"are you happy?"

I stood on the slanted, uneven floor in the doorway of my stepfather's mom's house.  Grandma Gaye is in her nineties now and still lives alone, in a tiny yellow cottage in what was once a hard part of town.  She cherishes her independence, but willingly gave away her truck keys when she knew it was time to stop driving.  She raised seven children (including surprise twins as the last two) and now she cares for the many cats of East Lawrence.

She doesn't hear that well anymore, and we hadn't come for a long visit anyhow.  We were just stopping by after a day at the municipal pool and public library of my youth.  My kids were hot and tired and wanted to touch her many knick-knacks.  Vicki kept finding "treasures" and trying to convince Gaye to let her take them home (this girl has taught me the meaning of "don't ask, don't get").  I was starting to get anxious to get back onto 40 Highway - the long way to Topeka for the evening, but the way without turnpike tolls.  I just didn't feel like spending $1.40 to take the interstate.  I had stopped working for the year and knew that every penny counted.  That $1.40 could buy a bomb-pop at our corner store back in East Nashville.

My tolerance for chatting was low, and I made ready to make our exit.  In the doorway, Gaye grabbed me gently by the upper arm and looked me right in the eyes.  She is quite short, so this meant she was gazing up at me.

"Are you happy?"

The question came out just like Gaye:  straightforward and simple and unveiled.

I was a bit caught off guard by it.  I knitted my eyebrows for a moment, then said, "Sure.  I'm not having the very happiest time of my life, but it's not like I'm miserable.  I sleep like a baby, in any case."

"Okay," she answered, "just as long as you're happy.  That's the most important thing."

No follow-up questions.  No deeper thrust to the conversation. That was all she had wanted to know.  She wasn't trying to make any kind of other point about my life or her opinion of it.

We piled into the car and the kids were asleep before we got to the highway. I continued to ponder her question until we pulled up to the curb in front of Charlie and Leslie's house.  In fact, I continued to ponder it throughout the rest of our trip, and even after we came home.

At each stop along our road trip (and there were seven more homes that welcomed us after Gaye), I told the story of her question and made the same simple query.  Over late-night beers after the kids went to sleep, or Mexican food, or as we sat together on patios and porches, the things I heard amazed me.  It was a question that really cut through the fog and got to the heart of things.

"I'm happy, I guess.  But I'm stressed.  I'm trying to provide for my family, and that means I'm always thinking about the next thing that we want or need.  I don't really have time to think about whether I'm happy."

"I'm not sure that happiness is even the point.  Mom always used to say that the point of life wasn't to be happy.  It was to be useful and survive."

"I don't know when we will feel happy again."

"I'm really happy in my work.  But in the rest of my life . . . I'm not sure."

"I can't even tell you the last time someone asked me that question.  I have no idea."

"I am happy, because I have figured out how to take life on life's terms."

Most people I asked were like me - they hadn't considered the question in so long that they had to really turn it over in their minds for awhile.

I started my 200-hour yoga teacher training a few weeks ago, and on our first night of class, my teacher Liz made a statement that has ricocheted around my mind since then.  She said, "Mental health isn't just being happy all the time.  It's about having the complete depth and experience of all the feelings."  So many of us seem to be searching for happiness, but is it really something else that we're looking for, and we don't know what other name to call it?  Depth, contentment, acceptance, purpose, an end to suffering?

As for me?  I'm really happy right now.  This is a sweet season in my life.  Taking the hallway time has been a really good decision, I think.  The days seem to float by lightly, strung together with a golden strand of friends over for dinner and walking Vicki to school and picking flowers in the alleyway.  But I'm realizing that the goal isn't to make this last forever.  The goal is to learn what needs to be learned from this time, to take what lessons it has for me, and to keep moving forward.  I won't always be this happy, and that's okay.

"you'll never be the prettiest girl in the room . . .

but you'll always be the smartest."

With those words, my mother laid the cornerstone on the foundation of my personality.  It has been both exceptionally sturdy and also very weak.  (I am large, I contain multitudes.)

I was standing in the downstairs bathroom, the one with the little statue of W.C. Fields.  I was probably seven.  I was observing a ritual that had been repeated thousands of times already in my short life:  standing next to the sink, watching Mom put on her eyeliner.  We were late for church, and I knew that we would go in the side door on 10th Street and go through the library and slip into the back pew.

I had asked Mom a question that was so seemingly benign and innocuous.  It was one that I have imagined every little girl asks at some point.  "Mom, do you think I'm pretty?"

In the last six years I have spent a lot of time drinking in the beauty of my own two children.  I know how you stare at the curve of her cheek or admire his gait.  I know how every mother sees her child as the most gorgeous thing imaginable, and how you think to yourself, "If they resemble me at all, in appearance or personality, then I am more beautiful than I thought."  So now, I know what my mom was thinking.  But standing at the sink, she contemplated the question for so long that I thought she probably hadn't heard me.  I was about to ask again when she simultaneously deflated me and fed my arrogance with her straightforward statement.

And thus my course was set.  I removed myself from the "prettiest girl in the room" competition and set my sights on "smartest."  By anyone's estimation, I did very well.  National Merit Scholar Finalist.  Ivy League (where I also found out that I wasn't, actually, the smartest girl in the room).  Turner Scholar.  Lewis Fellow.  Free Doctor of Ministry.  Perfect verbal score on the GRE.

But no matter how well I do in the "smartest" category, that seven-year-old is still in there asking if I'm pretty.  She is so persistent that in every serious relationship I've had, once I trusted him completely, I had to sheepishly ask my partner if he thought I was pretty.  Usually he has said yes.  Sometimes he has even told me how beautiful I am, unprovoked.  But there's a silent understanding that it's not my strong suit, and that if you really like me, it's probably for reasons other than appearance.

I have wondered often, over the years, what caused my mom to make that pointed remark.  Mom has been gone for almost thirteen years now, so I can't ask her.  But with my own daughter now six, I think I know.  She wanted me to estimate myself far beyond whatever value society might place on my beauty.  She wanted me to invest in myself in ways that would not necessarily be physically apparent.  But in doing so, she also created a little quagmire that sucks in bottomless amounts of attention and reassurance.

So last night, as little Vicki wanted to snuggle on my lap, I held my lips against the side of her forehead and whispered, "You're so beautiful."  Tomorrow, it might be, "My God, you're brilliant."  And the next day, "You cannot control anyone but yourself."  They are all true, and however she chooses to define herself - whatever competition she decides to throw her hat into - I want her to know that she has the internal resources to win at being her best self.  Always.

career day

It was sophomore, or maybe junior year of high school.  (So, 2000 or 2001.)  In a ritual familiar to high school students everywhere, we were invited to find some adult who would take us along on a day in their work environment.  Ideally, it would be something that we saw ourselves doing.  I was fairly uncertain about what I wanted to be doing with my life, aside from reading a lot and talking about ideas.

I was super-interested in the idea of skipping school for a day, though.  So I asked my youth pastors from Lawrence First UMC, the inimitable Jan and Mitch Todd, if I could come along with them for a day at seminary.  (This was when St. Paul School of Theology was still its whole own free-standing thing in Kansas City, before it became just another tentacle of the Church of the Resurrection Octopus.)  They were both studying for the Master of Divinity degree and it seemed like they could give me some pointers about ministry as a career.

It was a fun, if unremarkable, day of poking around the library and sitting in on classes and eating lunch in the refectory.  I filed it away in my memory box and moved on with life.  I was accepted to Columbia a year or two later and proceeded to do a lot of reading and talking about ideas.  (And a whole lot of other much less responsible stuff.)

In a few more years, I found myself in my own theology classrooms at Vanderbilt Divinity, studying for that very career that Mitch and Jan had led me into.  I poked around the library and sat in many classes and ate lunch in the refectory.  When I graduated, I moved into full-time ministry.

And there I have been for the last seven years.  In churches that have loved and supported and infuriated and challenged me.

This morning, after I dropped off Todd at his preschool and I was driving over to church, I remembered that Career Day for some reason.  I realized:  I had always thought I was going on that day to learn about becoming a pastor.  But what I really did was wander around an institution of higher education.  I was doing the work of an academic on that day:  reading, studying, germinating ideas, discussing, writing.  And today, that realization is freighted with meaning.

the dress

Forgive me for what you're about to read, as it is maddeningly vague.  Trust me that it's as specific as I feel I can be, given a variety of different situations in my life.  (The metaphor of the dress applies to two or three somewhat separate things that I'm going through right now.)  I want to share a breakthrough that I've had recently - a sense of peace that is so pervasive that I wish I could bottle it and keep it in the medicine cabinet to take a dose when life gets stressful.

You see, I had this dress.  The dress was perfect.  The fabric was silky and soft against my skin.  It was elegant and perfect for every occasion.  In fact, I longed for more occasions when I could wear the dress and show off how lovely it made me look.  I always got so many compliments every time I wore it.  The color and the cut and the pattern made it like the Platonic ideal of a dress to me.

Every time I wore it, I stood in front of the mirror admiring myself.  But then, when I went out in it, I would start to get uncomfortable.  It was like the dress only fit right if I was standing up straight.  When I sat down, it pinched.  If I gained five pounds, it was all wrong.  When I tried to lift my arms up high over my head, I feared that I would tear the underarm seams.  I had to wear certain shoes so that my legs looked right in the dress.  Suddenly, I couldn't wait until I could get home and take it off.

But I remained committed to the dress.  Maybe if I could just change myself a little, or even alter the dress, it could fit right.  I could nip here and tuck there and suck in.  I could wear different undergarments.  Nothing radical, just some little changes.

But it just never fit.  And the dress not fitting caused me to doubt myself.

So, I gave it away.

No more dress.  And that is the peace that I'm talking about.  Was it sad?  Yes.  Do I miss the dress?  Yes.  Do I worry that I may never find another dress like it again?  Of course.  A girl needs a dress like that!  But no matter what I tried, it wasn't the right one for me.  It's probably going to look just perfect on someone else.

a day in the life

I'm back!  I found this entry that I never published from last March (the 22nd, to be exact), and it really got me thinking.  I find it hilarious that I never made it past 12:50.  A bunch of stuff has changed in the last nine months (I didn't end up moving appointments, for example, and Jeff is out of the halfway house and doing awesome - he just got his one-year sobriety chip), but the hectic pace is still the same.  It's really very telling that I could only keep up with cataloging what I do until early afternoon.

I just got back from a little vacation to visit my best friend outside San Francisco.  One of the things I love most about spending time visiting with him is how slow and simple life is.  We linger over coffee in the morning.  We walk the dog in a great big loop.  We have time and space to just talk about ideas.  I spend all day shopping for and fixing dinner.  And it's so, so not how my life is every day.  I don't know if I would like my life to be that open and simple all the time (and I don't really get much of a choice, anyway), but it makes for a perfect place to reflect and get my mental life in order.

I love these kinds of zoom-in posts to see what the warp and weft and weave of the fabric of a person's life is like.  Forgive me if you just don't care that much, but I thought some of you might find it kind of amusing.

***************************************************************************
Tuesday, March 22, 2016

7:15 - we wake up late.  Todd has his allergy-induced coughing this time of year, so he kept me up a lot of the night after coming to sleep with me at about 11:30.  The dog is tucked tightly into my armpit on the other side.  I love this feeling of being pinned between two warm little lumps who love me.

8:20 - after showering, getting the kids dressed, fixing them six hundred different things for breakfast, realizing I'm slightly hungover after I had three drinks and no dinner at this storytelling thing (don't worry, my senior pastor drove!) for my birthday last night, eating some homemade granola, and forgetting to take the dog out, we pile in the car.

8:30 - we pick up my ex-husband at the halfway house where he is living.

8:50 - we drop the kids off at their preschool.

9:00 - I drop Jeff off at a Burger King so he can meet his boss and go work for the day.

9:05 - I call my attorney to discuss the eventuality of my moving and needing to renegotiate our custody agreement.

9:15 - I walk into church, wave at everyone, finish the call with the attorney, and answer emails and texts for awhile.

9:30 - I'm interrupted by a few folks needing bus passes and food bags.  No big deal.

9:45 - time for chapel with the daycare kids!  I go to the Sanctuary and meet them, light candles, tell the Easter story, sing a few songs, pray, and answer some of their very thoughtful questions about why we have purple in the Sanctuary right now (Lent), why where are so many crosses in there, why there is a screen behind the cross (vents for the organ speakers), and why we light candles.

10:00 - I come back to see that the Moroccan woman who doesn't speak any English and is being divorced by her husband and has no recourse or resources is back speaking with the Senior Pastor.  She has been in a lot lately, and we have no idea what to do about her situation.  I remember that the son of some congregants is fluent in Arabic and try to reach him.

10:15 - edits, edits, edits.  This is Holy Week, plus there is a funeral today, so there are a million things to proof and edit.  Early and late service bulletins for Sunday, funeral order of worship, Good Friday bulletin, children's bulletins for Sunday.  I also miraculously find the Easter offering envelopes that I thought I was going to have to sell my soul for at some Christian bookstore this week.

10:20 - the family of the deceased for the funeral later is here and setting things up for the visitation to follow, and I have to text the custodian a bunch to get things squared away with them.  They set up a chocolate candy bar display that looks, frankly, phenomenal.

10:25 - interrupted by some more folks needing bus passes and food bags.  They need to get down to Metro General Hospital for some appointments.

11:00 - I realize that I need to eat before leading the Madison Homelessness Commission meeting at one.  I also need to call another District Superintendent about a possible move.  Multitask.  Panera sounds good.  On my way out, I notice that the Moroccan divorcee is gone.  I also remember that I haven't brushed my teeth yet today, but I did pack my toothbrush and a little travel paste in my bag this morning.  After lunch then.

11:20 - I talk to the DS.  I remember that I need to text my mother-in-law and tell her I left Todd's medicines in the preschool office when she picks him up later for his sleepover.  I order French onion soup, a veggie sandwich, chips, and water.  I get out a book like I'm going to do some reading for my D.Min. program, all studious, but then I just Facebook the whole time I'm eating.

12:30 - I get back to church.  The office volunteer tells me about a man to whom she gave a food bag.  I realize I need to move the Homelessness Coalition meeting from the gym to the library.  I contemplate a third cup of coffee and decide to live dangerously.  I brush my teeth first though.  Then I give some thought to how I'm going to lead this meeting.

12:50 - I remember to starting downloading the episode of "GIRLS" I'm going to watch tonight on my iPad after bedtime.

Gutted

Although I'm certainly not philosophically opposed to tattoos, never in my thirty years did I feel compelled to get one.  I couldn't imagine an image or word or idea I would want on my body forever. I'm also not typically a conservative or especially cautious person . . . But I didn't want something stupid, and I didn't want something modish.

When I studied Greek in seminary (now eight years ago!), there was a word I fell in love with.  It's a word that is used commonly in the Gospels to describe a situation in which Jesus feels strongly moved with compassion.  It is almost always inadequately translated.  You may see it as "moved with pity," "felt compassion," or "felt strongly."  But this word, splagchnizomai, is really a much more visceral word than that.  (Forgive my lack of diacritical markings.)

Within splagchnizomai, you see the word splagchna, the Koine Greek word for "guts."  You can kind of see our word "spleen" in there.  It was a word that had to do with your inner organs.  Perhaps splagchnizomai could most accurately be translated as "gutted."  As in "Jesus felt gutted for the people he saw suffering."

Haven't you ever had that feeling?  Just an absolute roiling in your guts when you see the misery or suffering of another person?  Something beyond just looking at them and thinking, "How sad"?  If you haven't ever had that feeling, I hope that you do at some point.  Because it's what we were created to feel for one another.

I have loved this word for long enough that I decided it was time for a tattoo.  So, last October, a dear friend and I went to the tattoo parlor of another old friend, and I did the deed.  It didn't hurt.  It was like something between burning and irritation.  I got the word tattooed in Greek, as close to my spleen as I could.  (I actually did some anatomical investigating and found that your spleen is closer to your back than to your front.)

I love it.  I think I will continue to love it for the rest of my life.  I love this daily reminder, when I catch a glimpse of my tattoo in the mirror, that I am called to recognize the ways my heart is breaking and that I am gutted for the world.

why i decided to take an antidepressant

Preface to all of this:  I am exceedingly grateful for the miracle of modern pharmaceuticals.  There is absolutely no shame in taking them, and if you are feeling very blue and having trouble functioning, you must get yourself to a doctor or therapist and get it sorted out!  There are even places that will do this for free!  No need to soldier through misery without availing yourself of the help that is easily within reach.

It's been no secret here in the blog or in my life that my family went through a hard time around the time Todd was born (and probably the year before and the year after).  I feel like secrecy and shadows and hiding are a big part of the problem, and are a huge component of addiction, so I have decided that I will be honest and forthright in discussing all of this.

Given the circumstances, it will surprise absolutely no one that I went into some pretty hard-core postpartum depression.  My main symptoms were uncontrollable weepiness and equally uncontrollable rage.  Sounds like a party, huh!?

Yup, pretty much.

I had taken my kids and gone to my sister's on the fifth day after Todd was born, so she could help take care of us.  We stayed for five or six days, and decided together that I needed to get some medical and pharmaceutical help.  When I returned to Nashville, I visited my family doctor and was promptly placed on a 50 mg daily dosage of sertraline (Zoloft generic).  This was deemed the most breastfeeding-compatible antidepressant, and since I had never taken one before and had no history with these medications, it seemed like the best place to start.

I started the sertraline the next day, along with my daily routine of placenta pills and domperidone.  And . . . within a day or two . . . I.  Felt.  Awesome.

Seriously, it worked like a charm.  The best way I can describe my affect is one of things being in proper perspective.  I have a tendency to get overly bent on little details, and have trouble ordering things in my life from "least important" (let's say . . . canning marmalade this weekend) to "very important" (let's say . . . eating properly and drinking enough water).  With the sertraline, things seemed to fall very naturally into their right places.  I felt even and calm.  Vicki Jo's tantrums no longer rattled me.  Todd's crying just meant he needed something, not that I was a crap parent.  The weeping and the rage evaporated.  I felt great.

I decided that I would re-evaluate whether I wanted to be taking the antidepressant after Todd was older - closer to his one-year birthday.  And I did have one side effect:  weight gain.  Boo.  However, weight gain might also just be a side effect of life for me.  Not sure at this point.  It might also be all the food I eat and the exercise I don't do.  Just sayin'.  Also, I was worried about dependency.  I didn't want to spend the rest of my life taking this medication.  I didn't want my neurotransmitters to be permanently adapted to the SSRI.

I believe it was around March of last year when I decided to begin tapering.  Todd was about nine or ten months old.  I felt confident that with some natural helps (which I will be detailing in my next post!), I could handle going off the sertraline.  I consulted with my doctor, just to be sure, and got the go-ahead.  I tapered over the next couple of months, going very slowly.  Two weeks at 25 mg, two more weeks at 12.5 mg, and finally two weeks taking 12.5 mg every other day.  And then I was done!

My birthday!  I was really feeling quite good after the taper at this point.

I have not had another serious bout of depression since tapering off the sertraline.  I am slightly more irritable, but my moods are nowhere near as labile as they were when Todd was first born.  I'm glad that I had the experience of taking it, and I would not hesitate to take it again if I faced another dark time.

Next post I will tell you how I got off the antidepressant - with food, exercise, and natural supplements.  Stay tuned!

vicki jo's rules for school

As we left earlier than usual, fought traffic in the rain, and deliverd the kids to their various schools before I headed to start this D. Min. course, I mentioned to Vicki Jo that I was nervous about whether I would do well in this school that was meant to help me do my job better.  She matter-of-factly informed me of the "Five Rules for School" that would be my sure-fire recipe for success.  

1)  Listen to your teacher's words.

2)  Always follow all the rules.

3)  Always do what your teacher tells you to do.

4)  Always help your friends when they need help.

5)  Meet all the new people.

Pretty good, huh!?  I'm gonna follow them for these two weeks and I bet they will be the secret sauce.  

the doctor is in!

Okay - not quite yet.  Or not for like three more years.  That is, if I can keep up and finish the program.

It all started back in August.  I received an email from Tom Laney, who is a friend, a pastor, and an administrator at Vanderbilt Divinity School.  He led the fellowship program that funded my final year as a seminarian as a Turner Scholar.  So, I see that I have an email from Tom, and immediately open it, expecting a friendly shout-out.

But I was confused.  As I read down the list of other recipients on this email, I saw about thirty names.  These were the names of very high-profile United Methodist pastors in my area.  District Superintendents, successful church planters, leaders of some of the largest churches in middle Tennessee.  One of these things is not like the other played in the back of my head.

And the message was also perplexing.  It said something along the lines of:  We are so excited to meet with you in Jackson this month, to discuss the opportunity put forward in our previous communication.  Previous communication?  What?  I had seen no previous communication.

So I emailed Tom back right away.  Thank you so much for the inclusion on this illustrious list, but . . . uh . . . I think you have the wrong person?  I'm not even sure what you're talking about?

Tom replied.  He said there was no mistake, except I was somehow left off the original email.  This was an opportunity I wouldn't want to miss, he said.  I needed to make plans to be at this two-day meeting in Jackson at the end of the month.

So I did.

I packed up the kids and my grandmother-in-law and headed to Jackson.  They stopped off at her lake house for the overnight and I went on to Jackson.  (And Todd proceeded to get a horrendous stomach bug that he eventually passed through our entire family. . . cue mega parental guilt.)  When I got there, I gathered in a church classroom with this lovely group of influential people from the Nashville Episcopal Area.  I saw Dr. Meeks, a presence who guides my ministry almost every day.  I saw Tom.  I saw the Bishop.  And I heard about an opportunity that I couldn't possibly deny.

See, the Bishop said, we all know that we are in some kind of trouble.  We will be facing a large-scale retirement as our Baby Boomer pastors age, and we are staring into a leadership vacuum.  Many of you in this room will be forced to take positions for which you are not ready.  That should make you nervous.  This is a chance for you to be better prepared, and to form a cohort of friends that can last throughout your careers.  

(Or something like that - don't quote me.  It's not like I was recording!)

The details ran something like this:  4 two-week sessions over the next two years (January 2015 in Nashville, May 2015 in Memphis, January 2016 in DC, May 2016 in Pulaski); another year to write the final project; graduation May 2017 at the National Cathedral, with the degree of Doctor of Ministry.  The program is through Wesley Theological Seminary.  The focus is on Wesleyan Theology, Mission & Evangelism.  Coursework and reading would be done ahead of the sessions so we could intensively devote each day of the sessions to conversation and teaching from 9 am - 5 pm.  There would be opportunities for worship, fellowship, recreation, and learning in the evenings.  And it would be paid for.



Wait, what!?

Paid for.  Tuition, lodging, food, travel.  Everything but books.  Paid for.  By the generosity and dedication of people who support our church and its leaders.

Paid for.  This kind of program regularly costs people in the tens of thousands of dollars.  It is not something I ever thought I would be able to achieve.

As I looked around the room, letting this information sink in, I saw similarly amazed pastors.  Pastors of all stripes - men and women, black and white, conservative and as liberal as they come.  The only thing we have in common is that we all love our church and look forward to what God will do with us in the future.

We were instructed to go home and pray about it.  Talk it over with our families.  See if our churches would support us in taking this much time for continuing education.  See if we could make it work.

I knew my church would support me in this because they are amazing like that.  Plus, I have the great benefit of not being the solo pastor here, which means I don't have to find someone to preach and cover all my duties for the times I'm gone.  But I was worried about my kids.  Two weeks is a long time to leave a toddler.  I felt lucky in that our first session is here in Nashville, so I wouldn't face being apart from Todd until May of this year.  I talked it over with my mother-in-law and grandmother-in-law.  Would they be able to help me take care of the kids so I could pursue this?  Once again, I'm so lucky to get this kind of unequivocal support for them.  They understand that they are not just helping me, they are helping the church they love when they help me.

So, with some fear and trembling, I pressed "submit" on the application.  I started the reading.  And now our first session is right around the corner!  I am getting more and more thrilled (and more and more bogged down in the reading) as the time nears for us to gather on Monday at Scarritt Bennett.  I have always felt a yearning for further study, but I didn't ever see how it could be possible, what with my kids and my work.  Now, it just seems as if the dream is coming true!  If you are into prayer, would you pray for me?  It's all just a bit stressful, even as exciting as it is.  I could use the good vibes.

this really happened

Just driving down Gallatin Pike, with my tiny dog in a crate on my crotch rocket, NBD, ya know . . .

the time i surprised my best friend by showing up at her wedding shower

My best friend Amanda (who wrote a fantastic guest post awhile ago, meditating on the stresses of adult life) is getting married next month.  I get to officiate!  How fun, and what a perk it is, to get to join so many of my friends in matrimony with one another.  I also got to marry Amanda's brother and his wife almost five years ago - the first wedding I did!

Amanda still lives in New York City, where we met and forged our very strong connection at Columbia.  I love visiting her there, and still manage to make it just about every year.  Vicki Jo hasn't been yet . . . but soon!  We might have to wait until our imaginary RV shows up because I wouldn't subject an airplane to her for the next several years.  Traveling with newborns > traveling with toddlers.

So anyway, back to Amanda.  Her sister-in-law, sister, and other friends invited me to her bridal shower in New York on February 24.  It's no secret that money has been tight for our family, and I reluctantly declined the invitation, knowing that two flights to New York within a month just wasn't in the cards for our budget.  One of my great budgetary sadnesses has been the many weddings and other events that we have had to skip because we just don't have the funds to cover the trips.

But then . . . but then!  An amazing friend who shall remain nameless (okay it's Audrey!) emailed me and offered to buy me a flight up for the shower.  I could surprise Amanda, and make the shower all that much more special!  Audrey and her husband Hal have been such kind and generous friends to me and to Jeff, always offering rides and help when we come to visit in the city.

So we booked the flight, I bought some spatulas off their registry at Williams-Sonoma, and away I flew on Saturday morning.  I'm glad I'm not pregnant enough yet to have this be a big issue.  Flying up for the wedding in three more weeks is going to be another story, I'm afraid . . . but it will still be fun!

Okay, photos.  Here is the grand surprise!  Amanda was having the makeup trial for her wedding at Saks 5th Avenue . . . it was fun for us to guess which counter she might be at.

She was totally shocked.  It was great!  (And I was right:  it was MAC.)

And it was a great little solo vacation for me.  Thanks to my husband, I got a chance to run free and wild (okay hobble around the city like a woman 30 weeks pregnant) for a few days before settling down with a newborn again.  It was really refreshing.

he did it!

One of my favorite "the time that . . ." stories I have on this blog is about Jeff losing three different wedding bands within three years of marriage.

For his birthday in September, I half-jokingly gave him an IOU for a tattoo of a wedding band.  Jeff loves tattoos and always wants to get more, so he cottoned to the idea immediately.

Well today he went to Clarksville to see his buddy Matt - who happens to be a great tattoo artist, as well.

And then he sent me this picture!!

Along with the message, "You can never leave me!"  Ha!  Now that's an "I love you forever" statement!

Well, no more wedding bands for anniversary presents now.  The traditional fourth wedding anniversary present is apparently fruit or flowers.  Fruit or flowers!?  This will be the lamest one for Jeff by a long shot.

guest post: a mother's story

Many of you know that my mother died when I was 19.  She was first diagnosed with cancer when I was 11.  During that time, chronic illness became another member of our family.  Because Mom and my stepdad Mark were so frequently gone for treatment and doctor's visits, I developed independence and self-care way beyond my years.  In that way, I am grateful for what cancer did to my family.

I was approached by Heather, a reader who asked if she could share her story.  She struggled with a diagnosis of mesothelioma shortly after her daughter's birth.  I cannot imagine the pain that goes along with such a story.

Find Heather's story below, along with a picture of her beautiful family.  What a blessing that she is here to share it.  Contact me if you would like her email.
__________________________________________________

A Mother's Story

At some point in just about everyone's life they will find a time when they absolutely need to rely on their family and loved ones to help them through a tough time. Mine came when I was a new mother of my 3 and ½ month old daughter, Lily. When Lily was born, our family and friends surrounded us with love. My husband, Lily and I were so happy in those first few months of her life. We never could have been prepared for the storm that was about to hit.

The storm started to come upon me shortly after I returned to work full time, about 1 month after I gave birth. I noticed that I was losing about 5 to 7 pounds a week and was feeling an extreme lack of energy. Although these feelings are somewhat common to new mothers, I felt that this was unusual enough to warrant a visit to the doctor. This is when I found out the news.

In November I was told that I had a cancer that was in the lining of my lungs. Malignant pleural mesothelioma.  It is almost always associated with being exposed to asbestos. I had apparently been exposed to it when I was just a kid without my knowledge. My father was a construction worker and would often come home with asbestos on his clothing. I would always wear his coat outside to feed our rabbit or just to play. That is how I was exposed to asbestos - and as typical with mesothelioma, no symptoms arrived until decades later.

As any new mother’s would be, my first thoughts after diagnosis were of my sweet Lily. I did not want to even think about leaving her alone to grow up without me.  I was given 15 months to live if I were to forgo treatment. Obviously, that was not enough, and we chose the most drastic treatment option available.

Based on the grim nature of the diagnosis, my husband and I decided we had to fly to Boston to be in the care of one of the best mesothelioma doctors there is. There, I underwent a surgery known as extrapleural pneumonectomy. This involved the removal of my entire left lung. I had to recover for some 18 days in the hospital and then recover an additional 2 more months at home before I could begin radiation and chemotherapy treatments.

While my husband and I were in Boston for my treatment, Lily flew with my mom to her home in South Dakota. My parents immediately had to go from being grandparents to parents of Lily in a matter of days. Luckily, others in the area around them were kind enough to come to their aid. Those I had grown up around were nice enough to come together to help them with babysitting as my  parents both still worked full time.

In Boston, I learned of so many of the firsts in my daughter's life from pictures sent by my parents.  The nurses would crowd around my bed and look at the pictures with me, while I was holding back my tears. I missed my sweet Lily so much, but the love and care that I felt from those around me was certainly very helpful in getting by each day.

The bond between a mother and her daughter is so strong that nothing can break it. I was so happy to know that there were people stepping up to help both myself and my parents.

Seven years later I am so grateful to be here and be cancer free. As a family we still work to embrace life as best as possible. We enjoy each minute together and know just how fragile life can be. Cancer is such a horrible disease to have, but it can bring out many of the great things in life as well.

for every stoplight i didn't make . . .

My ten-year high school reunion was last Saturday.  I zoomed home to Lawrence from East Tennessee the day after Thanksgiving, dropping off Jeff and Vicki in Nashville and going solo.  The long drive was really nice, actually - a good time to sort out thoughts without having to stop and feed/entertain a strapped-down toddler who naturally feels antsy.

I stayed with our friends Chuck and Leslie, whose wedding I had to miss in September because of a completely asinine mistake on my behalf (I'll tell you about it sometime maybe).  So it was great to see them and catch up, and see how they are doing in Topeka.  By the way, if you're looking for a very cute house in Topeka, they are trying to sell - and the price can't be beat!  Contact me.

The actual reunion was interesting.  The planning committee included one of my good friends Sarah, and another long-time friend Eric.  Also Katie, with whom I spent many long hours in choirs.  I thought they did a fantastic job of promoting the event, organizing and selling tickets, getting the venue ready, and having a good atmosphere.  Everything you would expect from event organizers!

The dynamics were pretty much just like high school.  So, I guess if you had a very fun time then, you probably had a great time at the reunion.  I will disclose that I was always sort of middle-of-the-pack.  Not super-popular, not unheard-of.  I did lots of music and was in advanced classes.  I was not an athlete.  I think I had recreated a version of high school in my mind where the awkwardness and hormones were erased.  Being back in the situation brought it all back - the good and the bad.

I'm second row from bottom, second from left.

I'm not at all sorry that I went!  It was a great time, and I was able to catch up with plenty of folks I would never have seen otherwise.  (And always very entertaining to see the looks when they find out I'm now a pastor!)  Plus, a visit to my hometown is always centering for me.

I was texting with my sister after getting back to Chuck and Leslie's.  She asked how it was, and I told her the same reflections I wrote above.  But then I wrote, "You know it just makes me really glad for the life I have now."

My husband loves Darius Rucker (and all country music, which I think is kind of funny - as well as hard-core hip-hop and rap).  He has a great song that talks about all the choices and opportunities in life that bring us to where we are now:

For every stoplight I didn't make /
Every chance I did or I didn't take /
All the nights I went too far /
All the girls that broke my heart /
Every door that I had to close /
Everything I knew but I didn't know /
Thank God for all I missed . . . 'cause it led me here to this.

If I'd never stepped out to work at a summer camp where I knew no one . . . I would never have met Jeff.  If I'd never applied early for college in New York City . . . I would never have met my best friend Amanda, or have been invited to officiate at her wedding in March.  And if I hadn't decided to come home for the Free State High '02 Reunion . . . I wouldn't have had a chance to reflect on how happy my life is ten years out.

no longer riding on the merry-go-round

Do you know that John Lennon song?  It's a good one.  He talks about how people think he's crazy, because he decided to step off the "merry-go-round" of constant striving for success.

I like the metaphor, because I made a decision to stop riding a different merry-go-round several years ago. 

Let me start with a theory.

I believe there is a time for most of us, somewhere in young adulthood, when we stop feeling like Superman.  Bad things start to happen in our lives - maybe someone we know is hurt or killed, maybe we lose a dear family member, maybe we get broken into in our first apartment or house.  We start to realize that not only do these bad things happen, but that sometime in our lives, they are going to happen to us. 

My mom died when I was 19.  It wasn't a surprise.  She had been sick for a long, long time.  I was sad - unimaginably sad.  It was hard to re-frame reality without her.  I still think about her every day.  After a few months, the outward appearance of my life was pretty "nomal."  But you can't escape grief, and the strange things it does to your spirit. 

My mom's illness and death had a twofold echo in my life.  First:  I became convinced, on some subconscious level, that life was not as long and sprawling as I had once thought it was.  If I was going to accomplish all this stuff I wanted to do, I needed to get into gear!  Yesterday!  Professionally, relationally, in every dimension.  I needed to get those degrees, to get a good job, to get married, to have some kids.  No point waiting - what if I died when I was 53, as Mom did?  Those imaginary kids needed to be at least partially self-sufficient by that point.  If I lived to be 103, as my great-great grandmother did (who was still alive when I was born!!), all the better - more time to enjoy all that stuff. 

Second, I became fearful.  Prior to this point, I would never have described myself as scared of anything.  Not the dark, not being hurt, not crazy adventures.  I was game.  But now, I found myself scared.  Scared of car wrecks.  Scared of chemicals in my food.  Most of my fear centered on having my house broken into and being assaulted by someone.  Now I didn't like staying home alone.  I really didn't like when my housemates were gone and I had to stay all night by myself.  I couldn't sleep in that case.  This cycle of fear and bad thoughts started and I found it irresistible and impossible to stop.  In hindsight, I see I was narrowly missing a full-blown anxiety attack.

I was in therapy.  I told my therapist about these issues.  We talked through it all.  After a few sessions, she asked me a series of questions that changed my life.  She asked me to walk through the scenario of my worst fear, in regard to the home invasion.

"Someone would break in while I was sleeping, and be standing at the foot of the bed, and I would wake up to them being there, and I would be defenseless, and then they would either beat or rape me."

She nodded and affirmed:  "That would be awful."

Then she asked, "What would happen after that?"

I paused.  I had honestly never considered this.  My thoughts had centered and swirled in vivid detail around the bad thing happening, and I had never pondered the aftermath.

"I would either go the hospital or I would die."

She asked, "Are you afraid of death?"

I said, "No.  I'm just afraid of hurting."

She asked, "So, if you died, that's the end of our exercise.  But if you lived, then what?"

I searched my brain.  I slowly said, "I guess I would get better."

And that was it.  That was the moment that I pitched myself off the merry-go-round.

A smile spread softly across her face.  "You are a very strong person.  You have survived what is typically one of the most painful episodes in a person's life:  losing one of their parents.  If this horrible thing happened to you, that you are so scared of, and you lived?  You would come through that, too.  You would survive."

Boom.  It wasn't like the fear immediately lifted, but I had a way out.  I could stop the spiral of negativity and anxiety.  I didn't get pulled into orbit by my thoughts.  I had found the exit from the endless levels of the parking garage.  This therapist had given me one of the biggest gifts I've received in my life:  a tool for harnessing my big emotions.

I use this tool still, all the time.  When I get sucked into a cycle of thoughts that only lead me down, I think to myself "What's the worst that happens?"  I have no problem visualizing the worst-case scenario.  I allow myself to fully delve into the details.  But then I ask, "And then what happens?"  It always gets better from there.

Did you experience a dawn of fear in your life in the transition to adulthood?  How do you position it within your life?

the time we quit drinking

This is a pretty personal post.  I feel like this kind of candor can be good though - offering an opening for someone else to think about the healthiest patterns for relationships and living that they can find for their lives.  So bear with me or quit reading!

There is a lot of alcoholism in my family.  It is clearly genetic as well as environmental.  But I thought I had safely arrived at adulthood and avoided a problem relationship with alcohol.

Now, I drank a lot.  Let's get that straight.  By a clinical definition, the one a psychologist might ask you (Do you drink five or more drinks a week?  Do you drink five or more drinks at a time?  Have you ever lost your memory of what happened while you were drinking?), I had a problem.  I was certainly never one to hold back in high school or college.  I always think what a blessing it was for me to attend college in a city where almost no one drove.  We avoided a LOT of drunk driving accidents and possible casualties by walking and riding the subway.  I thank my lucky stars that I never killed anyone driving at home while drunk.  It could have happened.

Call me irresponsible.  It would be accurate.  I was also nothing special compared to my peers.  This is no excuse, so please don't hear it that way.  I just want to emphasize that none of my friends felt I had anything to be concerned about.  This was also before I took ordination vows that I would stand as an example of moderate Christian behavior.

After Jeff and I got married, though, something more insidious started happening.  We no longer binged and partied as we had when we were young.  Instead, we had a lot of beer and wine and liquor around the house, and we drank what would be considered a moderate amount at home.  I really grew to love and feel an appreciation for fine beers, good wine, and Jeff's cocktail-making skills didn't hurt anything.  I felt like this was an adult, mature way to enjoy alcoholic beverages.

I might have had one or two pints of beer a night (I refilled my growler weekly at Free State), or perhaps two glasses of wine.  Definitely more than is strictly healthy, (if you define "moderate drinking" for a woman as one drink per day), but again, I didn't feel it was an amount to be concerned about.  I never felt drunk.  I never drove anywhere in the evenings.

I did not drink this regularly while pregnant, of course.  I probably indulged in a glass of wine four or five times during the course of pregnancy.  There was also our amazing tour of the New Belgium Brewery.  I gave away most of my samples, but I had a few.  Incidentally, I was the most pregnant person ever to go down their spiral slide!  (So they said.)

It slowly became clear to me, though, that this level of drinking was not good for me.  Jeff and I were having a lot of fights.  I felt like my moods were uncontrollable, and vacillating wildly from one day to the next.  I almost felt like I couldn't trust myself to be myself, if that makes any sense at all.  Not that I was worried about what I might do, but that I could no longer predict what my moods would be like.  I looked forward too much to the drink that was at the end of my long day.  I felt that my life would be really no fun if I didn't have a drink.  All of these signs are so clearly not good, and yet I was desperate for something else to be the problem, so that I didn't have to forfeit my nightly reward to myself.

After one horrendous night that I hope is never repeated in my life, I came to a new conclusion.  We were done drinking.  I no longer wanted any alcohol in the house.  We poured everything out into the sink.  It might be fine for other people, but it was not working for us.  I felt very firm in this decision, but I dreaded the coming evening, because what would I do to unwind?

Turns out my fear and anticipation were much worse than reality.  I fixed myself a fancy sparkling water and juice with lime.  It felt like a treat.  I watched television to distract myself and fell asleep on the couch.  Everything was okay.  And has continued to be okay since then.

We are not strict non-drinkers.  I do not attend meetings, although I think there is absolutely nothing wrong with them and many of my family members owe their lives to AA.  I felt I was able to regain the control I needed without committing to that program.  I may have a glass of wine at a wedding.  I may drink beer if we ever go on a brewery tour again.  But we do not keep drinks at the house, and I do not order drinks at a regular, run-of-the-mill dinner out, and those were the major changes.

It has been just about the healthiest thing we have ever done.  I lost some weight, my moods stabilized almost instantaneously, we stopped spending $100 a month at the liquor store, and our relationship improved a ton.

Jeff and I talked a lot about this change as it was happening.  (We like talking.)  His family also has struggles with addiction of different sorts.  In a way, we both felt so lucky for the destructive things that addiction caused to happen in our families that we had no control over, because it gave us a frame of reference and a vocabulary for understanding addiction.  I was able to pretty quickly pick up on these patterns unfolding in our lives, and knew what kind of action to take.

My mother (a non-drinker) warned me and my siblings about the potential for addiction in our futures.  Especially me.  I think she saw that I was a lot like my father in certain ways, and she knew that could be problematic.  Did I listen?  Of course not!  I was invincible!  I was able to do things differently!  I would avoid these patterns!  You can't tell a teenager anything, and I know that.  These are the things we have to learn for ourselves, through trial and (mostly) error.

If anyone out there is considering this kind of change, but just feels that life would be unbearably boring, I understand.  I was there.  You can change your mindset.  Just try it!

create your own

There were two magical dining spots during my college days.  One is the Columbia Cottage, which I still can't bring myself to blog about because it is so close to my heart.  It's like saying the name of your first love.  Suffice it to say that it's an alternate universe where peace and well-being and the deepest conversations flow as freely as the all-you-can-drink boxed wine.

The other is Milano Market.  Located just around the corner from my sorority house, this specialty market was rife with sandwiches, soups, pre-portioned entrees and sides, and many imported and fancy little products (olives, pickles, mustard, candies).  These kinds of markets are common in the City.  It's not at all where you would do your regular grocery shopping (in fact, most people don't even "go shopping," per se, but rather have their groceries delivered to their apartments), but when you want some special and frivolous little bite, it's your spot.

But the real draw - the main attraction - was the salads.  The concept was simple but genius.  Exactly like Subway, or any other restaurant where you customize your dish based on your whims.  You have a choice of three different salad greens:  romaine, spinach, baby mixed greens.  Then you just go crazy, telling the guy to put anything and everything in there.  I want to say there were about forty options.  Chicken (grilled, pesto, sundried tomato), ham, bacon, olives, broccoli, carrots, chickpeas, tomatoes, peppers, pepperoncini, avocado, kidney beans, cucumbers, boiled eggs, raisins, dried cranberries, croutons, and probably twelve choices of dressing (and so much more).  He mixed it all up for you in a big bowl, then popped it into a 20-oz container with a lid.  Dinner:  done.  I could not begin to count the nights that we stopped here for a salad before Chapter Meeting and ate it on the stoop.

The most awesome part was the price!  For a salad with chicken, I think it was about $7, with unlimited toppings.  Certain ones, like avocado, might have been an additional charge.  (Warning:  this was all 7-10 years ago.  Things may have changed!)

I find myself craving these huge, satisfying salads all the time.  And the thing is, it's really much more economical to go somewhere and pay for it because amassing all those ingredients in the proper quantities and eating all of them before they go bad would cost much more than the price of your single salad.  Or even two or three of them.

I brag on our sweet neighborhood all the time, but we are missing something like a Milano Market.  Should I open one?  Should I finally allow Jeff to satisfy his lifelong restaurant dream?  Only thing is, there wouldn't be sit-down service.  This is strictly a drop-in, take your lunch or dinner home or back to work kind of place.  I think East Nashville might love it.  Thoughts?

bygone days

Kansans know about prohibition.  Isn't it crazy to think that our country just out-and-out illegalized alcohol for fourteen years?  Back when we had cable included in the cost of our rent, watching Boardwalk Empire was one of my favorite Sunday evening activities.  What a fantastically done representation of this time period in American history.

But Kansans, special gluttons for punishment, outlawed liquor and beer from 1881 to 1948 - longer than any other state.  And on-site sale of liquor (i.e. licensing for bars and restaurants to sell alcohol "by the drink") was prohibited until 1987!  Over one hundred years of restricted access.  Did it work?  All I can say is that a large number of my family members managed to become alcoholic Kansans during that time period - so I think not.

Even still, there are complicated laws about alcohol percentage, what time different percentages can be sold, where they can be sold (proximity to schools and churches), and what days of the week. In my younger days, there was a frequent dash to the store before 11 pm so we could buy something over 3.2% by volume.

The first legal brewery to open in Kansas after prohibition ended is in my hometown.  It's called Free State Brewing Company (I will save the Jayhawker obsession with all things "Free State" for another post).  Open since 1989, Free State is a landmark in downtown Lawrence, occupying the space of an old train station.  It was mandatory in my adolescence to own at least one shirt with their locally famous slogan:  "because, without beer, things do not seem to go as well . . ."

Their beers are scrumptious, hand-crafted, seasonally changing, and are probably responsible for establishing a discriminating palate for fine brews amongst the people of northeastern Kansas. 

It doesn't hurt that the food is pretty freaking good, too.

One perennial favorite of picky kids and open-minded adults alike is the Cheddar Ale soup.  It warms you in fall and winter.  My friend Lauren notoriously ordered chicken fingers and Cheddar Ale soup at Free State for years. 

Naturally, their Ad Astra Ale (a rich, balanced amber ale) features prominently in the recipe, but I have no access to it here in Nashville.  They also use Alma cheddar, which I can't get ahold of either.  So I made some adaptations.  I subbed Yazoo Gerst Amber Ale (Nashville local brew) and cheddar from our CSA.  I found the recipe in a 2010 issue of the Lawrence Journal-World.

Cheddar Ale Soup



3 T butter
3 T AP flour
1/4 C minced onion
1/4 C small diced red bell pepper
1/4 C small diced green bell pepper
2 cloves garlic, minced
1 C amber ale
3 oz cream cheese
3 C cream
2 t salt
1/2 t pepper
1 t hot sauce
fresh parsley and thyme to taste
6 oz grated sharp cheddar

Add 1 T butter to a large Dutch oven.  Cook peppers, onion, and garlic over medium heat for 5-10 minutes, until translucent.  Add remaining 2 T butter and flour, whisking vigorously to incorporate.  Lower heat to medium-low and cook for 5 minutes.

Add the ale in small increments, whisking well to avoid clumping.  Cut cream cheese into smaller cubes and add to pot.  Mash and stir cream cheese until it is totally melted.  Gradually add the cream to the pot, mixing well after each addition.  Add salt, pepper, hot sauce, thyme and/or parsley, and mix well.  Bring the heat up a little bit (you may want to use a thermometer - they suggest heating just to 160 degrees, but not above). 

Add the grated cheese in three increments, mixing well after each addition. Stir until totally melted.  If the soup seems thin, add more cheese.  If it seems thick, add a bit of milk.

Serves 6-8. 

nemoi nepravitaka

My father studied Slavic languages, and he began a family-wide fascination with all things Russian and Balkan.  My parents, brother and sister lived briefly in Yugoslavia (when it was still Yugoslavia, Tito and all) before I was born.  I remember my mom always talking about her netted market basket, and she wistfully recalled the lovely open markets she used to frequent when shopping for dinner.  My sister did an exchange program in junior high.  She went to Russia for several weeks, and then we had a Russian student named Katja come stay with us.  And my dad and stepmom went to go teach at the American School in Skopje, Macdeonia, when I was about twelve or thirteen.  They lived there for a year or two. 

While they were there, Dad and Tammy became close with a Macedonian family.  Maria was the high-school aged daughter, Valentina was her mother, and Filip her little brother, probably about four or five.  When it was time for Dad and Tammy to come back to the States, Maria came with them to capitalize on the opportunities for American education.

Dad and Tammy lived in Las Vegas at that time.  I usually came to visit for some holidays and then for a longer period in the summer - about a month.  That summer, Maria's mother and brother were also visiting.  In a two-bedroom apartment, we had three adults and three children.  It was tight quarters, to say the least!

I remember so much about living with the Macedonians that summer.  Dad and Tammy both worked, so most of the days it was just the four of us.  We went swimming, we went to the store, we fixed lunch.  They taught me how to make tatziki.  They loved the stuff - garlic, yogurt, cucumber, vinegar.  They loved vinegar.  They would just swig it out of the bottle.  It started kind of a love affair with vinegar for me, too.

The best part, though, was Filip.  He was your standard five-year-old boy - rambunctious, mischievious, irritating, exhausting, etc.  But he couldn't speak one word of English.  Not a single one.  It was up to me to figure out how to communicate.  So, we used the board books he had brought with him.  Rather than him learning English, I learned Macedonian as if I were a young child.  I learned the Cyrillic alphabet first.  Then we just started trading vocabulary.  "Avione" = airplane.  "Soova sleeva" = prune.  And so on and so forth.  It was actually great fun. 

But the words I learned to use the most with Filip were "nemoi nepravitaka."  They are the same words you would use a lot with any five-year-old:  "Don't do that." 

We all went our separate ways at the end of the summer, never to meet again.  Within a few years, Dad and Tammy were divorced, Maria had graduated from high school, and Valentina and Filip probably forgot all about me.  But I never forgot learning to communicate with Filip.  And it helped a lot when I began to learn Greek in seminary, as Cyrillic is morphed from the Greek alphabet. 

butterfly quilt

My mom was skilled in all the homemaking arts.  Cooking, cleaning, laundry, gardening, baking, sewing.  She regularly made hand-fitted dresses for my formals and proms.  I recall laborious hours trying to follow her left-handedness in learning how to knit.  I really regret that I never was patient enough for her to teach me how to use the sewing machine.  Later in her life, she took up quilting as a hobby.

When our baby was born, and we named her Vicki Jo after my mother, we received a special package in the mail from my Grandma Helen.

In both Jeff's family and mine, we have a unique and beautiful relationship between our parents' families, even though our parents' marriages did not work.  See, Grandma Helen is my dad's mom.  And yet, after my parents divorced, Helen and Granddad Lewis remained close to my mother.  She would go out to Boulder City to visit with us, and Helen and Lewis would come to Kansas and stay with us while Mom went on vacation.  In some ways, they were closer with my mom than they were with their own son, my dad.  Eventually, they even became close with my stepdad Mark, inviting him out to visit as well.  

Jeff's mom is also close with his dad's mom, Memaw.  In fact, Memaw even works as the bookkeeper for Zan's business!

I love these relationships because they remind me that family is so much more than blood.  It is shared experience and empathy and love and reconciliation. 

In the special package we received from Grandma Helen was a quilt.  It is a gorgeous pink and white quilt with butterflies of different patterns stitched onto it.  It was just for Vicki Jo.

My grandma had also included a note with the history of the quilt:

Here's what it says:  "Vicki made this quilt for Helen for Christmas.  Since she only had the quilt-top ready, she presented it like that.  Then she immediately took it away to be finished later.  Since there is a new Vicki, it seems appropriate for her to have this pink butterfly quilt.  Made by her grandmother and namesake, Vicki Jo."

What a powerfully special gift.  We use it every day.  Now it's on Vicki's bed. 

 And someday there will maybe even be another Vicki Jo to have it!