Quenched

After having been on this earth only a short 8 weeks, it was sprinkled on my head as a symbol of my parents’ promise to God and to me. I danced in the rain one fall evening after a particularly dry, Texas summer, letting it soak my hair and clothes while it made my skin slippery with its coating. While citizens of some countries wonder when their next sip will come, I have been blessed never to doubt the steady surge that will flow with a simple twist of a faucet’s knob.

Today, I am thankful for water.

When I was a little girl, my daddy would take me fishing in a little pond in Fairfield, Texas. (Boompa is very excited to take you fishing at that same pond.) I remember enjoying our time together, my dad and me, him in his flannel jackets, teaching me how to bait a hook. I remember the sights: red and white, plastic spheres bobbing on the water’s surface, lush forests, and slippery, red mud. I remember the smells: smoke from the previous night’s campfire and from my dad’s cigarettes (never a bad smell in my book) and catfish bait (another smell I didn’t mind). My cousins and I also found much enjoyment on that pond: swimming in the murky depths and taking turns steering paddle boat voyages. I visit that same pond today and am flooded with the nostalgia of happy memories from a lovely childhood.

I first learned to swim in Aunt Betty’s pool in Clute, Texas, my mama there by my side, holding me firmly as I “doggy paddled” from one end of the pool to the other until I no longer needed the reassurance of her touch. I also learned how to dive in that pool. While swimming with my mom, we would spend hot summer nights dodging mosquitoes, listening to the sound of cicadae humming in the trees and live bands playing in the distance at the annual Mosquito Festival (Yes. Such a festival exists. You’ll see.).

My cousin, Shelley, and I used to swim in the Gulf of Mexico at Surfside Beach, where our easily tanned skin would brown, giving us a nice bronzed look until we came back for more the following summer, a year older.

My family spent many long, Easter weekends at Cliffview Resort on Lake Whitney where Shelley and I would meet up with the same two girls every year and play near the water’s edge, finding fossils and comparing shells.

Growing up, the neighborhood kids and I would have annual ‘Water Wars’ in our streets and yards, complete with water balloons, Super Soaker water guns, water hoses, and buckets upon buckets of the only ammo allowed: H2O! Boys against girls! (Our parents were never happy about the aftermath of flooded yards.)

In the first few weeks of dating your dad, we went with a friend and his dad out on their boat. That was the very first time I ever kneeboarded. I was terrified, but I will never forget how comfortable and safe your dad always tried to make me feel. He insisted that we kneeboard at the same time so that I wouldn’t be as scared. When the boat began to take off and your dad and I lifted out of the water on our separate boards, I was having a difficult time getting the strap across my legs, making the experience even more nerve-racking. However, your dad never missed a beat when it came to me. He glided across the water by my side, reached out, and strapped me in. I’m sure it was a good excuse for him to put his arm around me, but I didn’t mind. In the years to follow, water sports became one of the things we loved to do together. He was, and still is, much more talented at them than I am. I think I enjoy watching him show off about as much as I enjoy being out there myself.

Throughout our teenage years, your dad and I would go to Rocket Creek. There was a favorite swimming hole there that your dad introduced me to. We spent many summer hours swinging from a tree rope and dropping into the waters below. I remember sitting on the rocks, listening to the bubbling of the creek’s small rapids.

During the summer of 2003, your dad and I were able to go on a trip with some of my family (thanks to Aunt Gran and Uncle Pop) to Destin, Florida. On that trip, your dad temporarily conquered his fear of heights to parasail far above the ocean with me by his side. The water was crystal clear and sparkling. I remember seeing a giant sea turtle far below. It was magnificent. You must try it someday.

College held its fair share of fun in the water as well. I swam in the famous ‘Duck Pond’ at Tyler Junior College, played in the campus sprinklers with friends well past midnight, swam in the freezing Tyler State Park lake with Miss Kris, splashed around many a time in Lake Tyler, and enjoyed cascading waterfalls in Austin Texas.

The weekend after your dad asked me to marry him, we took a trip with some friends down to tube the Guadalupe River in San Marcos. The river wasn’t at its best for tubing, but that didn’t matter. We had fun. And all I could think about was my excitement of spending such a beautiful weekend in such a beautiful part of Earth.

I was pleased, when we got married, that our reception venue at the local golf course overlooked a beautiful pond. That night, the pond was aglow from the orange sun setting at its back.

Water is needed to sustain life. Without it, we wouldn’t be. Therefore, I have obvious reasons to be thankful for it. Water gives me life. In Texas, it’s easy to find other reasons to be thankful for water, as we can go for many weeks without seeing a drop. Water quenches our thirst and the thirst of the ground. Beyond these basic yet necessary reasons to be thankful for water, I am thankful for its beauty, its mystery, and its charm. I am thankful that so many of my favorite memories swim in the waters of my past. There is something about bodies of water. It’s as if the water itself contains all of those memories deep beneath its surface and I need only to visit these lakes and oceans and rivers and streams to fish out the memories and re-live them once more.

Whether it’s cascading down from a cliff high above, crashing to a shore in waves of white, causing children to laugh as it splashes their joyful faces, or sitting motionless on a breezeless summer afternoon, I love it. For its connection to life, for its ability to satiate the thirsty, for its splendor, power, secrecy, and allure, I am thankful for water.

I Want to be in That Number

Today, the mindset of most people in our society is, "I want. I want. I want." Living with this frame of mind can leave a person jaded. We become tired of everything we have because we have so much. We begin to look at what we don't have because somehow, for some reason, what we haven't obtained seems much more interesting of a topic on which to dwell. How sad of a life that is. Sadder for me that I have often found myself in this same lifestyle: missing out on the amazing blessings life has offered me all because I was searching for that which life had yet to give. America has coined the phrase "Keeping up with the Joneses" as the driving point of the American Dream, but the simple question should be, pardon my grammar, "Who the Hell are the Joneses?”

Liam, I challenge you to have the mindset of, “I have. I have. I have.” Live in thanksgiving! Society gives us certain guidelines in order to be “happy”: make 6 figures on your paycheck, have a vehicle per driver in the family, have a college education, live in a certain house in certain part of town, wear these clothes, shop in these stores, associate with these people. The list goes on and on. While some of these are great aspirations, our happiness shouldn’t be dependent upon them. How sad we would be if, in the end of our lives, we thought only of what we didn’t have. If you are constantly concerned with what you do not have, then you will constantly be concerned. All too often, people gain blessings that they have long desired, and as soon as these blessings are obtained, they quickly change their focus from that of thanks to that of disappointment – “I want. I want. I want.”

This is one of your mother’s many flaws. I am persistently looking to what I want, forgetting to be thankful for what I have. It’s important to always strive for more; that is the way goals are achieved. However, achieving goals is not of the utmost importance. Happiness is – happiness of others and yourself.  And happiness comes from living the life of current, not wishing you were living someone else’s.  

Today is November 1, 2011, and in honor of this month of thanks, I will be writing to you as often as I can, giving thanks for the things I have been given and, hopefully, teaching you lessons along the way. So, let us begin.

Today, I am Thankful for Saints.

 As a United Methodist Christian, I believe in saints. Today is the perfect day to recognize this blessing because it is, after all, November 1^st, All Saints Day. Now, my Son, I want you to have a mind of your own. I pray that you are intelligent enough to heed what your father and I teach you while developing opinions and ideas of your own. After all, if you believe something simply because I say that it’s so, then YOU don’t really believe it at all; do you? Therefore, you will make up your own mind one day as to if you believe in saints the way that I do. The Roman Catholic Church believes that only a certain group of people who followed the teachings of Jesus earned the title of Saint. Those Christians actually had to have “Saint” added as part of their names, part of their identifications throughout the ages. However, the United Methodist denomination believes that anyone who lived a life exemplifying Christianity is considered a saint.

In this case, many saints have helped to pave a path for me, and for that, I am thankful.

I am thankful for my grandmother, Ruby. We called her ‘Mom’. Mom spent every moment that I was in her presence tending to me. Now, I’m not saying I’m the only one she tended to, but if I was there, she gave me her attention in every way possible. I am thankful for this. I am thankful for the hours upon hours that this woman rubbed my back just so that I could feel comfort and fall asleep. I am thankful for the delicious treats she would make for my family and me. I am thankful that instead of judging me for delighting in the snack of butter (by itself), she smiled and had a spoonful of butter waiting on me after school. I am thankful that she pinched the backside of my arm for laughing or talking during church. I am thankful that she would play Amazing Grace on her little organ just to hear my voice sing out with a country twang. I am thankful that her sense of humor and quirkiness left my family with stories to tell of the time she gave her bird (Winky) whisky for his cold, and the time (not too much later) that she gave Winky a funeral, complete with casket and guest book. I am thankful that she often made me laugh, and rarely made me cry. I am thankful for her love.

I am thankful for my grandmother, Jackie. This grandmother, I never knew, but my mom tells me I would have called her ‘Gran’. I have never known one person (that wasn’t famous) to have so many fans. She died 9 months before I was born, but I can sing her praises just as easily as the rest of my home town simply because people LOVE to tell me about her. And I love to hear what they have to say. I hear the stories of how, on the day of her funeral, not only were the pews and isles and balcony packed with mourners, but a line of people streamed from the school to the church that afternoon, wearing backpacks. These were her students, children who refused to miss the opportunity to pay their respects. The flag at the post office was lowered to half-staff when she left this world. It takes an amazing human to deserve that kind of respect. I am thankful that years later, the Assistant Superintendent of the school district she worked for told me that if I was anything like Jackie Baxter, they would be lucky to have me as a teacher. I am thankful that such a woman lived and continues to live in me. I am thankful that she set an example of how to exist, even through tribulation. Growing up wasn’t easy for her, and she had to endure the pain of becoming a widow at such a young age. But these things didn’t stop her. The woman graduated with honors from graduate school while she worked multiple jobs, raised a daughter, helped give a community of children beautiful voices along with the confidence to lift them, and gave time to God. I am thankful for the legacy she left of achieving all that can be achieved in the short time we are allotted on earth.

I am thankful for my grandfather, Overby. We called him ‘Dad’. And even though I had him in my life the longest, he was the most difficult to get to know. He was a quiet man. He was very private. And as a child, I’ll be honest, that silence and calm strength he exuded…kind of terrified me. But he was a gentle giant. He was such a man of God. Never have I known a man so devout. His primary concern was, “What would God have me do?” He had his bible with him all the time, and if I remember correctly, he wore a small divot into the cover of his bible from where his thumb was always placed. He was an Army veteran, wounded in WWII. And although he was an American hero, he didn’t like to talk about it. He was the first man I ever saw cry. In fact, at 12 years old, I wasn’t even sure men could cry, but on the night that my grandmother passed away, I learned they could. He loved her, and I loved the way he loved her. It reminds me a lot of how your daddy loves me. He was a dedicated man – to his family, to his wife, to his country, to his church, and to God. I am thankful for his dedication.

I am thankful for my grandfather, Bob. He was another grandparent that I never got to meet. My guess is that I would have called him ‘Gramps,’ a nickname lovingly given to him by the children he coached in Little League due to a limp he had developed. Even my mother was only given 7 short years with him. He was taken from this earth when he was 44. Much too young. I don’t have as many stories of my maternal grandfather, all because he had a much shorter time on this earth with the people who are here to tell me stories. However, I remember a few. He LOVED my mother. She was the apple of his eye, his little princess. He was also a man of God, as he was one of the men who helped build the church I grew up in and was a Sunday school teacher. He did things his way, and didn’t worry about what others might have thought, like staying up with his wife and daughter well past bedtime for ice cream treats! He loved his mother and sisters, which probably explains his love and devotion for the other two women in his life, his wife and daughter. He took pride in his home and his family. He loved children, and they loved him. While he would work in his yard, the neighborhood children would run and jump on his back, and he would carry them around his yard as he worked in his flower beds. He coached little league and was a youth director with my grandmother at the church. He was fun and funny. He enjoyed life, and he enjoyed what made life enjoyable. I am thankful for the legacy that he left of enjoying life to the fullest.

Finally, I am thankful for my dear friend and mother in-law, your grammy, Deborah. What a fighter. She exemplified strength and perserverence not only in the end of her life, but from a very young age. The sadness and difficulties your grammy went through are enough to make most people turn away from God, give up, throw in the towel, and decide to attribute a pitiful life to the cards they were dealt. Not your grammy. She firmly stood by her belief that NOTHING that happens to a person should be an excuse not to rise above it. I have the daunting task of being your mother in a few weeks time, and although the thought makes me happier than I’ve ever felt, I am terrified of messing up. I look to her for guidance, even though she is no longer here. After all, she raised four of the finest men I know.The woman told the true rags to riches story. However, her “rags” were a life of strife and struggle, and her "riches" were far more than gold and gems. Her riches were a beautiful and resiliant family full of Godly sons who will forever demonstrate her lessons of hope and perseverence in their own lives. I am thankful for our warrior.

These are the saints of my life. I have been molded and shaped by the hands of many, including these followers of Christ who have gone before me. How providential such legacies have been and continue to be in guiding our family through challenges. How enriched our lives are simply because these saints lived theirs so fully. I am thankful for these saints and for the opportunity to join them one day for all of time.

A Sweet Truth Hard to Swallow

My dear son. That's right...son! It has been much longer than I had intended since I last wrote, but in all honesty, the long silence can be attributed to you. Briefly, let me just say that growing a baby has taken everything I have, including my brains and creativity. While usually, one can't get me to STOP writing, lately, it's all I can do not to stumble over basic vocabulary. Hopefully, my brain will soon return to me, but until then, I'm going to cheat...just a little.

Today, Liam, would have been your Grammy's 50th birthday. You'll realize just how young that is and how soon she was taken from us when you get a little older. It has been a tough morning for me (as I'm sure it's been tough for all those who miss her). However, a piece of happiness and joy can come from today. It's what she would have wanted. Therefore, in celebration and honor of my first blog post to my sweet boy Liam and in celebration and memory of your Grammy's life, today's story comes from your Grammy - written by her with love and affection to her son (much like my letters to you). Today's story is the perfect tale of a precious little boy and his all too "sweet" innocence. Today, I let your Grammy tell a story of your very own (now very embarrassed) Daddy.

A Sweet Truth Hard to Swallow - By Deborah Jordan

Nathan,

This story cannot be forgotten or untold - ever. It was too funny not to go into the family archives.

When you were about three years old, we were about to go trick-or-treating, and you had been eating jaw breakers. But, you weren't actually eating them; you were swallowing them whole! All of a sudden, you became concerned, and you pulled your dad to the bathroom. You pulled your pants down, and told your dad you had been swallowing jaw breakers - pointing to your testicles. You evidently thought that the jaw breakers you had swallowed ended up in your...you know.

Needless to say, your dad in his innate shyness didn't know what to say, but exited the bathroom bright red and laughing so hard I thought he would split. We have laughed so many times about this, and it still makes me laugh at your innocence.

I love you so much!
Mom

Ten Feet Taller in Charisma and Strength

My dearest Poppyseed. There is a likely chance that today will be the last time I write to you as simply my Poppyseed. Tomorrow, hopefully, I will be writing to you as my Lucy or my Liam. As excited as I am for this big reveal, a small piece of me cannot help but to feel a bit nostalgic. I know. Your erratic, emotional mother at it again with her silly feelings. However, silly or not, this is undoubtedly a momentous occasion in my eyes, moving from one stage of my pregnancy to another, never again thinking of you as just my child but instead, as my son or daughter. In honor of this...graduation, allow me to share one more story for my Poppyseed. 

Your Auntie Lou Lou is my very best friend. In fact, she has gone to a lot of trouble to make this time very special for your daddy and me. This is the tale of how I met my best friend. 

When I was in high school, theatre arts was the most important thing in my life, maybe second to your dad. I loved to act. I loved being in the spotlight. The stage beckoned to me, and I answered its call. However, not only did I answer and fulfill my passion, I was quite good at it, too. Some may say I was the best. And at Ferris High School, maybe I was. Whether or not I was actually the best, I certainly believed I was. I believed I was unbeatable! The next star. The top. One thing I didn't realize at the time: it's a long fall from the top. 

Participating in UIL One Act Play, a theatre competition amongst schools in the area, was my focus from 8th grade until my senior year. One Act Play was at the forefront of my mind in the spring of 2003 as I played the role of Lady Bracknell in Oscar Wilde's The Importance of Being Earnest, my final role as a high school student.

The district competition soon came around and the cast of Earnest did not leave disappointed. In fact, as great as I thought I was, I had never before received One Act Play's highest honor for a female actor, Best Actress, given to ONE girl from all competing schools. Up to this point, I had always received the next best thing, All Star Cast Member. District competition changed that. Not only did my cast leave that night with a sure spot in the Area competition, but several cast members received All Star Cast, my good friend and cousin Trevor left with Best Actor, and your Mama left with her head held high and the most beautiful trophy in her hand, reading Best Actress District 3A. It was a night I will never forget. 

Being that we lived in a small town, we were highly esteemed high school heros when we came home. Well, that's how I remember it, anyway. Our picture was in the paper along with an article revering our talent. There was a separate picture of just Trevor and me, the  highest awarded players in the competition. We were even invited to a school board meeting, where we all received certificates for outstanding performance. We had done well, and we were ready to continue our journey to the top. Next stop, Area competition, Athens, Texas. 

My parents and cousin Christi decided to accompany me to the competition in Athens.  No one in my family was there to see my previous achievement, so they wanted to be sure to not miss it again. After watching a show or two, evaluating the competition, our cast headed to our room to get ready for show time. My family stayed in the theatre, promising to keep an eye out for any real threats to our advance to Regionals. Soon, it was our turn to perform. 

The audience was wonderful. They loved me! I had never had quite the laughs I had that night. When we were through, people complimented me, undeniably impressed with a 17 year old girl's ability to transform into an elderly, British, aristocrat of the late 19th century. I was confident that we had done it again. 

When it was nearly time for awards to be announced, I sat waiting with my cast and my family. Before the ceremony began, I asked my parents for their opinions of the shows. They, of course, were highly impressed with me, as they are a bit biased. However, they quickly began to tell me of a girl from Canton's play. They couldn't remember her name, but she was "so good." "She did a wonderful job of playing drunk, and she had a moving moment at the conclusion where her character took her own life," my mother gushed. "She was pretty good," my father added. I will admit, I was surprised. My parents never seemed to notice anyone's talent other than my own, and if they did happen to notice, they certainly didn't go on and on about it. But this girl, they LOVED her. Oh they assured me that she wasn't better than me, but they couldn't bring themselves to tell the lie that I was better than her. My confidence was shaken, but not shattered. If this girl was anything as my parents made her out to be, then surely we could have our rematch at Regionals. Then, I could decide for myself if she was anything to be in awe of. 

The MC came to the stage. The lights dimmed. The crowd became silent. It was the moment of truth. The Honorable Mention  awards were announced first. Although, I really wasn't concerned with landing this lowest of awards, I was relived as always when they had finished calling names and I was not one of the recipients. Next, was All Star Cast. I would take it. Of course. I could prove next time around that Best Actress was truly the award I deserved. I would work harder to make sure this Canton girl would be long forgotten after people saw my performance. Several people from my cast were receiving All Star Cast awards. This comforted me as none of them had ever achieved honors quite as high as I had. The All Star Cast Awards had been handed out. I cheered on several of our cast, including Trevor. "Poor guy," I thought, "won't be Best Actor this time." However, my confidence was back! There was only one award left, and it belonged to me! Just to reassure myself I turned around to whisper to my mom, "Did that girl win an award yet?"

The look on mother's face was unforgettable. She had a look of being in pain while on the verge of tears. She had covered her mouth with her hand, and as she looked at me with a most apologetic stare, she slowly shook her head from side to side. She knew. 

The next words I heard were distant, almost as if I was hearing them from underwater, my fear and shame drowning out all other sounds. "Best actress goes to..." They said a name that didn't register with me, but I heard the last part. "Canton high school." 

I was devastated. Not only had I worked for this my whole life. Not only had I not gotten best actress. Not only did my cast not advance to Regionals giving me no opportunity to redeem myself. On top of all of these heartbreaking facts, I had not won ANY award, something that had NEVER happened in a lifetime of performing. Not even Honorable Mention. And this was my very last competition before graduating high school. It was over. And I...had lost. 


Come to find out, the amazing actress from
Canton also won Best Actress at state. That helped to heal my wounded pride. At least I was beaten by, literally, the best. The remainder of the school year hurried by. My heart mended some, but my ego had taken a much bigger hit. When it came time to choose a college, I chose Tyler Junior College. I had gotten a small theatre scholarship from there and would be going with one of my best friends Courtney Blount. Come August, I would be heading to the beauty of East Texas. Who would have thought, with one small choice, I would meet my clone? 

About a month before school started, I attended a freshman orientation to acquaint me with the campus and other students. During a tour of the campus, I had migrated to the back of the group. I was scared and nervous. The back was most comforting. At one point during the tour, we reached Wise Auditorium, a beautiful, brick building with large white columns - very collegiate looking. "Who in the group will be a theatre major?" asked the guide. Reluctantly, I looked around and, seeing two other hands go up, I raised mine. The guide continued, explaining that this would be the building where our annual musical would be held. As we moved on to our next destination, the other girl who had raised her hand began to walk closer towards me. She seemed nervous too, but she had an air of confidence about her. I can't remember who spoke first, but we introduced ourselves. Her name was Lauren. She was very tall and pretty. Again, I kept thinking about how confident she seemed. But it was a confidence that was delicately mixed with grace and kindness. Never did she give off the feeling of being cocky or stuck up. 

"You're a theatre major?" she asked. 
"Yeah. You too? I replied. 
"Yeah. Did you do theatre in high school?"
"I did. One Act Play and everything. You?"
With nonchalance, she let me know that she too had done some competing in high school. 

As the conversation continued, we talked about our experiences with high school theatre. Eventually the subject of "How well did your school do?" came up. 
"We advanced to state," she said. 
"Wow. Did you receive any individual awards."
She almost seemed embarrassed to answer. So modest. 
"I got best actress a few times."
At that moment, it hit me. She could be any girl from any school in the state. In fact, the chances that she would be a girl even from my area were slim. But somehow, I knew. 
"Did you get Best Actress at state?"
"Yes," she answered. 
"Are you from Canton?"
And in her deep East Texas accent, she answered, "Yeah. How'd you know?"

I had spent the last three months of my life hating this girl. This sweet girl who wanted nothing but to have a friend to talk to during the campus tour. In the months to follow,  Lauren and I became the closest of friends. In fact, I had not realized one could find a soul mate in a friend, but it was as though our paths were destined to cross, changing our lives forever. 

Before I met Lauren, I may have thought that the highlight of this story would undoubtably be my triumph at District. Sitting in my chair as the MC called out the awards one by one. Handing the things in my lap over to a good friend, Joe Hamm, as I readied myself to walk to the stage to receive my praise. Crying with delight as Trevor placed a proud arm around me, trophies gleaming in our hands. Hearing my mother shout with pure pride as I told her the happy news over the phone. I felt so strongly about my win and my loss during my senior year that I was sure nothing could trump it. How wrong I was. 

There are many lessons you could learn from this piece of my life, Poppyseed. Don't be blinded by pride. There will always be someone better than you at what you do. Be humble. Don't let others stroke your ego to the point of you losing sight of reality. Have confidence in yourself mixed with the right amount of humility. Know that what you may see as defeat, could be God's way of opening new doors for you. Sometimes, you will even be able to look back on times when you felt you were at your lowest with a smile, knowing how bright it was about to get. Most of all, I hope you take from this story the beauty of friendship. It comes in many shapes, sizes, and colors. It may even come masked as who you thought was your worst enemy. It may come unexpectedly. It may come at a time when you feel you don't need it or when you need it the most. But, come it will. Embrace it! You will know a genuine heart when you meet one. Befriend that heart. The reward may not be a nice shinny trophy to put on a shelf. You may end up with something even better.  You may end up with a friend. 

"Who would have thought? Who would have known? With one small choice, I met my clone. Maybe a foot shorter, but only in length. Ten feet taller in charisma and strength." Lauren Wycough

Wounds for Which No Cast Can Mend

Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me. Whoever said that had never been hit with a rock and called a lesbo. Ok. The two things didn't occur simultaneously, but I've experienced both, and let me tell you, the rock broke no bones, but the hateful words left a bruise that couldn't be cured.

I didn't even know what a lesbo was! But I knew, by the way the girl giggled after she said it, that she didn't mean it to be nice. I had short hair and no boys liked me, so to other kids, I was a lesbo. Lesbo is a slang term for lesbian. You know plenty of them. Like Miss Kris! Although, she's not a very good one, but she does put up quite the effort. ;) 

My point. Words hurt.

When I was a little girl, around the age of 7, I had three best friends. We'll call them Julie, Nancy, and Crissy. We were all friends, and got along, to my knowledge at the time, quite nicely. There came a day when Crissy was moving to a different school. It was her last day at Ferris Elementary, and I was really sad about it. On that day in P.E., I walked in on a conversation between my other two friends, Julie and Nancy. One of them mentioned how happy she was that Crissy was moving. She couldn't wait for her to be gone. The other girl agreed, speaking of Crissy in an awful way. This blew me away. I had thought that we were all friends. I had no idea they would say these things. They looked to me, and Nancy asked, "What about you? What do you think?"

This was my chance to be the better person, to stand up for this friend of mine who I was honestly sad to see go. Both pairs of eyes were on me, waiting for my reply. This was my moment to be the girl my parents had taught me to be. 

"I can't wait for her to go," I answered. And my heart sunk. That, was the first time I remember doing something wrong when I KNEW what was right. Why had I said it? To fit in, I suppose. These were my only two friends I would have left at school after Crissy was gone, and I didn't want to lose them too. I lowered myself to lying and and gossip so that my OWN selfish needs would be met. 

Minutes later, our teacher came to pick us up from the gym. Not thinking a thing of it, I noticed Nancy, walking over to our teacher and whispering something in her ear. When all students were in line and all was quiet, my teacher asked, "Curri, did you say that you were glad Crissy was moving?"  I was stunned. My two friends looked at me with grins on their lips, but the face I can't ever erase from my memory was that of Crissy's. She stood right in front of me in the line, and she slowly turned around, her eyes brimming with tears. All I could manage, as my mouth stood agape at my feeling of betrayal (my own of Crissy and my friend's of me) was a single nod. The teacher reprimanded me in some way, and we went to class. Crissy left that day, and I never saw her again. 

There are some stories of my life that I look forward to telling you. Stories where I "save the day" and do the right thing. This is not one of those stories. Of this story, I am not the heroine. 

I cannot place blame on the other two girls, either. What they did was no worse than what I did. They betrayed a friend. Only, they at least had the courage to betray me to my face.

I am so sorry for what I said that day, for not having courage enough to do what was right. I have even since then messed up and allowed my quick and cruel tongue to get the best of me. 

Guess what. It never ends either. Becoming an adult doesn't rid one of hateful thoughts and fill one with courage to do what's right. Quite the contrary, in fact. I sometimes believe that when becoming an adult, not only do we lose hair and taste buds and our fast metabolism. We lose our tact and courtesy. We lose the knowledge of what it's like to have our feelings hurt.

I try every day to be better than the girl I was on that day outside the elementary gym. Most days, I succeed. Others, not so much. As an adult, I have been verbally attacked 100 times more than I was as a child. Being called a lesbo because of a chili bowl haircut is nothing in comparison to being verbally ripped apart for something you believe in, or for trying to help someone, or for being yourself.  

My lesson to you, my sweet Poppyseed.

Think before you speak.
Never give in to the pressure of your friends when you KNOW what's right.
Forgive people for when they may hurt your feelings. I know it's tough, but we are all only human.
Apologize when you know you've hurt someone else.
Remember, that for most, courage doesn't come naturally. That's why its such a great trait. One must willingly take on pain and hurt to have courage.
And last, no one puts it better than Thumper; if you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all. 

Broken bones may take weeks to heal, but the broken bonds of friendship and family suffered from hateful words, for that, there is no cast to mend.

Loving You: The Good, The Bad, and (I apologize) The Ugly

Motherhood. I'm three months pregnant, and already, I am learning what a mother's love is. Oh, I know there is more to come. I haven't even begun to crest the surface of what my love will ultimately be when you are in my arms for the first time. It's a love too great for me to try to put into my own boundaries of understanding; I know that much. 

But even now, my love for you is a love that knows no limits. I have loved you every second of the last 56 days and 20 hours. Before that, I loved the thought that one day, you would be more that a dream. I love you, and always will, without fail through the good, the bad, and the ugly. 

But don't sing my praises just yet. In loving you, I have accomplished no great feat. In loving you, I have done the easiest, most natural act I have ever been compelled to perform. Loving you is easy.

It's easy to love through the good. Dreaming of you, a mother's love is born. Seeing the second pink line, a mother's love thrives.  Listening to your beautiful heartbeat, a mother's love grows. 

It's even easy to love through the bad. Feeling queasy every second of the day, a mother's love leads her to thank God for the sign that you are still there. Falling asleep at the drop of a hat, a mother's love forces her to get the rest you need to grow. Crying at the sight of another precious baby, a mother's love prepares her for the first time she will see you through a blur of tear filled eyes. 

No one prepares us for the ugly. And before you read on, let me warn you. It is ugly. Do NOT read if you are the least bit...squeamish. 

Poppyseed, it is even easy to love you through the ugly.
 
A mother's love lasts through feeling like a 90 year old woman who pees her pants during a strong sneeze. (It wasn't my proudest moment, but I loved you still...easily.)
A mother's love endures getting sick in an On the Border parking lot and leaving behind what resembles raw eggs spilled onto the pavement. 
A mother's love forges through losing her lunch while driving down the road with NOTHING in the car to clean up the mess from her lap, the steering wheel, or her hands, as the soured smell tempts what may be left of the contents of her stomach to come forth.
A mother's love smiles at the thought of cracking the bones in the face of the person to dare question if she is eating enough or making the right decisions, or taking the best vitamins. (Don't worry. Violence is NOT the answer, and I would never actually punch a person...while pregnant.)  
A mother's love charges through reading the facts of the ugly to come during and after birth (we won't even get in to those) in between dry heaves. 

I love you. I haven't even met you yet, heard your voice, looked into your eyes, or held your hand, and without question, without hesitation, I would welcome the ugly a million times over just for the opportunity to be your momma. 

There is the good. There is the bad. And yes, there is the unsightly, devastatingly hideous ugly. You are loved more and more with each ripple of joy, sorrow, pain, disgust, and embarrassment, that runs through me. Because all of it, even the parts that make me feel like Linda Blair from the Exorcist (you'll learn that reference when you're older...much older) reminds me of the life that grows inside of me. Your life. My Poppyseed. And you are enough beautiful to mask all the ugly that I will ever endure for your sake. 

Heart's Music

My heart sounds like a washing machine. I have what they call a heart murmur, an irregular heartbeat. I've been that way since the day I was born. Doctors and nurses who are not familiar with my condition are amazed and terrified the first time they hear it. Your Grammy used to love to listen to it with her stethoscope because of its strange rhythm. My heart is different, but it is consistent: consistently different.

Because of my condition, hearts have always fascinated me: the steady thump of a muscle pumping blood through the body, never faltering until the end. Such a small but constant occurrence to make such an amazing and complex phenomenon possible: Life.

Yes, I have always found the heart to be an amazing part of anatomy. The function of the heart is such a neat and essential ingredient in the recipe of human existence. Then, one week ago today, the heart found new meaning with me. It was no longer simply an amazing muscle that provided life. I know now that one cannot read a definition and have a complete understanding of what the heart is. For me, on Friday, May 13, 2011, the heart became a musical instrument capable of tunes foreign to my ears, producing the most beautiful sound I’d ever heard. The heart, YOUR heart, played for me the melody of your life, and now, I know music.

~ “And that’s your baby’s heartbeat, strong and perfect,” the doctor announced.

As I lay there, head turned to the side, watching the screen that was featuring my child, tears streamed from the corners of my eyes. The struggle to look at you, on my right, or your daddy, on my left, was giving me whip lash. I could only take my eyes from you to look at his face and vice versa. While I cried, he smiled. He has such a beautiful smile. Between the sight and sound of your fluttering heart and the sight of your father’s happiness, my senses were overwhelmed. Bliss was all I knew.

It didn’t last long. Well, the bliss is still with me because you are still with me, but our first glimpse at you was over and done with much too soon, and let me tell you, I could have stayed there and listened for hours. But within minutes we were out the door, admiring your first picture and going on and on about how awesome our baby was. ~

I love the sound of the ocean. I love to hear children laughing. I love to listen to football games on Saturday mornings as I’m waking up from sleeping in. The sound of my mother’s voice soothes me while the sound of your daddy’s voice brings me joy. Church bells, hymns sung on Sunday mornings, glasses ringing after a toast, champagne corks popping, Christmas music, and the crackle of campfires - all of these sounds I love to hear. But there is one sound incomparable to all others, and though I look forward to hearing it again…and again, and again, I will never again hear it for the first time.

The first time I heard the thrum and swish of your heartbeat was when I realized the beauty of sound.

A Second Pink Line

Nervously, I walked from my department meeting in room 108 to the principal's office. I had been told that the principal needed to see me. It was the meeting every teacher in Texas had feared since the news of the cuts in education had broken, and here I was, about to hear the words that would change my life. I cry at the drop of a hat, so I hadn't even reached the office door before I was beginning to inhale those deep breaths that come right before an uncontrollable sobbing fit. What I had worked for so many years to accomplish was about to be shattered. I was about to lose my job.

As I entered the room, two stone faced people greeted me. The human resources director sat in a chair facing me; she didn't even stand to shake my hand. My principal stood to the side, never once meeting my eyes. I was asked to take a seat. I did.

The woman from human resources spoke. What she told me was that, due to the statewide budget cuts in education, they had to eliminate some positions. I didn't hear much of what came next because it was so difficult to hear over the frantic "What the heck am I going to do?" thoughts that were bouncing around in my head. I didn't see much of what came next because trying to focus through the tears that were steadily flowing from my eyes seemed impossible. If you haven't come to the conclusion already, let me help you; your mother is a drama queen.

I left school early that day, and one of my first thoughts, once I could think straight, was of you. Granted, you hadn't been conceived yet, but like I have stated before, you were always wanted. I was so frustrated that we had been given another road block. We had put off having a child for a multitude of reasons - your dad didn't have a job, I didn't make enough money, your Grammy was sick. It seemed like every year of marriage brought new reasons why it was NOT the time to be parents. This time, we were losing our main source of income. Not only that, but in the state of Texas, it was not the time to be a teacher. Very few schools would be hiring, and even fewer schools would be hiring a theatre arts teacher.

We managed, your father and I. We knew that God would provide, and we tried not to give the future of my career too much thought. A few days later, your Auntie Lou had Scout. And while losing my job had set things in motion, Scout's birthday was definitely a needed wakeup call.

I was so pleased to be able to spend the night with the Rea's on that special night. I saw their excitement at being new parents. I saw Nic's pride at having two beautiful girls in his life. I saw love and devotion pour out of every person to hold that precious baby, especially her parents. These were all marvelous sights to behold, but I knew that these emotions came with the territory of a new baby. People were going to "oooo" and "ahhhh" over this precious child. It was human nature.

However, there was something I didn’t expect. It wasn’t a certain action. It wasn’t what someone said. It was simply a combination of many things. As I looked at my beautiful best friend with her new baby sleeping soundly on her chest, I could see that in that moment, nothing else mattered. She, like everyone, had a thousand worries and bills and chores and stresses to come home to, but those things would be taken care of, and all that mattered was that Scout was here.

Soon after, your dad and I came to the conclusion that we were tired of waiting. We had put off for so long what we had always wanted, and we refused to put it off any longer. We decided that if it was God’s desire for us to be parents, we would be, soon.

A few weeks later, I had spent more than I care to admit on home pregnancy tests. In four days, I was so tired of seeing one single pink line I could have screamed!

Negative.

Negative.

Negative.

Negative.

I had reluctantly come to the assumption that this first month, would not be the month. On April 11, almost one month to the day of losing my job, I decided to buy one last box (yeah right) of pregnancy tests. I ran by the drug store, got a box of my favorite brand, and came home to your daddy and Billman shaving our dog, Stella. Yes. This will forever be my memory of that great day.

I called Auntie Lou to chat. I checked up on Scout. She told me all the stories of motherhood. Catching up with her is always a pleasure. A few minutes into the call, she asked, “Have you taken a test yet?”

“Actually, I was just about to do that,” I answered, already feeling defeated.

“Well, do you want me to call you back?”

“No, just stay on the phone. It’ll be negative anyway. That way you can cheer me up when it is.”

So, I took the test.

When I was finished, I looked at the pink and white stick whose previous doppelgangers had, in the last 4 days, become my enemies. I had seen it before. One lonely pink line. What a let down.

“Well, it seems to be negative,” I told Lauren, “of course.”

“That was quick,” she replied. “Are you sure you waited long enough?”

I decided to give it a few more seconds. Nothing.

Just as I was about to discard it with the rest, I saw something. Ever so slowly, almost as if to tease me, a second pink line began to appear. I had to be imagining things. This was the point of crazy I had driven myself to; I was now seeing pink lines where there weren’t any. However, it continued to get darker and more focused by the second.

I must have let out some sort of cry because Lauren said, “What is it? Oh my God, Curri? Talk to me! What is it?”

I had lowered the phone, still hearing her demands to know what was going on, but I couldn’t speak. I just stood there, mouth agape, staring at the most beautiful pink line I had ever seen. One single tear streamed down my face.

“Lauren, I have to call you back.” And I hung up. It wasn’t the polite thing to do, but there was one person I wanted to show this life altering pink line to before anyone else knew, and he was outside, shaving a dog.

I screamed and cried and ran outside calling his name. He ran around the corner (hair clippers in hand), and I don’t know if he saw the tears in my eyes or the test in my hand, but a look spread across his face that I had never before seen him wear. I know now, because it's the same look he has everytime you're mentioned, that it was the look of a father.

“Is it…” he began to ask, but I cut him off short.

“We’re going to have a baby.”

We had our perfect moment. We were filled with so much joy. Nothing could interrupt our complete excite…

“Awkward third wheel,” we heard from a few feet away, as we were smiling in a tearful hug.

Oh yes. Billman shared in our moment that day too. J I was happy to share with anyone who would let me, and within a few days, the whole world, well…my whole world, knew of our Poppyseed.

Today, I’m in the process of reading a book called Who Moved My Cheese?, the Cheese in the story being a metaphor for the things we want out of life. My Cheese was not taken away on the day that I lost my job. It was moved. I found it, one month later, in the form of a second pink line.

"You'll Find That Life is Still Worthwhile"

In life, you will experience heartache, pain, sadness, and loss. I wish I could prevent it from happening to you, and in fact, I will do all in my power to soften those blows. I would much rather take on your hurt than watch you face it. However, sometimes, there will be nothing I can do other than comfort and love you.

7 months ago, your daddy lost his Momma. I lost her, too. We all did. Not only was she my mother in-law, but she was my friend, and losing a friend, although nothing compared to the pain felt by her boys, was the worst pain I have experienced to this point in my 25 years of life. 

I find comfort and reality in the profound quote by George Bernard Shaw. "Life does not cease to be funny when people die anymore than it ceases to be serious when people laugh." 

The quote, while not necessarily pretty, is honest. Life is life: good, bad, happy, sad, painful, and funny.

I urge you to keep happy memories always filed away for the tough times. For me, the following story, no matter how sad I get, makes me laugh. It helps me to remember that life is meant to be spent with a smile. So please, feel free to have a laugh at my expense.

~ In July of 2005, Grammy, Uncle Brandon, Jack (who was 2 at the time), and I took a mini vacation to Grammy’s favorite get-away: Galveston Island. I cannot remember why we decided that just the four of us would go. My guess is that no one else could come with us due to other responsibilities. I do remember that it was somewhat of a spontaneous trip.

It was a beautiful day on the island, and the temperature, I remember, was abnormally cool for July in Texas: too cool for swimsuits and suntan oil, but just perfect for a drive on the beach just Grammy and me. We loved our girl time, and when we were together, we could talk and gossip and gab for hours. And that’s exactly what we were doing when the incident occurred.

So we two girls hopped in Grammy’s white Grand Prix and went for a ride. The radio was on; the windows were down, and Grammy and I were “chewing the fat”.

Now, what you need to know about this story is that Grammy and I exuded great confidence that morning. We felt wonderful. We looked fantastic (which was the norm for Grammy). And, we were living it up, just like a couple of southern gals on vacation should. Needless to say, we thought we were pretty cool, Grammy and I.

As the rays of sun beamed into the car’s open windows, we drove down the beach, arms stretched out, feeling the breeze on our skin and the wind in our hair. I can still taste the salt in the air and smell the ocean fragrance, a scent that I will forever link to her.

And then…it happened.

It all happened so quickly, we sat in shock for several seconds afterward before it could sink in. However, in my mind, I remember everything in slow motion. Grammy, in the midst of a sentence (the topic of which has long been forgotten), came to an abrupt stop. The car, the talking, everything seemed to freeze for those seconds.

I saw it first, shooting through the air at a near invisible speed. Then, I felt the hit – something cold and wet on the upper part of my bare arm. My eyes traveled down to my left arm. There it was, running down my arm to my elbow, a thick white glob of goo. I followed the spattered white trail up to the dash board – the contrast of white liquid on black plastic. And then, slowly, Grammy turned her head to face me. 

What was most noticeable was not the look of sheer horror stretched across her face. It was the goo. Thick goo as white as the rest dripped from her cheek and chin and painted her lips like a paste.  Grammy’s piercing screech filled the car and could probably be heard a mile away.

We had been pooped on by seagulls.

We laughed so hard I thought we would split! We were covered in it! Frantically, we wiped and scrubbed and cleaned every spot of it we could find, laughing and mortified all the while. Our egos that we had proudly been stroking only moments earlier were shattered. Shame and embarrassment coated our cheeks in deep crimson as Grammy made the U-turn to head back to our motel room. ~

That’s one of my favorite stories of Grammy and me, and no matter the sadness I feel at her absence, the story of our Beach Surprise never fails to bring with it a smile.

The Memory in the Red Dress

Last night, your Mama Kay was going through some of my old dresses that she still has at her house. As she told me of each dress she had come across, the memories that each holds began to flood my thoughts. My wedding dress, of course, holds the memories of the happiest day of my life. The sounds of laughter and music drifted into my mind accompanied by the sight of my handsome, new husband looking back at me. Mama Kay interrupted my reverie as she continued to tell me of the dresses she had run across. "All of the dresses from when you were a bridesmaid," she continued. "Even your prom dresses - the red, shiny one; the pretty, beaded, blue one; the black and white dress you wore to your senior prom. In fact," she continued, "do you remember the red dress your Aunt Barbara made for you for the 6th grade Valentine's dance?" My heart warmed at the thought. "No," I replied, "it wasn't the 6th grade dance. It was 7th grade, and she bought it last minute because, at the time, we couldn't afford it." Aunt Gran is always thoughtful that way. "Actually," I went on, "that was the dress I wore the very first time I danced with Nathan."

~ I was 12 years old, and for me, turning 12 meant many things, one being that I was finally starting to notice boys. Mama Kay might say that I was a little "boy crazy," but I was just your typical pre-teen girl. Boys were starting to catch my eye, and one of the first boys I noticed was your dad.

It was Saturday, February 14, 1998 - the night of Ferris Junior High's Valentine dance. I was wearing the red dress. It came down just past my knees and had a sash that tied in the back. It was one of those dresses that girls can't help but to twirl in. My friends and I were enjoying ourselves, but when a slow song would start to play, my friends would all dance, leaving me to sit alone. The boy I liked hadn't come to the dance. I remember going to the concession stand to buy a pickle and then plopping down in a chair to sulk. I had grown accustomed to boys not being too interested in me, but the repetition of heart break doesn't take away the sting. I was upset that no boy had asked me to dance, and the night was coming to an end.

As I finished my pickle, the most handsome boy I had ever seen began walking my way. Nathan Hairston. I assumed he would walk past me. He didn't. Oh, I had seen him before. I had even spoken to him. In fact, I had even deflected a few of his spit balls in class, but none of the few encounters I had had with him could have prepared me for what he would say to me now.

"You look sad," he said.

"I'm fine," was along the lines of what I'm sure fell out of my mouth.

"You want to dance?" he asked

At that point, I am almost certain that breathing had become something I had to make an effort to do, and for some reason, I answered, "No, I'm okay."

"You look sad, so I'm not taking 'No' for an answer."

He held out his hand. I took it.

We walked back onto the gym floor and danced to some song that I'll always wish I could remember. It was wonderful! I was so nervous, but he was so sweet to me, bringing me comfort despite the endless whirling of butterflies in my stomach.

Suddenly, we were interrupted, by a very angry girl. She stormed up to Nathan and told him that his girlfriend was going to break up with him if he didn't stop dancing with me "right this second!" Of course, he had a girlfriend. That made sense - much more sense than him dancing with me. "He was just being nice to me," I thought. I was preparing myself to quickly back away and slip silently out of the door in my humiliation when I heard him reply to the angry girl, "Then, I guess she's breaking up with me," never once taking his eyes from me.

The girl stormed off. She was pretty upset, as any girl would be, but at the time, I could selfishly only think of my own happiness. Your dad said to me, "Sorry about that," and we danced the remainder of the song with the sound of nothing but the music. ~

To my son: With this story, I hope you learn chivalry and kindness. I do not expect you to dance with other girls if you have a girlfriend, but your father was being polite to a girl who looked like she was sad on a night when she should be happy. I know - girls - YUCK! But when you get to a certain age, remember to be chivalrous, and you are certain to capture the heart of the girl of your dreams.

To my daughter: I ask that you refuse to dance with anyone less of a gentleman than your daddy. You deserve to be loved and treated with the utmost respect. (And your dad says that first dance won't be until you're 25. Sorry.)

(On a side note, today you are as big as a blueberry, which makes it only mildly strange that I ate a blueberry for a snack. We love you Poppyseed.)

Learn from the Best

Obviously, I want what’s best for you. I want you to be the best, and in being the best you must learn from the best. I am not all knowing, and contrary to what he may tell you, neither is your dad. Here are some very important things that you can learn from some very important people.

Being Cool – This lesson cannot be taught by anyone better than your very own Boompa. People flock to him! Be careful though. You will soon learn that too much time around Boompa can result in belly aches from laughter.

All About Musicals – Be you boy or girl, it never hurts to be cultured. Learn from the best: Mama Kay

Everything Car Repair – Your daddy is an expert at this, but he learned from the best. Papa Jerry showed him the ropes and will do the same for you.

Cooking – You cannot go wrong by getting some tips on the culinary arts from, believe it or not, Paparoosky himself. You’ll learn soon that southern grub doesn’t get any better than what’s cooking at the farm.

Manners – Aunt Gran has you covered on this. Don’t forget to ask politely.

Throwing a Football – You have 4 uncles, a daddy, and three grandpa’s. Aunt Jen can out throw any of ‘em.

Decorating – This girl can make orange walls with peacock stickers look amazing. Ask Lindsay for all of your decorating and design needs.

Acting – Your Auntie Lou wasn’t just the best actress in Van Zandt County. She was the best in the state of Texas!

Fashion – I don’t know how she does it, but Auntie Ashley can make a potato sack look like the next thing to hit the runway. If she is not too busy with her acting and modeling career, I know she will be willing to help you where your mama certainly lacks.

Hair and Makeup – Auntie Lynn will make sure that, boy or girl, you know how to sport some awesome hair.

Don’t worry, Poppyseed. There are plenty more where those came from. In fact, I'm saving some of the best for last. But you are making Mama very tired, so I need to rest.

To be continued…

Life's Delicious Brew

We have a lot of coffee drinkers in the family. Your daddy loves his coffee bold, black, and on ice; your Papa Jerry prefers his coffee strong and hot; and your Boompa can smell from a room away if his coffee is made with soft water (If it lathers, it doesn't make good coffee.), and he will pour it out at his first opportunity. For as long as I have known these men, they have loved their coffee. The scenery may change; they may drink coffee in the car, at home, at work, in a restaurant, or at church. The container may change: cup, mug, thermos, or glass. However, some things remain constant. Their coffee is rich. Their cups are always full. And their drink of choice always brings them joy.

Today, I heard the following story. Its author is unknown, but its message is profound.

"A group of alumni, highly established in their careers, got together to visit their old university professor. Conversation soon turned into complaints about stress in work and life.

Offering his guests coffee, the professor went to the kitchen and returned with a large pot of coffee and an assortment of cups - porcelain, plastic, glass, crystal, some plain looking, some expensive, some exquisite - telling them to help themselves to the coffee.

When all the students had a cup of coffee in hand, the professor said: "If you noticed, all the nice looking expensive cups have been taken up, leaving behind the plain and cheap ones. While it is normal for you to want only the best for yourselves, that is the source of your problems and stress.

Be assured that the cup itself adds no quality to the coffee. In most cases it is just more expensive and in some cases even hides what we drink. What all of you really wanted was coffee, not the cup, but you consciously went for the best cups... And then you began eyeing each other's cups.

Now consider this: Life is the coffee; the jobs, money and position in society are the cups. They are just tools to hold and contain Life, and the type of cup we have does not define, nor change the quality of life we live.

Sometimes, by concentrating only on the cup, we fail to enjoy the coffee. Savor the coffee, not the cups! The happiest people don't have the best of everything. They just make the best of everything. Live simply. Love generously. Care deeply. Speak kindly."

Poppyseed, I wish I could provide for you the most extravagant and beautiful cup, but sometimes all the good cups are taken before I can grab the one I had my eye on. Even during those times that we may get our cup of choice, if we spend too much time admiring the cup, by the time we get to tasting what's inside, it could be stale.

Here is what your dad and I can promise to provide for you.

We promise that we will always make sure your cup is full of the most fragrant and delicious life.

We promise that we will fill your cup with enough sugar, always making life sweet but never leaving a cavity.

We promise that what fills your cup will be strong and bold, but never bitter.

We promise that we will brew enough fresh life that you can share it with the people you love the most.

We promise that your cup will runneth over with love.

And we promise to teach you to fill your own cup with the flavor of life that you love the most.

We love you always, Poppyseed. Remember to focus on the delicious brew of life, and like Daddy, Papa Jerry, and Boompa do with their daily "cups of Joe", savor each and every sip.

Gas Can Miracle

A miracle is an inexplicable intervention that defies all rules of reason, nature, or science. Many people refer to miracles as being divine interventions, meaning that something not of this world had a hand in the event. If that's the case, then miracles must happen every day. After all, there is not a moment where God doesn't have His hand in the events of life.

Sometimes, miracles are small; some might even say meaningless. To many, small miracles aren't miracles at all because they don't fit the definition of defying all rules of nature. After all, science explains most occurrences. Other miracles are on a grander scale. Take the spiral staircase in a Santa Fe chapel for example. No expert can give a plausible explanation as to how it is standing, but it continues to stand, mocking the attempts to dispute its holiness.

For the most part, the human race has the wrong idea of what a miracle is. Many people feel they are owed a miracle, and when the one they had picked out for themselves doesn't come to fruition, they give up believing. When your grammy died after being very sick for 3 years, there were some who asked, "Why not a miracle for her? Why not a miracle for us?" One of your dad's wisest responses (and he is a very wise man) was, "Maybe our miracle was 3 years instead of 3 months."

Our miracles aren't up for us to choose. We may think we know what is best for ourselves, but there is one who knows better. Our miracles aren't up to us because we cannot see much further than ourselves. However, God sees the whole picture. God can see who and what will be affected by each and every action and reaction. Therefore, we should take the miracles we are given, and be thankful.

One of my favorite stories of your grammy is the story of Grammy's gas can miracle.

On November 16, 1985, Uncle Nick was born. Nick was one of Grammy's miracles. He was born very premature, and much like she did at the end of her own life, Grammy fought hard for the life of her youngest baby boy. This story is of one of God's small miracles, you know, the kind most "experts" would explain away as being coincidence. However, this is not the miracle of your Uncle's life. That's a story for a different day, and he could tell it better than I. This story is of God giving Grammy an opened window when it seemed that all of life's doors had been slammed in her face - a story that reminds us that life can be cruel, but God is ever faithful.

During the days after Nick's birth, Grammy traveled back and forth from her 3 boys at home to her newest son in a Dallas hospital, struggling to survive. This was at a time when Grammy didn't have a lot of luxuries. In fact, just getting by from day to day was a challenge.

One afternoon, while Grammy drove the 30 miles to be with Nick, her troubles were becoming overwhelming, weighing down on her like a ton of bricks. The mountain that had been placed before her seemed an impossible climb. Grammy, through tear filled eyes, continued anxiously checking the needle on the gas gauge of her car, as it edged closer and closer to "E." Grammy knew that her pockets were bare and that she would scarcely have enough gas to make it back home to her other 3 boys. Either she would not be able to come home to her 3 boys waiting for her, or she would not be able to see Nick again until her next paycheck. Both seemed impossible to bare. As Grammy drove on, she prayed for God to give her a way. She prayed that the bleak future she saw stretched before her would brighten just a bit. She had only 4 concerns, and each of them had an innocent face that looked to her for comfort. Brian, Brandon, Daddy, and Nick were her everything, and she prayed that God would give her a way to be the mother each of them needed.

Just then, the truck driving ahead of Grammy hit a small bump on the highway pavement, and out flew a bright red container. Grammy pulled to the shoulder to avoid hitting it. Heart racing from the near accident, Grammy sat for a while in her car, catching her breath. She glanced in her rear view mirror to see what it was that had caused her to swerve. With slow realization, Grammy let her eyes take in the sight. A red gas can sat upright in the lane closest to the shoulder. She hesitated for a moment, believing this type of divine intervention only fit for movies and books. Then (after looking both ways of course) Grammy hurried toward the can in the center of the lane. She kept repeating to herself, "It will be empty. It has to be empty." When she reached the can, she wrapped her slim fingers tightly around the handle and pulled up. The weight of the can was more than she expected, more than she had hoped, as it shifted from side to side, the liquid inside sloshing about. The can was full!

Grammy ran back to her car with the can and crouched down to lean on the tire. She hugged the can so close, thinking it might disappear, that it couldn't be real. But it was real. Grammy waited for several minutes to see if the owner of the can would come back to claim what he'd lost. When it was clear that no one was coming back for the can, Grammy stood, took off her gas cap, and began to fill her car. Happy tears streamed down Grammy's face, and as the tank filled with gasoline, Grammy's heart filled with hope and joy.

Grammy never had to miss a day of seeing any of her children. Nick was finally able to come home, and life went on. Was it a miracle? Maybe not. But Grammy never forgot what happened that day, and she told the story of her gas can miracle in hopes that those who listened, believer or not, would learn how to have hope.

A Dream is a Wish Your Heart Makes

Poppyseed -

One day, you will learn what it is to want something so badly that you can taste it. You will dream big dreams, and I will be there to encourage you to make those dreams come true. One day, you will want to graduate at the top of your class, or score a winning point, or hear the crowd scream your name. You will want to be accepted to a certain school, master the art of playing an instrument, land the perfect back handspring, or meet that person who will change your world forever. One day, your desire will be so great that it will become a part of you. And then, one day, you'll get it. That dream that for so long had been as tangible as the air you breathe will become a palpable dream come true. On that day, you will be closer to understanding my joy when you, my dream, came true.

The stories and lessons I have for you are enough to write a book, and you are only adding to the pages. I plan to tell you stories of your dad and me, what our life has been up to this point and how the ever growing and ever loved Poppyseed seems to be changing that life into something even I cannot foresee. I will tell you of our loss - losing your grammy a short 7 months before we got the news of you - and I will tell you of all of our joys and happiness. You will even know what you put me through in the long 9 months before I got to see your face. You will read stories of the very real lives full of the most wonderful kind of love that led up to your earthly debut and (as the title infers) beyond.

So let's end the beginning with this. I love you, Poppyseed. Daddy loves you, Poppyseed. Your daddy and I have gotten along just fine with only the two of us to worry about, but we are now overjoyed to add you to our family. Our love, it seems, is pretty rare, so you must know that you come from a love so wonderful that you are certain to be nothing less than amazing. Your daddy and I have dreamed of you for as long as we could dream. You are our dream come true, but above all, remember that you are part of GOD's plan. That makes you God's dream too. That's a much greater dream than anything we Hairstons could imagine.