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Hi Friends! Thanks for following these little lights for the past few years. My family is changing; my name is changing and my blog is changing! Please follow my journey at www.raisingmagnolias.com.

Thanks!!!

Life is Messy. Clean it up!

11:30 p.m. I can’t sleep and we’re driving to Arkansas tomorrow. Scratch that. I am driving to Arkansas.


12:30 a.m. I’m thinking about my soon-to-be former husband. My stomach churns. I am nauseous. I have to go to sleep.

1:30 a.m. I’m thinking about my future husband. You know, the one who loves me and adores me; who loves Jesus and dotes on my children; who will rub my feet and kiss me goodnight.

2:30 a.m. Sigh. If I’m going to be awake, I might as well be driving.

2:50 a.m. Kids are loaded and the journey begins.

The first 3 hours, silence. I am amazed that other people drive at this time of night. I start to worry. Maybe they’re all drunk, just coming home from the bars. I mean who in their right mind would be driving at 3 o'clock in the morning. Oh wait. Never mind.

Tiger starts to whimper. Loudly. I start praying. Literally praying because hunger and poverty and world peace can wait, but right now I need a quiet dog and sleeping children. And God hears. He always does.

But then, I accidentally bump my keys. The children are awake. First question? How much further?

They eat. I eat again. Calories consumed between 3 and 6 a.m. do not count.

4 hours logged and we make our first stop. “No, you may not have a slushie. It’s 7:00 in the morning.”

Back in the car, Tiger is out of his kennel and in Coulter’s lap. They're watching a movie on their dual-screen portable DVD player that cost $85. Who said money couldn’t buy happiness?

But then Coulter starts FREAKING out! “Mom! He’s puking! He’s, uh, He’s, MOM! He’s doing it again! STOP THE CAR!” I pull off at the next exit and, yep, that’s doggy-puke all right.

I open the door and Coulter bolts out. Sympathy vomit? Seriously?

I look around. A 12 hour road trip and no paper towels. There is a cooler of diet coke and Gatorade, there are chips and cookies and chocolate and cheese sticks; there is white bread and wheat bread and two boxes of ZONE bars; there are movies and colors and dry erase boards and baby dolls but there is not one.single.paper.towel.

I look at the seat. At Coulter. At the seat belt. And I can only laugh. Once upon time, we had towels that covered the seats. Nice gray ones that matched the interior of my van. But I didn’t like the towels. They made me feel like the family whose couch is covered in plastic. Welcome to my home. Crunch.

So, out with the husband and out with the towels. And now there’s doggy puke on my non-leather seats. And while we don’t smile much together anymore, I can’t help but think this would make him smile. At the very least, an “I told you so” smile.

The movie’s over and the kids are playing. I am lost in my own random thoughts from the night before. Wait, this is the same day. Coulter, another one for random thoughts, breaks in and says:

“Mom? Do you remember when we were fighting for Texas?”
“What?” Is he talking about football?
“You know! When George Washington was the ruler and we were fighting for Texas?”

OK, sure, I mean, maybe. I wanted to elaborate about how my American Government teacher was a football coach and that’s the reason I can’t currently remember who the ruler, I mean president, was, but then I remembered that we probably covered the Texas thing during American History and I actually had a real teacher for that, so moving on…

“Well, man I am SO glad we won. I mean if we had lost, Logan and Micah would live in Mexico!”

Logan and Micah are his cousins. They live in Texas. And boy are we glad they don’t live in Mexico.

The time passes. Emma Claire fusses. Her tummy hurts. Her back hurts. Her head hurts.

She begins to cry and then, “Mom! She’s puking! She’s, uh, she’s, MOM! She’s doing it again! STOP THE CAR!”

And this is the moment. The moment when grace is all you need and it’s always enough. She’s sobbing. She doesn’t remember ever being sick like this. There are no words. I gently pull her clothes off and take out the car seat. I wrap her up and lay her back down. I kiss her. I cuddle her and these are the moments Mothers were made for. We drive to Walmart and buy a new seat. It’s not pink and it’s not pretty and it came in three parts and the Walmart lady kept saying that my credit card wasn’t working and I calmly looked at her and stood firm and try though she may, I did not back down. And I didn’t really care if my credit card worked or not. As we say in these parts, come hell or high water, I was leavin’ Walmart with a car seat.

And I did and then we made it. Home. I wanted to do a little happy dance right there in the driveway. I’m a single mom; I parent alone (well, except for the massive amounts of help from my parents); I sleep alone (ok, given the two children and dog, I guess that’s not true either), but, whatever, I can drive alone and I can clean up kid puke and doggy puke with beach towels. Alone.

Life is messy. Kids puke and dogs get car sick and marriages fail and you forget the paper towels but His grace is enough and when life gets messy, you clean it up. And what happens when the towel is too gross to clean? When the mess is too big? You toss it (and I'll leave it to you, my faithful readers to decide on your own if I'm still talking about towels.)

His grace is enough. I don’t need him because I have Him.

This guy had the brightest smile that I had ever seen. And the whitest teeth. And somehow as he preached you could see them. All of them. His smile was that big. He had this way of looking right at you as if you were the only person in the room. I was fascinated by this man. I was captivated.


And, as it turns out, that’s what he wanted. He was preaching from the book of Mark about the friends who brought the paralytic through the roof to see Jesus. He challenged us. Are we still captivated by the stories of Jesus or have we forgotten that it’s kind of a big deal to make the lame walk and the blind to see. Come on! He calmed a storm. He walked on water. He freakin’ rose from the dead and this preacher is right. Am I still captivated by Jesus?

Or am I just held captive by circumstances and people and thoughts and fear?

And my children? Am I captivated by them? I love them; adore them; cherish them, but am I captivated?

After reading Good Night Moon 2,354 times over the past 7 years, I gotta say, I don’t get it. Is it a poem? It’s lost its magic. And The Three Bears? She ate the porridge, already. Let’s move on. And I seriously can’t explain how hard it is to feign interest in a star wars/ninja lego battle.

“Yes, that is wonderful, with the sword, oh it’s not a sword? Well, with the saber and, what his head came off? And they all died? You’re kidding. That’s wonderful, dear.”

In those brief moments, those gory, blood-filled, dead lego-men moments that string together to make a life, am I still captivated?

Some nights, I find myself, all snuggled together with little blond ones hanging on my arms trying to hold a book and scratch two itchy backs at the same time and, yes, I find myself or rather catch myself reading the words on the page while at the very same time reading the worries of my life. “Jack and Annie returned to the Magic Tree House and to their very great surprise, (how am I going to pay for health care in November? Where are we going to live in November?) there was a Dinasoaur waiting at the end of the path, (and how am I going to provide for my children?) but the Dinasoaur was a plant eater so Annie became his friend, (and how could their mom have been such an idiot?) and the Dinasours didn’t eat them and they all lived happily ever after.”

I read, but I am not captivated. I am lost. My thoughts wander. And am I equally disturbed and amazed at my ability to do this.

But then we had a play date. A new friend. She hadn’t been in the car 30 seconds when she started talking.

“Those are our neighbors. She’s my friend. Sometimes I go play with them, but only when my mom says it’s okay. One day I went over there by myself, but my Dad said, “where in the world did that little girl go?’ And then they came to get me. My room is pink. I love pink. Pink is my favorite color. Is pink your favorite color? Wow. Look at that. That machine is pink. Emma Claire, do you like pink? What’s your address? Mine is 1234 Maple road. Is this your house, Emma Claire? I like your house. Is your room pink? Let’s make cupcakes. Can I take one for my mom? Oh and my dad, too? He is at his work.”

She was captivating.

All morning she and Emma Claire played house and dress-up and they held hands and they hugged and we were blessed and there was joy in this house and I was captivated.

Captivated by two little girls whose smiles, much like that pastor, just radiated and whose giggles echoed though out the house.

“I tell you the truth, unless you change and become like little children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven." (Matt.18:3 NIV)

I’ve always thought this verse meant that to enter the kingdom of heaven we needed to trust the way a child trusts. I don’t know, maybe I was taught that or maybe, in all of my theological wisdom, I just made it up. But after hearing smiley-man’s sermon, I now wonder if Jesus is talking about being captivated. Being in awe of Jesus the same way that our special friend was in awe of that pink machine. To be captivated by our children and their books and their toys and, oh my gosh, even the lego battles and the great big room with the red balloon.

And I’m starting to feel it. I will not be held captive. Not by him; not by my thoughts. I will be captivated. By Jesus; by my children; by this blessed life. I will be captivated and I will smile like preacher-man.

But first, I will go to Sephora.

Because while I can’t find it directly in scripture, I’m sure that even Jesus knows a pretty smile; a captivating smile, needs new lipstick. And yes, pink is my favorite color, too.

Stupid Pigeon

I am mad. Hot, sweaty, salty-tears mad. And sad. Hiccuping, gasping and that weird sound you make when you can’t catch your breath, sad.


I am mad and sad. And I’m rhyming like a Dr. Seuss book. Good grief.

Yesterday I met with a personal training client (who, as a side note trains dogs for a living, and I think it’s safe to assume she wasn’t impressed with Tiger. Or me. It’s possible she noticed all the bits of chewed plastic from toys gone by and the half-eaten $40 flip flops that my Mother simply had to buy Emma Claire for Easter, because looking around with wide and horrified eyes, she politely suggested that I buy some more dog-appropriate toys. And, thank you very much, I did. I spent $7 on a bone that he promptly buried in the backyard. I should’ve just given him $7 to chew. That would’ve at least saved me the trip to Wal-Mart).

Anyway, my client. She wants to be healthy. She wants to be strong. And she has about 100 extra lbs standing in her way. She’s a mom and a wife. We’ve all seen Oprah. We know the story: she forgot to take care of herself. Her battle is mental. She has to believe that she’s worth more and until she does, nothing will change. Our first session was scheduled for tomorrow. She just called to cancel. She doesn’t believe.

It’s easy to give advice. She deserves more.

And since everything, including dogs and bones and overweight clients, seem to point me back to the drama that is my life, it hits me. He doesn’t think I deserve “more”. I’m not hot, sweaty, salty-tears mad because we are divorcing; I’m not gasping for air, sad because I’m going to be 40 and single (well, maybe a little bit sad); I’m mad because I spent 14 plus years loving and trusting and giving and trying and now I see. I’m sad because we’re “that” family…sitting in two different sections at the swim meet; sitting alone in church because the “kids are with their dad.”

Seriously, how did we become “that” family?

I’m mad because I didn’t see. How did I not see before? How do eyes get so clouded?

Fuzzy and wet from tears?

He didn’t think I deserved more. He doesn’t think I deserve more. Me, the mother of his children so little in his eyes. And what you do to me, you do to them. Standing in line tonight at Jimmy John’s (I really know how to rock a Friday night) I noticed several wall plaques just bursting full with sub-sandwich wisdom. One read, “Not every day is going to be sunny; some days you’re the pigeon and some days you’re the statue.”

Stupid pigeon.

He may not believe, but I do.

Or at least I’m starting to.

We deserve better. I mean, yes, without Jesus, we deserve, death, so Praise God for Jesus, but I was created in the image of the most high God and while I can’t find it directly in scripture, I’m pretty sure that means I was NOT created to be the statue.

Where do babies come out, how does Jesus get into our heart and other very special questions!

We were driving home when out of the clear blue (and I so want to add the word yonder,) Emma Claire asked how babies come out.


Not where do they come from, but how do they come out.

“Well, pumpkin, there’s a special opening.” I say, wishing for the 1st time ever, that I’d have a c-section.

“But where?”

“In a special place. It’s a special opening.” It’s seriously all I can think of. You know, how special it is.

“But WHERE is the special opening?”

I’m corned. She doesn’t give up.

Ever.

This is the same child, who, after days of frustration, trying to figure out how Jesus lives in our hearts, pulled up her dress (sorry for the visual) bent her knees, pointed upward and said, “Mom, did He come in through there?”

Finally I gave her some lame answer about how it’s close to your knees. Don’t judge, I mean the knees are somewhat involved. They’re bent; they’re high; they’re; oh, never mind, my Dad is reading this.

Anyway, last week Emma Claire announced that she wanted a baby sister. Of course she does. I mean what little girl doesn’t want a baby sister?

We’ve established that she knows where they come out, but for the record, she also knows where they come from. Duh! God grows them.

“God, please put a baby sister in Mommy’s tummy.” Wait for it….1….2…..3…. “MOM! He didn’t do it!”

And then with no emotion whatsoever, Coulter says, “Emma Claire, Mom’s too old to have a baby!”

Uhm, Ouch.

My heart ached. I’m not too old to have another baby. I suppose I’m too single to have a baby. I’m too alone to have a baby. I’m too un-employed to have a baby. But, whatever, I am not too old to have another baby.

Emma Claire is right. God grows. He knits, actually.

I remember sitting on the couch, holding Coulter as a newborn. I sat for hours, for days, and just held him. His dad said, “I can’t believe we made this.”

Uhm that’s because we didn’t.

Fast forward seven years. His dad, as if defending something that really didn’t need defending, says to me, “Our children were conceived in love.”

Eeewww.

It was a very serious moment, but I kind of wanted to laugh.

I don’t want to think about it; you know, the conceiving part, and I sure as heck-o-la don’t want to talk about it.

Ever.

Because the only truth that matters is the one that Emma Claire already knows. God grows. Coulter and Emma Claire are His workmanship (not ours) and they were “…created in Christ Jesus to do good works which He has prepared in advance…” (Ephesians 2:10)

And He chose me to be their mom.

Today I ran 4 miles and biked 12. A dual-athon. I love that word, and not just because it means that I don’t have to swim. I love it, because as I’m riding along on my bike (which evidently is not a road bike and I’m totally confused because what else is there?) Anyway, I’m riding along dodging horse trailers and pig trailers and dead deer and the drunk people just now leaving Uncle Larry’s beer garden from last night; yes, as I’m riding along with Emma Claire’s seat bouncing empty in the back, it dawns on me that I’m not just in the middle of a divorce. I’m in the middle of a dual-athon. Which, actually just dawns on me that it's not a dual, it's a du. As in du-atholon. Whatever.

I’m fighting for my children; my children whom God knit together inside of me. Me, this nothing of a person, this nothing of a body, so weak I only managed to come in 4th from last in said duatholon (just before the 6 year old and his mom and what appeared to be his grandma. Such a proud moment.) But even still, He chose me. I carried them. Humble and grateful.

It’s not conception. It’s creation. It’s a miracle.

For some, we experience the miracle right there at our knees; for others through the gift of adoption, but whatever way God chooses, whatever way God uses, it’s a miracle to be called mom.

And so I fight. I fight for my children. I fight for our future. And like Emma Claire, I don’t give up.

Ever.

Who Won The Draft and Blood-Sucking Animals

And there it was. A break from real life; a break from the hard life. Or maybe it wasn’t. Maybe this was real life and all the other, you know, “stuff” isn’t real at all; just an unfortunate distraction. Whatever, whichever, it was a break in my thought pattern and a welcome one.


We picked up Coulter’s friend; Coulter’s friend whose dad helps coach basketball and football and knows, well lots of sports stuff. Coulter’s friend, who knows what ESPN is and the difference between college sports and professional sports. This is all stuff that we don’t know.

Immediately he starts talking.

“Coulter!” What did you think about “So and So Such and Such” moving from the Sox to the other Sox.”

Coulter plays it cool. He has a mom who watches the Razorbacks. That’s it. If they’re not playing, there’s no need to be watching. Coulter is clueless.

C: “Wow! What happened?”

Friend: “Dude! He moved from the Red Sox to the White Sox and he wasn’t doing to so hot, but now he’s doing great.”

C: “Wow. Uhm, yeah. Cool”

I feel his pain. He doesn’t want his friend to know that they might as well be talking about chemistry. In fact, Coulter probably knows more about chemistry than either Sox. So I do what any good mom does. I step in.

M: That’s great! What position does he play?

Friend: Uhm, (insert silent DUH, here) Third Base. Just like always.

I was trying to help. I didn’t. But the Friend seems undeterred.

Friend: (Ignoring lame mom and with great excitement says,) “Coulter! Did you see the NBA draft?”

Coulter: “Oh, man! I so wanted to see it, but we were out of town. Who won?”

Mom: (silently of course, this is painful). I’m sorry son for never turning on ESPN; for choosing instead Dancing with the Stars.

What? They’re athletes.

Friend: (Totally confused) What? It’s not a game! Nobody won.

He continues. Explaining. Trying. Doesn’t anyone understand how great this is?

Emma Claire has had enough. She is bored.

“Friend! Friend! Friend!”

Friend: “WHAT, Emma Claire?” (He has his own little sister. He is not amused by her charm).
Emma Claire: “Did you know that some animals suck your blood? Really, they do. I read it in a book.”

And that was it.

All is grace. And this day, it was baseball players and who won the draft “game” and animals sucking blood and a son who was pretending and trying and hanging in there as best as he could. That’s what we do. We hang in there as best as we can. And we fail, but it’s o.k.

And that was my grace. That was how God chose to bring me out of myself; out of my thoughts, wandering and lost in a swirling, confusing sea of what was real; was anything real? Was I ever “the one”? Was it, and oh my gosh, this is so cliché, but was it ever love? Was it real?

I don’t know.

But being a mom? This is real. Shuffling children to the pool and the park; to camp and to swim team and now back home because we forgot our goggles and next to Scheels because we lost our goggles. This is real. Adding ketchup when there’s too little and scraping it off when there’s too much. Cutting crusts off of white bread for one child and using a round cookie cutter on wheat bread for the other. Inching into the freezing water so little feet can swim and onto scary, nausea-inducing roller coasters so big boys can ride and yes, this is being a mom. This is real.

This is grace. This is "who won the draft, blood-sucking animals" grace.

Because at the end of the day? The end of grown-up stuff? Marriage and  divorce?

Because at the end of the day (and wee early in the morning) they call me Mom.

And that I know, is real life.

But It's Not Fair!

I was sitting in church. Listening. Sort of. Wandering thoughts. Focus, already! But Emma Claire is up and she is down and she dropped her crayons and she’s hungry. Starving, in fact. And I try to listen, but mostly I’m just hearing. But then he says it. And then he repeats it and I hear it. I really hear it. And it makes me mad. I am certain he is wrong.


We are to blame. Us. The parents. The behaviors we see in our children (you know, those less than desirable ones?) Evidently they learn it from us.

Well, kindly speak for yourself. That can’t possibly be right.

But he said it and I think maybe, just maybe God has given him special insight as He often does to those He calls and perhaps I should give this further thought.

So I make a list.

TOP 5 BEHAVIOR PROBLEMS: (and I’m happy to report that I only made it to 2).

#1. “What’s next?” As in, “this was great, but I need more.”

#2. “It’s not fair!” Also takes the form of “She did it!”, “It wasn’t my fault.” “It’s never my fault.”

And that was it. That’s my list. I am blessed. I know this.

I look at the list. Pastor was wrong. Must be public school.

Fast forward. More church. A picnic lunch (ok, whatever, it was sort of a picnic. We ate sandwiches in the car), and “Seussical the Musical”. 7th row.

Heading home, we call their dad (lest I be accused (again!) of hiding or concealing them) and Coulter starts in telling him about our day. Coulter turns on the speaker phone. “Great!” Their dad says. “What’s next? Is mom taking you to the pool?”

The POOL!?!?! It was 4:30 and we’d been gone since 9:15. I’m thinking a morning of worship followed by a Broadway show counts for a full day. I was so annoyed.

And then I smiled.

“What’s next?” Oh my gosh, Pastor was right! I went back to my list and marked through #1 with a note that I would need to talk to their Dad about his behavior. :)

It was weeks later when I received news of November. Remember. November? I emailed my attorney and I asked to meet with him. And soon.

I tried to communicate my feelings (I cried). I tried to verbalize my frustration (More crying). I tried to explain why November was no good. He told me November was it. He told me to accept it. And the whole time, screaming silently in my head, there was a three year-old little girl crying out, “But it’s not fair! This isn’t my fault!”

Darn Pastor.

My attorney got mad. I frustrate him on many levels. This I can see. He doesn’t understand my life for the past 15 years. He looks incredulously at me, wondering how a seemingly intelligent, well-educated mother of two got here. Here.

“Look,” he says. “I’m not the one that married the guy and had his children.”

Uhm, ok.

And then I remembered my list. Oh. My. Gosh. What am I teaching my children?

He’s right. I married “the guy.” And while God’s grace frees me from a life of slavery, there are logical consequences to our choices. Some are blessings. Some are miracles and I have 2 of those. And I’m not just talking cliché miracles. I am talking, living, breathing, spirits full of joy, miracles.

Would I make a different choice? Never. But are there consequences beyond the miracles? Absolutely.

The truth is I’m stuck at # 2. Is it fair? No, it’s not. But is it fair that I was born in America? Is it fair that some worship in secret while fearing for their lives, while I have the freedom to go where I want, when I want and worship Who I want? Is it fair that soldiers are being sent out all over this world to fight battles; some of them not even our own, while tonight, surrounded by friends (and diet coke!) I will gaze at “bombs bursting in air”? Is such an easy life of freedom and abundance fair?

No. And Praise God for it!

Happy 4th, everyone!