I am made of summer bike rides down a dusty road, making cakes of sand decorated with leaves, and the sweet taste of honeysuckle nectar on my tongue. I am made from the bleating of sheep at the first morning light and the rule about no bare feet until May 1st.
I am made from faded 4-H ribbons, honor roll certificates, and every adventure of Nancy Drew. I am made of time spent practicing the old Baptist hymns played on a slightly out-of-tune piano for sweet Miss Ella Mae and of Vacation Bible School cookies and Kool-aid. I am made from the wiping down of tables in the Terry coffee shop, watched over by Gracie with the golden tooth to ensure I didn’t miss a single spot.
I am made of my father’s laughter and my mother’s quiet observations, my grandmother’s whisk, and of hours upon hours spent reading the Bible to Ma as I sat next to the crackling fire. I am made of Sunday brisket eaten around the long table at the Big House, of grilled cheese sandwiches cooked in butter, and of just a little too much sugar in my coffee milk.
I am made from the white stockings all bunched in the toes of my red buckle shoes, of itchy lace stitched along the hem of the Easter dress my grandmother made, and from tracing the wrinkles on the thin skin of my great-grandmother’s hand as The Word of God was preached every single Sunday morning of my childhood. I am made of Thanksgiving breakfasts and of Spring Ridge Sundays, of old family photos and of vacations spent traipsing through abandoned cemeteries to find that one ancestral grave we had never seen before.
I am made from fingers dry with chalk and red ink marks, and more lesson plans than I care to remember. I am made from large stacks of homeschool curriculum and unreasonably high library fines. And I am made out of 235,000 mini-van miles, most traveled with five kids crammed into the back asking “Are we almost there yet?”. I am made from living in six states, and from owning an empty passport.
I am made from the midnight prayers over sick babies. I am made out of my decision to welcome children from hard places into my home, from loving them as much as I loved my own blood babies, and from the tears of having to give them back. I am made from learning how to feed an anorexic child.
I am made out of pencils without a point, ink smeared words on loose leaf paper, and random blog posts. I am made from the strong desire to tell the tales my ancestors once told just so I can remember how the story goes.
Who am I?
I am all of these things, and yet so much more. For I am made in the image of the Great I Am, created only for His glory. I am made for His plans and purposes.
The events and people that shaped me are not the sum of who I am.
I am made for Him.
For by him all things were created, in heaven and on earth, visible and invisible, whether thrones or dominions or rulers or authorities—all things were created through him and for him. ~Colossians 1:16 (ESV)
The old adage goes, “There’s no place like home.” That’s probably true, though I might make one small change:
There’s no place like home … except Grandma’s house.
I remember driving up to my grandparents’ home at 407 Kelly Street in Woodville, Texas. My brother and sister and I could hardly wait for my mom to park the car before we jumped out and raced through the kitchen door, each of us trying to be first!
My grandmother would look up, and say in a delighted voice, “Look here … it’s those Terry children! I was just telling Daddy Red that you would be getting here just about any minute now, and here you are! I am so glad to see you!”
I spent many summer days at my grandmother’s home. She loved to host a “cousins’ week” for all her grandkids. No parents allowed. Just our grandparents and our great-grandmother and all seven of us grandchildren.
Boy, did we have some fun adventures!
We went set up tents and camped out in the backyard … at least until humidity melted us and the mosquitos got us and the night noises spooked us. Then one-by-one we snuck back inside to the a/c.
We swam in the backyard pool until we were too tired to enjoy our popsicles. We walked around the block and down the street to the old cemetery. We picked berries, played loud games of dominos (Chicken Foot was our favorite, but we liked Mexican Train too), and watched old Jimmy Stewart movies in the heat of the afternoon.
Breakfast never arrived without watching cartoons in bed with my grandmother and large mugs of coffee milk served by my grandfather. Lunch was never served without a big plate of sliced tomatoes, and there was always rice with brown gravy for dinner. Bedtime never came without big bowls of Blue Bell ice cream. (If we picked enough berries, rather than eating them all straight off the bushes until our bellies ached, our great-grandmother would bring over a big berry cobbler for us to eat with that ice cream.)
Those summers with our grandparents weren’t complete without a short trip. Sometimes they took us to Galveston Island, where the best part of the whole day was crossing over to the island on the ferry and feeding the seagulls bread that we tossed into the air. Other times we went fishing at nearby Dam B (later renamed Martin Dies, Jr. State Park) near Jasper, TX. On other occasions they would take us to visit my grandfather’s family in Lufkin.
My grandmother was a talented seamstress. She always had multiple sewing projects going on at the same time, as evidenced by the pile of bright fabrics by the sewing machine and the perpetually set-up ironing board next to it.
My cousins and I often wore matching holiday dresses. I was the oldest so I wore my dress only one season. My poor baby sister had to wear her dress, then my cousin Steffi’s dress, and later on my dress. If you look at old family photos, it seems that my sister Brooke only ever owned about 2 dresses for her entire childhood.
My grandmother loved to host “hot water tea parties” with her granddaughters.
She would cover a large cardboard box or coffee table with an old sheet. Next, my grandmother had us set the table. We would pick a small bouquet of flowers from around the yard and set it in a vase on the center. Then we took the tiny tea set from her china cabinet and set out the cups and saucers, the sugar bowl with tiny sugar cubes, the milk in the pitcher. Meanwhile, my grandmother added some hot water (or rarely a weak tea) to the teapot. She put a plate of pink sugar wafer cookies on a pretty plate and set that on the table too.
Now we were all ready to enjoy our tea party. My grandmother acted as hostess. You had to wait for the hostess to serve the food before you could eat, and no one could slurp their tea. Sometimes we brought our baby dolls, and practiced introducing our “children” to our friends.
Later on, when I was about 10 years old, my grandmother gave me about five old teacups. I kept them on a shelf in my room, and in high school I decided I liked them so much that I started collecting teacups. Each time I look at my teacups, I am reminded of my grandmother and her hot water tea parties.
My grandmother also introduced me to England’s royal family.
Okay, she didn’t actually introduced me … but she is the one who turned me into an Anglophile, or lover of all things English.
During my teen years, my grandmother and I often discusses Princess Diana and Fergie. Years later, when I watched the movie The King’s Speech, I recall how my grandmother had shared this story with me during my childhood. If I ever get to travel to England, which I hope I actually get to do, I know I’ll wish I could return home to share all about my English adventures with my grandmother.
There is so much more that I could tell about my grandmother … for example, she was an avid traveler who visited 49 of the 50 states in this great nation, but loved Texas best of all. And while all of those things are special to me and the rest of us who loved her, there is truly only one important thing about her life.
One a stormy night in 1947, as she rocked my infant mother in her arms, my grandmother decided that she was going to follow God. The next morning, she told my grandfather that she intended to join the church and be baptized the following Sunday. According to her, he didn’t say a word and the subject never came up again during the next few days. She assumed that he wasn’t going to try to dissuade her from joining the church, but he wasn’t going to join her either.
On Sunday morning, as the music for the invitation began, my grandmother moved to step out into the aisle. My grandfather stepped out of the pew, she thought to simply allow her to get out … but then he took her hand in his and together they walked forward to join the church. They were both baptized and spent the rest of their lives dedicated to their faith in Jesus Christ and in Christian service.
From leading GA’s (Girls in Action missions) when her daughters were young to traveling the nation building churches with the Volunteer Christian Builders during retirement to knitting prayer blankets when she was homebound, my grandmother loved sharing her faith in her Savior and using it to bless others.
Her one decision, made as a young mother, has rippled through my family through the generations, paving the way for the salvation of her husband, her daughters, her seven grandchildren and her 29 great-grandchildren.
Her’s is a legacy worth leaving. Her’s is a life well-lived.
And sparkle, she did!
She was a beautiful, vibrant woman with a bright mind, big heart, and a bold personality.
Yesterday, she left this earthly home for her heavenly one.
I sort of imagine her hearing her Savior say as she walked through the pearly gates and onto the streets of gold, “Look here … It’s Thelma McGee! I was just telling the Father that you would be arriving any minute now, and here you are! I am so glad to see you!”
I realize this isn’t exactly a news flash for most people, but …
Today is Memorial Day.
It’s a day for being off work, flying the flag, celebrating the official start of summer with a BBQ or a day on the water (whether it’s a lake or enjoying the first swim of the season). And there’s absolutely nothing wrong with spending Memorial Day having fun.
But, it’s also about pausing to reflect upon the price it costs to living in the land of the free. It’s a day for our nation to remember those who have served and the price they paid because …
Service to nation is never free.
Today is Memorial Day.
Nineteen years ago, on another Memorial Day, we buried my maternal grandfather.
He was a great man of godly character. My grandfather loved his Lord, his family, his friends and his nation. He was proud to be an American and truly embraced the freedoms we have here.
When my grandfather passed away early in Memorial Weekend, it seemed sort of fitting to bury him on Memorial Day. He had a plain wooden coffin that was draped in an American flag.
At the end of the service, some men from the local VFW came forward to fold the flag and present it to my grandmother, as is the tradition to honor our nation’s veterans. But what should have been a beautiful and simple ceremony to conclude the service quickly turned into a Keystone Cops sort of fiasco.
Three elderly gentlemen, who were also veterans themselves, stepped forward to solemnly remove the flag, They started the process of folding up the stars and stripes into a neat triangle, however, as they came close to finishing the men realized that they had folded the flag all wrong. Carefully, the men walked backwards and unfolded the flag.
The entire process started over … only as they reached the end of the flag, they again realized it had not been folded correctly. Once more they unfolded the flag and attempted to fold it again. I’m not sure exactly how many times these men folded, unfolded and refolded the flag, or even if they ever got it folded correctly. All I know was at some point during the ordeal I realized I was shaking with silent laughter. I was afraid to look at anyone in the eyes for fear that the dam would break and loud shrieks of laughing would burst forth.
Fortunately, I didn’t embarrass myself and eventually my grandmother was handed the folded flag in honor of my grandfather’s service.Afterwards, my entire family agreed that my grandfather would have gotten immense amusement out of the flag-folding episode at his funeral. The memory of my grandfather’s patriotism and the hilarity of the VFW attempting to fold the flag in his honor continues to be a Memorial Day memory I cherish year after year.
Today is Memorial Day.
For seven years, I was the spouse of a soldier. My ex-husband and I moved four times during those seven years. I gave birth to one baby on the west coast (my California Beach Boy) and another on the east coast (my Sweet Georgia Peach). Additionally, we spent time calling Virginia and Texas home.
I’m grateful for all that those seven years of service gave me and taught me. From sea to shining sea, I got to spend time exploring our beautiful nation. Living in military housing afforded me the opportunity to meet a wide-variety of people from all walks of life. Their stories have stuck with me. Their friendships have blessed me. Today, as I scroll through my Facebook newsfeed, I am amazed at how many of my nearly 1000 social media friends came from those seven years of military life. I wouldn’t trade that time and those experiences for the world!
And yet, there was a price to pay. While I’d never blame military service completely on the failure of my first marriage, I do believe that frequent deployments and the stress of separation played a major part in the death of that relationship.
Unfortunately, the high stakes cost isn’t over yet. Over a decade later, my children, who will always suffer to some extent as they deal with the effects of growing up in a broken family, still pay the price on a daily basis. They don’t have the pleasure of regular visits with their father, Currently, their dad is temporarily deployed to South Korea. With the volatile world climate, my kids worry about their dad.
Protecting their hearts gets harder and harder as they grow older.
Service to nation is not free.
Today is Memorial Day.
It’s always been an honor to say that my dad was a veteran.
My dad joined the army shortly after he and my mother were married. I recall him telling me that he knew he would soon be drafted, so rather than wait for the letter to arrive in the mail, he went to the recruiters himself. By doing so, my dad was able to finish college before leaving for basic training.
I used to love to listen to my dad’s tales about the Army. One of my favorites was how he used too tell about how once he was put in charge of an entire barracks of soldiers. He was responsible for the condition of the barracks (neatness and cleanliness) as well as knowing the whereabouts of all the soldiers assigned to that barracks. He had to report any that were not in by curfew and each morning at formation account for everyone.
Dad would always elaborate on how the other barracks were in such a disarray, with soldiers always out past curfew or not up in time to stand in formation. He would go into great detail about how the other barracks were full of fighting, drunken soldiers.
But not his barracks. Dad would proudly say that his group of soldiers were always on time. Their beds were made properly, uniforms sharply pressed, the floors were mopped and the bathrooms kept sparkling clean. He said not one soldier ever missed a curfew and each morning they were all standing outside, perfectly in formation with their boots shining in the morning sun. In fact, for three or four months in a row, my dad received the award for the best barracks, earning the right to eat a private lunch with the Lt. Col., and honor that still thrilled my dad years later.
Of course, it wasn’t until after my father thought he had duly impressed us all with his amazing leadership abilities that he would let you in on the secret to his success. You see, the barracks under his leadership was entirely made up of a group of Mormons. (Later, during my years as a military spouse, I began to understand just exactly how patriotic and honorable Mormons as a whole are.)
My dad was so proud of his military service. One Christmas, my siblings and I gathered all my dad’s military patches and medals, and put them into a special display case. I wish I could say it was my idea. It wasn’t. It is my brother who deserves the credit. I’m just grateful he included my sister and I, allowing us to share a part in giving the gift to my dad. I don’t know that I’ve ever had more pleasure in watching someone open a gift than I had that Christmas when my dad opened up the display case with all of his military regalia. I thought my dad’s smile was going to burst the seams on his face! For as long as I live, I will never forget that moment.
Yet as proud as my dad was …
Service to nation isn’t free.
Today is Memorial Day.
My dad was once a soldier who served his nation during a time of conflict and war. Though he returned home, my father long remembered the names of those he knew who gave their lives in protection of our nation’s freedoms.
When I was in high school, a touring replica of the Vietnam Wall memorial came to our area. My dad insisted we go view it. I could tell it was a solemn event for him, far more than a simple wall or just a group of names. He knew each one represented a real man who never came home. He understood the price these soldiers had paid.
My father didn’t die in Vietnam. Rather the war took nearly 45 years to kill him.
You see, during his one year in Vietnam, my dad was exposed to Agent Orange. If you look up the effects of Agent Orange exposition, the list is long. Everything from cancer and other debilitating diseases like Parkinson’s to high blood pressure, diabetes and heart disease.
My dad experienced the last three, experiencing his first heart attack in his mid-40’s. I think he had 3 more over the next 20 years. The heart attacks were not due to blockages. My dad never had a stint put in place or a by-pass surgery to reroute blood flow. Rather his heart attacks were caused by an overall weakened heart muscle that was damaged from Agent Orange. In the last year or two of his life, my dad’s heart functioned at just barely over 20% of full pumping capacity, yet he continued to wake up each day and live a full life.
Several years ago, my father began to receive a full veteran’s disability from the U. S. government as a result of his exposure to Agent Orange. While he was open and honest about the fact that he had suffered from effects of the exposure and was receiving compensation, my dad never once complained to me (or to anyone else that I am aware of) about those resulting consequences. Instead, he was proud of his military service, and counted it as one of the better things he did in his life.
I am proud of him too.
About two years ago, I learned about the Vietnam Veterans Program, which honors soldiers who returned from Vietnam but later died as a result of their service. Men who suffered from PTSD and committed suicide, those who died from Agent Orange related diseases are all eligible to be honored.
After a long paper chase to fill out the application, I am delighted to report that my dad was accepted. He will be honored at a special service near the Vietnam Wall on Father’s Day weekend. I am excited to be attending this ceremony with my mom, my sister and her family, as well as my dad’s two sisters. It’s going to be a special time of remembering and honoring my father.
Today is Memorial Day.
I am remembering that while there are those who paid the ultimate price for my freedoms, each and every one of our military men and women who spent time serving our nation has sacrificed something because …
Service to nation is never free.
“Greater love has no one than this: to lay down one’s life for one’s friends.” ~John 15:13
If I could bottle up only one sound from my childhood, it would be the sound of my mother’s voice reading to me.
Some of my earliest memories are of us reading together on the couch, my brother and sister and me all clamoring to sit as close to our mother as we could. My mother’s soft voice read to us fairy tales and nursery rhymes, Dr. Seuss and Aesop’s fables, little Golden books and Bible stories straight out of our big children’s picture Bible. For a half hour or more each night, we sat enchanted by the words and the sound of her reading aloud.
This daily ritual continued long after I could read for myself. Not a day went by that my mom didn’t read a book to me, from the time I was too young to remember straight through elementary years. Even after I started Jr. High, my mother still often read aloud: short snippets from magazine articles, a particularly captivating paragraph from a book she happened to be reading for her own enjoyment, a chapter from the Bible in preparation for the week’s Sunday school lesson.
Sometimes my mother would help me study by reading my school textbooks aloud to me. Once, in college, I was frustrated with a very lengthy poem I needed to read for my literature class. I had returned home for a weekend visit, but spent the majority of Saturday in tears over the assignment. That evening my mother sat on the edge of my bed and read the entire poem aloud to me. Suddenly the poem made sense. My frustrations ceased, and I understood what the poet wanted to convey.
My mother always knew the best books to read. She was the one who introduced me to the wonderful stories that contained characters who became like special friends:
Scout and Atticus in To Kill a Mockingbird
Anne, Diana, Marilla, and dear, sweet Matthew from Anne of Green Gables
Father Tim and his large dog Barnabas from At Home in Mitford
Ramona Quimby from Beezus and Ramona
Jo from Little Women
Sara Crewe who indeed was The Little Princess
One Christmas, my mother bought me an boxed set of The Little House books by Laura Ingalls Wilder. Those tattered books, read and reread countless times over the years, still line my bookshelf. Those stories are so ingrained in my mind that Mary and Laura, Ma and Pa feel almost like my own family.
One of my favorite parts of going to elementary school was the Scholastic Book Club orders. My mother always let me order at least one book, usually more. And if we walked into a bookstore, we almost always walked out with at least one book. I think it was hard for her to say no to book purchases.
Years ago, when my teens were toddlers, my mother called to tell me she had ordered books for my children for Valentine’s Day. She asked me not to open the box until Valentine’s Day to keep it a surprise for the kids. A few days later, a box arrived on my doorstep. I dutifully set it aside. One the morning of Valentine’s Day, I gathered my kids around to open the box together. Sure enough, inside were three new picture books, one for each child. But also in the box, were TWO books for me. It was maybe the best surprise gift I have ever received.
~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~
A day or two ago, I received an email from BookBub, a free service that helps readers discover books. The email asked the question:
What book are you thankful your mother introduced you to?
The email went on to share the answers from several BookBub employees. The books varied from more recent books such as the Magic Tree House series and Harry Potter to older classics such as The Outsiders and various novels by Judy Blume.
Naturally, I paused to determine my answer to this question, but I couldn’t come up with just one book.
(Well, actually I could. I’m grateful my mother read the Bible to me and encouraged me to read the Bible for myself. But I almost consider the Bible to be far more than just a book, so it feels wrong to give that as my answer.)
My mother introduced me to so many books and characters that it feels impossible to pick just one. However, I’m grateful my mother introduced me to reading … but not because of the books or characters or authors.
I am grateful my mother loved reading for because she loved it, I did too.
And reading gave me:
a love for words and the thoughts they convey
an appreciation for good literature
a head start in academics
an entire world of experiences at my fingertips
imagination and creativity
the pleasure of visiting libraries and bookstores
sharing excitement over discovering new books and authors
writing and the power of using written words
But perhaps the most important gift of reading was a way to connect to my quiet introverted mom. Somehow, in the pages of books, I found a way to enjoy the world with my mother.
So on this Mother’s Day Weekend, when I have so very many reasons to be thankful for my Mama, I’m recalling one of the more precious memories from my childhood … reading with my mom.
Thanks, Mama, for reading with me. I’m so grateful that you did.
I first met Megan nearly a decade ago, shortly after I began dating her father.
I remember being shocked at her tiny size. She looked far more like a 6 year old than an 8 year old. Her wispy frame made it look as if she could be swept away in even a smallish gust of wind.
Initially, Megan hid behind her daddy’s legs, as if she needed his protection.
But the freckled-cheeks, the greenish-brown eyes, and the sly grin soon gave her away. I know instantly she was a little firecracker. “Aha,” I thought. “You don’t need protecting. You are like a cat, hiding until it’s time to pounce! And I like nothing better than making friends with people like you.”
As we ate our Chick-Fil-A lunches, I asked Megan about her toy prize. She showed it to me without uttering a sound. She silently stared at me, while I gushed about the really cool science kit that had come in her kids’ meal. “Look, Megan! This is a fun experiment you could do with your daddy! Here are the instructions … you put milk in this little bowl that came in your kit, and add some food coloring. Next, you …”
Megan interrupted me. “Nah. I don’t like science experiments. I’m gonna use this bowl for playing with my dolls.” She reached out and took the plastic bowl from my hands, leaving me with just the instruction sheet. I smiled at her, and knew my initial thoughts were correct.
This girl had spunk … and lots of it, too.
The second time I met Megan almost didn’t happen.
Her dad invited me to spend New Year’s Eve with him and his girls. But when Megan found out about it, all of her spunkiness came out. She made it very clear that she did not intend to have me or any other guest barge in on her New Year’s Eve celebration.
I told Jon I understood … and I did. I honestly didn’t want to be in the middle of their party, especially if his girls weren’t sure they wanted me to be there.
“Go spend time with your girls. Don’t worry about me. It’s all okay. No hard feelings … promise!” I tried to convince him I would be just fine home alone on New Year’s Eve.
But Jon really didn’t want to know I was home all by myself. He was determined to have me be a part of his New Year’s Eve “party.” So Jon spoke with Megan, and finally Megan agreed to “think about it.” But the big surprise came when Megan decided she would like to talk with me.
The next thing I knew, I found myself engaged in a phone interview with an 8 year old girl. And let me just say: This was the hardest interview I have ever had! Megan quizzed me long and hard. I guess I must have given all the right answers because ultimately Megan decided to permit for me to come over.
However, in the process of being interviewed, I came to understand one of Meg’s biggest concerns was that Jon and I would ignore her. I recognized the real emotion underneath it all was concern that I would take her daddy away from her. Of course, this was not my intention at all … but how do you convince a young girl of that?
I thought long and hard about it, and decided to play a little hard ball with her. I decided that the best way to convince Megan that I didn’t want to take her daddy away from her was to intentionally woo Megan to myself. Now all I needed was a plan to capture her attention. I didn’t have a lot of time to come up with an elaborate scheme, but I was determined.
So I went into my overflowing craft closet and threw together a few special activities I hoped Jon’s girls might enjoy, and I specifically picked activities so girly no daddy would ever want to participate.
When I walked through the door of Jon’s home with my big box of craft supplies, Megan’s eyes grew wide with excitement. And by the time we had completed all of my craft activities, Megan and I had gotten to be very good buddies . Jon was just elated he got to watch an entire football game in peace.
Later that night, as I drove away from their home headed back to mine, I watched the fireworks lighting up the night sky. I wondered about what good things the new year might hold. I had no idea what 2010 had to offer, but I had hope it would be good.
And it was … for exactly one year to the day later I became Mrs. Jon Hamilton.
With that title, I got another role to play:
Stepmother to spunky, little Megan.
Today Megan turns 18.
In honor of her birthday, I’d like to share 18 of my favorite photos of Megan … along with a few of the memories they represent.
This photo was taken at the Lafayette Children’s Museum. Jon and I were knew our relationship was growing more serious, so we were finding ways to get our children together. It was the first big outing we took all five kids on, and overall the day was fantastic for everyone. I love this photo because it shows how much fun Megan is to do things with. She has a zest for life!
2. The queen sits on her panda throne at the Alexandria Zoo. This was another outing Jon and I took our kids on during the spring of 2010. You can definitely see Megan’s spunkiness in this photo.
3. Right after Jon and I were engaged, we went on a weekend retreat with his church to Lake Fosse Point. By this time, Julia and Megan were BFF’s. I think this is my favorite photo of the two girls because it clearly shows the love they had for each other. Megan is a great sister, and not just to Julia.
4. Jon was critically ill and nearly died before we had a chance to be married. He spent 2 weeks in the hospital before our wedding on December 31, 2010. This meant he was there for Christmas. One of my favorite memories is of Jon’s girls coming to see Jon at the hospital on Christmas Day. Megan has always been a Daddy’s girl.
5. The first birthday cake I ever made for Megan. It was her 10th birthday.
6. One thing I love about Megan is that she likes to celebrate in style!
7. Megan might be something of a princess at times … but she isn’t afraid to be messy either. Here she is eating S’mores at Kaytee & Poppa’s house in the summer of 2011.
Megan gave her heart to Jesus on 10/10/10. One year later, her daddy had the privilege of baptizing her in a swimming pool.
9. When her older sister Maddie wanted to go to a CYT drama camp, Megan was determined to help her find a way to pay for it. She rallied Nathan and Julia. Together they created this lemonade stand to help raise money for Maddie. I have always loved Megan’s thoughtful and creative ways of being helpful.
10. Soon after Jon and I got married, I enrolled the kids in 4-H. Megan didn’t really want to be in 4-H … until about halfway through the first meeting, when she decided it actually sounded like a lot of fun. One of the first things she learned to do was sew. Here she is with a quilt block she sewed for a family friend. Though sewing isn’t her passion, she is very creative and quite capable of using a sewing machine.
11. Megan is a great writer, something I can definitely appreciate. Twice she was a 3rd place winner in the state LouisianaWrites essay contest.
12. Not only is Megan creative, but she is also quite smart. She was a member of the 1st place Horticulture Team at the state contest in 2015. Megan is definitely a blue-ribbon winner in my book!
13. Megan has been a 4-H camp counselor many times … and she is always a favorite among the campers. I think it’s because she spends hours each day braiding dozens of little girls’ hair!
14. For three years, our family took in foster children. Megan was always a help to me, sweetly caring for the kids in our home. Here she is encouraging one of them to feed the llamas at the zoo.
15. When Julia had her second knee surgery, the ONLY person she wanted to see was Megan. As soon as Julia was in a private room, Megan came to visit and immediately hopped up into the bed to watch TV with her younger sister. Her calm and comforting spirit helped make Julia’s recovery easier.
16. Two months later, it was Megan’s turn to have surgery. She had SVT, and needed to have an ablation on some nerves in her heart. It was encouraging to see Megan’s faith help get her through something very scary.
17. She’s lovely … and still just as spunky. Her dad is still wrapped around her little finger, just as a dad should be.
18. Happy 18th birthday to the most beautiful 18 year old girl in the world! We love you and are so proud of all you have become.
For we are God’s masterpiece. He has created us anew in Christ Jesus, so we can do the good things he planned for us long ago. ~Ephesians 2:10
Megan, you are indeed a masterpiece! You are a blessing to me!
You know the Judas I am talking about. Judas Iscariot. The disciple who betrayed Jesus for 30 pieces of silver.
The Bible tells us he killed himself. Every time I read through the accounts of Jesus’ betrayal, crucifixion, and resurrection, I always find myself wishing that Judas hadn’t made the choice to end his own life.
But he did … and it bothers me.
~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~
Recently I read through Matthew 26 during my morning devotional. This portion of Scripture gives quite a bit of insight into Judas.
For many years, I thought of Judas as some bumbling sort of soul, the kind of person who could easily be duped. In regards to his betrayal of Jesus, I assumed perhaps he was manipulated by the Jewish leaders for purposes much greater than anything he could aspire to do on his own.
Maybe he was a loser looking for friends in high places.
Perhaps he was a people-pleaser who couldn’t figure out a way to say no.
I wondered if he might be a young guy just looking for validation.
Whatever his personality type, I always figured Judas sort of just “fell” into an unintended role as part of the Pharisee’s plan to get rid of Jesus.
According to Matthew 26, nothing could be further from the truth.
Turns out, it was Judas who went to the chief priests.
Then one of the Twelve – the one called Judas Iscariot – went to the chief priests and asked, “What are you willing to give me if I deliver him over to you.” ~Matthew 26:14-15
It wasn’t the priests who were actively looking for an insider willing to betray Jesus. Rather, Judas was the one who took the first step. He set the betrayal in motion himself.
For the love of Christ, why did Judas do that?
Some people might use that phrase flippantly, but I’m serious.
Judas had just spent three years of his life walking all over Judea with Jesus. He had seen all of those miracles. He was there when the lame man walked, when Lazarus was raised from the dead, and when Jesus walked on the water. He had seen the miraculous healings. From the Sermon on the Mount to the feeding of the 5000, Judas heard and saw it all.
Didn’t he grow to love Jesus during that time? If so, then why would Judas betray Him?
Maybe it was …
For the love of money.
There’s no other reason that makes sense. Especially when you consider everything the Bible has to say about Judas and money.
You don’t have to dig around in the Gospels very far to figure out that money must have been extremely important to Judas. He was, after all, the treasurer for Jesus and the disciples, which meant he was in charge of the money bag.
We also know from Scripture that Judas was prone to helping himself to the money that was in that treasury. (John 12: 6) I can’t imagine that Jesus and his disciples had a lot of money to begin with, but Judas was sneaking out small amounts of it here and there for his own use. I’m sure he thought what he took would never be missed, but it appears that the others were aware of his tendency to take that which wasn’t rightfully his.
It seems that Judas had a problem money.
So money-loving Judas decided to go see the chief priests to barter for Jesus. The chief priests offered Judas 30 pieces of silver in exchange for Jesus’ betrayal. I have always assumed those coins must have been worth quite a large sum. But (as we have already seen), my assumptions aren’t always correct.
I did some research because I was curious just how much money Judas earned as Jesus’ betrayer. And what I learned is that Judas was most likely paid with Tyrian shekels, which was the type of currency used to pay the Temple taxes. In those days, every Jewish male over the age of 20 paid a Temple tax, which was the equivalent of two days wages or 1/2 shekel.
So if 1/2 shekel was worth two days wages, then 1 shekel would be worth four days wages. Do the math and 30 shekels of silver would be worth 120 days wages. Therefore the coins Judas received in exchange for the betrayal of Christ would be worth approximately one third of a year’s salary.
Not too shabby.
Unless you read the previous passage in Matthew 26 … .
Start reading in Matthew 26:6 and you’ll come across the story of the woman who anointed Jesus with the fragrant oil. It’s another very familiar passage. According to the Gospels, Mary (sister of Lazarus and Martha) came into a dinner party and poured out an entire alabaster jar of oil on Jesus’ head.
This oil was very costly. In fact, in another Gospel’s version of this same event, Judas himself tells us exactly how much this oil was worth:
But one of his disciples, Judas Iscariot, who was later to betray him, objected, “Why was this fragrant oil not sold for three hundred denarius, and given to the poor? It was worth a year’s wages.” ~John 12:4-5
Later in the passage, we learn that Judas wasn’t known for being a man who cared about the poor and needy. His life of sneaking and stealing that which didn’t belong to him was known by those in Jesus’ inner circle. They recognized in this situation that Judas wasn’t concerned about money being used to help others.
So what was Judas concerned about? Why did he protest?
To Judas, anointing Jesus with an entire alabaster jar of fragrant oil was a nothing more than pointless extravagance. He didn’t see the oil being used in a sacrificial act of worship from a loving heart. When the precious oil was poured over Jesus, Judas could only see a frivolous waste of money. Money that could have lined the bag in which he freely dipped his hand.
It’s interesting to me that these two passages can be found side-by-side in the same chapter of Matthew.
Worship and betrayal.
Sacrifice and greed.
A humble heart seeking to worship the Messiah, and a prideful heart seeking after self-gain.
Mary anointed Jesus with oil. As she broke the bottle, out flowed the precious oil which could have been sold for an entire year’s salary. Yet, she knew the worth of the oil couldn’t begin to compare to the worth of Jesus Christ.
But to Judas, Jesus Himself was worth only about one third of a year’s salary.
Perhaps more accurately … a third of a year’s salary and his own soul.
Most Christians are familiar with how Jesus sent Judas away from the Passover table. Later, Judas led the Roman soldiers to the Garden of Gethsemane, where he betrayed Jesus with a kiss. Jesus was bound by Roman guards and led away like a criminal.
I wonder what Judas was expecting as he stood in the garden and watched Jesus being led away. Did he have any idea that Jesus would be condemned to die?
The gospel of Matthew (chapter 27, verses 3-5) tells us the once Jesus was sentenced to crucify, Judas was “seized with remorse.” He actually went to the chief priests to return the money.
“I’ve have sinned,” he said, “for I have betrayed innocent blood.” ~Matthew 27:4
The priests didn’t care about Judas’ admission of guilt or confession of Jesus’ innocence.
And Matthew’s gospels says that Judas threw the money into the temple and went away to hang himself.
And this is what boggles my mind … if Judas knew he had done something terribly wrong, why didn’t he confess it to Jesus? Why didn’t he seek forgiveness from the one he wronged? After three years, didn’t he know the heart of Jesus? Didn’t he know he could pray to God and receive mercy?
So what kept him from seeking out forgiveness?
Probably. It’s what keeps most of us from going to God and seeking forgiveness. At least, pride is what most often keeps me from admitting my sin.
This is why I wish Judas didn’t hang himself, because feeling remorse for our sins doesn’t do us any good. It never has. Back in Genesis in the Garden of Eden, Adam and Eve sinned. The very first thing they experienced was remorse for their actions. They tried to hide their sin from God by sewing clothes from fig leaves.
Only their remorseful actions didn’t work then.
It didn’t work for Judas.
It doesn’t work for us now either.
So the lesson from Judas is to recognize that remorse for our wrongs doesn’t solve the problem. There needs to be more than just regret over our sins.
We need forgiveness, which comes through the confession of our sins to God.
We need repentance, which is simply the act of turning away from the wrongs we have done as we commit to live our life according to God’s way. It doesn’t mean we never sin again. Far from it! It just means we look to Jesus as our example as we strive to live our life according to God’s way.
I believe if Judas had confessed to Jesus and asked for it, he would have been forgiven. There would have been no need to hang himself in shame. He would have received grace and mercy. He would have the promise of everlasting life.
Because that’s what the cross is all about.
For when we died with Christ we were set free from the power of sin. And since we died with Christ, we know we will also live with him. We are sure of this because Christ was raised from the dead, and he will never die again. Death no longer has any power over him. When he died, he died once to break the power of sin. But now that he lives, he lives for the glory of God. So you also should consider yourselves to be dead to the power of sin and alive to God through Christ Jesus. ~Romans 6:7-11
So if the Son sets you free, you are truly free. ~John 8:36
Today is Ash Wednesday, which marks the beginning of Lent.
I grew up in north Louisiana, where most people are either Baptist or Pentecostal. My family was Baptist.
Baptists don’t do Lent. Pentecostals don’t do Lent either, for that matter.
To say that Lent was not a big deal in my early life would be the understatement of the year. In fact, I was in high school the first time I heard about Lent, and I was well into adulthood before I even began to understand what it was all about.
Then about 8 years ago, I moved to the very heart of Cajun country, where the people are mostly Catholic.
Catholics do Lent. And it’s a VERY big deal.
So … what’s a Baptist girl, who lives among the Cajuns, supposed to do during Lent?
Well, over time this Baptist girl has learned that Lent can be a very special time that draws a person into a closer relationship with God. I recognize that many of the practices of observing Lent are actually Biblical truths:
making personal sacrifices to honor God
being intentional about growing in one’s faith.
Lent can certainly be a season of intentionality about faith.
Yet, the Baptist in me would say it shouldn’t be the only time we fast or sacrifice or focus intentionally on our relationship with the Lord.
Kind of similar to Valentine’s Day …
Most people participate in celebrating Valentine’s Day, especially those of us with significant others. But there are those people who outright refuse to participate.
You might hear them say:
“Valentine’s Day is just a commercialize holiday. I can send flowers any day of the year, and it would be far more romantic than doing it on a specific day just because everyone else is sending flowers on that day too.”
This is true.
However, I always want to ask Valentine’s Day protestors:
Do you actually send flowers other days? And exactly how often during the rest of the year do you intentionally romance your spouse?
Yet, I also know that if Valentine’s Day is the ONLY time a married couple romances each other during the year, that marriage isn’t likely a healthy or happy one.
Romance is important in a marriage. Whether it’s on Valentine’s Day or another day, you gotta have some romantic overtures. Right? Which is why there is nothing wrong with specifically and intentionally making romantic gestures on Valentine’s Day. In fact, in my own experience, I have found that by observing Valentine’s Day, I am reminded to practice being romantic more often in my marriage.
I find the practice of Lent to be quite similar. There isn’t anything inherently wrong with observing Lent. In fact, these practices can be an incredibly worthwhile practice of faith.
But if Lent is the only time you focus on your faith, something is not quite right.
Several years ago, I began to observe Lent in my own special way.
Most people I know choose to give up something for Lent: caffeine, social media, sugar, TV, etc.
I rarely do Lent that way. I suppose it feels too much like a punishment, which seems like the wrong approach. After all, the goal of Lent isn’t to punish myself. The goal is to grow in my faith and relationship with God.
That’s why instead of giving up something for Lent, I choose to make my sacrifice through positive changes. Each Lent I try to pick one new thing to do that I feel like will draw me into a closer relationship with God.
In the past, I have attempted to memorized a lengthy scripture (or one shorter Bible verse each week) or maybe volunteer my free time with a local ministry. But the best thing I ever did for Lent was to read my Bible.
Up until a few years ago, I had been hit or miss with daily Bible reading. Truthfully, I was more miss.
I might do really well for a couple of weeks, and then not read the Bible at all (outside of church) for the next month. I could not seem to get into the habit of reading the Bible each day.
As a result, I often felt weak in my faith, as well as guilty for not having a time set aside each day to connect with God personally. I knew I should be reading God’s word, but I just wasn’t disciplined enough to make it happen.
Therefore, that particular Lent I decided my focus was going to be simply reading God’s word each day.
I did not rely on using a devotional book. I didn’t search out any Bible study to help me decide what to read, or listen to Bible teachers who would give me insights into what I read.
It was just God, me, and my Bible for 15-20 minutes.
Reading the Bible every day has been a faith game changer for me.
You cannot know God if you don’t have interactions with Him. In Christian circles, we talk about how we connect to God, and often the main answer is through prayer. Prayer is definitely an essential part of the Christian faith. It is when we talk to God.
Bible reading is more about God talking to us. It’s not the only way He speaks into our lives. The Holy Spirit can move us through a myriad of ways, but Bible reading is one of the biggest ways God reveals Himself.
Here are just a few Scriptures that tell us why the Word of God is so important for Christians to know.
Your word is a lamp for my feet and a light on my path. ~ Psalms 119:105
All Scripture is inspired by God, and is profitable for teaching, for rebuking, for correcting, for training in righteousness, so that the man of God may be complete, equipped for every good work. ~ 2 Timothy 3:16-17
Imprint these words of mine on your hearts and mind … Teach them to your children, talking about them when you sit in your house and when you walk along the road, when you lie down, and when you get up. ~ Deuteronomy 11:18-19
If knowing God’s Word is important, then we need to be diligent about studying it.
Back when I was a college student, I spent quite a bit of time studying my textbooks. I read every assignment diligently, highlighting the important sections and copying facts directly from the text into my notebook. I did this because I wanted to understand the material and make a good grade in my class.
If the Bible is the definitive book on God and Christian living (and it is), then we should diligently study it.
This means actually reading the Bible for ourselves.
All of it. Not just the New Testament. The whole thing. Not skipping over the parts we don’t like or have trouble understanding.
We also shouldn’t replace opening our Bible with the reading of devotionals. There is nothing wrong with reading books specifically about the Christian faith these books cannot begin to compare to actually reading the Bible for ourselves.
The reason for this is that we do not need any other human to interpret the Bible for us. The Holy Spirit is able and willing to impart wisdom to us through the words of the Bible. All we have to do is ask for His wisdom.
But the Counselor, the Holy Spirit — the Father will send Him in My name — will teach you all things, and remind you of everything I have told you. ~ John 14:26
And we impart this in words not taught by human wisdom but taught by the Spirit, interpreting spiritual truths to those who are spiritual. ~ 1Corinthians 2:13
The words of the Bible are unlike any other book.
The more you read it, the more you will want to read it. The more you begin to understand, the more you realize how much more you still have to learn.
Hebrews 4:12 says this: For the word of God is living and effective and sharper than any double-edged sword, penetrating as far as the separation of soul and spirit, joints and marrow. It is able to judge the ideas and thoughts of the heart.
Simply put: Bible reading is powerful.
Perhaps you are looking for a way to grow in your faith. Maybe you are pondering what you should give up for Lent.
Then allow me to suggest that if you aren’t already in the habit of doing so, a great option would be to make Bible reading a daily habit.
It won’t cost you anything but a few minutes of your time. Simply open your Bible and begin reading.
If you don’t know where to start, then I suggest that you begin with the book of John. It is an encouraging book that focuses on who Jesus is, the events of His earthly ministry, and how we can receive the gift of salvation.
Additionally, there are 21 chapters in John, none of which are extremely long. Scientists tell us that it takes about 21 days of consistently doing something new in order to make it a habit. If you read a chapter in John each day, then at the end of the book of John you will have created a new habit of reading the Bible.
Bible reading is perhaps the most powerful thing you can do to grow in faith.
If you haven’t started this life-changing habit yet, this Lent is a great time to begin!
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Several years ago, I wrote about my first experiences with Ash Wednesday. It’s by far the most read post on this blog. If you haven’t read it before, or if you would like to reread it, here’s the link: A Baptist Girl’s Ash Wednesday
I was 7 years old the first time I stayed overnight with my great-grandmother, Ma.
Ma didn’t live alone, but that night it was just the two of us in the big, rambling house that she shared with my grandparents. Mammie and Papaw were away on an overnight trip. I suppose they were concerned about leaving my great-grandmother alone while they were away, although I am still unclear on what exactly they thought I could do should something unforeseen happen.
Yet there I was … Ma’s protector.
It turned out that from that night right up until the fall I left for college, whenever my grandparents left town, it was my job to stay overnight with Ma.
~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~
Typically, one of my parents would drive me up to the big house on the hill, where they would drop me off.
I always tried to arrange things so that I would arrive sometime relatively in the early evening, yet late enough to have already eaten supper. Otherwise, all I might expect Ma to offer me would be a piece of dry toast or maybe some cornbread crumbled up in a small glass of milk. I knew that whatever my mother might be cooking that night would be immensely more appetizing than either of those choices.
Still, I didn’t like walking in and going straight to bed. I needed time to get settled and maybe watch something on TV … hopefully, while my father visited with Ma for a bit. Ma was a worrier, and I liked for her to get all her worrying out with my dad so that I didn’t have to worry with her after he left.
Besides, Ma firmly believed in that “early to bed, early to rise” business. I knew she was going to start turning off lights and shutting down the house about 8:30 pm. Bedtime in the big house came quickly. Being something of a night owl, I needed time to prepare myself for an early night.
Most nights with Ma went pretty much the same way. My dad would visit with her for half an hour or so. Then he would get up and say, “Well, ladies … I guess I will leave y’all to it.” (Exactly what he thought he was leaving us to, I still don’t know. Your guess is probably as good as mine.)
My father would go and there we would sit.
Just the two of us, together in an oversized living room …alone in that big, dark house, sitting high on a hill.
~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~
Those first few moments with my great-grandmother were always slightly awkward. We would look at each other and exchange small smiles, unsure of what to do next.
Usually, at this point, Ma would ask me if I would like to eat an orange or an apple before bed. Most of the time, I did.
She would heave herself up from the chair, and march off to the kitchen to fetch me a piece of fruit. A few minutes later, she would return with the fruit, a knife and napkins. Once she had settled back into her chair, Ma would carefully peel my fruit for me.
Now, I could have certainly gone to get my own piece of fruit, and I could have even peeled it for myself. Nevertheless, I always allowed her to do these things for me … perhaps because whether she got me an apple or an orange, Ma’s method for peeling fruit fascinated me.
With oranges, she peel off the thick skin so exactly that not a single speck of the white pith remained stuck to the juicy fruit. Oh, but watching her peel an apple was my favorite! Somehow she could cut one long, unbroken strand of peel away from the apple’s flesh, until it finally fell into a heap on the napkin in her lap. Many a night I sat transfixed, holding my breath, until she had made the final cut and the peel came away in a giant curl.
~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~
As I ate my snack, Ma would talk.
She had only two topics of conversation:
anything related to God or the Bible
anything related to sickness or death, particularly her own sickness or death
I personally preferred topic #1, which is why I learned very quickly that I could steer the conversation this direction if I asked her about that week’s Sunday school lesson.
Ma loved to study her Sunday school lesson each week, and diligently read the scriptures to prepare for the class discussion. My favorite nights were when she would direct me to read the week’s passage to her from her large-print Bible because generally she would allow me to read aloud for as long as I wanted. In this way, I found I could easily keep the conversation from drifting to more unsettling topics … like death and hell.
Death was probably Ma’s favorite topic, and she talked about it a lot. She talked about people who had died recently, or people she thought might be about to die. She talked about tragic deaths, not-so-tragic deaths, and her own death.
The last one was her most favorite topic. However, as you probably imagine, I did not share her opinion.
I’m sad to report that this distressing topic of conversation seemed to arise with regularity, generally right about the time we began to prepare to go to bed. It was nearly always a one-sided conversation, which went something like this:
Now, Paige, you know there’s a good chance I could die in the night. It happens to people my age all the time. They go to bed and do not wake up in the morning. You should know that I am not afraid to die, but I worry you might be afraid to wake up and find me dead. So, if that happens, I want you to know there is no need to worry. Just call Malcolm. He will know exactly what to do.
Malcolm, of course, was my father. I can assure you that if I had ever woken up to find Ma lying in her bed dead, I would have screamed so loudly there would have been no need to pick up the phone and call anyone, Malcolm or otherwise.
~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~
Every time I every stayed overnight, Ma wanted me to share the bed with her.
I always felt rather conflicted about this arrangement.
There were quite a number of reasons I wasn’t sure I wanted to be in the same bed as her, the main one being the very concerning issue of her dying in the night. I wasn’t too keen on sleeping next to a dead person for any length of time.
Secondly, my great-grandmother was definitely NOT used to sharing a bed. She hogged the covers, and made all sorts of strange noises.
Finally, when Ma took out her dentures just before bed, it gave her face a strange sunken look … which, I hate to say, reminded me of what I thought a dead person might look like. Truthfully, I hadn’t seen many dead people at that time in my life, so I didn’t really know what to expect a corpse to look like. Sunken cheeks definitely could be something one might see on a dead body, so therefore it was another good reason to find another place to sleep besides my great-grandmother’s bed.
However, the thought of sleeping in a bed all alone wasn’t exactly a comforting thought either. My grandparent’s house was rambling old home, with floors that creaked and doors that squeaked. Who knew what was lurking behind all those shadows or what creatures might be making those strange nighttime noises?
Then there were large paintings of my aunts and uncles which hung on some of the walls. I had seen enough Scooby Doo episodes to know that large portraits sometimes have shifty eyes that actually hid some sort of terrible swamp monster.
Yes, the more I thought about it, if something bad were to actually happen (like monsters appearing from behind portraits or burglars sneaking in to steal the stale cornbread from the kitchen counter), then it might be comforting to have another person in close proximity … even if that person made strange noises and had sunken cheeks and claimed she might die before the sun rose in the morning.
Clearly, I had an overactive imagination. The truth is that the decision of whether or not I should sleep next to Ma was probably the hardest part of staying overnight with her.
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For the first few years, I generally slept next to her. After all, it seemed the safest choice. But by the time I was 10 or 11, I felt embarrassed about this sleeping arrangement. Yet deep inside, I was still very much a scaredy cat. I really didn’t want to sleep alone in a bedroom all by myself. I often resolved this problem by inviting a friend over to stay the night with me.
But sometimes, I couldn’t find a friend to stay … and then I was left to work out whether or not I was brave enough to sleep alone.
Once, when I was about 12 years old, I thought it would be nice to bring my younger sister Brooke along. Brooke is 4 years younger than me, and at that time we didn’t have a lot in common. But I knew she would stay up to watch TV as long as I wanted and I figured she wouldn’t complain about sleeping next to me in a bed.
It seemed like the perfect solution to my sleeping dilemma!
My father was the one to drop the two of us off that night. I recall him sitting next to Ma for a short visit.
On this particular night, Ma immediately started complaining about every ailment she had or thought she might have. At one point, she started telling my father about how she was likely to die soon, perhaps even that very night. My father simply patted her hand and told her not to worry.
Now Malcolm, you know I am not worried one bit about dying. I just want to be sure you know what to do in case these girls here wake up in the morning and find me gone. Now, I expect pretty quickly they will call you, so you will be the first to know. Then you should go ahead and call Ken and Greg. It doesn’t matter which of them you call first, but let them both know before you tell anyone else. Then one of you boys can call Herbert … but tell him not to rush home. I don’t want to ruin his trip, and besides there is nothing he can do here anyway. I guess you might want to call the preacher after that.
My dad laughed. “Ma, I don’t think you are going to die tonight. You still have too much fight in you. But I promise that if you do, I’ll take care of everything.”
And then, he quickly changed the subject. Probably to the topic of her Sunday school lesson.
Half an hour later, my dad got up to leave. He kissed my cheek and called for my sister to come give him a hug. But Brooke didn’t respond.
We both called. After several minutes, I finally got up to go look, but in that big rambling house, I couldn’t find her. Eventually, my father said he must go on home, and for me to tell her he said goodnight.
I waved as he stepped through the kitchen door.
But just half a minute later, Dad walked back in … grinning from ear to ear.
I have found your sister. She’s sitting in the car with her overnight bag on her lap. She says that if Ma is dying tonight, she will not stay here for it. I’m afraid you are on your own.
Ditched by my sister. Too late to invite a friend. I really was stuck in the big house alone with my great-grandmother … who seemed bound and determined to die on my watch.
As I recall, I hardly slept a wink that night.
~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~
Ma didn’t die that night… or for a good many years to come. In fact, she didn’t die at all on “my watch.”
The last time I saw Ma, she was lying in a hospital bed. Even though she was 91 years old, I didn’t think she was really going to die. After all, she was mentally sharp as a tack and every bit as feisty as I had ever seen her.
Later, she drifted into a coma, and the next day she passed away. No drama. Nothing traumatic or tragic. Just a peaceful and quiet transition from earth over into heaven.
What she longed for most of all, finally had come to pass.
It’s been nearly 25 years now since the day she died, yet not a day goes by when I don’t think of her in some way or another.
I miss the way she would pat my hand when she talked to me, or shake her finger in my face whenever she imparted some important truth. I can still see her face clearly: the big smile, the sly grin, the fiery look that made me want to hide.
She gave the best hugs, and the worst baths! (If she ever caught hold of you in a bathtub, look out! That woman knew how to use a wash rag, and chances were excellent that you were going to emerge from that bath missing an entire layer of skin! Every Terry child old enough to remember Ma knows the truth about this.)
Oh … and her chicken pie! How I miss her chicken pie!
When I finally get to heaven, I hope there’s an empty seat next to her at that great banquet table … because if there is, then the first thing I am going to do is walk straight over, sit down next to her, hold her hand, and tell her how grateful I am for all those nights the two of us got to spend alone together up in the big house on the hill.
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Very truly I tell you, whoever hears my word and believe Him who sent Me has eternal life and will not be judged, but has crossed over from death to life. ~John 5:24
My Father’s house has many rooms; if that were not so, would I have told you that I am going there to prepare a place for you? And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come back and take you to be with me that you also may be where I am. ~John 14: 2-3
During that era, all brides carried a bouquet of white flowers. My mother wanted to have a white poinsettia, and had one ordered to be flown in from some far away location. On the morning of the wedding, the florist contacted my grandmother to say the white poinsettia had not come in and she wondered if a bouquet of white carnations be okay.
No. My mother insisted it would not be okay. To begin with, she didn’t like carnations. And secondly, she wanted a Christmas wedding. Therefore, she would carry her Christmas poinsettia … and if there wasn’t a white one to be had, then a red one must do instead.
When my grandmother relayed the message, the florist got extremely distressed. She fretted and fumed and retorted that it was not appropriate for a bride to carry any color but white. It would, she said, be sacrilegious for a bride to carry a red flower against a white dress. Yet, no amount of pleading could change my mother’s mind. So on this cold December night, the bride wore white and carried red flowers because as naturally sweet as my mother is, she can also be surprisingly stubborn at times, and on her wedding day she put her foot down over the issue of the bridal bouquet.
Speaking of feet …
My mother wore pink slippers beneath her white wedding gown.
My grandmother was quite the seamstress. She insisted upon saving money by sewing her daughter’s wedding gown. One weekend, my mother put on the wedding dress for another fitting, and my grandmother mentioned that it was past time to pick out her wedding shoes so the hem could be sewn at the right length.
My mother, who was wearing a pair of pink ballet-style bedroom slippers, said wistfully, “These are so comfortable! I wish I could find something similar to wear on my wedding day.”
My grandmother laughed and said, “Well, the dress is floor-length. I guess no one will see what’s on your feet. If you like these slippers, then wear them.”
And that’s exactly what my mother did.
In her pink slippers with a red poinsettia in her hand, my beautiful mother walked down the aisle on her father’s arm to O’ Come All Ye Faithful. Half an hour later, maybe less, she walked out on my father’s arm to Joy to the World. In between, the organist softly played Christmas carols in the background. It was, according to my grandmother, a beautiful Christmas wedding.
As a child, I used to look at the photos in my mother’s wedding album and wish I could have been there that precious night.
I would stare for hours at the pictures of my aunts and uncles, all dressed up and looking like much younger versions of themselves. It was neat to see photos of both sets of my grandparents standing next to each other, obviously delighted in the marriage of their oldest children. And of course, I marveled at how my dad’s father looked more like my daddy than the grandfather I loved. And I hardly recognized the happy wedding couple, who were destined to become my parents.
Yet, there they were … pledging their love and their lives to each other forever. But I didn’t need the photos to prove it. I witness them loving, serving and caring for each other, day in and day out.
They loved each other well. And because of their commitment to God and to each other, I was blessed with grow up in a happy, loving home.
So tonight, this post is written with much love for my mother (who is still the sweetest, most stubborn lady I know) … and with such precious memories of my dad (who adored my mother until the day he died and is still missed by us all).
Therefore, what God has joined together, let no one separate. ~Mark 10:9
I cannot remember a time when I didn’t love Ritz crackers.
My first Ritz memories are of eating them with peanut butter. I’m sure my mother made this delicacy for us, but I really recall enjoying peanut butter Ritz with my dad. In fact, when my mom was gone and my father was in charge of feeding the hungry horde of people left at home, you could count on peanut butter and Ritz crackers being on the menu.
My father’s mother enjoyed experimenting with making treats dipped in chocolate. Her kitchen as filled with all sorts of sweets covered in chocolate. But her best creation might have been Ritz cracker peanut butter sandwiches which were dipped entirely in chocolate. Those were amazing!
But really, if you ask me, a Ritz cracker can be topped with with nearly anything, and still be tasty: cream cheese, pimento cheese, spinach and artichoke spread. The list goes on and on.
Because there’s really nothing like a Ritz cracker …
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Yesterday was 4-H Fall Fest.
Fall Fest is a big deal in our house. It’s a fun day of 4-H competitions, including lots of cookery contests. Each year, we start several weeks before Fall Fest looking for great recipes to enter into the various food categories.
This year, Nathan and I found what we thought would be a winner: Creole Cheesecake Spread.
This wasn’t your typical cheesecake dessert. This was more like a savory dip that was baked in a springform pan. It contained shrimp, crawfish tails, some Cajun seasonings and a whole lot of cream cheese. And all of this was baked on a Ritz cracker crust.
When that baby came out of the oven, Nathan and I immediately spread some on top of a Ritz cracker. It was so amazingly delicious that we thought we had gone to heaven!
Next, Nathan and I packed some of this Creole Cheesecake over to our neighbor, who is about as Cajun as they come and known all over Lafayette for his cooking skills. We asked his opinion. After he took a sample taste, he asked us for the recipe! WooHoo … we felt good about our chances at a blue ribbon.
Would you believe Creole Cheesecake Spread didn’t even place? How is it possible for a Ritz cracker not to win? I am still not sure. However, my entire family enjoyed the rest of the Creole Cheesecake Spread while we watched the Saints games against the Bengals.
I am happy to report that the Saints won … and the Creole Cheesecake was a winner with everyone too!
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This weekend I enjoyed a lot of Ritz crackers. I don’t keep them in my house very often, because if I do, I will eat them one long sleeve after another. I don’t have this problem with chips or cookies, but give me one Ritz and I’ll eat a dozen!
I remembered a story my dad used to tell quite often about his days in Vietnam. Apparently, after he had been in Vietnam for quite some time, he went to the PX and discovered they had just received a shipment of new items to sell in the store. Among the new merchandise, my dad found a large tin of Ritz crackers.
Even though it cost over $5, he bought it! He also got some peanut butter. My dad said it was worth every penny because it tasted like home.
I always loved that story. Probably because I understood that particular story more than any of the other things he would share with us about his time in Vietnam.
Anyway, between my dad’s birthday on Nov. 9th, Fall Fest on Nov. 10th and Veteran’s Day on Nov. 11th, I’ve been eating Ritz crackers and thinking quite a bit about my Daddy.
Both have brought me a lot of happiness … though I enjoyed the memories of my father far, far more than the Ritz crackers. .
Tomorrow, the leftover Ritz crackers will go into the trash. I’ll no longer be indulging in one of my favorite unhealthy foods. As much as I love them, Ritz crackers aren’t good for me.
However, I’ll still continue to enjoy thinking about my dad. Not a day goes by when I don’t remember him in some fashion. And I plan on keeping it that way because generally whenever I think about my dad, it makes me smile.
So in this Thanksgiving season, I’m grateful for my dad and the wonderful man that he was. And I’m glad that God thought up giving us brains that are able to remember and recall the past so that it can bring us joy.
And every so often, I’m thankful for the enjoyment of a simple Ritz cracker … especially if it’s topped with a bit of peanut butter.