Happiest Place on Earth!!

We were able to spend a few days in Orlando last week, and though the weather tried to interfere, we were able to see Crystal perform, finally.

Her days are long in the heat, and she goes from a day parade, two afternoon traveling square dance type shows, and usually two night parades.  But she is always professional and never does a sloppy job when performing.  During the parades, she has to wear heavy costumes that are hard on her body, but she is a trooper and we are so proud of her.

It was absolutely thrilling to get to see her in action, so I agree that Disney is the “Happiest Place on Earth, ” and it had little to do with the most famous mouse in the world. (for us, anyway.) 

I still pray that God will open more doors for her and allow her to be recognized and valued for all that she is capable of doing.  

Dragonfly in Disney Spectro Magic Parade, waving to the crowd

Attached is a picture that friends of ours took while there.  We aren’t allowed to identify anyone directly, but isn’t this character adorable?

I have to say that Disney does an amazing job of creating memories.  From the music, to the characters wandering around the park greeting the kids, to the parades that always have park attendees that serve as the Grand Marshall and other special guests, to the fireworks and Tinkerbell flying down from Cinderella’s Castle at the close of each evening;  these images and songs continue on in the minds of all their guests, making each one look forward to the day they can come back and experience it again.

Can’t wait to see some more magic. . .

Daddy, what if?

My writing career, if you can call it that, started with my first published piece on Father’s Day in 1990.  It was published in the Sunday Edition of The Tennessean, in a small column called “The Nashville Eye.”   The title they chose? “She Still Dreams of Life With Dad.” 

How appropriate that here I am, eighteen years later, sitting at my computer as Father’s Day approaches, still dreaming.

For those who know me, and even those who don’t, it is important to understand that by doing this, I am exposing my feelings in their purest form.  Sometimes embarrassment follows, as if I’ve said too much. But still, the writing process cleanses my soul in some way.  

And on Father’s Day, I just don’t have a choice. 

You see, my father, who was a preacher down in Corinth, Mississippi back in November of 1967, was fatally injured in a car accident.  I was only six months old at the time, and my older sister, Jeanna, was barely three-years-old. 

So, forgive me if the cleansing of my soul also means that tears roll down your face as well.  Maybe I do say too much, but then again, maybe God gave us all stories so that they could be shared.

 Dear Daddy,

I spent the weekend listening to Father’s Day tributes all over the radio.  A million songs filled with memories that I don’t have, and it still hurts me to this day.

I’ve always said that the hardest part about you dying was not that you left, but that you never came back.  I would have given anything to spend a day with you, even if it was our little secret.  I so needed a memory to call my own.

So, now it’s been 41 years worth of times that we needed you, and every day, you are still gone.  I’ve learned that the world tends to move on quickly from these things, but for those of us left behind, you still aren’t here and that never changes. 

            Sure, we move on.  We live.  We heal.  But we are never the same.  

Somewhere along the way, I wondered why I couldn’t get over you.  Was something wrong with me? How can I miss something that I never had?  How could a man in a picture mean so much to me? 

I tried to recreate a memory - to stand where you once stood and learn everything I could about you.  I would imagine your voice and try to touch anything you may have touched. I assumed that if you were here, any problem I ever had could have been resolved with a hug.  I never imagined any rough times in our relationship, but since you were a fairy tale, I could make you anything I wanted to, right?

But that’s just the problem.  It was like I was describing a fictional character, and the only way you existed was in my mind.  That’s just not the same thing as a memory. 

But, it finally dawned on me this weekend, as all those “Daddy” songs kept reminding me of the things we never got to do together, that it’s not the lack of memories that bothered me so much. 

It’s the love that is supposed to go with those memories.  

Daddy, I don’t want to hurt you by saying this, but I don’t remember feeling loved by you. It’s like it was something else I imagined; just another dream. 

Don’t get me wrong, I know it’s not your fault.  And in my mind, I know you loved me, and still do.  But in my heart, the only thing it remembers about you is that you weren’t here.   Maybe that’s why I can’t get over you. 

Did you know that every day was hard for Mom?  Though she rarely showed it, somehow, she was able to constantly prove she was strong enough to handle it.  She did a great job of raising us, always placing our needs before her own.  But deep down inside, I don’t think any of us really want to do this all by ourselves.

Did you know that when I was little, and was trying to figure out this thing they casually call “death,” I used God as a messenger to get to you?  I would pray to him every night, but in the beginning, it was only because he knew you.

Did you know that for as long as I can remember, my number one goal was to get to heaven?  Again, that was more about you at the time than it was my love for God or Jesus.  But if that’s where I had to go to meet you, then that’s where I was going.

            Did you know that when Jeanna had her bike accident when she was 9, and I saw her lying in the street unconscious and bleeding, that I kept yelling at everyone and telling them not to let her die?  I truly didn’t want her to die, but I also thought that if one of us was going to get to be with you, I wanted that person to be me. 

Kind of a twisted way of thinking for a 6-year-old, I guess, isn’t it?

My motivation may have been selfish in the beginning, but what developed through the years, though, was this very personal relationship between me and God.  I remember hearing the scripture that said “God is Father to the Fatherless,”(Psalm 68:5) and we had a deal from that day forward.  I was asking the hard questions from the start, and he was OK with that.  

When I prayed, I would say, “My Fathers, who art in heaven. . . ” and he was OK with that. 

I told him everything about how I wished he had handled our lives differently, that we needed you here, and that I didn’t think it was fair.  And he was OK with that.

And somehow, as Daddies do, he comforted me. 

            In my own little girl logic, I ended up feeling sorry for those who hadn’t gone through it yet.   And sometimes, I felt that I had the advantage, because I had two “Fathers in Heaven” watching over me, and everyone else had just one. 

They say that our Dad’s are here to show us the love of God, our Heavenly Father, right?  Well, you’ve done that better than any of them, I suppose. 

The truth is that I don’t ever really want to get over you.    To this day, everything that is wrong with me - and everything that is right with me - it all started with you.  It makes me who I am today, and I don’t want to let go of that.

Because of you, I see what is most important in life, and can spend my time and energy on the things that matter most.  Because of you, I treat each day as if it could be my last, so that there are never any regrets.  Because of you, I make sure that my family will always remember what it was like to feel loved. 

Still, what I wouldn’t do for a big hug and the chance to cry out all this strength I’ve held on to for all of these years.  Sometimes, I get tired of being strong. I just want you to be here doing all the Father and Grandfather things you are supposed to be doing.  I want my kids to know you, and to make jokes about how you are losing your hair or something.  I want you to be planning some sort of retirement cruise with Mom.  I want to see you grilling out in shorts and black socks so we can tell you how embarrassing that is. . .

There I go dreaming again. 

I guess one day, when I can be more spiritual and less human, I’ll trade in all these earthly dreams for those about heaven.   I have no idea what you’ll look like up there, but you had better have big arms, because I can’t wait to run into them.   

Until then, Happy Father’s Day.

Teach Me To Fly. . .

This is a poem I wrote for Crystal when she was five.

Five, do you hear me? 

That was a long time ago, and was probably too deep for her to appreciate at the time.  But she learned to understand, and then later, learned to fly.

I miss her, by the way.

 

Teach Me to Fly

 

Teach me to fly, Lord,

Teach me to fly.

Teach me to follow

And stop asking “Why?”

 

Teach me to rest

my life in your hands.

Teach me to trust

the strength of your plan.

 

Teach me to listen

for your guidance each day.

Give me your wisdom

and your words to say.

 

Show me your path, Lord,

show me your way.

Keep me from doubting

and going astray.

 

Teach me to dream

and reach for the best.

Teach me to believe,

then you’ll do the rest.

 

Teach me to fly, Lord,

Teach me to fly. . .

 

Janet Morris Grimes

1990

 

 

Lessons Learned From the Bowling Alley. . .

This is one of the few published pieces that I had.  I believe I was actually paid $25 for this back in 1999.

Was that really almost ten years ago?

Brings a tear to my eye, as I’m sure it does for Andrew as well.  Whatever.

Lessons Learned From the Bowling Alley

Janet Morris Grimes

Mention the words, and one thinks of an enormous, smoke filled room accented by loud music, the crashing of pins, and the thrill of competition at it’s finest. Applause, a few moans and groans, and an occasional laugh are usually the telltale signs of how each bowler is doing.

Not exactly the perfect place for deepening a relationship, or so I thought. But for me and my eleven-year-old son, it became a haven where we could escape the pressures that we faced and have a little fun. As our bowling dates grew into a weekly ritual, I realized how much we were gaining from these excursions to the local Brunswick.

Andrew and I found ourselves at a crossroads. He had struggled through fifth grade, largely due to his Attention Deficit Disorder and trouble with organizational skills. He is a brilliant kid whose major problem seemed to be getting his work turned in on time. So, I decided to take a leave of absence from my job in order to home school him for awhile. I promised I would help him find a system of doing schoolwork that would be successful for him, and he promised to give me a chance.

But, as our roles shifted from mother/son to teacher/student, the potential for conflict increased. Our journey proved to be more difficult than either of us imagined. I had to remind myself daily that the road with the toughest obstacles is usually the one with the greatest reward.

It was during our first full week of “school” that we ended up at the bowling alley; his chosen treat for working so hard. Though we were both a little rusty, we welcomed the friendly competition, a refreshing change from the battle of wills that had been occupying so much of our time together.

So, we made a habit out of it. And week after week, he surprised me. Not so much with his ability to bowl, but with the quiet transformation I was seeing in him.

The first thing I noticed was that my fiercely competitive son was encouraging me. Granted, when your only competition is your mother, it must take some of the glory out of winning. While his goal was still to keep his score higher than mine, he would share advice on what techniques worked for him and give me high five’s on those rare incidents when I lucked into a strike.

After receiving a tip from an expert bowler that “it is more a game of strategy than of skill,” Andrew began to calculate his next move and watch for patterns in his approach to the game. For a boy who is normally impulsive and lives in a world where you act first and think later, this was a welcome change. He concentrated and took his time. He maintained some consistency in his game, and felt good about himself for doing it.

During one of our conversations, I started drawing analogies from bowling that also pertained to life. At first, he thought I was crazy, but I could see his mind working like he was trying to solve each puzzle. My guess is that he will remember these more than many of the other life lessons I have tried to instill in him.

This is what we came up with: If at first you don’t succeed, go for the spare. If your feet slip out from under you, check your shoes. You may have been walking somewhere you didn’t belong. As long as your ball is rolling in the right direction, something good will eventually happen. When everything goes wrong, call it a practice game and learn from it. Then, take a break and start all over. Sometimes, you get more accomplished with good effort rather than perfect form. If your ball keeps going in the gutter, you are probably too close to the edge.

The way I see it, when you find something that works, you keep doing it. Each week, we realized that we left with more than we had when we started, so we kept coming back. A tradition was born.

He isn’t one to admit it, but I fully suspect some of his fondest memories of this homeschool year, and his most important lessons learned, will be from the one hour each week we spend together at the bowling alley.

©1999, Janet Morris Grimes

 

Precious Memories . . .

I’m trying to get all the things I’ve written in one place, for various reasons.  So, I’m pulling some of my favorites out of the archives.

This was something I wrote as a tribute to my grandmother, and will go down as one of my all time favorites, because I don’t even remember writing it.  I had been to visit her for the last time, and was sitting at a table near the fireplace at a Cracker Barrell in Cadiz, Kentucky writing on a scrap piece of paper all that I was feeling.  I was crying my eyes out, and I’m sure the folks nearby thought I needed some help.  But I don’t remember them being there.  It was just me, the fire, and my feelings, and this was the end result. 

 

Precious Memories

By 

Janet Morris Grimes

December 16, 2002

            Somehow, after driving through the darkness, I found myself staring into the roaring fire dancing in the fireplace in a Cracker Barrel Restaurant in Cadiz, KY.  Laughter and sounds of busy-ness filled the room, overpowering the Christmas music heard in the background.  In two rocking chairs nearby sat a grandmother and granddaughter playing checkers.  Tears spilled from my eyes again as I secretly hoped the innocent little girl knew to treasure that moment. 

            Sitting by my own grandmother’s bedside earlier that day, I held her hand in mine.  How frail they had become – those same hands that I used to draw imaginary pictures on during church.  I closed my eyes and was once again sitting beside her on the pew.  I held the songbook and followed the words as she sang her favorite hymns, emphasizing each word with all of her heart and soul.  Her voice was still so clear in my mind. 

            ‘. . . Have you been to Jesus for the cleansing pow’r?  Are you washed in the blood of the lamb? . . .’  

            Although she had grown weaker with each passing day, my grandmother was especially talkative during today’s visit.  It was as if she was on a journey through her past memories, and was in a hurry to share the details.  So, I listened. 

            Born Martha Louise, she was the oldest daughter out of the eight Hardeman children.  Many of the responsibilities of caring for the younger ones fell on her shoulders, and as she talked, I caught an occasional glimpse into her life as a young girl.  She told stories of taking her younger siblings to church to hear her father preach while her mother would stay home with the babies. 

            On this day, she spoke in disconnected thoughts, stopping to take a breath between her words.  Suddenly, she interrupted herself and asked me to swap sides of the bed so I could hold her other hand.  She said it was getting cold.  I moved my chair to the other side, and taking her hand in mine, I could think of nothing I would rather be doing. 

            She continued with the story that was replaying itself in her mind.  “There was this house full of strangers, and I knew my Momma and Daddy would get my goose if I didn’t find my brothers and sisters.  But I never could find them. . .”  Her voice trailed off. 

            ‘. . . Are you fully trusting in his grace this hour?  Are you washed in the blood of the lamb? . . .’

            Her eyes closed for a few moments and her hands went through the motions of waving to someone.  She smiled, discovering another happy memory.  

            “You know, I always see people here in the halls that I have classes with.  Don’t you think it’s nice to say hello and smile at people when you pass them?”  I agreed with her as an attendant from the nursing home stopped in, warning her that it would be time to take her medicine in about an hour.  She responded by sticking her tongue out at him, and they both laughed. 

            ‘. . . Precious memories.  How they linger.  Howe they ever flood my soul . . .’

            My mind took me back to my own days as a young girl, spending holidays at Granny’s house.  Traditions were born out of everyday things, but that’s what made our visits so special.  My favorite memories were the simple ones - a house overflowing with relatives, playing games with my cousins, going to church together, praying before dinner, the grown-ups sitting at their table and all of the kids sitting at our own.  Granny was always so busy serving the rest of us that she rarely ever sat down to eat. 

            We were summoned each morning by the sounds of banging pans in the kitchen and the sweet aroma of bacon frying and biscuits baking.  My favorite sound of all was her voice singing those beautiful hymns. 

            ‘. . . In the stillness of the midnight, Precious sacred scenes unfold . . .’

            She dozed off once again and her breathing was labored.  There were long pauses between each breath.  I brushed the hair away from her face and wondered how many more she would take. 

            Her eyes abrubtly opened as if I had asked that question directly to her.  She turned her head toward me and squeezed my hand.   

            “You know, Janet, I talk to Jesus every day about how much longer I will live.  He won’t tell me the answer, but He doesn’t have to.  It’s just something we are going to go through together, so there is nothing to worry about.”  She slowly closed her eyes again and rested for a moment. 

            ‘. . .When the trumpet of the Lord shall sound and time shall be no more. . .’

            Traveling through my own memories carried me to a time when I was only 9-years-old, standing in her kitchen after my grandfather had died.  I had been crying, but told Granny I was glad he wasn’t hurting anymore and that he was in Heaven waiting for us.   I then confessed that it was hard for me to say that, and that I wasn’t sure I understood it.  

            She pulled me toward her and I buried my head in the apron she was wearing.  She ran her fingers through my hair and reassured me, “I’m not sure any of us will truly understand Heaven until we get there.  All we can do is believe in it.” 

            ‘. . .And the morning breaks eternal bright and fair.  When the saved of earth shall gather over on that other shore. . .’

            As the sun was setting outside, Granny shuffled her covers and softly recalled Thanksgiving weekend a couple of weeks before.  She proudly mentioned each of her family and friends who had come to visit her at the hospital during that time.     

            A nurse poked her head in the room and Granny made a point to introduce me as one of her 13 grandchildren.  Her voice strengthened with pride as she announced that she would never trade her family for anything in the world. 

            ‘. . .And the roll is called up yonder, I’ll be there. . .’

            She showed her love for us by knowing what each of us preferred as a favorite dish, by sewing clothes for us when we were little, by praying for us daily by name, by playing the piano for us, by calling us on Saturdays to make sure we were all right, and by following us down the driveway as we were leaving her house and waving until she could no longer see our car. 

            ‘ . . . Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound.  That saved a wretch like me. . .’

            As her voice was getting weaker, it finally struck me that perhaps her greatest gift to us was in giving us the memories of her singing her favorite  hymns - hymns about Heaven.

            ‘. . . I once was lost, but now am found.  Was blind, but now, I see. . .’

            For now, when we needed comfort the most, and she was no longer able to provide it, we still had the memory of her singing those words she believed and lived each day of her life. 

            ‘ . . .When peace like a river attendeth my way.  When sorrows like sea billows roll . . .’

            At the end of the evening, she looked at me and asked, “Have we seen everyone we need to see today?”  I told her I though that we had.  She nodded her head in agreement. 

            ‘. . . Whatever my lot, Thou has taught me to say, “It is well, it is well with my soul. . .’

     This was to be our last day together.  I think we both realized it.  She tilted her head up and kissed my cheek.  She told me it was time for her to rest.  I kissed her forehead and nodded my head in agreement. 

            ‘ . . .On Jordon’s stormy banks I stand, and cast a wishful eye. . .’

            Walking to my car, I was sure of only one thing.  Though I couldn’t see them, I was standing as close to humanly possible to the gates of Heaven. 

            ‘. . .To Canaan’s bright and happy land, where my possessions lie. . .’

            I knew there were angels nearby waiting to take her home. 

            ‘ . . .I am bound for the promised land. . .’

            I knew that her journey was complete.

            ‘ . . . I am bound for the promised land. . .’

            Even though I could not imagine life without her here – 

            ‘ . . . Oh who will come and go with me?. . .’

            I knew it was time to let her go. 

            ‘ . . . I am bound for the promised land. . .’

            And I knew that she was. 

            I love you and miss you Granny.  We will see you soon. 

 

The Power of a Sleepless Night . . .

Mom-ness.  It’s difficult to explain. 

I’ve described it as bringing you as close to God as possible, without actually getting to meet him face to face.  When having a baby, it’s as if he is on one side of a curtain and you are on the other, as he hands this miracle to you and says, “Here, there is something I need you to do for me.”

From that point on, we have no place to go but to our knees to seek guidance minute by minute.  Through my own journey, I have found myself there many times.

But sometimes, the urging is stronger, when I feel as if my kids are in danger and know they need the power of a mother’s prayer. Many times, I have been awakened with the thought of one of my kids weighing heavy on my heart, so I would spend the rest of that night alone with God, asking for his protection in their lives.  Sometimes I would go into their room and pray over them while they slept, while other times, I may hold a picture in my hand and literally lift them up. 

I started doing this when Andrew was a baby, and suffered from frequent bouts of bronchitis and pneumonia because of his severe allergies.  He struggled to even breathe at times, so I would take him with me to sleep in a more upright position on the couch, praying over him all night long.  

I felt as if he needed my help to breathe - like he wouldn’t make it through the night if it weren’t for the extra prayers. 

I decided then that God appreciated our alone time as much as I did, and I knew enough to pay attention to that feeling when it hit me.

When Crystal was in college, it happened.  Then, she called the next day to say she had fever all night of 104.  She was as sick as she had ever been, and was later diagnosed with mono.  

On another occasion, Tommy and I were taking turns driving back from a summer vacation to Orlando in the summer of 2006, and I was on the night shift.  Andrew was working in another state that summer, and had not gone on the trip with us, so I was thinking about him all night long.  I quietly sang ”Surround Us, O Lord” for hours, but sang it about him and inserted his name into the song. 

He called later that day, (June 10, 2006 to be exact - Moms don’t forget these things), to say he had been in a wreck and had flipped the car, and was on his way to the hospital.  

Thankfully, he was OK.  But, I couldn’t help but wonder if the outcome would have been different if I hadn’t been asking God to surround him the night before.

Don’t get me wrong.  I don’t have any power, and don’t think God needs me to accomplish anything.  But by recognizing the call to prayer, admitting my own helplessness and kneeling in awe of his power, I fully believe he listens.  And more importantly, intercedes on our behalf.

I may not be able to control the future, or the choices my kids make, or really anything else for that matter. 

But I can plead with the Creator of the Universe to protect them, guard them from the ways the world tries to harm them, and to lift them up where they belong. 

And I can rest in that. After all, does a Mom really need sleep?

So, for tonight, it’s Crystal.  She is 750 miles from home, and has had a rough few weeks.  She feels kind of isolated and wounded.  My God and I have an appointment to discuss this in the moonlight.

And then there is Malloree.  Soon, she will be starting high school in a new state where she doesn’t know anyone.  Her first question was, “what if they beat me up on the first day of school?”  Think she is worried?

It’s like she needs my help to breathe - like she won’t make it through this if not for the extra prayers.

So, like a mother bear protecting her cubs, I will be there.  Less vicious, but so much more powerful.

 

Finding where we don’t belong. . .

Have you ever tried to play the game of Sudoku? 

It’s a logic puzzle that asks you to place the numbers 1 - 9 in each column and box without repeating any number.  It’s challenging, intriguing and rewarding all at the same time.

The funny thing is that in order to find out where the numbers belong, you must determine where they don’t.  Then and only then do you find the answers.

Sometimes I think God works with us like that as well.  We ask him for guidance, but then it seems like we get a bunch of “no - that’s not it” answers.  But, my guess is that God understands that we are just human enough that it takes something like closing a few doors to nudge us out of our comfort zone; to force us to take a different step; to bring us out into the open, where the only choice we have is to depend on him.

I can’t help but think that God is playing this game of Sudoku with us as he is creating our future. I jokingly told my boss the other day that I had given him a “two year notice,” because we believed we were getting transferred to another state (for Tommy’s job) for the past two years.  For the first year, we thought we were headed to Louisville.  Then there was a few months of Chicago rumors, which even led us to take a trip up there to search for housing.  Then there was Kansas City, and now Dearborn, Michigan.

All of these locations have one thing in common.  They are far away from everyone and every thing we have known and loved for our entire lives.   

So what does this mean for us? 

It means that as he is gently showing us where we don’t belong, he is also preparing us for whatever comes next.  And little by little, step by step, as one door after another is closing, God is slowly leading us out into the open, where we have no choice but to depend on him and him alone.

And I’m okay with that.

I suspect that it will be challenging, intriguing and rewarding all at the same time. 

 

 

What about me?

A friend asked me one time how I was doing.  I responded, like I always do, by telling them how everyone in my family was and what all was going on in their lives.

My friend listened politely, then sat there for a minute, and intruded on my little world by saying this:

“I didn’t ask how everyone else was doing - I asked how you were doing.”

And I had no idea how to answer that.

For some reason, I am the type of person who thinks of myself only as a last resort.  As a general rule, if everyone else is happy, I’m happy.  No wonder I get in over my head sometimes.   

It takes me awhile to realize I’m being taken advantage of, or that there may be other options.  For example, I follow a very slow car way too long before deciding I can go around them in the fast lane.  I guess I’m afraid of hurting that car’s feelings or something. 

I’m the same person who planned a little surgery over Christmas Break a few years back because that was the only time I thought it wouldn’t inconvenience anyone.  As it turned out, that little tumor was malignant, and I ended up casting quite the damper on our little Christmas.  

Yep - I definitely have a problem.  (but have been cancer free now for six years, so thankfully, that is no longer one of them)  

But, I’d better figure out how to be OK, regardless of how the people in my life are doing. There’s got to be more to me than just making sure I’ve met everyone’s needs for the day, right?  

I’ve got to dig deeper and give myself permission to at least figure out what I’m all about when it’s just me, and what I want out of this crazy little life.  If I don’t, I’m going to end up all wrinkled, lonely and sitting on my front porch wondering what my purpose is since there is no one to take care of. 

So, how am I  doing? 

I’m not sure quite yet, because this is a new process for me.  But, even though I’m exhausted and have way too much to do tomorrow, and there is laundry to put away,etc. I find myself at the computer at 11:00 at night writing. 

Because that is what I love to do.  Maybe this is a step in the right direction.

 

  

 

The Peak Hill Mansion. . .

Selling a home is a difficult thing to do. 

On paper, it is a house, complete with square footage, three full baths, a “Florida Room that overlooks a private back yard,” yada, yada, yada.  

But there is much more to it than that.  We’ve only been in this house for four years, but have been able to fill it with amazing memories along the way, most of which you would have to have been a part of to understand.  

Our first year here was Andrew’s senior year in high school.  Of course, that flew by in a whirlwind of activities, such as:

• His video project that he stayed up all night to complete
• His friends and their indoor airsoft gun fights, complete with the battle music they recorded themselves
• the wrecker driver dropping off his Bronco after it met with sudden death against a retaining wall on the interstate (November 15, 2004, in case you are wondering)
• His quest to make sure he was never on time to school, except for that one night they camped out in the hallway as a practical joke
• The “W” sticker that he proudly put on his riding lawnmower

For Malloree, who was entering fifth grade when we moved in -

• She and her neighbor friends playing hide and seek before we had any furniture in here.
• She and Tommy pitching softball in the yard
• During her volleyball year, she would hit the ball in the air (and off the wall) for hours at a time.
• Her sleepovers with giggly friends on the inflatable mattress that deflates through the night.
• Getting a dog for her 13th birthday, and then later, her photography sessions that focused on trying to catch him in mid-air. (bless his furry little heart)

Crystal was grown by the time we got here, so she was somewhat less destructive.  She filled her time, and our house, in her own way.

• By taking endless bubblebaths in our tub, and finding a way to bring in a TV and hook up cable to it in the process. (it’s a wonder she is not still in there)
• By practicing her dances in every room of the house, mostly the dining room because of the mirrored wall.
• By giving the Papa John’s delivery guy something to do every single day.
• By chasing Nathan and Ben up and down the stairs when she would babysit them.
• By giving up her bed (the most comfortable in the house) whenever Malloree or Andrew were sick, because that’s where they ended up anyway.

Some of my favorite times were when we sat in the Florida Room, just listening to the rain on the tin roof; dancing in the kitchen with Tommy to the hum of the refrigerator; chatting in the hot tub on the deck while it was snowing; the surprise party for Andrew when Granny forgot to hide; laying by the fireplace at Christmas in a “pile of Grimeys;” church get togethers that often brought people who had never even been to our church; and countless video shoots for all of the pointless camp videos, which of course, was the point after all.    

So many memories, such great times, so much more than just a house.

We are going to miss the Peak Hill Mansion.

 

Look Honey, We Made People. . .

If I had ever stopped to think about it, I would have seen this coming.  But there were too many “Mom” things to do along the way for me to really notice. 

I guess it dawned on me a couple of months ago, when I was standing in our living room  talking to my kids.  While there is nothing unusual about that,  everything was very different. 

We were all standing face to face, but somehow we were all looking up to Andrew.

I don’t even remember what we were talking about, but I noticed that no one was interrupting the other one, and it seemed to matter what each of us was saying. 

Somewhere near the end of this moment, taking the risk of even ruining it, I yelled out to Tommy in the other room -

“Look Honey, we made people!”

That shouldn’t have surprised me, but in my mind, I thought they would always be viewed as our kids, and that I would somehow be the extension cord that connected them to the outside world.

Thank goodness I was wrong!

I definitely don’t want them to depend on me for everything, but it starts that way and continues on in a blur of laundry, school projects, studying for exams, athletic practices and learner’s permits that can leave a Mom feeling as if nothing can happen unless she makes it happen.  

Thankfully, it isn’t up to us as parents to be with them every step of the way or to chart out their futures.  If that were the case, I fear that I would hold them back.   Any plans I have for their futures would be tainted with “Mom emotion” and my desire to keep them close to home.

But, I’ve told them all that God created them and He will show them what paths to take, since His plans are the only ones that really work out anyway.  

Now that two-thirds of my kids have moved 750 miles away, that doesn’t stop the “Mom emotion” that makes my heart long to see them again. 

But, I rest in the fact that God knows what He is doing, and He’s done a pretty amazing job with them so far.    Apparently, He must have known they would grow into people all along, and I trust Him to finish what He started.