Good Things Come in Threes Too.

Good Things Come in Threes Too.

I was talking with some friends last night over dinner. We were discussing some crazy luck of a mutual friend the week before. It was one of those days where it goes from bad to comical and you either laugh or cry. You know, you spill a drink at dinner and ruin your clothes, then go buy a new dress to change into but get out your car and realize it will not start, and in investigating it, you ruin the new dress you just put on. All true for this friend and thankfully she laughed. One of my friends said as he was remembering the events, “Bad things come in threes!” It does seem that way often.

I was thinking about that this morning while talking to a colleague, Kim, about what an awful week she has had. I mean the work she does is hard even when it is good, but this week has been HARD. She has been on the front-lines, she is battle-worn, and she is weary and when I looked at her today, I could see it in her eyes. She is hurting for all those she has tried to help this week and asking herself, “Why couldn’t I do more? Why couldn’t AGAPE do more? Why is life so hard for so many?”

In her week, there was certainly three ‘bad things’ to list and more. There were mishaps in the systems causing delays and pains for her regular tasks. There were court appearances where the ruling went against our prayers (and we fear for the future for the kids). There was unexpected death leading to much sorrow, heartache and uncertainty for the child left behind.

She just left my office with tears in her eyes ‘cause it keeps getting worse. As I watched her walk away, I said a prayer of thanks. Not for all the hard things, but for the good things that are in the midst of the hard. I said a prayer of appreciation because God brought my new friend and colleague to AGAPE to work with us. Kim brings laughter in the door with her every morning and she brings joy to her calling of helping children and their parents. She is wise like a mentor, but giggles like a girl when she is having fun. Kim is a good thing.  

There was a foster family prepared to step-in immediately and help a young child during the most devastating time in his life-the death of a parent. He is without family, but a temporary family will care for him until he is reunited with his extended family. Foster Parents are a good thing. 

Kim has a job in Nashville where she can be near her grand kids, and Christians serve our community as foster parents because of an organization like AGAPE that exists to help families and children in the worst of circumstances and fills in the gap for many when there is no one else. There is hope, help, and healing because for 50+ years AGAPE has been doing this HARD-WORK. 

AGAPE is a good thing.

Good things come in threes too. 

#justwrite #thisisagape #goodthings

The Garbage Can.

As I backed out of my driveway this morning, I was reminded that it was Wednesday. Humpday to weary 9-to-5ers, but also garbage day for those of us on the mid-week rotation with Franklin Disposal. I put the Pilot in park. As I wheeled my big blue receptacle to its resting place, I felt a sense of peace. No big deal, I know this. However, there were many Wednesday mornings at the beginning of this 9-year journey that I felt ‘not peace.’ At times I felt sad, or angry, but not usually peace. I remember that first day in May 2008 when I rolled the garbage can back down the driveway in my fuzzy pink bathrobe. It was probably the first time I had done that in 5 years. Always in divide and conquer mode, Brian did garbage can duty. I did morning routine duty. I did hair, sock searches, and refereeing of early morning squabbles over cereal and pop-tarts. Brian did garbage duty for almost 20 years. I remember looking up and seeing my neighbor, Julie, as she watched with tears in her eyes. She also knew that Brian King did garbage duty. Brian was gone.

I was not sure I could do it, not garbage-can-duty, of course. It was everything all at once and nothing would ever be the same. The garbage can became a symbol for me over the years. 

I am not sure why, but I didn’t adjust well to the garbage-can-duty-thing. I was confused about how early the garbage guys would come, and what about holidays? Seems so simple as I type this, but I often found myself trying to race, bed-head and barefoot, to get to the street before the schedule-conscious truck passed, often leaving the can at the curb past the HOA acceptable time limit. This of course causing an appointed deputy of all things Homeowner Association-like to issue me a helpful reminder delivered by personal post. It was a struggle. However, there are many things I handled with ease, much more complicated, time-sensitive, and consequential matters that others might find overwhelming, but I never quite fused the nuances of refuse disposal into my sub-conscious. When I forgot the schedule or missed the memo concerning holiday pick-up in those early days, I can remember just being angry all over again at the thought that garbage-can-duty was supposed to be Brian’s.

In case you were beginning to worry about me, I am actually quite adept at the job of Trash Captain now. I made a deal with “The Man” when I moved to let me leave my “Big-Blue” by the house so there is no remembering to put it on the curb, only to put bags in the can. Smart! This morning, though, I was reminded of all those feelings in those early days, and I realized I hadn’t felt that way in a long time. Peace.

More changes are in store and I am moving into new space again. My baby-girl is out of high school and she is not a baby. She is grown-up. She will not be living with me in just two short months, and I feel different but good. 

It is almost like reluctantly moving to a much smaller home, but then finding out that the view is more amazing.  

I am transitioning to a new place. I am going from I have to, to I get to. I no longer have to have milk in the house because I am responsible for other humans, but I get to cook dinner when everyone comes home because it brings me joy... There will be no lunches to have to pack (even though I enjoyed it) for Hatty this fall, but getting to schedule coffee or lunch with her across town when it works for both of us. She buys her own shampoo and tampons. I don’t have to check the school calendar. I don’t need to pull the parent duty.

I get to choose how I spend my free time. Weird.

 I get to check in with my older girls to see what is important and have meaningful exchanges without the need to make all the decisions for them. I am a silent investor now. I am still deeply vested, but they have their own big-blue-responsibilities and I have mine (Yay). It is the same with the garbage now. It is my big blue receptacle. Who’s else would it be? I get to roll it back to its resting place and be thankful to have a curb on which it can sit, at the corner of a yard, where the house is my own.

#justwrite

A Barney Banjo Christmas and Coming Full Circle

Another Barney Banjo Christmas

For those of you who knew Brian King, you will especially appreciate this story. Rewind to Fall 2016 when I saw Jeanie Garrett an old Florence, Alabama friend who surprised me with returning the Barney Banjo Brian had given to her daughter Julia, moments before we left Florence Alabama to make our new home in Hoover, Alabama where we lived for eight years until Brian was killed in an accident in 2008. At that moment, I knew I would have a special Christmas present to give to Kristian (pictured left) with the new Barney Banjo in the foreground, with her sweet Dad (right) that same Christmas morning, 
and then yesterday (above) when she opened and laughed through tears as she read the Barney Banjo story again. See the story Below:

A Barney Banjo Christmas

It was the Christmas you were two and a half. For some reason to you were deathly afraid of Santa; I blame the creepy Easter Bunny at the mall we saw in the Spring. But my, you were cute with your blonde hair always spilling out - refusing to be contained by the bows I tried.

I remember the fateful day we first saw the Barney Banjos at the Florence Toys-R-Us. There was a massive display of purple plastic, and we were instantly enthralled with the cleverness of the design. You had to put your hand inside to make the banjo play. It played songs and sounded like a banjo - Cute! (My Mom brain immediately devised a plan, “This will be great ‘Santa present.'” So we began the discussion..“Santa might bring you a Barney Banjo for Christmas if you ask him.” Knowing full well that you would not want to get within 10 feet of the “Jolly-old-elf,” I thought this might just be the motivation you would need to get over your phobia. Never wanting my kids to grow up with unreasonable fears, I figured this could be the perfect solution.

Wow, was that a great idea that backfired! I did get you to talk to Santa – wide eyes filled with terror, you quickly asked for a Barney Banjo and ran back to me. Poor kid. Once that task was over, I realized Santa’s job was going to be tough. All of a sudden, there were no Barney Banjos at Toys-R-Us! I thought I would check with other stores, None. I called Gran. She checked in Tennessee – Zero. I called Aunt Michelle. She checked in Atlanta – Nada.  I called Hasbro. The nice lady on the phone could not guarantee me that anymore Barney Banjos would ship before Christmas. Apparently, there was an issue with the manufacturer, and “Have a nice day!” What?! I started to panic; I started to talk to you about other fun toys. You would look at me with your blonde wisps and big baby blues and tell me how you could not wait until Santa came with your banjo. What was I going to do? I had a two-year-old who told Santa – at gunpoint, practically, the two things on her sweet list, and one of them might not make it! 

You told everyone, over and over, about your Barney Banjo! I felt the Karma Gods placing their bets and laughing at me.

In December, your Dad was flying to Austin, Texas for a meeting, and I told him to look for the elusive evil toy while there. He was skeptical. I said, “Find one!” So, when he landed, I started harassing him, “Did you look for the Banjo?” “No,” I begged him to call the stores, and he promised to. He called around – no luck. Then he tried a K-Bee Toys in a local mall somewhere. At first, the clerk said they were out, but then hesitated and said he would check the back stock. When he finally came back to the phone, he said they had two Barney Banjos that had been pushed behind some other things. Your Dad said, “I just need one, I am on my way!” When a man who was sitting close by heard the conversation, he asked for the story behind the sudden excitement. Brian told him about the search, and when the man heard the toy’s name, his face lit up, and he almost shouted, “I am looking for a Barney Banjo too!” Off they both flew to the store and bought the last two known purple, plastic banjos on the North American Continent. When I next received a call from your Dad, I anxiously answered, and he did not speak at first. Then, I heard the sappy, sweet banjo notes that rang over the cell phone from Texas to Alabama! My hero! Christmas was saved, for both of us!

I can remember your chubby face full of expectation and delight that Christmas morning as you ran into the living room. Your only words, “Where is my Barney Banjo?”I wish I could always make your dreams come true like your Dad and I did that day. I love you, Mom.  (Written in 2010 – edited Christmas 2016. Merry Christmas!)

#justwrite #christmas #daughtersofjoy 

My Honduras Trip Brought Up More What-Ifs than Answers

My mind races from image to image as I mentally catalog the week in Honduras (My Global MBA experience). What an exceptional experience to come and use all our senses to learn about these, not so very, distant cousins of God’s creation in a world so removed from my daily reality.

Everyone who travels to a developing country will certainly be impacted by the contrast to our culture. My thoughts of Honduras will not only rest against the backdrop of the differences I wake to Monday morning in Brentwood, Tennessee, they will rest against extremes in life I found in the proximity of the city of Teguce itself. Yes, my memories of Tegucigalpa will come in pairs of extremes: from surplus to scarcity, from modern to ancient, from sophisticated to simplistic, from corrupt to benevolent, from whim to vision and hope to hopelessness.

As I think back on my pre-trip perceptions of Honduras, I admit I was expecting to be impressed by poverty we would encounter having experienced the culture through mission trips tales of my daughters on several occasions. I was expecting to see children whose eyes would steal your very heart because they have been so neglected and abused by conditions not of their own choosing but of hopeless circumstance. I was expecting to smell unpleasantness and taste the cruel reality of a world in malfunction. What I did not expect was to feel such a connectedness to the people we met in local businesses and the faces of mothers and children in rural locations.

We started our week with a visit to Jovenes en Camino, to tour the boy’s home and I was immediately impressed with the facility and structure and with those committed to providing for 57 boys who live in the home. I kept thinking these boys, who live in community with their playmates and share a surrogate mom and dad with 20 others, are the lucky ones. As much as I am thankful a place like Jovenes exists in Honduras, I was overwhelmed with the enormity of need for hundreds of places just like it that don’t exist. I felt a contrast of emotion, of hope for the 57 boys living within the safety and blessing of Jovenes and hopelessness for thousands who will never have a chance to be safe and blessed. I felt a connectedness with Annie Brown, our 25 year old missionary host, because I had just waved goodbye to my 18 year old daughter to begin her own missionary journey. I wondered, if in a few months she will find herself in a place that will capture her mind and heart and want to stay beyond her internship… As impressed as I am with Annie and her love for Jovenes, my soul is not settled at this thought for my middle child…and yet I know the world needs more young women and men like Annie.

Our next adventure would prove to be the most unsettling, for me at least. Just as we struggled to gain access to a community some two to three hours over nearly impassable roads, I struggle to make sense of the remote and unjust conditions of such a place. We first visited a dark room in a small house where moms, many in their teens, gathered to learn parenting skills from volunteers. Children in their arms, they sat in a circle and waited until each child was weighed and growth was recorded.

I thought to myself, this is a scene that plays out in every corner of the globe. Young moms, trying to do what is best in order to secure a sound future for their children. Do any of us really know what we are doing before we are handed such awesome responsibility in the form of our babies? Don’t we all hope someone will give us some guidance? These sweet volunteer-women were neighbors, but also pediatricians and counselors, teachers and mentors, in a community without professionals with such titles.

We then rode to the preschool and public school in the community. The preschool was run by a sweet lady, who basically worked for free because the $35 a month she was supposed to receive from government funding rarely came and never on time. Child Fund, our hosts for the visit, supported the preschool as well as many programs in the regular elementary and high school next door. I was impressed by the enthusiasm and passion in the voice of this teacher, who for 15 years had poured herself into these children so they might have a better chance.

As we walked to the high school, we could tell something exciting was happening. We would soon realize the excitement was us! The whole school and teachers were present on what was supposed to be a holiday because we were coming. We were greeted by boys on stilts and balloons and dancing and songs. Each group had projects to present and showed us their efforts. Another contrast occurred to me as I watched kids with bright faces full of excitement and potential perform for strangers. How could this be a place where most will only go to third grade? They were amazing and talented. Shouldn’t they get a chance to be just that?

In contrast to these scenes of rural life, we visited several companies and were hosted by some of Tegucigalpa’s leaders in business. What impressed me about our hosts at these companies was their willingness to speak candidly about problems and issues they faced as a nation. They spoke bluntly about crime, corruption, poverty, and perceptions of Honduras, but finished by explaining all the reasons they loved and were proud of their country. No one tried to gloss over issues we all knew existed, but all wanted to make sure we did not miss the many positives about life in such a country of beauty and history and family-culture. At University visits, we were greeted by educators eager to show us their facilities and speak of the future of Honduras through lens of educating its youth.

The remainder of our week we enjoyed some good food, local scenery, and near misses as Miguel, our guide, skillfully (though frighteningly) drove us around. One sight I will not forget will remain a symbol of challenges faced by those who wish to move the country and people of Honduras toward a new day. In the middle of the main thoroughfare is a brand new lane built for bus traffic. It was paid for with political capital and promised to provide an ease to the current traffic nightmare. Instead, it has never been opened and may not be operational for another year, if ever, due to lack of urgency in post-election time. Such a waste of effort and funds! Instead of an improvement, the infrastructure is much worse. This is a symbol in my mind of the inefficiency and lack of vision of the leaders of Honduras.

Finally, I think about the children who asked us repeatedly for money as we climbed in and out of the van. If given an opportunity for a good education, would such spunk to approach a stranger boldly translate into drive and determination in the classroom and then in the business world? I think about the men walking in-between cars at traffic stops, selling canvas prints and fruit, or the boy juggling machetes for cash. What could their lives be, in another setting? I believe at the end of the day the lesson I will hold close from this experience is how I will never know the what-ifs for those men and boys or the what-ifs for myself in their shoes. But I believe I can know for certain that I am not as smart as I am fortunate. I am not as hard-working as I am blessed with resources and opportunities. I was born into circumstances almost guaranteeing my success, if I don’t prosper in this life I have no one to blame but myself. I am so thankful, and I should be.

8/1/14

#whatif #Honduras #justwrite

Indian Corn

From 2009

Some of the best times the most golden moments are the ones that happen right before "lights out" at our house. I wonder at how quickly the bedtime routines have gone from reading the well-loved and worn story books to "just thirty more minutes on the computer, please?" But for today my youngest, Hatty, still wants to share her bedtime thoughts and prayers with me...as they say "priceless".

It was one of those nights a few months ago, Spring maybe, and I was on the ladder that leads to Hatty's loft bed where she lay. Standing on the ladder I am face to face with my sweet girl as she pours her heart out in prayer to God. Oh my, I wish you could hear the things that are on her heart, I am amazed at her tender words.

But anyway, this night as she looks me over as we are so close she plays with my hair. And after "Amen." and before "I love you." she says..."Mom your hair is so beautiful! It has so many pretty colors...just like Indian Corn!" (she should be a diplomat or at least in PR) She was right my hair has many colors (dark brown, red, gray, blonde, gray)..just like 'Indian Corn'-Priceless!

#warroom #justwrite #bedtimeprayers

Fourth Grade is a Jungle!

I must get this story in print, before it gets lost in the folds of time.

This fall was such a dive into the deep end for me. I really did not know what to expect. We had the summer to just be a bit broken without alarm clocks and expectations. We had some time to begin healing. And we did. So in August I loaded lunches and loose-leaf paper into backpacks and held my breath.

One afternoon in September, we were having the usual let-me-tell-what-happened-in-my-life-after-school-girl-talk. One of the older girls was relating a boy-girl-tale heavy on the drama and light on common sense. I was giving my usual, "See, boys are such a waste of energy." speech. Then I catch the sweet face of my baby-girl all just turning 10 that month. Says I, "My Hatty is never gonna act like that, she's  never even gonna hold hands not to mention kiss a boy in Middle School!" "Right sweetie?" (I said this knowing that she did indeed have a boyfriend. Hatty is just one of the girls that the boys don't know what to do with. She's confident, cute, and loves bugs and dirt. Instead of following the path, she blazes one, so she intrigues them. Like 'moth to a flame'. It was no surprise when she announced her 'boy' earlier in the fall. That did not mean I had to encourage it. So I ignored it. I down played it. I denied it. I hoped it would be over soon.)

Hatty looks up with that "My mom is a dork." expression and confesses boldly, "Mom! Will and I hold hands ALL THE TIME." (Now, I can over-react for effect on a dime and I was having a little fun.) Says Dorky Mom, "Oh Hatty! How could you? Where do you do this holding of hands?" A little quieter she responds thinking she has been too forthcoming, "On the playground, just around our friends." "Oh Hatty, I just can't believe that you are Holding Hands With A Boy In Fourth Grade!" (I too can pull out a little drama-queen when I need to.)

Then Hatty looks at me with the most serious of faces and proclaims, "Mom! Fourth Grade is a Jungle!"

Good Stuff.

(Fall 2008)

#kidssaythedarndeststuff #4thgrade #justwrite

We Don't Always Get What We Want, and Other Vacations Thoughts

We are officially home from our week of Spring Break today, and I am thinking about our trip. This was the first big trip for us, just us girls. We did go to the beach with friends in June. We also went to D.C. with the family in November. But this was just us getting away as a family, and it was new terrain for me. On a whim, I booked a trip to Universal Studios in Orlando. We had wanted to go back since we first went in 2005. It was not as I imagined it, though. I never imagined going without Brian.

The girls were pretty excited as we headed out the door. At the airport, I instructed them to stay by the bags while I checked us in. The Delta employee gave me the first bad news of the evening. “Because of storms in the area, your flight is delayed and it might not leave at all tonight." She then suggested I might actually be better to drive to Atlanta than to wait in Birmingham. I don't know about you, but any solution that begins with a three-hour drive to Atlanta sounds a bit hasty to me. So I told her I would check in and take my chances. That's when she delivered the next round of bad news. I booked our flight online through Travelocity and there were "problems" with the reservation. These were not problems that she could solve and I had to call Travelocity Customer Service. In a nutshell, it was my mistake (Yes, It was my first rodeo flying with the kids). I booked myself and Alex a ticket, but when it came to Kristian (13) and Hatty (10) I misread the instructions. I thought I needed to book them under my name because they would not have I.D., and it clearly states that all passengers must have an ID. Just so you know-NEVER do this. There was no way to fix this problem, but it took two hours for me to understand this. I'm a bit slow. After two hours of hoping no one in the airport actually knew me (it was not my finest hour), the Delta employee found me behind a potted plant waiting on hold for my next attempt at saving the trip. She told me they figured out a way to let us on as 3 Traci Kings and 1 Alexis King. So I looked at my daughters #2 and #3 and said "if anyone asks your name is Traci. Got it?" They got it. "This is my daughter Traci and this is my other daughter Traci!" Hey, we're from Alabama, what did you really expect? That made for a good laugh for the rest of the week.

When we were finally able to board, they separated us and we all had different seats all over the plane. Hatty had these big puppy eyes that made think I would just tell the person beside her and they would have to understand and switch places with me. But in the end I told her she would be okay, and I went off to find my seat. I felt so bad for her having to sit by herself, and it had already been a long day. As I made my way to my seat, I told myself what I would do differently next time. Should have double checked the rules, stick with Southwest for customer service, etc.

Well, it’s Monday; so the trip happened. We had a great time. When the first flight landed in Atlanta over three hours late, I still didn't know if we would actually make it to Orlando. We were booked on three connecting flights hoping that we could catch one of them. As soon as we landed, I rushed up to make sure Hatty would not be looking for me (mother-hen). She was deep in conversation with her two new best friends, a couple in their 40's, she-ex marine he-marine. She beamed at me when she saw me and told me all about them. They had played Sudoku, and talked politics, and school. Hatty was sporting a bracelet given to her by the Marine made of special rope and clasped with a military button. My youngest has a way of making instant friends. It’s a gift. If we could bottle it...worth millions. As we ran to our connecting flight which had also been delayed by the weather, Hatty looks up and says "I had the best time." Then, "I'm actually glad I had to sit by myself."

We made our flight to Orlando. The trip from there was fun. As we waited for the first flight to leave Birmingham we all realized about the same time had it been on time, we would not have been on it because of the identification debacle. The delay was a blessing for us-we just didn't know that at first.

I thought about the trip today, I thought of all the fun we had "fast-passing" through the lines all the way to the front. The best was riding the front row on Dueling Dragons (Screaming the whole ride!), calling my girls "Traci-Ryan" and Traci-Ellen" all week, and Hatty reminding us - “It could be worse. We could have no arms and no legs!" more than once. But, what kept coming back to me today was how we don't always get what we want. We want everything to go smoothly. No Red lights when we're running behind. No long lines in the express lanes. No Flight Delays! No seat changes! No sickness. No disappointments. No sad goodbyes. But what happens when that is exactly what we get? - We have to take a detour. We regroup. We learn patience. We make new friends and create new memories. And...We gain perspective. And...We go on. And we find out that we can. And Hatty is right it could be worse, we could have no arms and no legs - or no Jesus.

March 2009

Gaining Fresh Perspective from a Ranting Twenty-Something

Don’t you love it when one of your offspring calls to chat about life? I know how busy they are with school and work, so when they take time to poke my picture on one of their iPhones to check in and share the activities of the day, I just get happy! On this particular day, as I rushed from work to my grayer-than-I care-to-ever-know monthly hair appointment, I see the face of my oldest cherub and although harried, it pleases me to spend a few moments while in transit to catch up with my girl. But her tone let me know quickly, like Santa’s visit in The Night Before Christmas, this call had a purpose.

My mind skipped from hassle to crisis like a stone across the lake… It’s too early in the semester to have failed a class…Is she out of cash? Did she have a wreck? Is her car broken down on the side of the road? Another ticket? How fast were you going? Wrong, wrong…none of those…whew!

“What can I help you with?” “I need to order checks!” she rants.  “Okay,” says I obviously not grasping the gravity of the situation, “Order some.” “I have been trying to for an hour and I can’t get it to work! What address did you give the bank for my account?! Whatever it is, I don’t know it because I have tried everything, and I can’t order checks without knowing my zip code!” declares my precious.

Well, this is not quite the “Hi, Mom, how are you? I am fine and I appreciate the free education,” kind of call I was expecting. I was slowly becoming aware that the purpose of the call was not for my banking expertise. None of my suggestions were welcome. “Do you need me to drive five hours from Nashville to Auburn to help you with this?” I finally offered, becoming agitated. “No thank you, I can handle it and bye,” were the final words to our friendly chat. Wow! So glad I could help! And, what did I do to deserve that? I declared to the sky as I drove on to my hair therapy.

On the way home, I thought about the call with my kid. She was my kid, for sure. She had items on her to do list and felt frustrated with the lack of progress. She should have been halfway down the list, not still stuck on top of the list. She needed to vent; I was safe. I get that. I do the same thing.

I have a mental to-do-prayer-list that I occasionally wave to my Father in frustration. “Why is this one so hard?” “Why is this one not working?” I rant to God in prayer. He smiles and says, “It’s good to hear from you. I was just thinking about you!” I let him know I have a specific purpose for our talk and I don’t have time just to chat. He listens patiently, unlike me the parent. He doesn't respond in agitation. I deserve it, but I do not make him mad. He is safe place for my ragged to-do-lists. He gets my frustration, because he knows me. I am his.

To be a Mom and to be a child. Such perspective.

What Do 6 to 8 Year Olds Know, That I Forget?

When I grow up, I want to be a kid. Somewhere between 6 and 8 will do. I could spend my weekends in a princess costume (without causing the neighbors to talk), or summers pool-side perfecting my cannonball, not to mention the joy of VBS and skipping to class holding hands with my BFF. I think the ripe old age of 6 to 8 is when a person knows all he/she needs to know to be happy and well-adjusted. In fact, it is all downhill in my opinion much later than eight. Six to eight-year-olds are so much cooler than your average adult. At 6 to 8, I had never carried a sweater around just in case it was cold in the movie; I had never looked forward to ‘soup weather’; and I could not understand why parents would sit in a chair when you could lay down on the comfy floor instead.

If I grew to only 6 to 8, I could tie my shoes, and learn to read. But, I would like to stop growing up before Santa becomes just a nice idea, or I believe someone when they tell me I can’t______ – whatever it is. Yes, I would like to stop growing up before I let others' opinions darken my soul. Wouldn’t you? Would you like to go back to the day before you starting apologizing for yourself and your lack of self at every turn? The day before you became aware of every imperfection and forgot about how awesome you were just the day before. That would be just cool beans- I think my eight-year-old self might say cool beans. I mean let me show you my new yo-yo trick or look how fast I can count backward from 100. You need someone to read out loud? I might stumble over the big words, but I’m your girl!

How many times have you put on your favorite dress, and instead of feeling pretty and smart, you thought about how you will measure up to the world that day? I have, too many times. I am also in the habit of lying. I say things like, “I don’t always look like this,” or “My house is not always this messy.” Why do I say things like that? What I should really say is, “You have caught me in my usual clothes, looking about as good as I usually do, in my house which is usually just about this messy; I always love to see you, but I would rather you told me you were coming so that I could have stressed myself for hours working on my looks and my mess to make you think I am something better than this. “

And, I often don’t feel like I am the one for the job, regardless of my ability. I can usually think of another who can do it better than me even though I would do just fine. It cheats me out of joy and cheats others out of my service, and I need to be no more the eight again.

An eight-year-old would find me silly.

I was thinking about something that happened several years ago, and it made me think of one of my girls who at the time was about 6 to 8. We were on our way home from an out-of-town-family-thing, coming home ragged and dirty and tired.  And, someone called unaware of our weary state and wondered if we could rescue a young couple who had no place to stay for the night. I immediately thought of a dozen reasons why I was not up for the challenge. The house was a wreck when we left, we had no food, I didn’t know if I had clean sheets to make up a guest bed, my mind went on…but then it stopped when my daughter, who had overheard, offered her room to the couple, her twin bed with pink polka dotted sheets and Polly Pockets on the floor, ‘They can stay in my room. ‘ I knew the Holy Spirit was calling me out at that moment, and I was ashamed. Of course, they can stay at our house for the night.  They met us at our house in their ragged car, and they were tired and dirty. I manage to say hello and show them inside without apologizing for my home or its messy appearance. I realized at that moment what I should have known without our unexpected guests; it was a perfect refuge, and it was all that was needed at that moment. And, I was completely up to the task at hand. In fact if you need to be rescued, I might not be as good as I was at 6 to 8, but I am your girl!