the radio or something about the kids.  The conversation started flowing, moving seamlessly between us.  And before we knew it the dishes were done.  A few nights later he helped me do the dishes again.  And so the pattern has continued.  There have been a few nights when Richard and Rachel have taken clean-up duty.  I think there may have been more soap sud battles than actual dish washing but it was great to hear them laughing from the other room.  Stephen has helped  a few times but usually ends up asking for something else to eat, making more dirty dishes.  You see where this is going, don't you?

My point is this: sometimes the unexpected, even aggravating circumstances in our lives create an open door for us to discover a whole new way to connect with one another.  The dishwasher is still broken, and I still do the bulk of the clean-up after dinner, but I may wait a while to replace it.  That broken dishwasher has given me a new place, and a new way, to connect with my family.  And I love it.

Making Space for God

Many years ago, my firstborn and I found ourselves at a local mall on the afternoon of Christmas Eve.  Cold and rainy outside, the only thing on my mind was getting in, getting out, and getting home.  “Alex, start praying!” I called out as we turned down another row to see the endless display of metal and rubber.  I was four weeks away from my due date with my second child and not looking forward to a long trek across the back 40 in order to mark the final ‘x’ on my list.

As we approached the store end of that particular row, a shopper scurried out and pointed to her car, parked to my delighted surprise in the second space!  Thrilled at our good fortune, I flew into the space with laser precision accuracy, threw the car in Park and reached for the keys.  “Let’s go, sweetie,” I called to my son as my legs were swinging out the door.  He looked at me, blue eyes soft and clear like a new marble and said, “Mom, since we asked God for this space and He gave it to us, shouldn’t we just sit here and enjoy it?”

Dumbfounded.  Embarrassed.  Ashamed.  I felt all these emotions and more in a nano-second.  In my haste to move on to the next thing, I had completely ignored the simply asked and immediately answered prayer of a child.  My child, whom I had taught from infancy that God delights in relationship with us and always hears us when we pray.  I surrendered the keys to the floor mat, sat back, closed the car door, and meekly responded, “You’re absolutely right.”  Silence followed.  Alex leaned his head back against the headrest and closed his eyes in great anticipation of the moment before us.  I followed, though not so relaxed, in awe of the dramatic life lesson God was playing out using my car as His stage.

In the midst of the quiet, I recalled the words of Psalms 46:10, “Be still and know that I am God.”  Almost laughing, I reached into the back seat, grabbed my Bible, and hurriedly turned to the passage.  Unable to remember the first nine verses it seemed very important to read the complete passage.  To my surprise I found that verses 1-9 are chock full of noise and activity.  And then, in verse 10, our Father calls us simply to “be still and know that I am God.” 

My son and I sat in the car that afternoon for only a few short minutes before he was ready to move on.  But that day, and his stunning observation, has never left me.  In seasons of haste when my heart is anxious, my list of ‘next things’ is long and life is overwhelming, I’m reminded to find a place where I can enjoy a few moments of being still.  God is always there.  And more than anything I can ever do for Him, I know in my heart He simply longs for me to be with Him.

Serving Miracles

An anonymous poet once said, "The pouring of compassion, combined with the mixing of gifts and generosity, blend together to serve miracles."  The first time I saw this printed in a magazine, it was the artwork that caught my attention.  The artist had captured an old world feel, something between Renaissance and Renoir.  I read the words again, promptly tore the page out of the magazine, and taped it up on the wall where I could read it daily - sometimes several times a day.  In light of Mother's Day I would like to tell you about a very special woman who epitomizes every word of this short but powerful prose - my Mom.

The pouring of compassion... my Mom feels things deeply and even though her strong Southern upbringing won't always allow her to show it, her heart is as tender as fresh biscuit dough.  She will be the first volunteer to provide a meal for someone who's sick or recovering from surgery.   When she and my Dad travel, she always tucks away the complimentary shampoo, conditioner, bath gels, and lotions from the hotel so she can deliver them to a local ministry helping underprivileged women.  Whether she's praying (I've heard her) or writing in her journal (I've read a few entries), nine times out of ten it's about someone else and their needs.  When I had breast cancer and was overwhelmed by everyone wanting to take care of me, she touched my arm and said gently, "Sweetie, they love you.  Let them."

Combined with the mixing of gifts and generosity... my Mom has many gifts and she happily, generously shares them with anyone and everyone.  She has the gift of beauty but you won't find one vain bone in her tiny frame.  She has the gift of hospitality and can instantly make anyone feel at home, ready to put their feet up on the sofa and stay a while.  She has the gift of creativity and can make the simplest meal beautiful and memorable.  She has the gift of music and sings with a joyful spirit.  She has the gift of reading.  That may sound strange but no one - and I mean no one - can read a story to a child like my Mom.  She can literally make time stand still in a story.  I'm thankful my children have been the benefactors of that one!  Everything she does is blanketed in generosity.  She regularly goes above and beyond and finds tremendous satisfaction in making life a little sweeter for others.

Blend together to serve miracles... my Mom always made our house a home.  We may not have had a lot in the world's eyes but we didn't know it.  She made birthdays, Christmas, and sometimes a regular old Saturday morning magical - usually on a shoe string budget.  She worked a full time job, volunteered (for everything) at our church, kept our house clean and the laundry done, carted my brother and me to all our social and sporting events, and taught me by example to be a gracious, kind, compassionate woman.  I learned to respect others by watching her respect others.  I learned to do my best by watching her touch everything with excellence.  I learned the deep satisfaction of a 'Norman Rockwell' moment by helping to prepare a special meal and gather her family around the kitchen table.  And I learned to be fiercely loyal to my family by understanding that sometimes it's alright to not keep your mouth shut.

I lovingly refer to her as 'Miss Daisy' (when she's not around), my children call her 'Honey', and our friends know her as 'Mrs. C'.  She pours compassion, combines it with the mixing of gifts and generosity, and blends it all together to serve miracles.  She is simply, beautifully, my Mom.

 

Of Mother-in-laws and Other Friends

Motherhood at times can be an incredibly lonely job.  No one knows your children like you do.  And you don't want anyone to.  Moms can, at times, be their own worst enemy.  We find it very hard to admit shortcomings, ask for help, or acknowledge that our child may in fact be the problem instead of the solution.  I've been a mom for a little over 21 years.  And in those 21 years of parenting three children (see Friday's blog, The Three Bears) I've learned the value of having other honest, authentic, passionate, unsure but wonderful moms in my life.

My mother-in-law.  She's been married as long as I've been alive and raised three boys with an iron fist and a velvet glove.  Born and raised in East Tennessee she can cook up a storm, surprise you with her quick wit, and remember every child's name she ever taught in pre-school.  My mother-in-law tells me regularly that I'm a good mom - and she tells my children, too.  She's got my back when the kids go to her for something she knows I've already put my foot down on.  But she will also be the first one to quietly, privately tell me when I need to let go a little.  She and I made a pact early on to be honest and open with each other.  It is refreshing and comfortable to be with her no matter where we are.  I've learned from her to make a big deal about the big stuff.  Period.  She encourages me, prays for me, and loves my kids real good.  I'm blessed to have her as a mother-in-law and one of my dearest friends.

My best friend.  We refer to ourselves as 'Thelma and Louise' and share a love for coffee that probably has crossed over the line to an addiction.  And neither one of us is signing up for an intervention.  Our daughters actually introduced us at the mall one afternoon - at the age of 3! - and it's been 'best friend bliss' ever since.  Early in our friendship our family was at her house with two other families enjoying a lovely Sunday dinner.  After our meal, the ladies were all in the kitchen washing dishes, putting away leftovers, and cleaning up.  I noticed one of them knew where all of Lori's dishes belonged and I remember thinking, "I want a friend like that...one who knows me so well that she knows where all my dishes are."   On SO many levels, I can honestly say that nine years later, Lori knows where my dishes are!  We laugh, we cry, we pray, we watch movies, we sit quietly, we 'vent', and we share a ministry at our church together.  Lori knows me and loves me in spite of - and because of - my weaknesses and warts.  She is my safe place and my secret keeper.

My cousin.  Growing up one of ten cousins on my mother's side, we were equally divided among boys and girls.  The one closest in age to me, thankfully, was another girl.  She is physically beautiful but her inner qualities make her breathtaking.  Barbie is warm, engaging, witty, unselfish, and strong as steel.  She married earlier than I did and started her family before I did.  Nothing in this world has ever brought her more happiness, joy, and contentment than being a wife and mom.  She truly lives for her family.  Her boys adore her, her daughter wants to be like her, and her husband is a great guy who knows he married WAY up.  Barbie is happiest when her home is full of family and friends and she can take care of everyone around her.  I honestly believe if God had chosen to bring Jesus into the world in the 20th century, He might very well have chosen my cousin to be His mother.

Miss Dottie.  One of the greatest blessings I've experienced as a grown woman is knowing Miss Dottie.  We met by chance (and God's design) at a Wednesday evening church supper and I knew instantly she was someone special.  Miss Dottie was put on this earth to love people and to pray.  She has the uncanny ability to make everyone around her feel important and special.  She calls me 'darling' and it somehow makes my whole world better.  Miss Dottie has literally prayed down mountains.  If it's 95 degrees and clear blue sky outside when she prays for rain, she picks up her umbrella.   She will cry over a friend's pain as if it's her own and shout for joy at the smallest victory.  I had the amazing privilege of being mentored by Miss Dottie for two years.  She taught me how to pray; and that taught me everything else.

My Mom - Quite simply, a fabulous woman.  You can read more about her in tomorrow's blog because I saved the best for last.

These women are my family, friends, truth-tellers, and cheerleaders.  I'm not alone in this thing called Motherhood.  And I'm so very thankful.

The Three Bears

I am the loud and proud mom of three great kids: Alex, Rachel, and Stephen.  My hair has been varying colors and lengths throughout their lifetime, the size of my clothes has changed (just a little), and sometimes I am not on my best behavior when they're around.  But they know I would throw myself in front of a train for them.  In birth order, they are:

SugarBear - my firstborn.  The child I cut my parenting teeth on.  The pregnancy for which everything was a first: the first ultrasound, the first 'butterfly' of movement in my womb, the first completely guilt-free lunch at Wendy's consisting of a double cheeseburger, large fry and root beer, followed by a medium Frosty.  I have never been so sick.  After that disastrous outing my diet consisted mostly of Mexican food, Chick-fil-A, ice cream, and TUMS.  The first labor pains (after measuring a barely detectable contraction on the monitor, I asked the nurse how much worse they would get before I delivered; she didn't answer) and the first clumsy attempt at nursing.  I gained only 18 pounds and wriggled back into my favorite cords in just two weeks.  Alex was born with a smile on his face and I learned from him the truth of Erma Bombeck's words, "having children is to forever have your heart walking around outside your body."

PoohBear - my only daughter.  An emotional pregnancy - I didn't eat as much but cried about everything.  Alex was nine years old.  When we told him I was pregnant he wrote my grandmother a note that said simply, "God answered one of my prayers.  We're having a baby!"   I gained more weight during this pregnancy (don't ask me how or how much) and we chose not to learn the sex prior to delivery.  Our ultrasound technician wrote the results on a piece of paper and sealed it in an envelope.  We poked a tiny hole in the corner, put a ribbon through the hole, and hung it on our Christmas tree.  Delivery day began very early on a January morning and less than four hours later we held our little angel.  She was long and lean with porcelain skin and every time we swaddled her she managed to work one foot loose from her blanket.  Rachel is still our free spirit, best described by her Uncle Bo as a cartoon character come to life. 

LittleBear - my personal proof that God is still in the business of miracles.  Just three short weeks after 9/11 and my husband losing his job (along with a huge commission), we learned I was pregnant.  Oops - not really planning for a third child.  At our first baby checkup my midwife felt 'something' in my right breast.  A core needle biopsy at the women's center of our hospital resulted in the phone call that changed our lives: "Mrs. Hood, all four tissue samples were malignant.  You have breast cancer and should call your surgeon immediately.  I'm so sorry."  The moment I saw our baby's tiny frame on the ultrasound monitor I was head over heels in love - and fiercely determined to beat cancer for both of us.  Three surgeries, a serious infection, and four rounds of chemotherapy later, I held our little miracle in my hands.  Born three weeks early, he weighed a whopping five pounds, eleven ounces and was barely 18" long.  Hard to hold and impossible to diaper, Stephen has grown to be my living, breathing, running, jumping, chocolate-soup-eyed boy.

Being a mom to my three bears has taught me many things.  Here are just a few examples:

1/ There is nothing sweeter in the whole universe than sitting quietly in a rocker at 3a.m. snuggling your newborn with a full belly.  Conversely, there is nothing more stick-a-fork-in-your-eye maddening than your baby screaming at full volume at 3a.m. for no apparent reason.

2/Boys like to be naked.  Girls like to wear pretty dresses.  Boys like to pee in the bushes.  Girls will lie to your face and "pwomise" they did not pass gas.

3/My greatest accomplishment with my first child was teaching him to fix his own bowl of cereal and find the cartoons on Saturday morning until at least 9a.m.  My greatest accomplishment with my second child was teaching her to wake her big brother on Saturday morning.  With my third child, I was so happy we were both here - and healthy - that I got up and made waffles for everyone on Saturday morning.

4/Kids are incredibly resilient.  With Alex I worried that every scratch, bump, and belly ache warranted a trip to the ER.  After Rachel was born, the nurse-on-call and I were on a first name basis; she was always calm and reassuring.  By the time Stephen arrived, if there wasn't a bone sticking out of place or enough blood to soak through a bath towel I patted him gently and said, "Cool - that will be a great scar!"

5/My kids notice when the house is clean but don't judge me when it's not.  They like it when I make their favorite meals but don't complain when dinner is PB&Js.  They know holidays are special to me and endure my long list of photo ops.  They want me close by when they don't feel good, look to see if I'm on the sidelines at their sporting events, and still like for me to tuck them into bed at night. They have patiently endured my long recoveries from multiple surgeries and have cared for me far better than any private nurse ever could.

I'm crazy about my three bears.  As Goldilocks discovered, they're just right.

Your Gift of Life

I'm a cancer survivor.  Ten years this Fall.  So is my Mom.  And my mother-in-law.  My Mom and I both had breast cancer.  I was diagnosed first and felt a strangely comforting familiarity when she was diagnosed almost two years later.  I knew what might possibly lie ahead for her.  I knew I could be her advocate for the best possible care because I had learned the lingo, knew the doctors, and understood that 'chemo cocktails' were not served on a pretty little silver tray at a party.  Thankfully, my Mom had one surgery followed by radiation.  No chemotherapy, which for her tiny frame might very well have been more deadly than the cancer they found.

A few short months later my mother-in-law was diagnosed with ovarian cancer.  Again, I felt to some degree that I could serve as her advocate.  I asked questions, a lot of questions, to the obvious annoyance of her doctor.  After a disastrous first round of chemotherapy, she found a new oncologist: mine.  Even so, chemotherapy was very difficult for her.  Everything that could possibly have gone wrong went wrong with every treatment.  But she is one of the kindest, most gracious, strongest Southern women I know and she now counts herself among the few who survive this ghost cancer that gives no warning, no symptoms, nothing.

Several years have passed and she, as a result of the chemo, suffers from neuropathy.  I had never heard of neuropathy before she was diagnosed.  Apparently, it is a long-term side effect of her chemotherapy.  Basically it means that she, at times, either feels debilitating tingles or numbness in her extremities - she either feels pain or she feels nothing in her hands and feet.  So much so that last year as she was leaving a movie theatre, she fell and broke her nose.  Couldn't catch herself with her hands to break the fall.  As a follow-up to this ordeal with her oncologist as she was explaining what had happened, he looked at her and quietly stated, "This is your gift of life.  Your neuropathy means you are still here, still alive, still capable of struggle." 

As she related this appointment that evening over dinner, it hit me: there are times in life when pain is our gift of life.  It means we are here to experience the struggle, the hardship, the emotion, the heartbreak of LIFE itself.  What is the alternative?  To feel nothing.  To be so numb that nothing reaches our soul.  Don't get me wrong; I don't like pain any more than the next person, but given the choice to never feel anything again, I'd like to think I would choose the pain. 

Wherever you find yourself on this Saturday before Easter, I'd like to encourage you and even challenge you to embrace your pain.  It may very well be your gift of Life.