My Sara

You are a cluster of tiny freckles on the tops of pink cheeks. 

You are lip gloss and hair accessories. 

You are a curious question. My wide-eyed wonderer. 

You are a loyal friend. 

You are a lilting voice singing next to me at church. 

You are big almond eyes that can roll in defiance or squint with joy. 

You are an amble through life. My chance to live life unhurried. 

You are a budding chef. A happy assistant in the kitchen. 

You are comforted by my touch. 

You are a defender of your brother. A nurturer. 

You are a softening of my heart. 

You are grace. A sincere apology and quick forgiveness. 

You are a Gift. 

You are My Girl. Be brave, little one, and change the world. You have already changed mine. 

Tossing and Turning

As I soaked in the silence of naptime from my sofa today, I heard my oldest rustle her covers, turning restlessly.  In the self-pitying voice I have heard many times before, I heard her say, "Nobody likes me."  I wondered what she was dreaming--of a clique at our neighborhood pool, of her siblings teasing her, or maybe even me scolding her.

This is where she goes when all is not right--straight to folded arms across her chest, lip stuck out, and a defensive "Nobody likes me."  Until that moment when her pity party permeated her fitful sleep, I had not considered why.

For the first time I saw clearly:  she does not believe that "nobody" likes her, but she is asking for reassurance that, in fact, she is liked--and loved.  But more than that, she wants assurance of the opposite; she wants to hear that everybody likes her.  I thought of my little people-pleaser.  The one who keeps track of which child gets the most laughs from Mom.  The one who, at age six, watches the big girls at the pool, hoping to learn the tricks of coolness.  Who says "I'm sorry" quickly to avoid punishment, but also to make any ugliness disappear.  And it occurs to me that my daughter fears being unliked, on the outside looking in. And I shudder at the approaching middle school years, when other children will almost certainly make her feel unliked and no one will rush to dispel her pleading "Nobody likes me"--if she even says the words out loud anymore.

I want to prepare her.  I want her to know that when the day comes and no one likes her, when Mommy isn't standing nearby to be the lone voice saying, "I like you, Hallie," all is not lost.

The preparation, though, does not lie where I am inclined to steer her.  "Mommy and Daddy will always like and love you" simply isn't enough.  It feels like it should be.  We have loved her the longest and the hardest of anyone.  But, while it is something I want her to know down to her toes, it won't sustain her.  How many children, well-loved by their parents, flail through adolescence with the changing current of their peers' approval?  How many never make it through at all because they find themselves not enough, only to leave behind loving, heartbroken parents?

When she wants assurance that she is liked, I instinctively give it to her.  So what happens when no one does?

The answer is clear:  Her worth cannot come from me.  Just like it cannot come from her peers.

And that is what she must know.  She must know that she has immeasurable value because she was put on this planet by One who loves her and sustains her.  She has to know that she is to Him a beloved daughter, adopted once for all, and that He (unlike Mommy) is always with her.  She needs to know that He does not look at the things man sees, but sees instead her heart.  And that when it feels like no one likes her, and if in fact no one does, it was never their, or our, opinions that defined her anyway.

How simple to write.  How hard to know.  How daunting to teach.

But for now, while her heart is tender and her attention span too short for sermons, I will simply respond to her "Nobody likes me" with a tender "Jesus does."  Because I see now that "I do" is not sufficient.

For Mom

This post is Part Five of a 5-day series this week in celebration of Mother's Day. 

At 32 years old, I can finally admit it: My mother was right about everything. 

Weirdos are in fact everywhere. Brushing your teeth when you're hungry will keep you from snacking. And money cannot buy taste. 

In the past few years I've learned something: it turns out that raising someone who thinks she knows everything--and certainly more than her mother--can be tough. And when I see my almost-six year old roll her eyes at her silly mommy I am haunted by my own sass. Really the fact that my mom did not spontaneously combust during my adolescence is a result of divine providence. 

But my how times have changed. These days I just hope to one day know the things my mom knows. Since launching from her nest at breakneck speed 14 years ago I have found myself sending back frequent SOSs. Making return trips to drop something off at her house, only to end up staying for a few hours because there is just always so much to say and to hear. 

These days when I'm standing at Lowe's choosing between chrome or nickel finishes for our bathroom, I call Mom. When trying to remember the chocolate chip pound cake recipe I've made a hundred times--that pesky sour cream measurement just won't stay in my head--I call Mom. When I'm wandering around Tuscaloosa looking at different houses and need to talk over the options, I call Mom. Choosing the girls' Easter dresses? Send her the links. Weighing the pros and cons of a child care option? Gigi will have great insight. 

And then there are the urgent moments when my fingers dial her number almost involuntarily. "Mom, I think Hallie broke her leg. Jason is out of town. Can you meet me at her school?" And she comes. With a stack of library books to entertain the patient, of course. 

My Mom is our family's chief event planner, house decorator, storyteller, project-finisher, wisdom giver, grandkid entertainer, gift buyer, game player...she is the brains behind the operation and the hands that hold it all together. 

If you ask my mom at any point what any of her three adult kids has planned for the next several days she can almost always tell you. And that's not because she's nosy or because she doesn't have quite a bit going on herself. She knows how we are doing most of the time for two reasons: because she cares and because we like to talk to her. 

So this Mother's Day I want to say thank you, Mom. Thank you for always answering when we call. Thank you for listening. Thank you for helping. Thank you for your sought-after advice. Thank you for loving us with your time. 

And I'm giving my mom the gift I hope to one day, at long last, receive: a proclamation once and for all that She Was Right. About all of it. 

I love you, Mom. Happy Mother's Day!

For Martha

This post is Part Four of a 5-day series this week in celebration of Mother's Day.

We went to a women's conference together a few years after I married Jason. I sat in bed reading while the other women in the hotel room brushed teeth and put on pajamas. As Martha got into the other side of the bed, one of our roommates glanced over at us and mused, "I don't believe in thirty years of marriage I've ever slept in a bed with my mother-in-law."

I chuckled. We must have seemed a funny sight.

But my mother-in-law has been in the business of loving me--and her other daughter and son in law--as her own from day one. Far from merely tolerating my existence as a mother-in-law might, she pursues a relationship with me. (Even when that relationship requires a good deal of tolerance on her part.) 

Martha loves me by praying for us. Jason and I joke that when we have an urgent request we make use of her more direct pipeline to heaven. While I realize this does not hold theological water, I'm willing to chance it. So far her track record is pretty outstanding.

Martha loves me by prioritizing time with us. She drives the long drive to sleep on an air mattress or futon just because she hasn't been down in a while.

She is always available for a phone call, video chat, or, lately, a litany of text messages.

She loves me when she graciously welcomes us to her home, often planning delicious menus and various activities for our visits. Nana's house is simply a fun place to be. My kids count down the days when we are planning a visit, and there have been several times when I was not sure Sara was going to come back to Alabama with us.

But her hospitality and love toward me is just an overflow from the love and hospitality she has shown many people beyond her family.  My inlaws have more close--genuinely close--friendships than anyone I know. When we planned a surprise anniversary party for them years ago I was amazed by the friends who drove hours to celebrate with them.   Today I would not be so surprised.  Because if I have learned anything about them over the past decade it's this:  they love well. Martha loves me well because that's who she is.

I regularly tell people that I won the in-law lottery.  And as usual, I'm right. :)

Happy Mother's Day, Martha!

For Mama Pat

This post is Part Three of a 5-day series this week in celebration of Mother's Day.

When I was younger, my family frequented an awesome vacation destination about four and a half hours away. This resort was all-inclusive, with top notch dining, shopping, and entertainment. And I sometimes got to go without my parents, leaving them at the Welcome Center--always on the Mississippi side of the state line, because the Mississippians had the good hospitality to welcome their visitors with a free Coke unlike the Alabamians--and meeting them at the same spot a week later.

Yes, my Mama Pat can make even Jackson, Mississippi, seem like the only place to be.  Our visits to Jackson included trips to the zoo, the mall, the tennis courts (where she dominated), and Mazzio's Pizza.  Our bare feet padded downstairs in the wee hours, quietly so as to not wake our snoozing parents, and found our grandparents already awake and Mama Pat prepared to offer a plethora of breakfast options.  One of the options was scrambling our own egg, which she taught us to do from a young age.  I remember standing on a stool in her kitchen stirring those eggs, feeling oh-so-big.  In the afternoons and evenings, out came board games and puzzles.

Of course, it didn't hurt that we were praised and adored from the moment we walked in her door.  We were the handsomest, smartest, most delightful children God ever put on this earth.  And we still are.  Just ask her.

I have heard a few grandmas lament their geographic distances from their grandkids. And I always tell them the same thing:  it is possible to be very close to your grandchildren from miles away. I know because I have always felt, and been, very close to my Mama Pat. When I got all As on my report card, I skipped into the house to call her.  Every birthday, she and my grandfather were the first to serenade me over the phone. She never missed big events in my life and asked me all about the little ones. In fact, when I knew I wanted to marry Jason years later, she was the first family member I told.

It never mattered that I couldn't walk to her house and eat a snack. I knew that she cared deeply about all the minutiae of my little life. And she still does.

Of course, when she moved to Birmingham a few years ago, and I could stop by for a snack--this time with three little chocolate-milk-consumers in tow--I did not miss an opportunity. It turns out that my children also know exactly how loved (and indulged) they are by Mama Pat. Sara could not have been two before she assessed the situation and decided to always ask Mama Pat for whatever she wanted. It's a smart strategy, and one my uncle has been employing successfully for fifty years.

My Mama Pat can take you in a game of Horse or in any card game. She makes peanut butter candy that will instantly add five pounds to your waistline. She likes to say lovely things like, "Do you want a piece of cake?" or "Come over any time. We will be here." Her house is where I've always loved to be. And in recent years I've discovered that has very little to do with the house.

To my gracious, giving Pat-Pat, a very happy Mother's Day!

For Grandmother

This post is Part Two of a 5-day series this week in celebration of Mother's Day. 

As a child I was in awe of my Grandmother. She was and is, in a word, dignified. At almost six feet tall, my Grandmother does not slouch. And as a tall girl, I hoped to be dignified like her.

Grandmother was also, in my view, fancy.

She let me buy the really good candy bars at Crestline Pharmacy on the way to ballet lessons. Whatchamacallits and caramel Twix.

On her breakfast room table she kept a sugar dish. In that sugar dish there were often cubes of sugar. Not just plain old sugar like my mom used. Cubes that would melt on your tongue.

Her house held a sit 'n spin and a stuffed dog named Beauregard.

She had a place at the lake where I got to sleep on a top bunk.

She traveled to exciting places. She took me to Disney World, and I still remember seeing the tops of clouds out the airplane window for the first time. And getting that little gold pin with wings from Delta that meant I was a veteran flyer.

I remember a trip to Gatlinburg where we returned from a bathroom break to find black bears eating our lunch!

But her most glamorous trait in my book was her job. My grandmother taught music at a high school for 30 years. Being "Mrs. Manly's granddaughter" in the city of Mountain Brook, Alabama, may be the closest I ever get to royalty. Almost everyone I've ever met who graduated from MBHS during her tenure responds to this revelation of my identity with a broad smile and "Oh, I just loooove Mrs. Manly." But the best part of Grandmother's job was that she directed an annual musical at the high school. And being Mrs. Manly's granddaughter meant that I got to attend and even be IN some of her plays. I was one of the token kids in the cast. No lines.  But I got to go in the Green Room, and I was pretty sure most eight year olds didn't even know what a green room was. This was the Big Time. I remember the white dress with the blue sash for Carousel that came with a parasol.  I remember learning I'd be in a play called "Damn Yankees"--gasp!  I remember the song "Whatever Lola Wants, Lola Gets" and thinking this was surely the most risqué production ever. And I got to be part of all of it!

As a child I saw my Grandmother, rightly, as dignified. Elegant. As an adult I know she is even more. She has loved and served two husbands through health problems and even death, faithfully and without complaint. She has served her church all these years as well, even when in pain that made it difficult to direct her beloved choir.  And best of all, she raised my wonderful daddy.

I love her for all of her fanciness and for all of her faithfulness. Happy Mother's Day, Grandmother!

For the Women of AVPC

This post is Part One of a 5-day series this week in celebration of Mother's Day. 

For the past few years, through our membership at Altadena Valley Presbyterian Church, God placed me in the care of women who loved me and loved my children. Even when we were unlovable. When my kids were whiny and I was short-tempered. When our house and van were disastrous, which is most of the time.

These precious women picked up my eldest from school. They listened to my failings as a mom and my hopes to be better, and they shared their struggles with me. 

I recall picking up Hallie from Meredy's house one afternoon and growing increasingly frustrated with Hallie for disobeying. And I remember the gentle, honest word from my friend, who reminded me that my girl had not seen me all day and was simply craving my attention (which I was not giving her). I remember the sting of that truth, the ugliness of my own selfishness and hasty temper. And I am so grateful to be loved so well. It is no small thing to have friends who want to see your relationship with your daughter improve more than they want their own comfortable conversation.

I am grateful for Carol, my Church Mama, whose kind eyes made it ok to cry before the move--more than once. Who cherishes my children. Who, with raised hands and swaying hips, praised God on Sunday mornings with my babies beside her in the pew singing along.

I remember instructing one of Teresa's girls to do something one day and then apologizing to Teresa for it.  I remember her confusion at my apology and her reminding me that we'd promised to care for each other's children when they were baptized.  And that is exactly what that church does. 

I am grateful for the honesty of expectant mothers who confessed their fears and doubts at their baby showers and asked the women of the church to pray for them. For the shared struggles with moms of strong-willed little girls--and the shared joy at evidences of grace and growth in those little girls.

I'm grateful for honest conversations with mothers of children older than mine, who told me about the process of preparing their girls to leave for college and their relinquishing of control to the God who loves their daughters. I am thankful for the Sunday School teachers and Children's Worship teachers who prepared each week to teach my children about Jesus.

And then, of course, there is Heather, who loves my children as her own.  It is hard to imagine the last almost-six years of motherhood without her listening ear and constant help.  Just this weekend when she visited, and it became clear that the "kids were winning" in our house, she was able to encourage us and offer advice that we knew to be rooted firmly in love for us and our children.

Two and a half years seems such a short time for all of the love we experienced at AVPC. I think I could write volumes about that brief time period. But for now, for this Mother's Day, it is sufficient to say that the women of AVPC have made and continue to make me a better mommy. And for that I am eternally grateful. Happy Mother's Day to some of the most wonderful mothers I know!