Category Archives: A Mama’s Heart

Scars of the Strong

09 Wednesday Aug 2017

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The greatest honor of my life was being in the delivery room with my daughter and son-in-law when their precious child was born. I was both excited and humbled to be a part of such a miracle!

I’d been there three times myself, so it shouldn’t be so hard to do, right? Surely childbirth couldn’t have changed that much in the 23 years since I’d done it last!!

Always the planner, I set out to prepare myself. I read up on current childbirth techniques and even watched some birthing videos — not for the weak-stomached! I was prepared to give foot massages and back rubs, get ice chips, encourage, pray, and of course take pictures. All that was left to do was wait for the call to hit the road to Lynchburg.

When the time came, things were going well while we waited for her contractions to get stronger. This was a marathon, not a sprint, and there was a long night ahead of us.

Ahhh but there was one thing I didn’t think about, one thing I hadn’t planned for, one thing I hadn’t prepared to face . . .

All those women giving birth in those videos weren’t MY DAUGHTER. 

I wasn’t just watching my grandchild being born — I was watching my daughter be in the most intense pain she’d ever experienced.

Let me be clear — Kaitlyn was handling it wonderfully. She went through labor with the most strength and grace any woman could. She was amazing! Nate was amazing! He was the most fantastic birth coach any woman could ever ask for!

I was the one faltering. I hadn’t bargained for how it would feel to see her in pain. All I could do was beg God not to let me fall apart in front of them. I was careful not to let Kaitlyn see me cry. I needed to be strong for her.

When it came time to push, Nate held her shoulders and breathed with her. I stood at her feet and told her how great she was doing. It wasn’t hard to say because it was true.

I talk to myself — and I’m not ashamed — and this is the conversation I had in my head:

Pretend like you’re not watching your child feel like her bones are coming apart!! Just distract yourself. Remember your own Lamaze class! Get a focal point!! You can’t take away her pain. You can’t go through this for her so GET A GRIP, WOMAN!!

I looked around for something I could focus on. I needed to pay attention to Kaitlyn, so I decided to look at her knee. That was safe, right? I stared at it and tried to gain my composure. Then I realized what I was looking at  . . . . .

Not just any knee. This was Kaitlyn’s knee. My baby girl’s knee. There were scars on that knee, and I knew where each one of them had come from  . . .  

It was a surreal moment. I checked out of that delivery room and went back in time. Kaitlyn was always very active and she loved to be outside, riding her bike or her scooter, playing with the neighborhood kids. She loved sports, especially softball and running track.

One of the scars was from a bike wreck when she was in elementary school. In my mind’s eye, I saw her limp in the back door, tears streaming down her face and blood running down her shin. She tried not to cry as I cleaned the dirt and gravel out of it, covered it up with Neosprorin and put the biggest bandage we had on it. After a kiss to make it all better, she went right back out to play. She was strong . . . just like she’s strong right now.

Another scar was from softball. I was standing at the fence as she rounded 2nd at her coach’s direction to slide into 3rd base. She trusted Ricky’s signals and she never slowed down. She was safe, but not without injury. Again there was blood running down her shin, but she kept her game face. She got right back up to bat. She was strong . . . . just like she’s strong right now.

My heart ached intensely. How could time have gone by so quickly? Wasn’t it yesterday that she got these scars? Wasn’t it just a few minutes ago that I stood at that fence at every ballgame she’d ever played, watching her get sweaty and dirty, doing what she loved? How could it be that my baby was having a baby?

Through wet lashes, I focused again on my surroundings and snapped back into the present. Although it was such an emotional moment, remembering Kaitlyn so vividly as a child, I was also so comforted, so peaceful, and so encouraged.

Those scars were God reminding me that she was strong . . . . just like she’s strong right now. She was strong enough to get back on her bike, strong enough to get back up to bat, and she was strong enough to do this too — for a much greater prize! Her own child!

I thanked God for showing me her scars and reminding me of who I was dealing with here — my Kaitlyn was a strong woman.

Not too much later, Kinley Raine Bodkin made her grand entrance into our world, changing it in an instant. And just like that, all the pain was forgotten — just as it has been with every woman who’s given birth since the beginning of time. Never had Kaitlyn and Nate known such love — but I did. I’d known it when I’d had my own children, so I knew the intensity of what they were feeling. Ain’t no power on earth as strong as this love.

kinley

This bundle of joy is the light of our lives!! Being with Kinley takes away all the worries of the world, and I look forward to every moment with her. If you’re not a grandparent, I highly recommend it!!!

God used Kaitlyn’s scars that day to remind me of the power of love, strength and healing. They were the evidence of grace and mercy to give me hope in the faithfulness of God.

Psalm 147:3 reminds us

He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds.

Since we all have scars, may the Lord show you in your weakest moment that He will bind up your wounds. May your scars be the evidence and reminder of your healing, of grace, mercy and hope in the faithfulness of God. And may He show it to you when you need it most. Whatever you’re facing, you’re gonna make it. You got the scars to prove it.

 

 

 

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Seeing a Sermon

06 Wednesday Apr 2016

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Last week, I found this little treasure in my Bible. I don’t remember the sermon — obviously it was something about being salt, light, sheep, and branches, God’s voice and Psalm 81:10. I’m sure whoever the preacher was made all that fit together beautifully.

I don’t remember any words, though. I don’t even remember who was preaching. I just remember looking down at my little Daniel taking these notes. No one told him to do it. I didn’t hand him a pen and paper and say, “Here boy, now listen to the preacher and write down what he says.” No, he did it on his own. I doubt he even knew what “providence” meant. All he knew was his Mama was taking notes, so he wanted to do it too.

I kept this in my Bible to remind me there are little eyes watching. Children (and humans in general) have always been better at imitating what they see more than what they hear.

It was a vivid example to me that I carry a huge responsibility, a heavy burden. The next generation was watching me, and in my heart I prayed, “Lord help me to always give him something worth following.”

I made a decision when my children were born not to be one of those “Do as I say, not as I do” parents. If I didn’t want them to do it, I tried not to do it either.

Although they’re all adults now, they don’t stop watching us just because they’re grown. The weight of responsibility is still on our shoulders to give our children an example of how to live, how to treat people, how to conduct themselves, how to be productive citizens, even though they’re living on their own.

The other day I heard my mother in law, Sue, say, “I’d rather see a sermon than hear one any day.” Even though I didn’t tell her, I thought about how she probably doesn’t realize it, but she’s a living sermon to me every day.

Sue Hall is one amazing lady. I watch how she treats her husband, her grown children, her grandchildren, her extended family, friends and neighbors. I love how kind and generous she is. I love how she helps my father in law work in the yard and shows him such respect. He loves the ground she walks on, and she deserves it.

I love how she cooks for us, how she’s always thinking of us, how she buys us little gifts, sends people notes, makes meals for the sick, visits folks in the nursing home every single week, and how she’s never met a stranger. I love that her door is always open, and she’s always happy to see us come in. There’s nothing she wouldn’t do for us if we needed it.

She loves to travel. Last summer when she and Mike went with us to Alaska to visit my daughter, Lindsey and son in law, Dan, we were running to keep up with her. No peak was too high, no hike too steep, no food too different for her to try.

sue

She isn’t afraid of the latest technology. If there’s a new iPhone, she’s getting it. Whatever the latest fashion, the latest trend, the latest gadget, Sue’s on it.

No getting old for Sue Hall. She’s 75 going on 30.

And I want to be just like her. She might think she’s done raising children. She’s not. She’s the sermon I’m seeing instead of hearing.

I want our children and grandchildren to love coming to our house. I want them to smell something good cooking when they walk in, and always have a jug of tea in the fridge. Just like Sue.

Sue lives like the Apostle Paul instructed us in 1 Corinthians 11:1,

Follow my example, as I follow the example of Christ.

At first glance, his directive might seem a little haughty. It’s pretty bold to tell people to follow your example. Scary, actually. But Paul makes a clarification. He’s not just making stuff up that he wants us to do. He’s following Jesus, and he’s giving a living example of how to do that — a sermon you can see and not just hear.

With my dying breath, I want to set a good example.  Our children, even at ages 27, 25, 23, 21 and 19, are still watching, and now we have a precious granddaughter on the way. More than I can express to you, I want that sweet little thing to want to come to Mimi and Pop’s house. When she’s grown up, I hope she’ll say she wants to be the things she saw in me. May I never give her reason not to!

I kept kept Daniel’s sermon notes not only as a reminder that he was watching me, but also as a priceless keepsake of his innocence. I knew one day, all too soon, he would be out on his own, living his life, and I wanted to remember his childlike faith in a God who was the voice of peace and promise. When I see this, it comforts me to know the God of all providence is still watching over my little boy when I can’t anymore.

A prayer is on my heart. Won’t you pray it with me? There is power in agreement.

Precious Lord Jesus, enable us to live like You. To love like You. To be the voice of kindness, gentleness, goodness, love, joy and peace in a world full of anger, hatred, confusion and strife.

May this generation, and the ones to come, follow us as we follow You. May they love others because they saw us love people. May all those who cross our paths be glad they did.

Keep a watch over our children. Guide and protect them, and hold them close to Your heart, as You hold us.

Where we have messed up, where in our humanness and flawed actions we have failed, forgive us and cover our mistakes. Let those who follow us see the intent of our hearts instead of our faults.

May we be a sermon for the world to see You, and may they find hope that You are always at work for our good, for our success. If You are for us, who can be against us?

May all who come behind us find us faithful.

For Your glory, amen and may it be so.

Successful Parenting?

18 Thursday Feb 2016

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Ever since I posted my last blog about Leaving a Legacy (click here to read it), it’s haunted me. I’ve learned when something doesn’t sit right in my spirit, when I just can’t get peace, I need to find out what’s wrong.

It didn’t take long to figure out why I’m unsettled. It’s the last paragraph. I basically said I’ll consider myself a success if my children turn out to be successful.

On the one hand, who wouldn’t want that!? Who doesn’t want to raise kids to be good people? happy? successful? Who says, “Heck no! I want my kids to lead miserable, dead end lives, full of regret and treat people like crap!”? No parent I know.

But what if, just what if, my kids don’t live up to that? What if they don’t end up with what I consider successful lives? Does that then mean I wasn’t successful at parenting them? What is the measure of successful parenting? What if they don’t turn out right? What if they live in pain and disappointment? What if they don’t walk with God? Will it be all my fault?

And what if they are successful, godly, moral, stable, well adjusted people with happy all-American lives? Can I then take all the credit?

As a new mom, I read every book on parenting I could find. I studied and worried, prayed and obsessed. I religiously did everything the experts said to do and not do. The problem with that is expert advice changes from generation to generation.

My mother said her doctor told her it was perfectly fine to smoke two packs of cigarettes a day when she was pregnant with me — it couldn’t hurt the baby. When I was born he said NOT to nurse me, but to give me Carnation (evaporated milk) in a bottle — it was better for the baby than mother’s milk.

Something told her that couldn’t be right about breast feeding, and she nursed me against medical advice. But she kept smoking. She’d brush the ashes off my little baby blanket as I nursed, choking on second hand smoke. Maybe that’s why I have such bad acid reflux . . .   

Keep in mind that at one time, doctors thought it was a good idea to put leeches on people when they were sick . . .

My point is, the current trends aren’t necessarily perfect knowledge. One day we might very well look back and be shocked at what we did, thinking we were doing what was best for our children.

It’s funny what sticks in your mind, but I actually remember what I was thinking when I took this picture on an unseasonably warm afternoon in November 1997:

Remember this snapshot in time. Soak in their innocence. They haven’t been pressured to try drugs or alcohol. They haven’t had their hearts broken by their first love. They haven’t stressed out over the SAT, college acceptance or class rank. They don’t know prejudice and injustice. They haven’t yet buried a grandparent, or lost a friend in a car wreck. They don’t yet know the world can be a hurtful, scary place. They’re just happy to play outside with their dog. 

kids with kodiak

I would have given anything in the world to protect them from those things. I knew I couldn’t, and it broke my heart.

Although I don’t think you stop parenting your children when they’re grown up, I also know they’re past their formative years and I can’t go back and fix any of my screw-ups. I don’t get a Mulligan or a do-over.

After your kids are grown, and you look back at all your mistakes, and you start to feel overwhelming guilt, it helps to remind yourself of these things:

— You’re not the only influence in your children’s lives. It’s not all about you. A lot of other things jacked your kids up too!

— You’re not responsible for their choices. You can’t choose their paths for them, and you shouldn’t even if you could. They deserve the dignity of living their own lives, and making their own mistakes.

— Your view of success isn’t necessarily the best for them. Like the doctor who told my mom she could smoke while she was pregnant and nursing, you could be clueless to how wrong you are.

If you’re like me and you worry about what they’re doing, if they’re making good choices, if they’re truly happy, how they’ll make ends meet, take heart. Whatever is happening with them right now is just a snapshot of their lives. Who they are today isn’t necessarily who they will be. You grew up a lot after you were officially grown up, and they will too.

I don’t remember which James Dobson book this came from, and trust me, I read them all, but it made a real impact on me. I’ve tried to hang on to this concept. It’s not word for word, but this was the general idea:

Adam and Eve had the perfect environment. Perfect genetics. No mother-in-law trouble. No distractions like TV or social media. No work or financial stress. Most importantly, they had the perfect Parent. He never lost his cool with them, forgot to wash their baseball uniforms, never burned dinner, or missed their awards ceremony at school.

Yet Adam and Eve sinned. They made bad choices, and they had to face the consequences of those choices. Proof positive that you can do it all right, and your kids are still going to fall and make mistakes — we can’t protect them from their humanity.

I think the only conclusion we can draw is this:

We all do the best we can with the information we have.

Give your children your best efforts, and hope and pray they aren’t so jacked up that they’ll turn out to be kindhearted, generous, hard working, happy, moral, godly and content people.

Cut yourself some slack. We should neither take all the credit when our children are successful in the world’s eyes, nor take all the blame when they’re not. Sometimes you do good to make it through the day without choking your teenage son. Remember, success is a relative term.

 

 

Leaving a Legacy

12 Friday Feb 2016

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Here are a few of my most valued possessions. This quilt rack is proudly displayed in our bedroom.

quilts

The two on front and back left were hand stitched by my Grandma Bunton, probably somewhere in the 1950’s.

Both the quilts on the right were made for me by my Mama. The front one is also hand stitched — not a sewing machine touched it, and it took her two years. The back one is made from scrap pieces of the clothes she made for me when I was little — Holly Hobbie smocks, cotton dresses and polyester pantsuits. I remember each outfit with love.

The one in the back middle was made by my daughter, Lindsey for her senior project in high school. I’m incredibly proud she would want to continue a family tradition. Four generations of quilting hang on this rack.

If the house was on fire, after making sure all family and pets were safe, I’d grab this treasure on the way out.

My daddy was a wood worker. When they tore down his home place, “The Old House” as we called it, he took some of the boards off the walls first. The wood was so old it was almost petrified. He said he tore up several bands from his planer trying to sand it down.

Beside me and my beautiful daughter Kaitlyn is the cabinet he made me from those boards. He’s been gone nearly 10 years now, and my grandparents have been gone decades. Priceless doesn’t begin to describe it. I wouldn’t sell this for all the money in the world.

cabinet

When I’m gone, my children will be left with quilts and furniture from their grandparents and great grandparents, and I think they’ll appreciate it — if for no other reason than they know how much it meant to me. But if that’s all I leave them, I’ve failed as their mother. I want them to have so much more than family heirlooms.

Not to be morbid or anything, but I’m going to die one day. And Lord, please, let me die before any of our children. I want to leave them what thieves and moths can’t steal and destroy.  I want to leave them a legacy.

Here are just a few things I consider a legacy worth leaving — not just for them, but the generations that follow them. I’m going to be a grandmother in a few short months, and I’ve got a lot of dreams for that sweet little one.

A legacy of love. Crazy-like, unconditional love. I didn’t just love them when they were lovable. I loved them when they were throwing temper tantrums, messing up my clean house, sassing me, and getting in trouble. As I read to them every night, I’ll love you forever, I’ll like you for always. As long as I’m living, my babies you’ll be.

A legacy of provision. May they remember I put their needs above mine — not just financially, but emotionally and physically. From midnight feedings and changed diapers, to being grade mother in their classes, to planning their weddings, sending them to college, and giving tax advice.

A legacy of wisdom. I allowed my children to feel the consequences of their choices, both good and bad. Although it nearly killed me, I let them feel the pain of disappointment and disobedience. It makes them good people. Many times, I shut my door and cried to see them hurting, but if it was best for them, I let pain do it’s work.

A legacy of expectation. I didn’t demand all A’s, perfection on the ball field, or anywhere else. It didn’t matter how well they did, as long as they did their best. I didn’t push for success in the world’s eyes. I expected effort. Refusing to try wasn’t an option.

A legacy of dependability. The world is a crazy place. You just never know what’s going to happen. People come and go. Children need stability. I hope they saw me be the same person at home as I was everywhere else, day in and day out. They need to know their parents are always there when doubt and fear assails.

A legacy of an example. I’ve never bought into the “do as I say, not as I do” line of thinking. Sure, there are things adults get to do that kids can’t, but providing them an example of how to behave is the least I can do for them.Their personalities differ from mine in many areas, but kindness, honesty, integrity, and keeping your word should be how everyone lives.

A legacy of Jesus. May they know, deep down inside, that they are so loved, so wanted, so precious to God, that there is nothing they can do to slip from His grasp or His grace. I pray I have passed His love, faithfulness and goodness to them, like Psalm 78:4 instructs us,

We’re not keeping this to ourselves,
    we’re passing it along to the next generation—
God’s fame and fortune,
    the marvelous things he has done.

I guess time will tell if I was successful or not, and I may not know in my lifetime. Although my relationship with them has morphed into more of a friendship nature now that they’re adults, when they were young, they didn’t need another friend. They had plenty of those. They needed a mom, not another buddy. My intention was never to be the coolest, hippest mom, and I’m sure they’d all agree I probably wasn’t. That’s okay with me.

If my children are as kind and respectful to the waitress as they are to their boss, if they love and honor God and people, if they walk in the grace and mercy of the Lord, uphold justice and fight for goodness, if they’re honest and keep their word, if they do their best as employees, wives and husbands, friends and neighbors, if they love their children enough to teach them what they’ve learned, I’ll have left a legacy worth passing on. In my book, that’s true success.

 

 

She Didn’t Have to Be

20 Friday Nov 2015

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My daddy and I went to live with my Grandpa and Grandma Bunton, and my aunt Bet, when my parents split up. While Daddy was working as a telephone man at Southern Bell, I stayed home with Grandpa and Grandma, fussing when Grandpa’s electric razor made the Old Rebel and Captain Kangaroo fuzzy on the old black and white TV.

Daddy met a beautiful telephone operator at a union meeting named Martha and fell in love with her. Before long, so did I. She had green eyes and long, dark hair with big curls — and three school -aged children — and I adored her. On a blustery, cloudy day in November 1969, they went to the Justice of the Peace in Greensboro (since no preacher would marry them because they had both been divorced), and she took on a new husband and his four year old daughter.

I was sitting in the floor playing with my Lite Brite when they walked in at Grandpa and Grandma’s. I jumped in her arms and said, “Can I call you Mama now?” For reasons that were outside my control, my parents were divorced, and I knew in my heart that God had given her to us. Daddy and I both needed her — badly.

We moved into her house and blended our families. Mama quit her job and stayed home to raise me. She watched the Old Rebel and Captain Kangaroo with me, only she didn’t run an electric razor and make the TV fuzzy.

I couldn’t wait for my new brothers and sister to come in from school every day. Mama had supper on the table when Daddy got home from work, and she would let me help her cook and clean. It was a happy time.

It wasn’t until I started school that I realized I was different. None of the other kids had two moms. Their siblings had the same last names as they did. They weren’t going out of town to visit their non-custodial parent like I was. In the early ’70’s, blended families were the exception.

Before long, I began to feel the sting at church. Some parents didn’t want their child at my house to play because my parents were divorced. I guess they feared we were a bad influence, or maybe their child would catch divorce cooties. I never understood it.

Mama was undeterred. Even though no preacher would marry her and Daddy, and some other moms shunned me, she held her head high and kept taking me to church. Again I’m forced to say, the world has never hurt me — but people who name the Name of Jesus have caused me great pain.

Jesus was different like me. He also had a stepparent, and the religious community shunned them as well. His mother, Mary carried the son of another Man — the offspring of the Holy Spirit Himself. Joseph was skeptical of taking on a child that wasn’t his, but Matthew 1:20-21 tells us,

 . . . an angel of the Lord appeared to him in a dream and said, “Joseph son of David, do not be afraid to take Mary home as your wife, because what is conceived in her is from the Holy Spirit. 21 She will give birth to a son, and you are to give him the name Jesus, because he will save his people from their sins.”

Although Jesus didn’t belong to Joseph, he made the conscious CHOICE to love and raise Him as his son. He didn’t have to. He could have put Mary away and decided to find a wife with less baggage.

No angel spoke to Mama, and I surely wasn’t conceived by the Holy Spirit! But she took Daddy and his baggage anyway. I got the same love, and the same discipline, as her biological children. Because of her, I can cook, clean, sew, do any craft I set my mind to — she’s the reason I am the wife and mother I am today. I had the best example I could ever have hoped for.

She could have been just my stepmother. I’ve never called her that because of all the Cinderella/wicked stepmother images that come to mind! Instead, she chose to be my Mama. Every time I hear Brad Paisley’s, “He Didn’t Have to Be,” I still get a catch in my throat.

It could have gone a different way. She didn’t have to quit her job to stay home and raise me. I was mouthy and sassy and loud. I cried when she made me wear anything lacy. I didn’t like sleeping alone. I refused to stop sucking my thumb no matter what she did — to the tune of a lot of expensive orthodontic work. I put the dog in my bed when she left my room every night even though she didn’t want him on the furniture. I’m sure I was quite the bratty little sister to Ricky, Jo Anne and Dean as well.

Even with all of that, she loved me and treated me just like she treated her other children. She always made us a cake on our birthday’s.

mama and me

So when I grew up, I set my mind to do all the things she taught me to do. I made her one when it was her birthday.

mama cake
They were married 36 1/2 years before we lost Daddy. She lovingly cared for him until his last breath, and he died laying right next to her. Thank you for loving him, and for loving me, Mama. We never would have made it without you.

mama and daddy

Who would have thought that God was using her not only to prepare me to be a wife and mother, but also how to blend a family with love one day? Now I’m in Mama’s shoes. I married a man who already had two children. Because of her example, I’m dedicated to loving Joseph and Kelly as the two new blessings I’ve been given, treating them the same as I treat my biological children. Through blurred vision with grateful tears, I thank God my husband loves my children that way as well. We got them a lot later than Mama got me, but I pray they will always be thankful they were given not just a stepparent, but a second Mama and Pops.

Sadly, divorced families are no longer the exception. There are untold numbers of children living in homes without both biological parents. If you find yourself with children who don’t share your DNA, please, please, please look into that face that doesn’t look like yours, and love that precious child. Treat them like they were birthed to you, loving them unconditionally . . . like next generation depends on it — because it does.

God’s Tattoo

29 Thursday Oct 2015

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One of the main reasons I started writing this blog is to bring encouragement to those dealing with the same things I’ve experienced. My life has been far from perfect, and my hope is that people struggling with hardship will be glad to know they’re not alone. And more importantly, there is a God who loves them and would never leave them, no matter what they’ve done or what they’ve been through.

So in the spirit of making sure everyone knows for SURE I’m not perfect, let me share my all time worst “Mom Fail” moment with you.

In late spring of 1993, we were living in the little military/farming community of Goldsboro, North Carolina, and we were leading the college ministry at our church. Richard, Jay, William and Robbie — affectionately known as “The Fellas,” were in our class, and they were my 2 year old and 4 year old little girls’ best friends. They couldn’t wait to see The Fellas at church each week, or to have them over at our house.

We’d gotten into a routine after Wednesday night Bible study. The Fellas would go pick up Lindsey and Kaitlyn from their Mission Friends class and meet us in the parking lot. It was the highlight of the girls’ week! They would jump in the Fellas’ arms and squeal all the way outside, and then they’d run and play with them while we stood by our cars and chatted with everyone else.

This particular Wednesday night was like all the other Wednesday nights in the past couple of years. Except for one small thing — my newborn son, Daniel was now part of our family, and it was his first week in the nursery.

I was so used to the routine after class, that I walked right outside to visit with friends and waited for the girls to finish playing with the Fella’s. I was standing there just a flappin’ my gums when I saw the nursery worker coming out of the building carrying precious cargo — my baby. My heart hit the pavement.

Did you forget something, Dee?

Why yes. Yes I did.

I could make a lot of excuses — it wasn’t part of my normal routine! I must have had postpartum fuzzy brain! The Fella’s should have gotten him too when they got the girls! I mean, they were right there on the same hall!

The bottom line is, it wasn’t anyone else’s responsibility. It was mine. My baby should have been my first thought, but instead I was doing what I was always doing on Wednesday night. I didn’t change my normal schedule to add picking up my son.

Who could forget this precious little feller?! (Of course it’s out of focus — before digital cameras, filters and iPhones hit the scene, we didn’t know what pictures would look like until we got them developed!)

daniel

I’m sure I would have realized I was missing a child as soon as we started to get in the car. He wasn’t left in the nursery for more than 15 minutes past normal pick up time, and he was never alone. He had no clue anything was amiss! But the fact remains:

I forgot my son in the nursery.

I can hear the scratching noise of people marking my name off the nomination page for “Mother of the Year” right now. I don’t think I have ever been more embarrassed of my parenting skills!

What could I have done differently? I really couldn’t prepare for it in advance because I never DREAMED I would do such a thing! I was BORN responsible! If I’d thought I could’ve been that forgetful, I would have written a note on my hand:

Don’t forget to pick up Daniel in the nursery, Doofus!

If you’ve been reading my posts, you know I spent some dark times thinking God had forgotten about me as well. I must have thought God was the same kind of parent I am, at least for a little while. I have to constantly remind myself that He is a MUCH better parent than me!

Comfort can always be found in God’s Word. We find that the Israelites struggled with the same fear I have had when we read Isaiah 49:

14 But Zion said, “The Lord has forsaken me,
    the Lord has forgotten me.”

The Lord sought to relieve those fears, and it should ease ours, too:

15 “Can a mother forget the baby at her breast
    and have no compassion on the child she has borne?
Though she may forget,
    I will not forget you!

It’s VERY hard for a woman to forget her child (unless you’re me!), but even if she does, God never will. He will never forget us, never forsake us, never fail us.

Read on and you’ll find out God has a tattoo — more or less. I may or may not be taking some liberties with semantics, but you get the picture. Check out the next verse.

16 See, I have engraved you on the palms of my hands;

Why did God do this? Is He in danger of forgetting us, like I forgot my baby? Did He need to make Himself a permanent reminder not to forget His children? Of course not. The first word of that verse shows us why He engraved us on His palm. He said, “See?” It’s not to remind HIMSELF. It’s a visual aid for US. It’s to show us proof that He hasn’t forgotten us.

In that same way, Jesus used physical evidence on His palms to prove His resurrection to Doubting Thomas in John 20:27,

Then he said to Thomas, “Put your finger here; see my hands. Reach out your hand and put it into my side. Stop doubting and believe.

God’s engraving of us on His palm, and Jesus’ nail scarred hands are there as proof of the Father’s love in tangible evidence to us — for our benefit, to help us to believe and not to doubt. Only love could make them put permanent reminders, “tattoos” if you will — of us, because of us, and for us, on their palms. Proof of a perfect love that never fails, never forgets.

Sister ballerinas

23 Friday Oct 2015

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Our first Halloween in Alaska was 1993. Here are my sweet girls in their ballerina outfits, ages 3 and 5. They sure did love each other!

girls halloween 2

The next Halloween, Kaitlyn insisted on being ballerinas again because she wanted to wear Lindsey’s tutu from her ballet recital. It was either a hunter in camo or the Tasmanian Devil for 18 month old Daniel. He wouldn’t have needed the costume for the second idea . . . the boy kept me on my toes.

I was in the kitchen — I don’t recall if I was cooking or cleaning. Daniel was taking a nap. The girls were playing in the living room, not 10 yards from me. I heard a thud and I went running in to see what happened.

I didn’t find out until later that the girls were trying to jump from the couch, over the coffee table, and on to the carpet in front of the fireplace. And by “later”, I mean THIS PAST TUESDAY. Oh the things your kids tell you (that you may not want to know!) when they’re grown up!!

Quite a big aspiration for 4 year old and 6 year old little girls, wouldn’t you say? Did they think they could fly? Apparently Kaitlyn went first and quickly discovered she could NOT.

Her face looked like Charles Manson had paid us a visit. Blood was everywhere. All over the floor, the coffee table, the couch. I could see her skull, and blood was shooting out of her forehead, right between her eyes, in spurts with every beat of her heart. I’ve said many times, and I will say many more I’m sure — parenting ain’t for the faint of heart.

She wasn’t crying, and she never did shed a tear. She just looked at me with those big, beautiful brown eyes and blinked in the pouring blood.

I picked her up and rushed to the kitchen. Speaking soothing words to her, I held her head over the sink and tried to close the wound and slow the bleeding. I assured her she was going to be okay. She watched her blood pour in a steady stream for a few seconds until she calmly and quietly asked,

Mama, am I going to die now? Is that ALL my blood?

My heart clenched as tightly as if someone had punched me in the chest.

No, sweetheart. You aren’t going to die. That’s not NEARLY all your blood. You have a LOT more! You have so much you don’t even need this blood! As soon as I get the bleeding slowed, we’re going to get you some stitches and you’ll be just fine.

It wasn’t until then that I realized what Lindsey was doing. She was on her knees on the kitchen floor, crying out to Jesus for the life of her little sister. She had never seen that much blood either, and she too thought Kaitlyn was dying. She prayed as hard as she could, eyes closed, hands clenched under her chin,

Lord Jesus, PLEASE don’t let my sister die! Please don’t let all her blood come out! Please take ME instead of her. Let ME die!

Again, my heart felt like it would break! I simultaneously squeezed Kaitlyn’s cut closed and turned to Lindsey to calm her fears, trying to assure her Kaitlyn was going to be okay. But she wouldn’t stop praying. She wailed,

Jesus, I don’t know if my sister knows You! She’s so little! I know that I know You and I’ll go to Heaven to be with You, so take me instead! TAKE ME!!!!

The faith of a child. And the love of a sister. It was the first time I realized my children had inherited my bent to love so deeply it hurt.

After a trip to the ER, Kaitlyn was good to go to the Fall Festival with a band-aid covering her 7 stitches. My little trooper!

girls halloween

I remember when my friends Ricky and Susan Marshall’s daughter Allie was diagnosed with Type 1 Diabetes at age 10. Ricky asked the doctor if he could take out whatever works in his body and put it in Allie’s. He would rather carry that illness than watch his little girl carry it. Maybe that’s why we lost him to a heart attack so young. His heart couldn’t contain that kind of love this side of Heaven.

The Apostle Paul loved that deeply as well. In Romans 9, he said,

2 I have great sorrow and unceasing anguish in my heart. 3 For I could wish that I myself were cursed and cut off from Christ for the sake of my people

Paul loved his people so much that he would trade his life, even his salvation, for them to be free.

However, it doesn’t work that way, does it? Lindsey couldn’t exchange her life for Kaitlyn’s, Ricky couldn’t take Allie’s dysfunctional pancreas, and Paul couldn’t give his countrymen his salvation. As badly as it hurts to watch people go through hard times, we can’t go through it for them. We all have to walk our own paths.

As always, I write to preach to myself. My heart is heavy, and I wish I could carry the burden of people I love. But like my sweet Lindsey, my dear friend Ricky who is with the Lord, and the Apostle Paul, I carry deep anguish in my heart — pain that I can’t fix.

Thankfully, I know the One who can. This is the prayer on my heart today. Maybe you’re burdened for someone you love as well. If so, you can pray this with me.

Lord Jesus, we hurt when we watch others hurt. You know how that feels. You bore our pain and sin on Calvary. It’s too much for us to bear at times, so we give it to You. We claim Your Word in Isaiah 41:13,

For I am the Lord your God
    who takes hold of your right hand
and says to you, Do not fear;
    I will help you.

We lay our loved ones at Your feet for You are our Healer, Our Comforter, our Helper. Thank You for reaching down to lift us up. Please do for them what only You can do. Heal their broken hearts, draw them closer to You, make them stronger and healthier. Not for us, but for Your glory and in Your Name, amen and amen.

Treating the Symptoms

10 Saturday Oct 2015

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My parents split up when I was a baby. When I was four, my Daddy remarried, and I found myself blessed with two mothers. One I call Mom and one I call Mama. For simplicity’s sake, I’ll my call the mother who birthed me, Mom Jenny and the mother who raised me as her own, Mama Martha. I’ll write about her one day, but for today, I have a story to tell about Mom Jenny.

My Mom Jenny lived in Miami as I was growing up, and I visited her several times a year until she eventually moved back to North Carolina in the early 1990’s.

She was always a beautiful woman. Not without her problems (she and I could write a book on that one!), but she always kept her looks. This is her after she moved to Durham. Stunning, isn’t she?

Mom Healthy

A few short years later, her health began to fail. She started gaining weight. Her thick, beautiful hair was suddenly sparse. Her face was round and her eyes bulged. She became diabetic, had high blood pressure and sleep apnea.

I kept asking her what her doctor was doing about her health problems. He increased her sleeping pills and bipolar medicine, and started her on blood pressure pills and treatment for diabetes. It seemed to me there was pill after pill being prescribed for condition after condition, but if she was okay with his prognosis, what business was it of mine? Was it my place to do something? Shouldn’t I just trust the medical professionals like she did?

She kept getting worse. Her skin was like paper. A dog jumped in her lap and just his paw on her arm tore such a deep gash that blood shot in the air. When she hit 180 pounds (she’d never been over 100 pounds her whole life), it was time to intervene. Who could look at her and not see something was wrong? Something more than eating too much? Can you believe the difference in her appearance?

Mom Cushings

I insisted on going with her to her next appointment with her primary care physician. I expressed my deep concerns about her declining health.

“Something has caused her to be diabetic. Her weight, her hair, her skin. Something is bad wrong.” 

He said, “Or maybe she’s just fat.”

What?!!? I don’t expect doctors to know everything. I have a lot of grace for them actually. They’re human beings — they’re not God. But I knew something was wrong with her! I actually felt she was dying. If he wasn’t going to help me, I was dang sure going to find someone who would!

I went with her to her next appointment with her psychiatrist. I didn’t know who else to ask. I pleaded,

“This is my mother,” and I handed him a picture of her when she wasn’t sick. “See how she’s supposed to look? She’s inside of that failing body over there somewhere,” and I pointed to her sitting in a chair. “Please help me find her.” 

When I got home that evening, her psychiatrist called me.

“I would never in a million years have believed that was the same person when you showed me that picture. I’ve been on the computer researching her symptoms all evening. I believe your mother has Cushing’s Disease.”

He told her to go back to her primary care doctor and tell him she needs surgery. Immediately, they confirmed his diagnosis. She had a tumor on her adrenal gland, and if it hadn’t been discovered, she would have died — sooner than later. In a flash, she was hospitalized at Duke University Hospital and had her adrenal gland, along with the tumor, removed.

What almost killed her had lurked beneath the surface for several years. If she had known it was there, she could have treated it before it took her health, her appearance and nearly her life.

She continues to have a myriad of health problems stemming from Cushing’s. Sadly, she was too sick to put up a fight back then. She was just treating the symptoms, and never finding the root of what was wrong.

Jesus addressed this issue several times in the New Testament. His words on the subject have caused much dispute over the years. He said in Mark 9:43,

If your hand causes you to stumble, cut it off.

He also said if your eye causes you to stumble, gouge it out! What in the world does that mean?!? Is He advocating maiming yourself? Should we REALLY cut off limbs and remove senses?!

Don’t be silly. Of course He doesn’t mean that. What He’s saying is quite simple:

Don’t treat the symptoms. Take care of the PROBLEM. 

It makes a lot of sense to me. Treating the symptoms instead of removing what was wrong that nearly cost my mother her life. She looks and feels better than she did before her diagnosis, but the earlier she found out, the better off she would have been. The longer it went on, the more her health was permanently affected. What was hurting her HAD to come out for her to live.

Isn’t that what we all do? It’s really the human condition. Not just physically, but spiritually, psychologically and emotionally. We think we can take care of the symptoms instead of the problem and we’ll be just fine.

Your teenager is driving you nuts — that’s normal. But what if something else is wrong and is causing the acting out? Isn’t it better to find out the problem and take care of it instead of just hoping it will get better?

How many marriages could be saved if instead of ignoring the problems and pretending like nothing is wrong until it’s too late?

How many people are self medicating their miserable lives with drugs, alcohol and prescriptions from their doctors, when what they really need to do is find out what is wrong with their lives and FIXING IT?

Yesterday we found ourselves back at Duke Hospital. Here my Mom Jenny in recovery from an endoscopy. She’s been having a lot of nausea — to the point that I’ve had to take her to the emergency room a couple of times.

Mom recovery

Don’t worry, Mom. We don’t know what’s wrong yet, but we’ll find out. You’ve got a bunch of good doctors and a daughter who isn’t into treating the symptoms without fixing the problem.

Not a Sparrow Falls

02 Friday Oct 2015

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When Kaitlyn was about 18 months, I couldn’t find the remote. Other missing items had ended up being located in the toilet, but not this time. I asked her several times where it was, and she held her hands up in the air and say, “I not know, Mama.” Lord help me, but that young’un was sweet. She made you want to pick her up and cuddle her every time you looked at her.

After hours of looking, I finally sat down in exasperation and said,

“Lord, You and You alone know where that remote is. Your Word says a sparrow doesn’t fall that You don’t know it. You know how many hairs are on our heads! You said to ask and we will receive. Well, I’m asking! Please tell me where that remote is! I’m just going to sit here and be quiet and wait for you to tell me.”

After a couple of minutes, I got up from the chair, I walked straight to the love seat, I reached my hand directly behind the cushion, down into the depths of the couch, and I touched that remote. What a boost to my faith!

From that day on, if I couldn’t find something, I’d pray “The Prayer for That Which is Lost” until I found it. Lindsey lost her ring. I lost my purse. Cash. Keys. Homework. You name it, if we couldn’t find it, we prayed. I’m a little obsessive about lost things, so between looking hard and the power of prayer, there haven’t been many things I haven’t been able to find.

Switching gears (I’ll tie it all back together, I promise):

In 1996, we were given a kitten, a beautiful blue eyed boy, white with orange on his face and chest. The kids wanted to name him Jonah. Lindsey was 7, Kaitlyn was 5, and Daniel had just turned 3. He has few memories of life before Jonah.

Since then, I’ve lived in 10 different houses, and Jonah has stayed right with me. That’s remarkable since he was always an outside cat. When I’d bring him in when it was very cold, he wasn’t happy. He’d pace back and forth in front of the door wanting out. Oh the gifts he brought us! Field mice galore! Bunnies (which I found personally upsetting), squirrels, moles, voles, and surely other rodents I’ve blocked from my memory.

When he stopped hunting a couple of years ago, stopped doing anything except sleeping, I brought him in for good. He wasn’t sick, he was just old. Although he was deaf, he could see fine, and he still purred when we held him. Here he is in Kaitlyn’s arms. He was 19, she was 24.

jonah

A few weeks ago, he started meowing. A LOT. And pacing back and forth. He’d stop meowing if I held him, so I did. For two days, he meowed and he paced. We had to run some errands, and when we got home, he was nowhere to be found. We searched in every nook and cranny. I called him just in case he could hear me. No sign of him anywhere in the house.

The only thing we can figure is he located the doggie door, made his escape and jumped the fence. We live in the woods on the family farm, so we combed several acres of fields and woods. Every day. Even at night with a flashlight.

I plastered his picture all over social media. Called the animal shelter. Nothing. No real trace of him except the bit of white fur Todd saw towards the pond.

As I walked, I prayed — the “Prayer for That Which is Lost” I started praying when Kaitlyn was a toddler.

“Lord, You know where Jonah is. Not a sparrow falls outside your care. Please let me find him, even if he’s gone on to “kitty heaven”. I want to bury him here on the farm, Lord. I don’t want to keep worrying, keep looking, keep wondering where he is. I need closure.”

This time, no answer has come to my “Prayer for That Which is Lost.” I understand cats like to go off on their own when they know their time is coming. It’s entirely possible that Jonah loved being outside so much that he just didn’t want to die inside. I do wish I could’ve buried him by the pond next to our other cat, Maggie that we lost this year as well. But 19 years is a very long time to keep a kitty, so I’m thankful for what time we had.

(Before anyone gets any bright ideas about giving us a kitten, please don’t! We loved Maggie and Jonah, but my husband is very allergic to cats, and we have two dogs to love on!)

What’s the difference in finding the remote and finding my 19 year old cat? Why would God show me the remote, yet not let me bury my Jonah? I’m SO comfortable with saying, “I just don’t know.”

God isn’t a vending machine. We can’t put our money in and get the same thing every time. Maybe finding Jonah would have hurt me worse. Maybe God was protecting me. Or maybe I didn’t look hard enough. Maybe I just don’t need to know WHY.

I still trust Matthew 10,

29 Are not two sparrows sold for a penny? Yet not one of them will fall to the ground outside your Father’s care.

I hope that my sweet Jonah laid down under a tree, next to an old log in the woods, snuggled into the leaves and fell asleep where he loved it most. It gives me great comfort to know wherever he fell, he wasn’t outside my Father’s care.

Wherever you are, my sweet Jonah, thank you for not running away when Daniel was 3 and used to pick you up by your head. You were so loyal, following us to house after house. Thank you for all the presents you brought us — dead rodents to us, treasures to you. If there are kitties in heaven, we hope you’re running through fields and chasing mice. We will never forget you and will always love you. You were a good boy.

Oh the Irony

31 Monday Aug 2015

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In the many years I spent in youth and college ministry, I had a lot of teenagers come through, and oh how I loved each and every one of them. Like they were my own! Although they’re all grown up and have lives and families of their own, they each will always be special to me.

Here’s a great story about one of my ministry girls, and the story is continuing to unfold. I’ve known her since she was born. Her daddy was actually my music teacher when I was young. She inherited the musical gifts of both her parents — she could sing, play, and compose. She was one of those people that oozed creativity.

When she married, I directed her wedding. And when my daughter got married, she was the photographer — did I mention how creative she is?

Little did both of us know we would walk down some similar paths. We would end up single moms, doing our best to figure out a way to make it, not understanding why things happened like they did, trying to trust that better days were coming, hanging on to our faith sometimes by a thread.

Knowing her like I do, I  wasn’t the least bit surprised to see MollyAnn Wymer’s songs, pictures, and modeling shoots. When she started posting funny and sarcastic videos (I’m especially impressed by that since I’ve got some giftings in the sarcasm area myself), I was proud. I knew the pain she’d experienced in her life, and I was thrilled to see her laughing and making others laugh.

Molly

Last Thursday night, I wrote “Hope Deferred“ about giving your dreams to God, and asking Him to either help you fulfill them, or to take them out of your heart so you don’t  become heartsick. God isn’t mean — He doesn’t want us hopeless and depressed, stuck in dead end places. His plans for us are more amazing than anything we could dream up anyway!

First thing Friday morning, Molly wrote me and said it had really spoken to her. She felt like she was stuck in a holding pattern, on the verge of something. She was waiting for God to open doors. I believe God gave her those gifts for a reason, and I prayed for those doors to open.

A few of her videos have gone viral. She’s had some offers, a few irons in the fire, but so far nothing major has really materialized. And she has five little ones who depend on her to take care of them. I completely understand the weight she feels.

As we wrote back and forth on Friday morning, Molly said, I know if I feel fear before I hit “Publish” it’s going to resonate! I just made a “guns” video…and I’m feeling it! 

Oh my . . . famous last words . . .

In the three days since then, Molly’s satirical video about guns has had nearly 13 million Facebook views, over 25,000 YouTube views and climbing. Thousands of comments — apparently some people don’t know sarcasm when it’s staring them in the face — especially when it’s Southern blonde carrying a pink gun. I was completely shocked that some people not only didn’t get Molly’s point — that the power of the gun is in the hands that hold it and it can be used for good or for evil — but some of those people were horribly mean!

Help yourself to this video, and if you like her creativity, try the rest of them as well. “Dramamine” was the first one to go viral, and it still makes me laugh!

MollyAnn Wymer’s “I had to buy protection”

My Mama bear side comes out not only when my own children are being attacked, but also when my ministry children are as well. If I’d had time, I’d’ve given a piece of my mind to all those haters! You don’t have to understand, or even like someone’s creative work, but to say the things people were saying was just brutal. I have been, however, very happy to see all the people defending Molly and trying in vain to explain to people that SHE WAS KIDDING. Evidently sarcasm requires a higher intelligence than the average viral video viewer!

All day, Molly has been on my heart and as I prayed for her, the story of Joseph in the Old Testament came to my mind. Joseph had been sold into slavery by his own brothers. He really hadn’t done anything wrong, except that he was his father’s favorite.

Years went by, and although Joseph knew he didn’t deserve the treatment he’d been given, he was still faithful to use his God-given gifts while in slavery and prison. Because he refused to give up and waller in misery (for all you non-Southerners, when you “waller”, you lay there, stay in the funk, in the pit of despair). Instead, he clawed his way up, and little by little he was promoted. The powers that be eventually noticed Joseph and his talents, and made him the highest ranking official in Egypt, second only to Pharaoh.

In the end, his brothers were starving in the midst of a national famine, and they came to get food from Joseph. They were afraid he would retaliate after what they’d done. Instead, Joseph told them in Genesis 50:20-21,

You intended to harm me, but God intended it for good to accomplish what is now being done, the saving of many lives. So then, don’t be afraid. I will provide for you and your children.

God used the abuse of others to propel Joseph to blessing beyond measure. And he in turn used it to bless others.

I won’t share the details, but know this. All the haters that left brutally horrible comments to Molly have done nothing but serve to promote her. I look forward to seeing what doors this will open for her and enable her to provide wonderfully for her children! It’s going to be fun to watch. Go, MollyAnn, be the Southern woman voice of sarcasm and satire!

Be encouraged, dear friend, if you’ve got some haters too. God will do for us what He did for Joseph. How good is the Lord to turn what people do to hurt us, and use it for our favor? To actually promote us to our destiny? That puts a new spin on it, doesn’t it?

Thank You, Jesus, for Molly’s haters, and thank You for all of ours as well. You’re the only One big enough to use mean people to give us the blessings beyond measure. Well played, Lord, well played.