Reagan Got Shot and I Got Spanked.

My family always had strong political views and shared them freely in our home. As most children do, I listened to my parents views, soaked them in and I adopted my parents' opinions. During the election between Reagan and Carter in 1980, we were very supportive of Jimmy Carter. My older brother Mark even dressed as Jimmy Carter for Halloween, in a tan corduroy suit with a Jimmy Carter mask on his face and at every door instead of saying the typical 'Trick or Treat' he would exclaim "Vote for me!". It was awesome.

As we know, Reagan won the presidency, was sworn in and took office in 1981 and just two months later there was an assassination attempt on his life. At the time, I was nine years old and my younger brother Gerald had just turned eight. When we heard the news, we ran outside and began dancing around our willow tree together, rejoicing and singing "Reagan got shot! Reagan got shot!" with blissful grins on our innocent faces.

I think it was our neighbor that overheard us and told our parents what Gerald and I were doing. And let me just say, we definitely received a proper scolding and sported some red bottoms that afternoon. Our laughter turned to tears and not because we were worried about our President, but because of our punishment. I remember feeling so confused and also quite ashamed. We were told it was not right to rejoice in anyone's demise and that we must respect the office of the President, even if we did not value or agree with the person in that office. 

That afternoon helped shape my current outlook. Since that time, I've understood that the President is the President. I may not like him, I may not agree with him, I may not have voted for him, but he is my President. And because he is my President of the nation that I live in and love, I pray for him and I respect the office that he holds. 

Today I have seen so many posts on Facebook from unhappy or angry people, from ecstatic or even gloating people, from people that have mixed emotions and from people that just don't seem to care. I have my opinions. They might follow after my family's or they might not. They might be different from yours or they might be the same as yours. They might be more grey than black or white. They might not be completely formed. They might be ignorant opinions or they might be researched opinions. 

But they are my opinions. We have the right and the freedom to express ourselves. I rarely express myself when it comes to politics and related hot topics. And that's my right as well. Here's what I will say. We live in a country that gives us the freedom to vote, for some of us that was more hard earned than others. I don't take that lightly and any time I am able to vote, I do so. I mark my vote, my opinion on who should be president and I do my part. 

My vote joins millions of others and they are then counted and we are given a result and it is what it is. We don't have to be thrilled about it. We can even be disappointed. We can be ambivalent or delighted. We can express those feelings, that is our right. 

What makes me sad, so very sad, is the hatred I am seeing. The absolute unbending hatred. And people, it is coming from both sides. My oldest brother Phil's best friend who is without a doubt pro-Clinton, had a Facebook friend in the pro-Trump camp post "Now, I want to go out and start shooting Muslims." This breaks my heart. And I've seen plenty of posts from the pro-Clinton/anti-Trump side too that I won't go into right now, but I'm sure you've seen at least a few negative posts as well, from both sides. 

I'm not going to tell you who I voted for yesterday. It might be who you think I would vote for and then again, it may not. It's my right to keep that private. All I'm saying is I'm sad today. I'd like to see us be 'Stronger Together' and 'Make America Great Again'. I'd like to see if we can be civil and kind to one another and see how we can work together because this is our America. This is our country. This is our very opinionated nation made up of very different people who are all very passionate about our country's future. 

We are an amazing country that has come a long way and still has a long way to go. We are not perfect. There will always be disappointments and failures to face; personally, privately, publicly, nationally. I still hope for our future. And I know you do too. I think it would benefit ALL of us to learn to be kinder to one another, to sometimes hold our tongue, or soften our words, to treat one another the way we would like to be treated. 

We're going to disagree at times. Let's love our nation. Let's be kind to one another. And let's work hard together to make a difference. And to both sides I want to remind you that bullying gets us nowhere. Hatred gets us nowhere. Kindness goes a long way in expressing your opinions and makes a huge difference in delivery and reception. 

Play nice people. 

Why I Am a Christmas Crackhead

I'm a Christmas nut. It's true. I'm your worst nightmare when it comes to trying to avoid the Christmas holidays until they are right upon you jingling at your door. Why? Because I let you know far too often and way too early how many days it is until Christmas. I'm known to remind those I care about as early as June that Christmas is only 6 months away. 

I've been witnessed singing Christmas carols in 100+ degree temperatures. I watch Christmas movies year-round. I fantasize about how to decorate my house for Christmas months in advance. I have a Christmas tree for every room in my house and the decorations to go along with them. I can tell you what you should get on the 9th day of Christmas for your true love. 

I even have an app folder on my phone titled 'Christmas' that stays there year round so I can play Christmas games, decorate a Christmas tree virtually, cut up a snowflake and check how many days, hours, minutes and seconds it is until Christmas at any given moment the Christmas notion strikes me. And it does. Often.

Some people say I'm sick. Twisted. Insane. And I drive my friend Karen crazy. (Wait, if I'm driving you crazy, maybe that means I'm not really the crazy one Karen, you are! Heehehee!) I can't help it though. It beats like The Little Drummer Boy's drum inside my heart. Ba-boom. Ba-boom. Ba-boom. Fa-la. Fa-la. Fa-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-laaaa! Hey. You were singing with me just now, weren't you? WEREN'T YOU??? Come on, admit it.

I haven't always been this way. I mean, I've always loved Christmas of course. But it's been a progression since I married Donnie, so really I could blame a lot of it on him. Because before I warped into the Christmas freak, he flew the freak flag first. He decorated every square inch of his living space with Christmas whats-its when I met him. The man went all out. Garlands and bows, ribbons and ornaments, mistletoe and kisses. Hmmmm, I'm gonna miss that one. He was so festive that it was contagious. And over the years, I became infested with festivity. 

Several years ago on Christmas night, we were playing 'Santa', wrapping the big gifts and stuffing stockings, making pies and preparing portions of our holiday meal when the funniest thing happened. We had been checking the 'Santa Radar' all evening for the kids to know where Santa was so we could get them to bed on time. All night long the kids would ask, "Where's Santa now?!" to which we would check and answer "Zimbabwe!",  "Finland!" or wherever else Santa was trekking off to next.

We had already tucked the kids in bed at least an hour prior and Donnie was standing at the stove stirring a huge pot of something Cajun and delicious when he turned to me suddenly with his spoon poised in his hand and eager excitement edging in his voice as he asked me, "WHERE'S SANTA NOW?!?" I stopped my stuffing of the stockings to turn and look at him and asked him incredulously, 'Really??' and we both busted out laughing! He had literally forgotten for a moment that Santa wasn't real! It still makes me laugh. 

So yeah, it's gotta be mostly his fault. But I am what I am: a corrupted Christmas crackhead. And I know, I KNOW I have fallen to the commercialism of Christmas. There are plenty of Christians who boycott how sold out some people are to Santa and the wares of the holiday season. And I'll confess, I was one of those people who said I would never let my kids believe in Santa Claus. 

I knew Santa wasn't real when I was a kid. I knew Kris Kringle was just a bunch of bunk. And yes, my brothers and I were 'those kids' who spoiled Christmas for the young believers because my parents respected us enough to tell us the truth. Yeah, it was us that made the other kids cry because we told them it was OUR dad in the Santa suit and Santa was NOT real. And yes, we did feel superior to other children because we had adult knowledge of the facts of life about Christmas. 

But my husband wasn't having it. He wanted his kids to experience Christmas the way he had: nervous anticipation balled up in the pit of his stomach, aching for the swift moment Santa would swoop in as soon as he submitted to slumber so he could tear open his presents on Christmas morning and bask in giddy euphoria of the thought that Santa somehow brought him exactly what he wanted. So I did it. I gave in. And man am I glad I did. Christmas has been so exciting every year looking at it through my kids' eyes. 

OF COURSE Christmas is not all about Santa with us. Please. It's not all about the decor' and the eggnog, watching The Christmas Story movie or It's A Wonderful Life. It's not all about reading The Night Before Christmas or The Elf on the Shelf. If you've known us, then you know Christ has always been our priority and my kids clearly know the TRUE truth behind why we celebrate Christmas. We have read Luke 2 from the Bible to the kids every year and had discussions and celebrations to make sure that clarity remains. But come on y'all, they're kids. And it's Christmas. And we're just having some merriment and fun. Well, a lot of it actually. 

Besides, Kellan knows. He figured it out 2 years ago and asked Donnie and I a few weeks after Christmas whether Santa was real or not. We told him the truth, revealing our deception and I gulped guiltily as I wondered if my son would be damaged goods now that he knew we had duped him. But he just smiled knowingly and shrugged and said he knew it. I could tell he felt wiser and more grown up at the knowledge he had gained and it satisfied me that he could now enjoy the heady feeling of superiority over other children like I had. (Haha!)

I think this will probably be Emelia's last year to believe. But I'm holding it out as long as I can. Because I'm not looking forward to how the suspense of the holiday will lose a little of its luster once she realizes Santa isn't real. She'll know it's me busting my butt to get her gifts and the magic of Christmas Eve will diminish a bit for her and for me too once she becomes one of the superior knowledged children. But at least for one more Christmas she'll have trouble falling asleep and be straining her ears for jingle bells and reindeer hooves. And me? I'll be nibbling on Santa's cookies so she'll think he ate her sweet little offering.

By the way, however you want to look at it, as I'm writing this there are only 68 days OR 1,642 hours OR 98,534 minutes OR 5,912,040 seconds left until Christmas arrives. It's time to get ready people! HO HO HO!!!

Here's some helpful links for your Christmas preparation that a pro like me has been known to use during the holiday season!

Christmas countdown website

Santa Radar Tracking

FREE Personalized Santa Video/Christmas Letter for Kids

Cajun Culture Shock

I thought I knew Louisiana well. I was born in Baton Rouge. We visited my mom's family in Louisiana nearly every year when I was growing up. I played on the Louisiana grasses with my cousins Jonathan and Joanna, picked beans at my Aunt Julia's house and popped their pods apart to fill up a large pale green Tupperware bowl on her porch swing. And I might have dropped a cat from my cousins' Twyla and Lauren's neighbor's raised porch just to see if it would land on its feet. It didn't. I picked blueberries in the trees near my aunt Darlene's house and ate fresh watermelon and homemade ice cream on her lawn between sessions of playing marco polo in the pool with my cousins.

I gazed dreamily at my Grandmother's prided roses and inhaled their heavy scent that infused with the evergreens growing on my Grandaddy's Christmas tree farm and it would overwhelm my senses. I listened as my Grandaddy played his violin while my mom or one of her sisters played the piano and everybody sang hymns together. I slept in pallets on my Grandparents' living room floor with my cousins and my brothers and giggled together in the hush that followed their nightly prayer time as a family, kneeling at the chairs, the couch or the piano bench and marveled at how straightforward my Grandmother was when she spoke to God.

I walked across cattle guards in my bare feet and wandered the acres of my great-grandmother's pecan tree studded farm. I was stranded with my cousin Jennifer in a hay loft in the barn, climbed a giant tractor and sat in it's cockpit just to listen to the radio and feel the AC on a hot summer day and picked grocery sized paper bags full of pecans from the ground to bring back home with us to North Carolina. I stared at the dead rattlesnake floating in a large mason jar on one of her living room side tables as she told us for the 100th time the story of how that thing bit her leg and she killed the snake, took off her bandanna, tied it around her leg and then proceeded to drive herself to the emergency room. 

And I also watched as my great-grandmother mowed her acres of grass all by herself at 80-something years old, wearing one of her bonnets reminiscent of the ones I'd seen worn by the girls on Little House on the Prairie. I drank water from a soup ladle hanging at her kitchen sink that everyone else also drank from when they were thirsty between meals and nobody ever got sick from it. I sat at her long kitchen table to feast on every kind of farm-fresh breakfast food imaginable, all made from scratch by her hands.

I ate even more delicious homemade baked goods at my Aunt Ruby's house, gathered eggs from her hens and played on the swing-set in her yard where I learned the words to the Oscar Meyer wiener song for the first time. And I watched in pre-teen disgust as my Uncle Wilton showed us how to feed slop to a bunch of mud-wallering, snorting, stinking pigs. I made bottle rockets out of empty glass coke bottles and firecrackers and played with matches without adult supervision in my Aunt JudyAnn and Uncle David's long gravel driveway with my brothers and my cousins Eric, Jolene and Curtis. But I wouldn't eat the crawfish.

I went to the World's Fair in Louisiana as a teenager in 1984 wearing my multi-colored twisty beads and saw Andy Gibb in concert dancing and singing in his leather parachute pants to 'Shadow Dancing'. After I grew up I kept going back to Louisiana as often as I could to visit my cousin Eric and my other family members and explored New Orleans and its surrounding cities and the wealth of culture it held.

Louisiana has always been a magical place for me, being my birth state and holding so many treasured memories from my childhood and mid-twenties. Donnie and I always found it funny that I spent so much time traveling in and out of Louisiana over the years and we also discovered we were at the World's Fair at the same time and never met. Okay, I know Louisiana is big enough that we wouldn't meet and we probably weren't actually there on the same day, but it just made the world feel a little smaller and him a little closer, even though it took me 28 years to find him and him 30 years to find me.

But when Donnie introduced me to his part of Louisiana for the first time, it was as if I had stepped into a whole other world. We had traveled with our friends Lisa and Ken for Mardi Gras week. We went to a family parade and all the floats passed by screaming Donnie's name and throwing bags of beads and other assorted offerings at his feet. The four of us hung as many beads as possible around our necks, stuffed our shirts and filled our arms with them to bring back with us. 

He took me to his Aunt Dolly's house where his cousins, neices and nephews and MawMaw were visiting. There were about 10 or 12 of us standing and sitting around her small kitchen table carrying on 6 conversations at the same time. They were speaking in such thick Cajun accents I could barely understand them. And on top of that, they said their words so quickly, I couldn't get a chance to repeat them in my head to try to make out what they were saying. And on top of that, they were using Creole words that I didn't understand the meaning of and Cajun phrasing that sounded like backwards talking to me. 

For example, in my common English I would ask someone, 'How old are you?' or 'Did you see that fast car?' In their Cajun dialect they would say 'How old YOU are?' or 'Mais, you saw dat car go fast fast yeah?' Now imagine those sentences again with the words spoken so quickly they are nearly slurring together with a thick accent connecting them. Now. On top of that... the 6 conversations they were having were inter-connecting. They could jump in and out of and around each conversation at any given moment without stopping and continue right along where they left off in their last conversation. 

My. Head. Was. Spinning! I couldn't keep up! They were speaking another language and I wasn't getting it! Donnie would always laugh about how when he looked over at me, my eyes were bugging out, darting back and forth at everyone talking and my mouth was hanging open in shock! Oh it was so funny. Of course I mostly have it down now, although ask my sis-n-law Kristen and she'll tell you I still can't understand her very well over the phone. I always ask her, 'Can you say that again???' and 'What did you say???'.

Donnie and I would sometimes have misunderstandings over our language barrier. One time we were going to the store and as we pulled into the parking lot he asked me "Are you going to get down?" and I was like "Um, what? You want me to dance right here in the parking lot?". I thought he was asking me to get down and boogie-oogie-oogie! The translation was actually "Are you going to go into the store?" Other common miscommunications we had were turning the AC or TV volume up or down. He always said "Speed it up!" or "Slow it down!"... I got confused every time!

When we were planning our wedding we nearly had a huge argument over nothing. He told me he wanted his sister and cousins to "serve" at the wedding. I thought he meant he wanted them to serve the food and drinks at the reception! I couldn't believe he would want that and I told him there was no way and why would he even want them to serve??? He asked me 'Wouldn't you want your brothers to serve?' and I told him 'Of course not!' We were so frustrated with one another. It was a couple days later when I finally realized what he had meant by "serving" was he wanted them to be our bridesmaids and groomsmen! Doh!

The first time I went home with him for a holiday was another shocker for me. I had always been brought up on meals that strictly included a meat, a starch and at least one colorful veggie, maybe even two. My traditional Thanksgiving holiday meal was a balance of Northern foods from my dad and Southern foods from my mom. We usually had turkey and ham, sweet potatoes topped with marshmallows and mashed potatoes with giblet gravy, cornbread stuffing and Yankee stuffing, green bean casserole and cranberry sauce. 

When I went to fill my plate at my first Cajun Thanksgiving I walked around my bro-n-law's mom's kitchen expecting the foods I grew up on, searching for and never finding anything green; there was no salad, no green beans, nothing. There was turkey, gumbo, white beans, white rice, dirty rice, jambalaya, potato salad, mashed potatoes and corn. Everything was varying shades of white, brown and yellow. I whispered to Donnie 'Hey, where's the vegetables?' He said 'Over there' and pointed to the white beans! Of course everything was delicious. Every bite I put in my mouth was absolutely delectable. But I was floored that our families ate so differently. 

It was kind of like the first time I realized there were people who couldn't or 'shouldn't' sing. I was 16 years old at FCA camp the summer going into my senior year of high school. We were standing in the assembly room, singing praise and worship and the girl beside me, who was a lot of fun, was singing wholeheartedly out of key with all that she had in her little body. I started cracking up and elbowed her and said 'Stop it! You're killing me! You're so funny! Cut it out!' I mean, I was rolling, almost in tears crying because it was SO bad and SO hilarious. She turned and looked at me with confusion, all doe eyed and innocent and said 'WHAT are you talking about???' That's when it dawned on me that there were people in this world who couldn't sing. 'Oh, um, nothing...' I said, and turned back towards the front and joined the singing again, very sheepishly. 

My initial experiences on the bayou felt similar, but I quickly grew accustomed to the differences in 'his Louisiana' and 'my Louisiana'. I grew past the culture shock and found a lot of common ground and embraced the lifestyle of the bayou. Everywhere we went everyone knew Donnie. It amazed me how well loved and well known he was. If we went to Walmart we would inadvertently end up spending a couple of hours there because we would meet someone on every aisle and have a 20 minute conversation. When we went to church there it was as if Elvis was in the building. We couldn't walk 2 feet without being stopped by somebody. It was overwhelming every time and in some ways I seriously felt like the wife of a celebrity. It was awesome.

At first every aspect of being on the bayou was new, different, exciting and sometimes challenging. But now, as soon as we drive into town for a visit and see the bayou running through the middle of it with the houseboats, fishing boats and crab boats and we see the boys and old men fishing alongside the bayou, it feels like home. Our ears itch to hear the Cajun accents and our taste buds scream for the Cajun foods. There's always a freshly made mouth watering gumbo or another yummy Cajun dish and a warm pair of arms to welcome us wherever we decide to stop first. 

The heritage is amazing, the food is phenomenal, the accents are thick, the people are loving and the time we have there is absolutely priceless. It's not the same without Donnie, but his Louisiana has become my Louisiana too. Now I have two families waiting for me to visit when I cross the state lines and that thought is so very heartwarming to me. 

But I still won't eat the crawfish.

A Love Story

Today is my birthday. I am 42. Oh sweet Lord Jesus, I am 42. Where has the time gone? Today, I want to share with you a love story. One I've shared only with close friends and family. Emelia loves to hear the details of when Donnie and I fell in love. I usually give her little snippets and bits and pieces, but today I'll reveal the whole shaboodle so that one day she and Kellan can read it here and have it preserved in their minds the way it is in mine.

I knew from a young age that I wouldn't get married too early on. I always thought that I'd wait at least until I was 26, because that's how old my mom was when she got married. Smart reasoning, I know. But truly, I knew I would not be an early bride. I dated over the years and I fell in love twice over the course of my college days and cared deeply about the beau's in my past but I eventually found singleness to stay at my door. 

I decided that it would be best if I didn't date anyone for a while because I had an uncanny knack of hurting people I cared about. And I wanted to work on me and focus on my relationship with God. Doesn't that sound holy? I decided Jesus was my husband and if I never married, then I could be happy with that. Of course my hormones raged and I had crushes but I was determined, so I sort of trained myself to not get distracted when an interesting male came into view. I decided to look at them as friends and keep my eyes on the Lord. This way I wouldn't hurt anyone or be hurt by anyone. And it worked, for a couple of years.

Then one Sunday, Donnie came to try out for the position of Music Pastor at my church. I had been away on vacation to either NC or LA and missed meeting him at the first rehearsal the Wednesday before. And that Sunday, I just happened to be running late for some reason, so I didn't get to meet him before church. Donnie would always break in and tell this part: I was running so late that he and the entire choir were already on stage ready to start when I bolted on the platform to take my place just seconds before the beginning of service. He HATED it when people were late! Great first impression, right? (haha!)

The worship service started and I was literally BLOWN AWAY. Our church had been interviewing other potential worship leaders for several weeks. The ministers who had previously tried out had been (and this was in my young 28 year old opinion) either too cocky and showy and had a Mr. Know-it-all/I'm the Man attitude or were too scared, timid, nervous, shaky and lackluster-ly BORING. 

So when he placed his fingers on the keyboard and opened his mouth to sing I was FLOORED. I was like What the WHAT???? This guy is AMAZING!!! He wasn't there to praise himself and lift himself up and he wasn't there shaking in his boots in front of two to three hundred people he'd never sang in front of before. He was there to WORSHIP. And let me tell you HE DID. He gave GOD, not man, his FULL attention. He sang and he praised and he worshiped and he exhorted the people and we entered God's presence that morning in such an anointed way led by him that I was just... SO. TURNED. ON. Ummm, whoops. Sorry!

Hey, let me be real with you. I am HUMAN. And I was in my twenties. And the one MAJOR aphrodisiac that has always been INSPIRING to me was when I would see a man that genuinely, ardently gave his all to worship the Lord. There's no faking that. And he just knocked me over. And it didn't hurt that he was SO cute. And this is the other part of the story that he would always break in on to make me tell. Oh this is SO embarrassing. And well the truth is, that besides being swept away by the presence of God that he brought into the house with his praise, I just could not keep my eyes off of his hiney. There, I said it.

I know. I'm so ashamed. But I couldn't help it. When I realized what I was doing I immediately slammed my eyes shut tight and lifted my head to the ceiling so I wouldn't be tempted to admire him in that way again. I was begging God to please help me and please forgive me in my mind and don't you know God had to be rolling in laughter at me, knowing what was in store for us. It's so funny and still brings a smile to my face, a giggle to my throat and a sigh of satisfaction to my soul. He so made us for each other.

Well, I met him 'officially' following that service and then I booked it out of there because I was so embarrassed at my reaction to him. I mean, I had been able to reign in my emotion towards men for a couple years now and couldn't figure out for the life of me, what in the world was going on??? I figured I may never see him again anyway so I may as well place myself at a distance and besides, I was probably going to be single for life!

Yeah, well, he came back. They called him back for another weekend because someone else had canceled their tryout. He stayed at my house in my room and I stayed at my Aunt and Uncle's home. I left him a note to welcome him and told him to make himself at home. When I returned to my house after he left I found he'd left a note for me, thanking me and saying he hoped he could return the favor someday. I still have the note he wrote. 

Shortly after that, he was hired, moved from LA and became our Worship Pastor. And fairly immediately, we began to 'hang out'. We had SO MUCH FUN together. He made me smile, we made each other laugh and we could talk for hours on end and never get bored with one another. I could be stupid and goofy with him and I made him sing my favorite song, the B-52's 'LOVE SHACK', in full voice in the car with me the first time we hung out and he joined right in. We became best friends almost instantly. It was wonderful.

We went to a Neighborhood Estate Sale together at 6:00 in the morning. We went to the TX State Fair together and had a blast. We went out to eat at Chili's, TGI Friday's, IHOP and the Evergreen Chinese Buffet. We went cosmic bowling and to see movies with a group of youth. We played laser tag and went to Putt-Putt. We went to Gerald's bible study at Starbucks. We shopped at all the thrift stores and picked out 70's clothes for Halloween and youth parties. We went furniture shopping and I helped him pick out his couch for his apartment. We went to Bennigan's and stayed out til 2:00 in the morning sitting in the restaurant talking and laughing and when they played Tom Petty's "Free Falling", we started singing along and they cranked it up. Soon other people in the restaurant started singing along until the entire restaurant was singing Free Falling at the top of their lungs! It was fantastic. 

"We're just friends, we hang out!" That's what I kept telling myself (and everybody else), and I always made sure to pay my own way. But he treated me special. He was thoughtful. He was respectful. He went out of his way to see me and call me and hang out with me. He liked me and he thought I was cool and funny. And I really, REALLY liked him, but I couldn't tell if he really, REALLY liked me. Until one night he called me to make sure I got home safely and called me 'dear' on the phone. Another day he told me I had really amazing eyes. Then one Sunday at lunch he told me in passing at the buffet that I looked really nice that day. And I started to realize that maybe he really did like me-like me.

The first time we held hands was right after Thanksgiving. We were watching that horrible B-rated movie 'Deep Blue Sea' where the sharks become really smart because of some scientific experiment. He was so nervous he couldn't stop speed-talking throughout the whole movie and I was so nervous I could hardly breathe. He was all 'Whoa, did you see that-I can't believe that-That's just crazy-Oh no, I wonder what will happen next-That shark is creepy-That guy better move outta the way-Oh wow, that dude's gonna get it!' non-stop through the whole movie! And I was trying to answer his questions but could barely get my words out because I was so breathless at just holding his hand! It was hilarious. We always laughed about how ridiculous we were every time we saw the movie playing on TV over the years, but could never make ourselves watch the movie again, because it was just that bad.

And then he told me he loved me, within a week! I thought he was CRAZY and I was terrified because surely things couldn't be happening this quickly! Soooo, I wouldn't say it back. I just said, thank you? HAHA! I made him wait about 2 more weeks before I decided that yes, I really could trust myself and my feelings and that I truly was in love with him. So I finally told him 'I love you too' one night in the car when he was dropping me off at home and I'm not kidding you, he gasped out loud because he was so happy and then he kissed me. It was so sweet. 

We had both wanted a long courtship and engagement, but God had other ideas. We were engaged by Christmas and started planning our wedding for June 23rd, 2001. Our wedding was beautiful. After we were pronounced man and wife, we had a fun moment where we surprised everyone by having our friend Renae play the beginning of the traditional wedding recessional and then had the sound man interrupt her playing by starting the song Everlasting Love by Natalie Cole. Renae and our sound man were the only other two people who knew we were exiting to that song. All our bridesmaids and groomsmen did a double take and stared at Renae and the sound man and then Donnie and I danced/walked back up the aisle to the song. We have it on video where everyone in the bridal party and congregation followed us out with impromptu dancing to the song. It was so much fun! 

We stopped briefly in Donnie's office at the church so everyone could line up outside the doors to blow bubbles and also so we could have a private moment behind closed doors. We embraced and kissed and then I asked him to take off his wedding band and read it. I'd had it engraved with the date and a promise. It read "No Matter What". And I meant it.

One more thing to share. About seven or eight months later, we decided to start trying to have a baby. I was dead set against it for the longest time. I wanted to wait at least 2 years before having kids. I was selfish and wanted to keep him all to myself. But he kept talking about how badly he wanted children and he didn't want to be 55 when they graduated high school. But I still did not want to concede. Then one day in January, practically overnight, God changed my heart. I suddenly, overwhelmingly, wanted to have a child. So I told him. I stopped taking birth control and within 2 weeks we were expecting! It was crazy. But we were so excited.

Kellan was born October 1, 2002. By this time we had been living and working at a church in Arkansas. My mom traveled to be there for his birth and spent a week with us. She went home and came back again a few weeks later for his dedication and spent several more days with us and Kellan. She bathed him and slathered lotion on him, held him, fed him, rocked him and spoiled him as much as she possibly could. Then she went back home. The next time I saw her she was in the hospital and she later passed away on January 8, 2003. Sometime after my mom's death, Donnie told me the reason he had wanted to have a baby so badly and had been pressing me so much about it was that God had told him we needed to have a grandbaby for Esther before she passed away. That broke me, but I'm so grateful he listened and that God changed my heart. She loved that little boy to pieces.  

Of course our love story continued. We laughed a lot together for the 12 and 1/2 years of our marriage. We loved one another and grew together and learned a lot of life lessons. We had some trying times like in any marriage and sometimes he was a stubborn man with a strong opinion. But I always secretly prided myself on a shared character trait my Aunt Carol (my dad's sister) mentioned about my mom when she and dad were together. She told my mom she was like an iron fist in a velvet glove, meaning she had a way with my dad. And I had a way with Donnie. But I wouldn't change even the sassy-ness that occasionally came out of his mouth or on facebook, because that's part of what made him who he was; a vibrant, strong, opinionated Cajun who could make a mean pot of gumbo, who loved Saints football and got riled by politics and didn't mind putting himself out there for an occasional 'friendly' debate with other people. 

I loved him, no matter what. I loved worshiping with him, I loved spending my life with him and I loved taking care of him. I'm so thankful God gave me these years with him and the gift of my two children to hold on to. We lived a rich, blessed life together and I couldn't ask for more. 

Tomorrow's Blog: The Aftermath, Part 5: The Agony of Anxiety - A brutally honest reveal of my struggle with Anxiety following Donnie's death.

I Have Super Powers!

You've heard the phrases 'choose your words wisely' and 'what's in a word'?  I know the power of words.  And I think that's why 'words' (writing) has become so important to me.  According to the Bible, there is power of life and death in the words that we speak. 

Proverbs 18:21 

• Death and life are in the power of the tongue, and they who indulge in it shall eat the fruit of it (for death or life). ~ (Amplified Bible)
• Words kill, words give life; they're either poison or fruit - you choose. ~ (The Message)

I don't touch on or go too deeply into certain areas of my background very often because it is painful and a bit revealing, but I am a product of a home that had some definite dysfunction going on.  And if you knew me very, very well growing up, you might possibly have known that secret, but probably didn't.  We hid it well.  Our family motto was like the Vegas slogan.  We literally were told 'What happens at home, stays at home'.

Even now, it's extremely awkward for me to share this because I almost feel as if I'm betraying my family.  But let's be honest family, what happened, happened.  And we were affected.  I never faced any physical abuse myself, but there was definite verbal and emotional damage done over the course of my lifetime.  And to this day I battle inwardly with words that were spoken or yelled or cursed at me and have lingered and echoed in my head for many years.  And I am 1.5 years away from turning 40.

Let me also say that I love this person.  This person that said these things.  For years.  For hours at a time.  These occurrences were as far away as I can remember into my formative pre-pre-teen years.  And as close as just a year ago.  I love this person, and I continue to work on this relationship at a slow pace, with pauses and sometimes with fear and dread.  And sometimes I become paralyzed for a little while and don't know how to communicate.  And sometimes I swallow very hard and pick up the phone and call this person.  And tell them that I love them.  And speak life over them.  Because I do.  I love them.  And I want them to live, in the fullest meaning of that word.

That's why it has become so important to me to choose my words carefully before I speak.  Before I discipline my children. Before I disagree with anyone.  Before I say something about somebody else or even about myself. Because just as in the Message version of Proverbs 18:21 (above), I must make a choice each time I open my mouth.  Am I going to give life to someone?  Or am I going to give death? 

And there's a flip side to that as well!  In regards to the words that were spoken over me.  Those words that linger in my head and torment the way I think about myself.  Now that I recognize what was happening to me, that death was being spoken over me, that my thoughts and my perception of who I am was being poisoned, I have to repose those questions.  Am I going to choose life and redefine who I am according to what God's word says?  Or am I going to choose death and accept the curses that were spoken over me?  It may be a daily struggle I face, but daily... daily I must face the words in my head and I must choose life.  I am who God says I am.  I am above and not beneath, I am the head and not the tail, I am blessed and not cursed!  

And today, I choose to use this Super Power that God has given me.  I choose to speak life over my husband, my children, my family, my friends, and yes dear reader, YOU!  Whether you believe in prayer or God or the power of words or not, know that you have been covered in it today.  May you be blessed today and know the power of your words! 

Agreeing to Disagree

It was only 6 years ago that I sat anxiously waiting to hear the results of my husband's first, of many, life changing surgeries.  I was 4 months pregnant at the time with my little girl.  My husband, who was only 35 years old at the time, had been sick for 5 weeks, misdiagnosed 4 times and was literally near death before we finally saw a surgeon who realized that his body was being ravaged by the flesh eating disease, Necrotizing Fasciitis. 

Of course my emotions were all over the place since I was expecting my daughter Emelia.  I had been nursing my husband for the last several weeks, seeing him deteriorate and not getting any answers from multiple appointments with varying Doctors and at the same time taking care of my 2 year old son and filling in for my husband in his position at our church.  I was a wreck.  And I was angry.  I was SO MAD at God that my husband was so ill and that I might lose him and be left alone to raise my son & my soon to be born daughter.  I was livid with Him that He would give me a gift (my baby girl to be born) & be taking away my husband at the same time.  It was devastating to even think of it.

But over the next 2 months and multiple surgeries, my husband began to slowly recover.  His life was preserved; he was able to come home and build his strength back up and become a father to our little girl.  In the years since, he has had several additional infections including MRSA, a total of 16 surgeries (including the amputation of both his great toes), and multiple complications that have become a normal part of our daily lives. 

My little girl is now 5 1/2 going on 32 years old.  She is full of sass and has a hilarious sense of humor and perfect timing for her witty remarks.  She is full of energy, high maintenance, and exhausting.  She also has eczema and asthma and we cannot seem to control her scratching or itching no matter what prescription lotions or treatments we try (please don't suggest anything, we've literally seen, heard & done IT ALL).  And just a few weeks ago, we were in the hospital, anxiously waiting at 4:30 a.m. in the Family Holding room for her Dr to let us know how the surgery went.

In those moments I found my mind back in that first consult room 6 years earlier, waiting for my husband's surgeon to come out and tell me if we had waited any longer my husband would have been dead and that he wasn't out of the woods yet.  I was terrified when he told me that.  But it didn’t even BEGIN to compare with the horror I felt inside at the thought of my daughter having to endure surgeries comparative to what my husband had gone through.  After that moment of flashing back, I informed God that if He took me through all of that back then just to lose my daughter now, I was going to be SO MAD at Him!

Of course, she is fine.  Of course, it was just one finger infected, not an entire limb.  Of course, I WAS overreacting to the situation.  Of course, the Doctor is the best hand surgeon in the area and absolutely knows what he is doing.  Of course, the anesthesiologist has had years of experience dealing with people that have eaten only a few short hours before an emergency surgery.  And yet as the time crept by I became more anxious.  Maybe it’s because I know what can happen; I’ve seen ugly infection and ugly results. 

And I know, I KNOW that anyone can analytically reason things out that we came to the hospital at the perfect hour to have the perfect Doctor operate at the pivotal time for my daughter.  Anyone can mock my faith and my beliefs and my practices and my values.  Anyone can say whatever they want to, but I know what truth is.  And truth is that God prepared us for that moment.  We knew what signs to look for: the swelling, discoloration and streaking.  We knew because we had been through that with my husband’s infections numerous times.  He prepared us by giving us the knowledge through my husband’s experiences.  He designated that Doctor to be available to operate on my daughter. And now, her finger is fine, her hand is fine and the scars are barely visible.

There are people out there that will attribute my daughter’s recovery to the Doctor’s aggressive response to infection.  There are people that will say it’s due to the Doctor’s training, our wisdom and coincidences of time/place/convenience.  But I know that my sovereign God intervened on our behalf.  And although I am thankful for the Doctor and the education he received to enable him to give my daughter the appropriate care, I am more so thankful to my God for keeping His hand on my daughter’s life, for ordaining each moment and each step of our lives.  I am thankful for great medical care and we followed through (as always) on the Doctor’s advice, but ultimately it is to God I give the glory of keeping my precious baby girl safe and sound and healed.

And to those that disagree, I respect your opinion and I value your input, but in times like these we will just have to agree to disagree.

The Ultimate Woman

I am working on making some big changes in my life.  Things that require learned discipline, tried practice and painstaking effort.  I'm seeing changes, I'm noticing differences and it's exciting, but it's still difficult.  I have a long road ahead of me, but I'm positive I can get to where I want to be.  I know I can.  It's funny how working on one part of yourself can inspire you to work on other parts of you too.

"I am a work in progress" is one of my common statements about myself.  I see more than anyone else (except maybe my husband... and God) the many flaws that I carry.  My imperfections, my challenges, my inconsistencies... ugh.  Sometimes it's just downright depressing to think of all that needs to be changed, tweaked & adjusted in my life!  And so sometimes (okay, a lot of times) I run the other way and pretend those issues aren't even there.  But of course, they are.

Besides, this time of year always places me in a pensive state of mind.  Between reminiscing about my mom and thinking of my own role as a mother and how I'm doing at that job, I've got a ton of things swirling through my head.  I think about the kind of mother, the kind of woman I'd like to be and how I've never really set goals to become that woman, because I've always felt extremely inadequate.  

I think about the passage in Proverbs 31 and the Biblical definition of a woman, wife and mother that it gives. Honestly, I have avoided that passage of scripture as much as possible over the years, reading it only on rare occasion and then banishing it from my reading list for sometimes years at a time.  

Proverbs 31:10-30 (The Message)

A good woman is hard to find, and worth far more than diamonds. Her husband trusts her without reserve, and never has reason to regret it. Never spiteful, she treats him generously all her life long. She shops around for the best yarns and cottons, and enjoys knitting and sewing. She's like a trading ship that sails to faraway places and brings back exotic surprises. 

She's up before dawn, preparing breakfast for her family and organizing her day. She looks over a field and buys it, then, with money she's put aside, plants a garden. First thing in the morning, she dresses for work, rolls up her sleeves, eager to get started. She senses the worth of her work, is in no hurry to call it quits for the day. She's skilled in the crafts of home and hearth, diligent in homemaking. 

She's quick to assist anyone in need, reaches out to help the poor. She doesn't worry about her family when it snows; their winter clothes are all mended and ready to wear. She makes her own clothing, and dresses in colorful linens and silks. Her husband is greatly respected hen he deliberates with the city fathers. She designs gowns and sells them, brings the sweaters she knits to the dress shops. Her clothes are well-made and elegant, and she always faces tomorrow with a smile. 

When she speaks she has something worthwhile to say, and she always says it kindly. She keeps an eye on everyone in her household, and keeps them all busy and productive. Her children respect and bless her; her husband joins in with words of praise: "Many women have done wonderful things, but you've outclassed them all!" Charm can mislead and beauty soon fades. The woman to be admired and praised is the woman who lives in the Fear-of-God.

When I think of that specific passage of scripture, it always makes me think of an old friend.  I remember how she posted these scriptures in her room and talked to me about her desperation to be 'that woman' described in those words.  She and I are not as close as we once were, but from my view on the outside looking in, she seems to have succeeded at many of those qualities.  I can tell that she has committed herself to her dream of becoming that woman.  It's glaringly obvious and simply evident from the details of her life that she measures herself against those words.  And in my opinion, she has done very well at meeting those goals.  

Me? Not so much.  But now that I'm all grown up and admittedly rather behind the ball on this one... I think I've got to do something about this.  I'm not satisfied with who I am: as a mother, as a wife, as a friend, as a sister or even as a daughter.  There are days I am a huge stubborn fear-filled piece of work. There is so much more I can be, so much more I can become.  Now, I'm not saying I'm going to start sewing and making my own clothes or getting up before dawn (God forbid!)... but I think you get the idea.

I'm sharing this today so I can come back here and remind myself of this goal.  So I can stop playing hide and seek with who I want to be and actually find that woman through hard work and discipline and extreme efforts. I have a long road ahead of me, but I'm positive I can get to where I want to be.  I know I can.

Snapshots of an Amazing Life

Originally published April 27, 2008:

It's amazing how my brother impacted so many with his life in only 35 years. He had a dynamic personality: he was one of those people that drew you in the moment you met him. He stood out in a room full of people with a charisma that was bigger than life. He had a hunger to reach out to people who would then immediately become his friend. He made a difference in their lives by making them feel valued and important with even just a few simple words. He was so many things. He was opinionated, he was hilarious, he was passionate, he was musical. He had absolutely no pretenses... he was Gerald.

Who was Gerald Meggison to you? Was there a poignant moment you remember or a life altering conversation? Was there a side-aching laugh until you cried memory that you will never forget? Was there a quiet time that he was just there for you? Was there a time that he taught you something?

I would like to gather your comments about Gerald for the next few days and make a memory book for our immediate family, Gerald's wife Amy and Gerald's children. Please take those flashes of his life that are captured in your mind and translate them into words so we can create a written legacy for his children. Gerald has a beautiful 4 year old daughter… Alana and a 2 year old budding musical genius… Ian. These babies need to grow up knowing who their daddy was, not just to them, but to all of you.

I devote this blog with much love to my only little brother… Gerald James Meggison.

Comments:

Joe Escamilla: I was Gerald's boss during his short time at Ford Credit. The first day I met Gerald he and I talk at length about music, religion, family, life, and death. Every morning I would ask him how he was and he would reply without fail, "Every day above ground is a good one". Gerald was the most good natured of people that I have ever had the pleasure to meet. I could listen for hours when he spoke of his wife and children. The man loved without pride. He touched everyone who knew him. Everyone that knew him loved him. Gerald had a passion and zest for life that so many of us tend to take for granted. Watching him play guitar at the Across the Street Bar was amazing. His love of music was tremendous. I remember him telling me that he wanted to be an author as well. I learned much from Gerald. This life is not about what you accomplish, it's about who you touch along the way. He touched many I am sure. My thoughts and prayers go to him and his family. Take care buddy.

Brian Dotson:

* I remember when Maria and I went to visit him at the hospital in Salisbury right after he'd had some work done on his pacemaker... We went into his room and there were all these monitors and he kept goofing off and intentionally breathing really hard which set off alarms and kept the exasperated nurses running in and out of the room - he'd just grin and say "And while you're in here, get me a pizza - double pepperoni!"

* Maria mangled his name once when they first met and accidentally thought he said his name was "gerbil" - the nickname stuck! Man -heavan just got a wonderful new resident in Gerbil!

* He loved God, loved to make you laugh and sometimes even squirm a little! I remember when he met a Pastor I was serving with a few years later - the conversation went something like this:

P - So Gerald, did you grow up in church?

G - Yeah my family was very involved when I was a kid...

P - Really - what kind of church did you go to?(A mischievious grin forms on Gerald's face and an odd twinkle sets in his eyes - he sees an opening...)

G - Um... ahh.. the American Standard Church...(at this point the Pastor smiles, nods knowingly... then pauses realizing he's never heard of this denomination - which is probably understandable since Gerald just made it up: American Standard is a toilet and shower maker!)

P - I'm not familiar with that movement - what do they believe?

G - Well they do have some different beliefs - you know like instead of Jesus dying on a cross, they say he slipped in the shower and rather than wearing crosses they prefer soap on a rope...

The stunned Pastor then looked across the room and said "Yes Dear, I'll be right there" and excused himself (BTW - his wife was not in the room!)

* Then there was the time when Gerald and I climbed into a car after spending and hour in prayer together - we were determined to follow the Holy Spirit's leading in the everyday little things, sure in our conviction that God had all sorts of little Divine Appointments that we miss each day because we simply are afraid to listen and act on those little nudges from the Spirit. So we're in my old beat up VW, driving all over town stopping at intersections and praying "God, right, left or straight?" It was hilarious - we'd sit there until we had a sense of where to go and these cars would be honking at us to hurry up! We finally ended up at a bakery of all places. We went inside looked around - felt bad about not really being there for their business so we each picked up a little minidonut pack and a drink. As we paid and walked out to the car, Gerald said "I dunno - I think we missed something..." I looked at him and said "Well, I found the little chocolate donuts on isle 3..." He rolled his eyes and said "No - I mean a God thing not a GUT thing!" We went back in and stood in line to get back up to the cashier. Gerald looks the lady in the eye and says "I'm not here to buy something, just to tell you that God says you are at the right place, at the right time." The girl started crying - Gerald turns and says "Oh great..." It turned out she'd just came here from Germany and promptly been dumped by her new boyfriend, felt all alone, homesick , and was now questioning if she should have come to the US at all. We got to pray with her and left the bakery feeling more full and satisfied than if we'd eaten everything in the store!I hadn't spoken with him in the last 5 years or so. Life had gone on, he'd moved out of state, got married started a family, you know, all the usual stuff as life moves on. Today I got the email that Gerbil had been called home. He's seeing firsthand the One who always carried and guided him down here. I envy him a little in that - but there's a lot of us down here who are probably smiling a bit as they remember the indelible mark he made, and noting how the world's a little different today. Thanks Gerbil - it was a great ride - see you there - save me some little chocolate donuts!

Nicole Benton: I remember your brother, he and I went to school together. It was a shock and extremely sad to hear that he passed away. You were exactly right about him in this blog. From the moment I met him he and I had a special friendship and he did that to I think everyone he ever met. He did make you feel special and even though he and I had very different opinions on things, I so valued what he thought and said. He was sooo funny too. He could make you laugh till you spewed. I'll never forget a time in I think it was English class that he and I wrote a 2 page list of every possible slang word for throwing up that we could come up with. I don't even know why I remember that. He was so special and I know he will be missed terribly! I know he was an awesome musician, friend, brother, father, husband, and a just all around good guy.

Mother's Day, Then and Now

Below is a blog I wrote on Mother's Day 2006. My son was 3 1/2 years old at the time. My mom told me once that I would never know what true love was until I had a child of my own. I didn't understand what she meant then. But I learned.

May 14, 2006

Today my little boy Kellan made a card for me in Jr. Children's Church. It is red and shaped like a teapot and inside it has a little pocket with a poem printed on it that is holding a little tea bag. It's obvious that his teacher made it with the exception of one little crayon scribble from Kellan. When he gave it to me, he was so excited. He said, "Here Mommy! I have a paper for you! I made it for you mommy!" I looked at it and started crying. I have never been so proud. All he did was make a little scribble with a green crayon. Maybe he pressed the glue on the little pocket with the printed poem so it would stick to the card. And maybe he placed the mint tea bag in the pocket, but his little hands made it, just for me.

For 2 weeks now, I have really been missing my mom. I guess it's been building up for Mother's Day, and just about everything has been making me cry, remembering her. But what makes it even more special, is looking at her through new eyes as a mom of 2 little children. How many times did I make little cards for her that made her day? How many times did she stare at me for hours on end thinking how beautiful I was and how much she loved me? How many times did she want to squeeze me until I couldn't breathe because she couldn't get me close enough to her?

I remember going through her things after she passed and finding some of the cards I had made for her. I remember her staring at me, taking in my every word and movement that I made. I remember her always reaching out to embrace me at every chance that she had; and now I find myself doing the same to my own children. My love for them consumes me. I can't get enough of them, I can't love them enough, kiss them enough or hold them enough. I can't quit staring at them and I can't quit thinking about them.

It's overwhelming to think that my mother felt the same way about me. I'm so thankful that God allowed me to become a mother, because now I know how much I was loved, even when I didn't realize it.

Present Day

(May 10, 2009)

My mom has been gone for more than 6 years now. I still find myself wishing I could call her for recipes when I crave her split pea soup or her beef stew. There are moments when I'm exasperated or worried or amused by my children and I would love to ask her if I was like 'that' or how she handled 'this'. And there are nights that I dream about her so vividly that it's as if she is still with me. And although within the dream I know it's not reality, I still pursue the mirage and talk with her, laugh with her or cry with her because for those brief moments I can smell her favorite perfume, hear the timbre of her voice and touch her soft skin again.

I still grieve that my children are unable to spend time with her as they grow up. She would get such a kick out of my fireball Emmi and she would be so in awe of Kellan's gentle spirit. She would have taken them for weekends and adventures and she would have been their biggest fan. They would have gained so much from her love and wisdom and the strength that emanated from her.

Simply, I miss her. And I'm remembering her today with soft smiles, a few tears and an extremely grateful heart that I was blessed with such an amazing woman as my mother was. Thank you mom, for everything and I cannot wait to run into your arms again some day, exactly the way my babies run into my own today. Happy Mother's Day!