I miss you in the margins.

For Mom. I miss you. You were my very favorite kind of crazy.


My birthday hurt.

The holidays will be hard.

Mother’s Day will bring me to my knees.

But, more than those times, I will miss you in the margins. Those little places in life that shouldn’t matter, but they do.

When I’m walking to the parking lot and I don’t have to slow down to make sure you’re ok–that you are behind me and making progress. Knowing that if I stop to wait you will also stop and glare at me until I go again. No special treatment for you. No acknowledgment that your steps are slowing. That I might not have you forever.

When I’m shopping and wishing I had just lost you in the aisles like so many times before. Desperately hoping to find you around the next corner enraptured with an olive bar or a new kind of cheese. Or talking to some stranger about Le Mis.


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Pumpkin is Life.

This was my very first blog!


I’m not sure I understand life yet.

I love it.

I love fireworks, and baby giggles and the way my dad looked out for my mom.   I love Christmas movies and trips to the zoo and putting my head on my husband’s shoulder.  I love life.  But, I am also aware of how dangerous it is.

There are weapons and bacterias and mosquitos that cause deformity in a baby. A baby. There are real, disgusting, heartless boogie men and people who know this and just don’t care.  There is meanness and knives and cars that wreck.

All of these contrasting things are true about life.  I adore it, but I don’t trust it. I never let my guard down. I really can’t.

In fact, I’ve been thinking lately that life reminds me of a dog we rescued once.  He was cute and little and we even named him Pumpkin…

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That peace.

I grew up a daddy’s girl.  It was his side of the bed I went to as a little girl when I was sick.  It was his car I looked for in parking lots after school and his shirts I stole to sleep in.  When my family went on a deep sea fishing trip and everyone got violently ill, I left my mom behind and spent the afternoon laying on his stomach above deck with the sun beating down on us both.  Those sounds and smells of that boat–workers yelling and men casting heavy line out into those churning seas and that hot fishy smell- will always be wrapped up with some of my most precious memories of my Dad.  He was my person. Because of this, I was always fascinated with his faith even when I didn’t share it.  It colored everything in his world.  It affected how he treated my mom, how he conducted himself at work, how he dealt with hitchhikers he happened upon.  Everything was filtered through his faith. I lived my entire childhood and early adulthood in the shadow of this man I adored. I really thought I understood what it meant to be a Christian. I thought I was one. I was wrong.

When I was 32 years old, my Dad was diagnosed with a horrible, rare disease. Para Supra Nuclear Palsy. It was a horror nobody could dream up. It lasted six years and it ravaged our family.  Eventually, it would rob us of his voice, his wisdom, his smile and finally, on a beautiful June morning, it would take him. But, long before that morning, it had robbed me of something else–my Dad’s faith and I had parted ways.  I was as angry at God as a person could get.  My Dad didn’t deserve to die the way he did and I didn’t want any part of a God who would allow it.  But, the same wasn’t true of my Dad.  Through those six long years, his faith was the same.  Gentle. Sweet. Solid.

One afternoon in the parking lot of Hobby Lobby, I stood beside his car window and helped him pass the time until my mom and sisters were done shopping. At that point, he could no longer walk very well and having conversations with him was hard.  But, tell me I didn’t try?  I did.  Constantly. I knew I was in the last moments with my father.  My Father.  This big man that had always held my heart.  Anything he had to say I wanted to hear.  Anything.  So, leaning against that dusty door and with my hand on  his I asked him, “Dad, is your faith ok? Are you angry?” Did I want him to say, “Yes”? Maybe.  That, I would have understood.  He had a right to be angry.  He was almost to retirement.  All of the things he had put off to raise all of us were about to happen.  Fishing trips, vacations with Mom, and more visits with grand babies. It was his time.  Instead, his granddaughter was pulling up his socks and his wife was shaving his face for him.  He had no control over anything.

But, he didn’t say yes.  Instead, he struggled to tell me that sometimes he thought that all of this was happening because he still had lessons to learn.  A fine tuning of his relationship with the Lord.  Folks, I would like to say I absorbed what he was saying in a wise way.  But, I didn’t.  My temper flared on a level my Mom would have applauded.

“Dad, how can you even say that?  If you don’t have this figured out then none of us do! That’s the craziest thing I have ever heard.  You are perfect.”

Except, there were cuss words involved. Lots of cuss words.  Normally, I would have never talked that way in front of my Dad, but there wasn’t any normal left to be had. I was just so pissed off.  But in that moment, like so many others, my Dad absorbed my immaturity with love and grace.  He slowly brought his arm from the other side of the car to pat my hand that was resting on his.  I can still see his big hand covering mine.

And then, with his painfully slow speech he said,   “It’s ok.  My worries never touch that peace.”

I knew immediately what he was talking about.  I had grown up hearing that phrase my whole life. When bills couldn’t be paid, when cars broke down, when Mom lost her folks, when he lost jobs. The peace that passeth all understanding.  It’s what my Dad treasured the most about his faith and I had no clue what it really meant. I understood the idea of it, but never the reality.  I cried that day in that Hobby Lobby parking lot and many times after that because I knew I didn’t understand.  And, then, came that day my dad was gone.  A hysterical voice mail on my phone from my Mom confirmed it.  “We lost him Jean Ann. We lost him.” There isn’t a word in the universe that I could type here that would describe that feeling.  I woke up in a world every morning that didn’t contain my Dad.  He was gone.

I went to his funeral. Both of them. I listened to people talk about him.  The stories of him encouraging them and helping them and housing them and changing their lives and I knew it was his faith.  His relationship with his God.  A God that I had sometimes claimed, but didn’t really know.  So, I drove back to Houston with my husband and daughter and a empty heart.  I was swept clean and I had no idea what to do about it.

If you could read my journals from those days you would know how lost I was.  They are full of furious, one-sided, arguments with God.  It hurts me to type this, but I hated Him.  With everything in me.  I hated God and, to deal with that, I walked away from everything I had ever been taught and decided there was no God. But, I still hated.  Then, one day as I was driving down the freeway, a little voice presented itself to me,  “How can you hate someone who isn’t real?”

I’m trying to find the words to bring you into that moment with me.  How huge it was.

It was a dirty windshield, and a mini-van ahead with a “My kid is an honor-student.” bumper sticker, and the universe shifting on its’ axles and the beginning of everything that matters to me now. In that moment, my soul finally acknowledged that God was real and that I had to deal with Him. Really deal with Him.  Not pretend.  Not perform. Not promise. There was this real God out there who knew the real me and we had some things to work out.

I started back at the very beginning.  I was raised in a Christian home and attended more Sunday School classes than anybody should.  I went to Church Camp and Petra concerts and Friday night pizza parties at the local Baptist Church.  I knew the lingo but not the Lord.  So, I decided to fight with God for real.  I checked out book after book about every practiced religion known to man. I wanted to know what everyone else believed. I researched every “gotcha” I thought existed with the Christian faith.  I drove three hours to a particular bookstore to pick up a book I was sure would provide proof that there was absolutely no God.  It didn’t. Nothing did.

And, during that entire time, I took my daughter to church.  I was determined she would be in church even if I was screwed up.  I was hoping she could find what my Dad had even if I couldn’t.  Somewhere, in all of that turmoil, my journal entries changed.  They were no longer written to a God who didn’t exist and that I hated, but to one that was very real and that I needed.  I knew He was there.  I could feel Him.  Not just in church, or when I was reading my Bible, or when I got the best parking place, but in everything.  He was huge.  He was precious.  He was all I wanted.  But, I wasn’t sure He wanted me.

I couldn’t get past the feeling that I had somehow wasted the gift of being raised by my Dad.  And my Mom.  I had grown up in a home where God was celebrated and I had missed it.  Taken it for granted.  Treated it cheaply.  And, I had done so many things that I knew had grieved both of my Fathers.  In short, I sucked. And, again, I had no clue how to get past it.  I was stuck in a never-ending self punishment.  There was no forgiveness for me.  I was doomed to a life without God and I knew that was the worst thing that could happen to anyone.

Then, one day, that small voice presented itself to me again.  “Do you really believe I don’t love you?”  And, in an instant, I didn’t.  I didn’t believe it.  I knew God loved me.  And I knew I loved Him. And life changed.  Forever.

If I could, I would go back to that day in the parking lot and take my Dad’s face between both of my hands and I would kiss him and tell him, “Daddy, I feel it.  I feel the peace. God found me.” And, I would be telling the truth.

Since I lost my Dad, some really awful things have happened.  Happened even after I thought my family had endured all that we could.  My Mom got cancer and beat it. And then got it again. And, I cried in even more parking lots and elevators and, on occasion, HEB. And then, on another June morning,  I lost her too.  I’ve sat in an examining room and had my doctor, with her kind eyes and high- lighted hair, tell me I had Lupus.  I’ve buried friends and been helpless as I’ve watched others live through hell. I’ve watched the news and read Facebook and anguished at how we all hurt each other.  I’ve had to watch young people I love find really spectacular ways to hurt themselves and their future.  Divorce and affairs and drugs.  Miscarriages, abortions, floods and heartache.  The world is a scary, sad place sometimes, but, through it all, I have this little flicker of peace. A small place that says no matter what God loves me.

No matter what I do.  No matter what the President does or who the President is. No matter what my bank account says.  No matter illness or heartbreak or loss.  God loves me.

And, the really amazing thing is that that knowledge is not just for me. Yes, it changed who I am, but it also changes the world.  Because God loves me, I am indifferent to no-one. I can’t be. Your pain is my pain.  Your problems are my problems. Your sin is my sin. We have to find our way together. We are His beloved.  All of us. And, yes, that includes you.  He loves you no matter what you have done or what you are doing this morning.

Throw it out there.  The biggest, darkest, most awful thing you have ever done and it is no match for God.  He can love it all away.  All of it.  Even if you’ve hated Him for a long time, and filled up little blue journals with page after page of how unfair He is.  Even if you’ve never taken one minute to stop and fight with Him or wonder about Him or even question whether He’s real.  Literally, no matter what, He loves you.

I’m not saying that it will be easy.  That you won’t still have a temper, or a sailor-mouth, or a drug problem, or a boyfriend on the side, but from the moment you enter into a real relationship with God and leave all else behind you will begin on a journey that will change you and the world around you. He won’t leave you where you start. And, for every success you have, you will want more. You will come to crave those moments that you find yourself more like Him and less like you. You will find yourself willingly walking away from everything you used to hold valuable for a closer walk with Him.

Someday, you might even find yourself, in a parking lot dying from a disease that takes you bit by bit, and you will still be talking to your lost daughter about the peace that passeth all understanding.   And, she will listen through her tears and hurt and foul language and a seed will be planted.  And, because the Lord adores you, it will bear fruit. And the Lord will let her be lost and angry until He finds her and changes everything.  Then, the true adventure will start.

And, through it all, that little flame of peace will burn.  The peace that passeth all understanding.  A precious gift from a Father who adores you and longs for you.


fullsizeoutput_296fI used to tell anyone that would listen that I never wanted to get married.  “I’m selfish,” I would say.  And, I was completely serious. I really didn’t want to get married. I didn’t want to take care of anyone and I didn’t want to risk that feeling where you are all in.  One hundred percent, no holds barred, in.  All of that felt way too real to me.  I wanted to care about fewer people and not more.  That felt safer. I was young when I got married, but I had already been to too many tragic funerals.  You could lose people you loved and that terrified me.

Then, one January afternoon at a church Super Bowl party, I met my husband.  I was seconds away from leaving to head to a bar and the crowd stood up and the people shifted and there he was.  Him.  I was introduced, shook his hand, and had an instant feeling of recognition.  “There you are.” my heart said.  I went home that day and told my Grandma I had met the man I was going to marry.  She shook her head and flapped her dish towel at me.  “Oh Jean Ann, you don’t even know if he’s a good one.”  But, she was wrong.  I did know.  I knew that first day I met him and I still know today.

I knew because I watched him take up his space in the world in that quiet, I don’t need the spotlight, way that he has and I understood how rare that was even that first day.  I knew because I watched him give his son permission to go outside to play and then, as we talked, watch him every second without making a big deal out of it.  I knew because I saw him check quietly with the single mom in the group to make sure she had money to cover her lunch at the restaurant we all went to.  That’s what he does.  He goes through life quietly, doing tiny things that mean everything to those lucky enough to live life with him.

I am blessed to be one of those people.  Through our 26 years I have been the recipient of so many small, calm gifts of love from him.  The day he called me in the grocery store and told me to add more pie crusts to my Thanksgiving shopping because he had just sent my Mom and sisters money to come for the holiday.  The moment in the elevator when we looked at each other over my Mom’s head understanding her cancer was back and it wasn’t going away this time. He never said a word, but he grabbed my hand to keep me from falling apart and told her she looked pretty in her hat.  She looked up from her wheelchair and grinned her famous mischievous grin and I breathed again.  The days he spent lining my Dad up with fishing gear and climbing a roof so Dad didn’t have to and mowing his lawn when he couldn’t.  All of the mornings that he has gathered up his keys and his wallet and made sure he had his mug of coffee so he could leave to go to work and take care of us.  He goes through his days taking care of his folks.  It’s who he is.  But, the thing I am most amazed by is that he will never mention any of it.  His good things are never talked about by him. He’s under the radar kind.  And folks, that is the best kind of kind.  In fact, he’ll be mad at me for writing this.  He doesn’t need a lot of fanfare.  He’s just solid and quiet and good.

But, in all fairness, I don’t think I always remember this.  I get irritated at him.  I want him to do things my way.  I’m a jerk. And, I don’t think I am alone in this.  I think we all tend to take our people for granted.  It’s almost a defense mechanism.  If we understood, everyday,  just how amazing the Richards in our life are it would be too much to take. Too much emotion to handle with chores and bills and everything else going on.  But, on a rare day, I think God allows me to fully understand what I have in my sweet husband.  And yesterday, his birthday,  was one of those days.  We had plans to go to lunch with friends that got rained out and then we lost electricity.  I had no present for him, because he couldn’t think of anything he wanted–even after a trip to the Guitar Center.  So, we ended up eating a fast-food burger and then he played his guitar while it poured outside.  It wasn’t exactly a momentous birthday.  But, the last thing he said to me before he went to bed was, “Man, babe, what a good day it was.  I got to go to church and facetime Everett and hang out with you and play my guitar.  It was one of those normal days that’s wonderful. ” Then, he smiled his smile and went off to bed. I sat in my chair tearing up and fully getting it.

He’s a keeper, this sweet man of mine.  And, so I will. I’ll keep him in every way I can.  Keep him the center of my focus.  Keep him in my prayers.  Keep him, as much as possible, from heartache.  And, hopefully, God gives me lots of days where I feel it right down to my toes how lucky I am to have met him and recognized him and to have stood there on that March afternoon with him holding my shaking hands in his warm, strong ones as we joined our lives forever.  He’s my guy and I am better and blessed because of it.  If I had any other wish for our future, it would be that I would become more like him.   I could do with a little quietness and gentleness. Less of a need for fanfare.  More good works that nobody ever knows about. I’m stealing his birthday wish and hoping all of that will come true.  Come to think of it, maybe it is his wish too. I say this because I think there is a good chance that I am difficult. But, even if I am (I am) he’ll love me anyway.  That is also what he does.  He loves me.

Thank God.



I have a friend on Facebook that I enjoy.  We have nothing in common.  I’m in my fifties and he’s almost half that.  I am a grandparent and married and have a mortgage, and he is young and single and just starting his career.  I am a Christian and he is an atheist.  On paper, we have absolutely nothing in common. We are probably on opposite sides of every issue that enrages people these days.  And yet, I like him.  I like him a lot.  He’s funny. He has a huge heart.  He’s someone who looks out for the underdog; whether they are furry or human. A few years ago, he started a campaign to create snack bags for homeless people he saw daily on his way to work. His humanity is warm and real and a balm to those who know him. And, I hope he feels this same way about me. But, honestly, I’m not sure. I’m not sure because I find myself wondering if he knows that every time he posts something really hateful about Christians he is posting it about me.  I am the person in the cartoon he posts of the Christian ignoring the orphans or ogling a young child out in public.  Every time he promotes the idea that Christians are hateful and hypocritical and disingenuous he is saying those things about me.  And, then I wonder, is that really his opinion of me?  Does he believe that I don’t care about people who are suffering?  Does he believe that I hate people?  Does he believe that I want to feel superior or am delusional and that is why I practice my faith? Does he, on some level and despite our friendship, hate me personally? Or, is it just easier to apply one label to a group of people and lump them all in together? I don’t know.  I do know that our friendship has included none of the things that he ascribes to Christians in general and I don’t think he would apply them to me, but the posts keep coming. And they hurt.  So, what do I do with this relationship?  Do I sever it? Throw it away?  I have no desire to do that. I don’t want to lose him.  Besides, if I apply that standard, I would also have to sever my relationship with my friend of a different political leaning.  If I were the person he posts about, I would also be morally deficient.  According to his posts concerning my political party, I am delusional and uneducated and don’t care about the less fortunate.  In short, I am a horrible person.  But, I know he knows that isn’t true. We have life memories together.  Laughter and tears and warmth flow between us.  And yet, he still posts things with a label that includes me.  Me.  The person he has known for years.  The person with yellowed pictures of him in my hope chest where I keep my most precious memories. His friend. Then, I find myself wondering if I do the same thing?  Do I post things that hurt people?  That labels them in a way I know isn’t true?  And not just any people, but people I love.  People I know. Know that they collect teacups, or spend Thursdays with their Grandma or will drop everything to help me if I need it.  I don’t want to buy the lie that they are bad people.  I don’t want to accept an opinion of them that I have not formed myself.  I sure as heck don’t want to promote someone else’s opinion of them.  I want to remember the faces behind the labels.  The memories.  The inside jokes. The humanity.  I’m not going to lie–this is a big job. A hard one. Sometimes, my finger hovers above the un-friend button. It would be such a relief to not sign into Facebook and see things that hurt me.  Or disturb me.  Or challenge me.  But, what would I lose?  I would lose friends.  People who are dear to me.  People who are more than their religion or life style or political affiliation.  So, I read the article or take in the cartoon and I grieve. I grieve for what we are allowing others to say about our friends.  I grieve for labels we are willing to apply to hearts we love. I grieve for all that we are losing. I grieve that we have lost the ability to disagree civilly. And, mostly, I grieve that I am a part of any of it.  But, I also accept that I really don’t want to miss the baby pictures or job announcements or first snowfalls.  So, I sign in everyday and hope for the best and try not to be part of the problem.  Try not to label and try not to hurt.  And, sometimes, I fail at all three.  But, hopefully, my friends love me enough to remember that I have a grandson I adore, and that I recycle and that I am a confirmed goofball. And, hopefully, they remember that we love each other. And that I would drop everything to help them if they needed it. And that I would much rather they debate me than unfriend me.

My friend’s sons.

fullsizeoutput_4530I met my best friend when I was eleven.  Awkward with boy-short hair and no clue how to fit into my new town.  That was me.  I had already survived a whole year in a small town where everyone was related but me.  To have her move in down the street was a godsend. I can’t tell you what it meant.  Obvious things like a place to go on long summer afternoons.  Someone to watch Bozo the clown with before school.  A best friend that would stay my best friend for decades.  Long past the moment we blew past that city limit sign for the last time.  What I didn’t know then was how much I would love her children.  Three boys.  A perfect foil to my daughter who was as reserved and bookish as they were wild and boisterous.  They all loved each other almost immediately.  Almost.  There were some adjustments and some bumps in the road, but now they are family. We go to their graduations and one-act plays and have watched too many basketball games to number.  They were all three in my daughter’s wedding and they were among the first people to hold her new son.  I have pictures of them all there proudly holding this little person wrapped up in a blanket with a tiny scrunched-up face. They look as proud as his mama. They look as proud as their mama.  They are the pictures of a family.  Not one any of us were born into.  But, one that we have all created by choice.  Created over hours spent around a shiny wooden table laughing and eating chips and salsa and talking about everything imaginable.  Created on New Year’s Eves when we all played games until we dissolved into hysterics and lost the whole point of whatever game we were playing.    Created through sweet text messages from awkward young men trying to comfort us as we were losing my mom.  Created by showing up for each other for the good times and the bad.  For new loves and lost loves.  For new apartments and moving days. For awesome concerts and long days shopping and trips to the beach.   When I look into the future, I see us all continuing to cross the miles and being ok with missing important homecomings for a wedding and lifting refrigerators and transporting crazy cats. When Everett turns one I will expect a family picture of all of us.  Smiling and gathered around this little boy that has become part of this crazy family we have created.  And, that will just be the first of many future family pictures. Family pictures that just get bigger.  We are adding people in.  Husbands and girl friends and other best friends and lots of dogs!  I love that.  Bring it all on. Messy and joyful and wonderful. We have two graduations looming and lots of exciting opportunities for everyone around the corner. There will be more moves, and probably some hard times and probably lots more dogs.  We will take it in stride and drive to where we need to be and celebrate or commiserate. We will be a family no matter what.  I know that for sure.  A crazy family that spent precious minutes and hours around a table eating Troy’s quesadillas and green dip and teasing each other and laughing and, most of all, becoming us. Us with our intensity, and inside jokes and ability to make any new person coming in stop for a second and wonder if there is a place for them.  There is.  It might just take a minute.  But, we are worth it.  I promise. We will drive you crazy, but, man, will we love you. And, sometimes, on a good night there will be a confessional. Trust me, you don’t want to miss one of those.

My friend Brenda.

Nobody would ever call me a feminist. No poster board signs decrying the treatment of women are stuffed in the back of my closet waiting for the next march in Washington. No pink hats in my past or future.  Nothing that would make Ashley Judd tear up or give a speech.  Honestly, I have known too many good men in my life to ever jump on the bandwagon of women are inherently better just because they are women.  I have known some truly awful humans that happened to be female and some truly great people who happened to be male.  I prefer to judge people by the quality of their character.  I want to know what their middle is made of.  This brings me to my friend Brenda.

Brenda has been dealt an unfair hand.  Her husband that she was married to for forty- plus years walked out on her.  He walked out on their history and future.  He walked out on their traditions.  He walked out on their kids and grandkids.  He walked out on the space that they had created together in this crazy, scary world.  Their safe little circle they came home to at the end of every day no longer exists.

In fact, it has been obliterated.  Brenda had no choice but to sell their home and furniture and Christmas decorations.  Mostly, everything that was part of that old life had to be sold to cobble together a future for Brenda.  A future and a life that Brenda certainly never imagined she would be asked to live.  It will be a future in an efficiency apartment in a new city with new doctors and new neighbors and even a new grocery store to get used to.  It will be hard.  And lonely.  And I’m angry that she has to do it all.  I’ve been struggling to understand how best to help my friend navigate this new path her ex-husband’s choice forged for her.  Honestly, I’m not sure I’ve done a good job.  I tried.  But, it’s hard.  It’s hard because it’s so huge.  How do you ever process the loss of over forty years with someone?  Especially when they choose to leave?

Sit with that for a minute.

It’s almost overwhelming.  To ask someone to do it at a time in life when most of us are slowing down and relaxing into our relationships is just mind boggling.

Then, the other day I was out shopping for presents for my sweet friend before she moved.  I happened to draw the most talkative cashier in the world as I was checking out.   She wanted to know who I was shopping for.  Were the gifts for Christmas?  Would the person be excited?  I was tired, and before I knew it I found myself telling her they were for my friend whose marriage had fallen apart after 44 years and that we were having a going-away party for her that night.  This nice lady with the Christmas tree pin just blinked at me.  She didn’t know where to go next in the conversation.  She shook her head and said, “She won’t survive that.”  I took my receipt and went to my car and cried.  But, somewhere in those tears came this small still certainty that has been growing ever since.

The talkative lady with the Christmas tree pin is wrong. Flat wrong.

Brenda is going to survive. I know this without a doubt. Heck, she already has.  She made hard decisions and sold her home and said good-bye to beloved neighbors.  She toured apartments and loaded a moving truck and is planning to spend Christmas in a new zip code.  My amazing friend is definitely going to survive.

But, more than surviving, I believe Brenda will thrive.  Her old house was one of her grandkids’ favorite places to be.  They had sleepovers and treasured traditions and I would bet money she will create that same feeling in her new apartment.  I’m going to guess her little guest room will be one of their new favorite places to be.  She and I spent afternoons cooking in her last kitchen.  Well, she cooked and I talked her ear off and then she sent me home with plates of treats.  Chances are that will happen again someday in her new city and her new kitchen, because she will make sure I feel welcome there and I can promise I will get tired of not seeing her.  She’s the kind of person you get in your car and drive five hours to see.  I believe she will find a new church and she will befriend her neighbors that need her and she will laugh and she will make new friends.

All of this will happen because, with everything that was smashed and shattered and taken away from her, nobody can take who she is in her middle away from her.  She is kind and family centered and a good friend.  She is Brenda and she’s totally kick-ass and I love her.  So, I guess I would make a sign and put on a hat and go march in a parade for her.  Not just because she makes me proud to be a woman, but because she makes me proud to be a human.  You got this friend.


Twenty weeks.

Big Lots.  That’s where I was when my daughter called.  “Mom, can y’all come home? I’m really sick.”  I hung up and stopped looking at Halloween decorations and cup towels and  scratchy sheets.  “We have to go,” I told my friend.  In less than five minutes we were in my daughter’s living room and she was standing in front of me with zero color in her face.  My gut clenched.  What was wrong?  I had thought a stomach bug or maybe an earache, but this was something bigger. She opened her hand and held it out to me. Three pregnancy tests.  All saying the same thing.  My daughter was pregnant.  Pregnant.  A baby was coming.  A baby. Before summer.  I cried.

Richard and I are making plans to go see his mom for Thanksgiving and her birthday.  We are so thrilled to get to go.  His mom is the best at visits.  She will make us so much food and we will eat all of it! There will be tons of family around and everything will be even more special this year because Summer has decided to keep the baby secret until we are there.  We find ourselves in a Hallmark store looking for the perfect ornament to put an ultra-sound picture in.  We’re going to wrap it up and film her face as she opens it.  We can’t wait. We are laughing as we check out.  We are like kids.  A baby is coming.  Our grandbaby!

It’s Thanksgiving.  The room is warm and full of people who love us. Richard’s mom is in a chair and the center of attention.  Smiles so big nobody can contain them.  Summer hands her the present and she opens it to see the tiny picture of this tiny little human.  She starts to cry and laugh and cheers erupt.  The surprise went off without a hitch! By next Thanksgiving my mother-in-law will have a new person to love.

All through Christmas I find myself thinking, “This time next year we will have a baby in our lives.  We will be buying presents and planning trips to see Santa and thinking about what is breakable.”  I can’t wait. Bring it on.

We are starting to think about the nursery.  Summer calls one day and says, “Mama, I think we should put the nursery in the room with the library and I think it should be sloths.”  I smile.  Of course Summer’s baby would spend its’ beginning in a room spilling over with books.  And, of course, the nursery would be a little left of center.  I immediately start looking for sloth nurseries.  They don’t exist, but I’m not worried.  We will make this happen.  For sure.  Our grandbaby is coming!

It will be our 25th wedding anniversary this year.  We are making plans to sneak away for a week.  It will be a time to reflect on the years spent with our daughter before the baby comes.  We have passed all of the really scary markers and are letting ourselves fully accept that we are about to be grandparents.  We shake our heads.  It’s hard to believe. Us. Grandparents. How did that happen?

Forgive me for this, but I am going to stop our journey towards the birth of our grandchild at this point. As much as I want to finish that blog, I need to say something else. I need to say something else because a few weeks ago I received a call from a  young man running for Senator in our state.  Well, it wasn’t actually him, but someone working for him.  And, I liked this person I talked to. He was very courteous and respectful and I hung up glad I answered. His boss is not a member of the party I generally support, but I decide to do a little research on where he stands on the issues. The first one I check is his stance on abortion.  He supports it up to the twentieth week of pregnancy.  Some argue even further.  I am disappointed.  But not surprised.  I let it go and move on.  I’m a busy grandma now with a lot to do.  Then, I see one of his ads.  His kids are in it.  He’s talking about not wanting to let them down when they question where he was when important things were on the line.

This ad. This commercial.  This 15 seconds bought with lots of dollars devastates me.  His kids are adorable.  They obviously love him.  He obviously loves them.  So why?  Why does he think it’s ok to stop a little person’s life twenty weeks into the process of them being here?  Twenty weeks. That’s a long time.  That’s time enough to excite a Great-Grandma and buy Christmas ornaments and start planning a nursery. Time enough for two getting-older type people to find the magic in life again with the promise of a new grand-baby.  Time enough for a girl to become a mommy.

If this nice young man with the engaging smile were here in my living room right now, he would tell me very seriously that not every baby has the beginning that our baby did.  Sometimes, there is no nursery planned, no family celebration, no hope.  I know that.  How could I not?  I’ve been an educator, a friend, a mommy, a member of our society.  But, I’m sorry, I don’t think those are reasons enough to not value that little life above all else. I mean, what is more important than protecting the completely innocent? How can we build a successful society where we take care of and love all people when we don’t even do that? When it’s not accepted that that’s where we must start?  Why can’t he film a commercial where he walks through the streets with his adorable kids talking about the changes he wants to make to the adoption process? Changes that will make it cheaper and more accessible?  I’ll throw all of my tax dollars and votes to that guy.  Happily.

But, and I’m completely sure of this, I can’t pretend like this isn’t a big deal to me long enough to vote.  Because it is the biggest deal to me.  The very biggest. To me, it is the jumping off point for everything else. I know that not everyone agrees with me and I’m ok with that.  But, if you love me and I have a voice in your life, I will never stop trying to convince you otherwise. Again with the big deal thing. I don’t hate you, but I can never agree with you and the charming, young man with the nice smile never, ever gets my vote. Ever.





I grew up in a tiny place in Texas. Eight kids in my graduating class and less than five hundred folks in the whole town. It was life in the middle of nowhere and intensely up-close with those sharing the space. It couldn’t be helped.  You get to know people on a deeper level when all you have is each other.  You know which house hands out the best treats on Halloween–The Bostons. (I still think about those popcorn balls!) You know which local business is most likely to hire you when you really need school clothes money and haven’t turned sixteen yet. The Cafe. (Who didn’t wash dishes there?) You learn who is most likely to tell on you for sneaking out with your boyfriend. (You know who you are…)  In essence, you learn what community means.  What it means to wrap your life up with people who aren’t even related to you. When those people die, you make casseroles.  When they got married, you buy Corningware and spatulas. (I still have mine from my shower twenty-five years ago.)  And, when a baby is born, you gather around to welcome it into the world. A joyous welcome usually reserved for a blood relation.  But, in a small town, in the middle of nothing, everyone is a relation.  Everyone is family.

For a long time, you live in that little pocket where you know every single person who lives in every single house.  You know who has scary dogs and who bought a new boat and who is having an affair.  You feel like nothing could ever change. You will always be in your hometown. But, it changes. Of course it changes. Friends begin to scatter. They leave for college.  They quit going home for the holidays or the reunions.  Their parents pass away. Then, one day, you scatter too.  And, before you know it, it’s been years since you’ve seen people from your home town.  But, you don’t forget.

You don’t forget what it felt like that first afternoon of Christmas break when the fire trucks would roll down main street throwing out bags of candy and you knew your folks had gifts hidden at home for you. You don’t forget what it felt like to see your classmates in tuxedos and prom dresses for the first time–a brief glimpse of what they would be like as adults that made you sad and excited at the same time.  You don’t forget what it felt like to cry over your team’s loss in a basketball game and feel an immeasurable pride as you sang the school song anyway (Out upon the rolling prairie….).

So, because you don’t forget, you always have that feeling of family for anyone from your hometown. If they fly into town for the weekend, you change the guest room sheets and welcome them.  If they lose their son or mom or anyone, you drive to the funeral.  If their daughter graduates, you send a gift.  If they get married, you spend all weekend on the road to be at that wedding.  And, if they are in trouble, you help.  You do that because that’s what your folks taught you to do.  All those casseroles and popcorn balls and Corningware  were our parents teaching us that the people God puts in our life are ours.  We’re meant to involve ourselves in their triumph and in their heartache.  We are their folks.  Their safe spot to land.  Their hometown.

What a blessing that is.  It means that, with these people, we share the memory of what it felt like to come over that last hill from Booker and see our little town spread out in front of us. We share the memory of the day the park downtown was forever dedicated to Jimmy.  The memory of how good a bierox tastes and what it sounds like when the crowd erupts into cheers after the melodrama. We share our growing up years with these people.  All the afternoons and choices and conversations and church services that turned us into who we are today.  Who can they be but family?

And, what better way to honor all that our little town gave us than to keep looking out for each other like family would. To attend those funerals, and send those gift cards and make each other a priority.  And, if one of us is in trouble, to push a button and donate what we can.  To send a clear message to each other and the world that where we grew up made a difference in our lives.  We are small-town kids with a huge family.  A family created in a tiny town in the far north-east corner of the Panhandle that will withstand time, and distance and scattering.  A town that, when I close my eyes, I can still walk the streets of  and that will always be a part of me.  Maybe, the best part.


Don’t it feel good to smile.

I am driving a lot these days.  There is a little boy who needs me.  So, twice a week, I load my little Volkswagen up and I make an almost five-hour trip.  That’s a lot of highway to travel.  A lot of bored reading the same signs and remembering to notice if the people in the yellow house have gotten around to taking down their Christmas lights miles. (They haven’t.)  So, in desperation, I put a call out to my music-loving friends on social media.  Please, I begged, give me some new music to listen to.  And, I got some replies.

Imagine Dragons, a sad man singing mournful songs and a Kelly Clarkson song that I actually like.  But, then, there was my friend Michaela’s suggestion.  Michaela is that friend everyone should have.  Or at least every music loving person should have.  She loves music.  She loves it more than me.  That’s saying a lot.  She loves it so much that I actually slept in my car one weekend, not too long ago, at a gigantic music festival surrounded by thousands of drunk college students just to enjoy it with her.  She just makes music better.  Anyway, in her list were only two people.  Two Texas Country artists.  So, I added them to my new Spotify list and went on my way planning to listen to the list the next time I got on the road.

That turned out to be a beautiful Friday morning when the air was soft and I had the whole day to myself.  I was driving with my windows down and feeling the joy that comes from being on the road with good music to listen to. I had no way of knowing that in a few minutes I would be parked on the shoulder of the road sobbing. But, I was.  Crooked parked on some long winding driveway between Granbury and Stephenville on Highway 377 heaving sobs over a song. A song from Michaela’s suggestions.

I don’t even know how to explain it to all of you. I promise I’m not any crazier than I’ve ever been.  Same amount as usual.  But, somehow, that song gifted to me by my old friend, had transported me back to a million moments at a kitchen table.  My bare feet were resting on the cool legs underneath and my hair was unbrushed and my parents were there. MY parents. My mom and dad. Darvin and Sandra.  Those people, who I would give every penny I have to spend one more second with were, all of a sudden, there. The way they smelled (old spice and roses), the sound of Dad’s laugh and, most important, most amazingly important, the song remembered what it felt like to be with them together. Both of them in the same room.  With me.  How many years had it been since I felt that?

The song was shiny grocery store floors on early morning shopping trips with them.  It was Daddy tapping his foot with a fly swatter while he listened to mom read.  It was my mom’s hand on the back of Dad’s neck.  It was being woken up by the sound of them laughing with their friends at two in the morning.  It was laying on the couch on a Saturday afternoon and listening to them make a grocery list.  This song embodied everything that made my parents feel like the safest place to be when I was scared, or lonely or lost.  It was their gentle humor.  It was their understanding that we didn’t have much, but that it was ok to share it anyway. The dinner might be coming off a cracked plate and the ketchup bottle might be grimy and the noise level deafening, but when you were with these people you could lay your troubles down for just a minute.  Mom would ask what you had been up to and she would listen when you answered.  She would listen all the way.  She really cared.  Daddy would shuffle around and eventually a plate of food would land in front of you and then silverware and eventually a paper towel for a napkin, and sometime, much later, he would join you and eat his own food.

I hear so many experts talk about living in the moment, but I learned it from the two people who knew how to do it best.  Mom and Dad didn’t have an easy life and they struggled, but they had some deep wisdom that let them understand that there was nothing more valuable than the people they were going through all the troubles with.  They loved their folks.  They helped them when they could, but, mostly, they just enjoyed them.  My God, I pray for their wisdom.  I pray to stop managing and stop worrying and just put a pot of coffee on and watch people smile, make them laugh if I can and listen with my whole self when they tell me how they are.

At the end of the day, life is hard.  People you love die.  Storms come and bills pile up, but there are those brief moments we all get to just enjoy being together, to slow down, to enjoy being alive.  Those early mornings when the coffee is on and the baby is still sleeping and we are with people we love.  So, to Kevin Galloway and Michaela, I will be forever grateful for that song.  That song that caused me to pull over and cry into the early morning air and to remember what it felt like to be with my folks on an ordinary day. Kind, present people who enjoyed good when it showed up and survived the bad by being together. I can feel them urging me on.  To reach for their wisdom.  To enjoy the ordinary moments that help you survive the heartache. Moments spent riding around with my friend Austin while he plays us his new favorite song and turns the music up way too loud.  Moments spent poking at the fire while drinking coffee with my husband, Moments spent holding my daughter’s hand.  Moments spent kissing the bottom of my grandson’s feet.  Ordinary seconds in an ordinary life that will someday make you cry in someone’s driveway because they were so fantastically wonderful.

So, stay with me little song.  Keep showing up when I need you. Keep wrecking me. Do whatever is necessary to remind me that at the end of the day, no matter how troubled it was, don’t it feel good to smile?