Queen Kelley

Yes, it’s been a long time. Personal writing is not a priority in my life right now. If it were, I’d take time to do it more often. The good thing is I’m okay with that. For now. On to the post…

We’ve all been there: bearing a burden for days at a time, maintaining relative control of our emotions, moving through life as usual despite the knot in our stomachs. And then we reach the boiling point.

For me, it was last Friday morning. In December, I wrote generally about a medical issue Butterfly faced. Since then, the King and I have debated whether to go through with the recommended test. Meanwhile, Butterfly continued to have sporadic episodes of diarrhea and bleeding. We finally realized that the colonoscopy, a test most people don’t think about until they’re fifty, was necessary for our five-year-old. (Check back for more regarding the test and results.)

So there I was on Friday morning, after a week of knowing the scheduled date for the scope, mentally preparing myself to deny my daughter food over the weekend, and it all boiled over. The girls were dressed for school, and I looked forward to the much-needed three hours of work time before the trials of the next days. We needed to leave in ten minutes. Then Ladybug, nearly ready to claim her place in the “Trying Threes,” refused to let me comb her hair. She also refused to comb her own hair. She whined, she resisted, and she attacked. Eventually, I calmed her. At the door downstairs, though, she refused to put on her shoes and had another meltdown. After buckling a placid Butterfly into her booster seat, I returned to the house to get my wailing younger daughter. At long last, my heart pounding in frustration (it was, after all, 9:00, and we were supposed to be at school), I sat at the steering wheel. Unbelievably, the car wouldn’t crank, apparently the result of a door left open for hours the day before.

That did it. For perhaps the first time, my girls saw me cry. It silenced their argument. I tried unsuccessfully to phone a friend, and then I just sat there struggling to compose myself. Several minutes passed, and then Butterfly said calmly, “Why don’t we just get out of the car?”

We did. We went inside. I was able to reach my friend, who graciously came and drove us to the preschool thirty minutes late, where dear, sweet teachers welcomed my girls with smiles and open arms. I got more than two hours to finish editing an overdue book for my supervisor.

For some, exceeding the boiling point is healing. It was for me. I spilled out the rough bits and discovered smoother waters beneath. Thanks to the physical release of sobs and the rescue of a priceless friend, I was able to move ahead with the path awaiting me. Sometimes we have to reach the boiling point before we can go forward. When I do, at least I have a little observer who puts life into perspective. Check out the picture Butterfly drew to capture the moment. Ladybug sits in the back seat. I’m in the front. Butterfly, my hero, stands outside the car, using her long super arm to try to push the vehicle out of the garage. “It didn’t work,” she told me. But look at her smile. She reminds me that, even when it doesn’t work, it will be okay.

The “green” life has interested me for a while. I’d love to grow my own vegetables, use homemade compost for fertilizer, collect rainwater in barrels, and take reusable shopping bags to Wal-Mart. Heck, I’d love to stop going to Wal-Mart altogether and frequent only local farmer’s markets. I’m not there yet.

Our family tries, though, to take the following environmentally friendly actions as consistently as possible:

1. Recycle all acceptable items (in our area, this includes glass, most plastics, paper, and cans).
2. Use washable cloths rather than paper towels (I still haven’t let go of paper napkins).
3. Use cleansers derived from natural sources (such as Method, my personal favorite).
4. Turn off lights when not in use.
5. Switch on the television only when people intentionally watch it.
6. Shut down our computers each night.
7. Keep the thermostat set at energy-saving temps (at least, the recommended 68 or below in winter; summer is a different beast here in central GA).

Inspired by a dear friend, I am also looking into toiletries that don’t contain harmful chemicals. Sweet Southern Belle pointed me to this site where you can look up your favorite products and see how they rate on a danger scale from 1 (safest) to 10 (most dangerous). Like her, I’ve ordered homemade makeup from All Natural Face on Etsy and tried a few organic hair and face products. We’ve used our regular products for years and years with seemingly no ill effects, but at the same time, it appears that many people suffer from cancer and other diseases whose causes aren’t necessarily known. I know the connections aren’t certain, but it stands to reason that if we pour these chemicals into and onto our bodies, eventually some harm will result. At any rate, I figure the safer products are worth a try.

How do they compare? Well, I miss the delicious smell of my regular shampoo. I didn’t mind Avalon Organics Shampoo’s lavender scent so much until my husband pronounced that it reminded him of wet paint. The texture also takes some getting used to, but my hair has nearly adjusted. I’m still waiting on my makeup to arrive, but the samples my friend gave me looked great and felt clean and fresh. Next up? Maybe deodorant and toothpaste.

I also want our family to try more whole foods and organic products. Still, how can we be certain the “organic” label isn’t merely a ploy for more money? Is anyone else trying these things? What are your thoughts?

First of all, I’ve gotten helpful feedback from several of you—readers I didn’t even realize I had. Thanks for stopping by and especially for commenting about some of my more recent subjects, sensitive as they are. With the school issue in particular, it’s good to hear from various perspectives, but I feel especially encouraged by those who either attended public school or are sending their kids to one. Patrick said, “You’re always going to worry.” I’ll certainly agree with that! I thought I was a worrier BEFORE I had kids. Imagine me now. Even so, I find that I’ve been able to put my worries in perspective in a way I never thought I could.

As for the mysteries of this journey we call “Christianity,” “religion,” “faith,” “seeking,” or various other labels, I’m comforted to read that a couple of you are in the same boat with me on all this—or at least in the same river. I think some who “believe” are too quick to judge others as wayward when they dare to deviate from the party-line truths we’ve learned since childhood. I’m finding that this spiritual journey is much bigger than a narrow set of concepts with particular names. The magnitude of it—the sheer number of ways the Higher Power communicates with individuals—takes my breath away. What an honor it is to seek, to study, to learn, and to relate alongside all of you. I pray that we never make God too small, that we never think we know it all, that we are always willing to consider another’s perspective on this incredible, mysterious journey, even if it sounds completely crazy at first. We never know when God will reveal another aspect of God’s self to us.

As for my favorite television show, I simply can’t commit to my previous weekly analyses. I wish I could! It was helpful for me to rehash the details and pose my questions. Be assured, though, that my time is limited but my television is always on ABC at 9:00 on Wednesday nights! I haven’t missed an airing of Lost yet. Some amazing show, isn’t it?

Anyway, thanks again, my faithful handful of readers (and those who stop by occasionally), for offering your thoughts.

I leave you with this quotation used by the author of a recent work I copyedited:

Is openness to other ideas infidelity, or is it the beginning of spiritual maturity? What is it that can possibly take us so far afield from the initial believing self? How do we explain to ourselves the journey of getting from there to here, from unquestioning adherence to institutional answers, to the point of asking faithful questions? It took years before I realized that maybe it is belief itself, if it is real, that carries us there. Maybe if we really believe about God what we say we believe, there comes a time when we have to go beyond the parochialisms of law. …When we develop a spiritual life that is beyond some kind of simple, unthinking attachment to an inherited canon of behaviors, the soul goes beyond adherence to a system to the growth of the soul.

Joan Chittister, Called to Question: A Spiritual Memoir (Chicago: Sheed & Ward, 2004) 12, 13, 19.

Today, a dear friend told me he’s ready for Jesus to come. “I have a lot of questions,” he said. This man, who has lived a couple of decades longer than I, has already experienced a lifetime’s worth of misery, horror, and disappointment. Despite this, he’s neither sullen nor depressed. He’s actually quite jolly and a big kid at heart. He’s also a deep thinker, one who ponders the mysteries of life without fear and poses the unanswerable questions just for the sake of starting a meaningful discussion. He believes, even in all his uncertainty and wonderings, that when he dies he will go to be with Jesus, that he’ll get to ask all the questions that plague him.

On this Easter Sunday, listening to my friend, I nodded. I, too, have a lot of questions. I could write a list of them here, and they would make for a lengthy post indeed. They are the questions of many people, of the believers and the seekers and the curious and the wonderers. Most of these questions are unanswerable, at least on this side.

A disciple of Jesus—one who spent hours with him, ate with him, watched him interact with people, and heard his teachings on the great mysteries—had his own questions. Some call him “Doubting Thomas,” seeing his desire for proof as a negative characteristic. As recorded in the Gospel of John, he didn’t believe his friends when they told him they’d seen Jesus, alive and well, only days after his lungs stopped working while he hung on an instrument of torture. Thomas knew they’d put Jesus’ dead body in a tomb and sealed it. Despite his master’s hints along the way, he didn’t get it. Neither did they. Neither do I.

I don’t think Thomas was a habitual doubter. I think he doubted because of the overwhelming events he had witnessed. Limited in a human body just as we are, confined to a finite moment in time, he had difficulty understanding what Jesus meant by his teachings. I think he had a bold desire for the truth. I think he wanted to see for himself rather than basing his faith on hearsay. He had a need to connect with Jesus personally and know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that his Lord was truly alive again. I’m with him.

Fortunately for Thomas, he got his chance this side of the afterlife. He saw his friend, his master, his Lord—Jesus. In the flesh, in person, face to face in a real body. He even touched him. “Do not doubt but believe,” Jesus told him. Then comes the comment that pains me: “Have you believed because you have seen me? Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have come to believe.” (John 20:24-29)

For most of my life thus far, I’d have placed myself in the latter category. I have never seen Jesus Christ in the flesh, and yet I believe. As time rolls on, though, and as my list of questions grows longer, I find that I long to see him so I can believe more fully, more deeply, more certainly. 

I will continue to believe in a Higher Power, and I will continue to believe that part of that Power is Jesus. As for the details, though, I find that my brain mulls them over and over. I yearn for clarity. I know that, one day, I’ll either get clarity, or I’ll find that clarity doesn’t matter at all.

Is anyone with me?

Growing up, I lived in a small town in which there were three public schools: Smalltown Elementary, Smalltown Middle, and Smalltown High. I attended all three of them, and many of the kids who started with me at one of the few church-affiliated preschools journeyed through the next twelve years and sat with me at graduation. We weren’t all friends, of course, and kids left and new kids came, but we knew each other. We’d seen each other through the early years of runny noses and potty training, all the way through body hair and other major changes. Girlfriends, boyfriends, ridiculous fights, entertaining parties. We knew each other.

A couple of private schools also served our little county, but those of us in the public school tended to think poorly of the students there, calling them derogatory names and assuming they were all a bunch of snotty rich kids. I’m sure the other side thought no better of us.

I stand on the brink of sending my Butterfly to kindergarten. She has one year of preschool left. One last year of only going to school three days a week, three hours a day. Just one more year to enjoy long, unscheduled weekdays in which we explore the community libraries and playgrounds with no thought of homework or carpool lines. I’d be lying if I said I’m not scared out of my mind at the prospect.

Certainly, most parents feel wary about sending their firstborn children off for that initial school year. As long as I don’t fret too much or project my concerns onto my gal, I think we’ll make it. Like any change, this one will be difficult, but eventually we’ll adjust and live into a new normal.

It’s been tough to come to terms with where Butterfly will attend, though. Most of my friends, most of the moms at the preschool—most in my social group, I suppose—send their children to one of the numerous private schools in the area. It’s true that our county’s public schools have a poor reputation. These parents’ choices are understandable as they strive to provide their kids with the best education available. For us, it’s not an option. At least not yet. The King and I have decided to give the public school system a try. We hope that, by being as involved as possible, we can help our bright Butterfly thrive. We look forward to connecting with other families we might not encounter otherwise. We anticipate Butterfly’s meeting new friends. If need be, we are open to other options in the future.

Truthfully, I envy my best friend, a gifted teacher who will homeschool all three of her children this fall. I’ve watched her during this past year with her oldest daughter, heard them talk about the vibrant homeschool community in our area, seen them take advantage of museums and libraries and other weekday opportunities, and recognized the way their lives are being refreshed, relaxed, and revitalized as they set their own schedules. I have no doubt that my friend’s intelligent, creative children will do well with their mother as their teacher.

This too, however, is not an option for us. I shudder to think of the detriment I might cause to my girls’ educations if I chose to teach them at home. I shudder to think of my personal sanity. My gifts are simply not suited for homeschooling.

Some parents will send their kids to private schools, and that’s okay. Some parents will homeschool their kids, and that’s okay. Some, like us, will send their kids to public schools, and that’s okay too. We must choose what we think is best for our children, devote time to them, and express strong hope for their futures.

Yesterday, we celebrated our sweet Ladybug’s 2nd birthday again. I say “again” because her big party took place last Saturday, complete with Thomas the Train decorations, an amazing train cake made by my friend Heather, and many of the people we love all under one roof. Yesterday was no less exciting, as we, the grandparents, and aunt watched big sister dance at the Cherry Blossom Festival (she did well!) and then enjoyed the frisbee dogs and a few rides at the park. Oh, and the cotton candy, which we devoured in a matter of minutes. Last night, we ordered BBQ and sang happy birthday once more over an angel food cake iced with Cool Whip and fresh strawberries. We figured we’d had enough of delectable buttercream icing and heavy cake for a while.

Front and center was the chubby, soft-skinned, blond-haired little girl who entered our lives two years ago. She fills our days with the sound of her singing—and her screaming. She entertains us with her cute sayings, like the time she glanced out the window at the sleeping dog and said, in that adorable tiny voice, “Poor Pippin. He’s so tired.” She loves us with hugs and kisses and slaps at us when she doesn’t get her way. She enjoys reading books together and playing in the sandbox. Swings thrill her and baths excite her. She wants so badly to do what Butterfly does, and yet is fiercely independent in the next moment. We love and treasure her deeply. Happy birthday, precious Ladybug!

The girls and I enjoyed a quickly planned visit today from members of the “G” family (see their blog in my links list). Cheryl and her two boys spent the morning and lunch with us while husband and father Fadi did some work in a nearby town.

Cheryl’s little man, who just celebrated his first birthday, bounced from one item to another, curiously exploring his new surroundings. Fearless and enthusiastic, he boldly toddled down the steps from our kitchen to the den, tasted every object he picked up, and entertained us with his babbles. All the while, his precious big brother slept either in his stroller or snuggled on the sofa. If you read the family’s blog, you’ll learn that their first son was born with brain abnormalities. Now, at age 3, he functions on an infant level and, sadly, can neither hear nor see.

It’s a journey I don’t know, a path I haven’t walked, a trial I can’t fathom. But Cheryl handles it with such grace. Since the beginning, she and her husband have struggled with the “why” questions and learned how to tame them, faced curiosity from strangers who wonder about their boy, and advocated for their sweet son’s health and quality of life. Through it all, at least by my own observance, they’ve managed to maintain a strong marriage and demonstrate both deep love for each member of their family and a steady faith in God.

It was great to spend time with part of this family today, to laugh at the baby’s antics as he followed my Ladybug around, to run my fingers through big brother’s beautiful dark curls and touch his smooth skin, to talk to Cheryl about everything from the difficulty of parents finding time for friendship to the results of her oldest son’s latest surgery.

For me, it was a time to be with a friend. It was also a time to reflect on the many different journeys we take as parents. Some parents travel down roads that seem so haunting to me. It doesn’t make sense that we can’t all travel the sunlit path. Though this path still has its storms, at least they’re predictable. I suppose the hardest thing about living in this world is encountering the unpredictable. Truthfully, none of us ever know what side roads our journeys will take. For me, this is why faith in a Higher Power, in God, is essential. I don’t know about everyone else, but it’s reassuring to know there’s something constant in a world of unknowns.

To people like Cheryl and Jenny (mother to a cancer angel) who sometimes stop by and read what I write, I say thank you for letting me into your lives. I’m an outsider, and there’s no way for me to comprehend your journeys as a parent. And to be honest, I don’t want to be an insider. Even so, I’m grateful that you share your lives with me. It’s a reminder of what I have and a conviction of what I need to do. God has shown me much through you.

Grrr. Just when I was getting excited about the latest Harry Potter movie (if you haven’t figured it out yet, I’m a shameless fan), the studio goes and changes the release date from this November to next July. That’s right; we have to wait nearly a whole year for the release of this movie. Never mind that I got to see the totally enticing short trailer on the big screen last weekend when it aired before Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants 2 (a super chick flick, by the way). Never mind that it’s been more than a year since the final book release for the series. Never mind that Monica and I were already talking about planning our next Potter party to celebrate the film. An article on The Leaky Cauldron website explained the rubbish reasoning behind the change:

The press release says the reason for the move was two-fold: First, the studio says summer releases are better for “family tentpole” events, and second, they are still feeling the aftereffects of the writers’ strike and need the time to make sure the film reaches the widest audience possible.

Translation? “We want to milk this cash cow for all she’s worth!!!” And of course, who can blame them? They’re in the business to make millions, if not billions, of dollars, and J. K. Rowling’s imagination has significantly padded their wallets. They know postponing this film will in no way decrease the number of viewers. Admittedly, it might even increase that number.

Even so, grrr. It’s frustrating to have my anticipation stymied like this. All who are sympathetic to my grumbling, please comment and make me feel better.

I’ve finally reached the close of a hectic week. Not only did I hang out with kids at Vacation Bible School Sunday through Thursday evenings, but I also had a particularly overwhelming workload to cram in before falling exhausted into bed each night.

For those who don’t know, I work as an independent editing contractor and also do freelance editing from home both to be with my children and to avoid the monotony of office work. I’m incredibly grateful to my company for making this opportunity possible. Most days, the arrangement works beautifully. While Butterfly no longer takes naps, I can at least squeeze in a bit of reading while she “watches a movie” (translation: throws nearly all the cushions off the couch to construct elaborate obstacle courses and pesters me repeatedly for a snack) and Ladybug snoozes. The bulk of my work, though, takes place at night after the girls go to bed. Add to this the fact that I prefer a 10:00 bedtime if at all possible, and it doesn’t equal much work time. Throw in a schedule change like VBS, and, were it not for the much-appreciated assistance of the King, the Queen Mother, and Empress Katie, I would have spontaneously combusted. I’m sure of it.

Aside from the stress, VBS went well. A friend and I worked with the 4th and 5th graders—an energetic and curious group. They enjoyed acting out the various Bible stories and playing a Pictionary-style game. They especially liked recreation, though we all entered the choir room afterward drenched in sweat from the 90-degree heat.

A heavy dose of joy came to me during the week as I watched my Butterfly enter the closing assembly each night with her little group of friends and then commence to dancing wildly to the theme song from the front row of seats. I found it difficult to take my eyes off her and focus on my own group. Even better were our car rides home as the sun set, when she would excitedly tell me about her evening. “We played Red Roses!” “You mean Red Rover? ‘Red Rover, Red Rover, send Butterfly right over?’” “Yes!” I didn’t even know that game was still allowed. Something about broken arms?

I’m grateful to one of my best friends, Heather, for loving on my little girl all week. I know that Heather was able to teach the basic truth of God’s love through fun and crafts, not through indoctrination and rote recitation, methods that frustrate me. 

I know Butterfly learned something. She asked me to retell the story of Easter morning while we rode home Wednesday evening. I told her about Mary, another Mary, and Salome, who tried to anoint Jesus’ body with spices but were deterred by the angel, who explained that Jesus was alive and had gone (Mark 16). Then I began to draw the story to a close, when I was interrupted by a little girl’s voice in the back seat:

Me: “The women left to go back to the town—”

Butterfly: “and they took a wrong turn and went to Disney World! And Jesus went too!”

Let it never be said that my child believes in a somber Jesus. Can’t you see him on Splash Mountain?

On Saturday morning, as we watched out the kitchen window while the King struggled with the bird feeder pole, Butterfly turned to me and asked, “Mama, is this the weekend?” “Yes!” I said excitedly. “Yippee!” she replied. “That means Daddy can watch my movie with me!” It’s like this every weekend. When Butterfly learns we’ve reached that precious part of the week when her daddy will be home from work for two whole days, her eyes light up and she starts rattling off all the things they can do together. Ladybug is just as excited, clinging fiercely to her Daddy or following him around the house. They enjoy their daddy every day, but it’s extra special when they know he won’t have to go away to work.

They feel this way about my husband because, when he’s home and in their company, he’s 100 percent present for them. My mind tends to wander, thinking ahead to what’s required for lunch, for naptime, for our outing in the afternoon, for bath, etc. I’m sure John thinks of other things when he’s with the girls, but his thoughts aren’t visible in his face and actions like they often are in mine. He is on the floor building “pillow houses,” twirling around with his little Cinderellas, telling fantastic stories that go on and on, playing the guitar and letting them dance and sing. His attention is priceless to them.

As the King said, we had a great Father’s Day weekend, enjoying time together as a family. John and I even planned for an in-house movie night, which we enjoyed after the girls went to sleep (along with microwave popcorn and Whoppers, I might add). We also had a blast with our close friends, Rickie and Sheri. (Rumor has it that they will have a blog of their own soon. Stay tuned.)

Here’s what I wrote to the King in a book we gave him (I hope he doesn’t mind my sharing it): “I can’t think of many times when you’ve been too busy to stop and dance with your Cinderellas…or their mother! You truly are an amazing father to our girls. I believe that, because of the time you devote to them and the genuine way you play with them, they’ll grow up knowing you’re a daddy they can trust with anything. Thank you for your incredible love to all your girls!” He truly is a treasure to us all.

I thought of my own father often over the weekend. He, along with my mother and sister, are away in Scotland with their church group, ministering with some of the Scottish friends they’ve met over the past few years. My family has never been this far away from me before, and it feels strange. They’re enjoying themselves immensely, though, and exhausting their bodies and spirits every day. Daddy was far away, but I still wished him a happy Father’s Day and felt grateful for the way our relationship has changed through the years. He still takes care of me, and his love for my daughters is a joy to watch.

I appreciate my grandfathers and my father-in-law as well—for the strong presence they have been and for the deep care they have shown. You’re all loved beyond words!

One of the springtime activities I’ve enjoyed with the girls is visiting the strawberry patch, otherwise known as Elliott Farms. Now that spring is taking her bow, with summer breathing hot and heavy over her shoulder, we likely won’t go often. While the weather was mild, though, we and our best friends spent three separate days there, first picking berries, then picnicking, then exploring the farm.

Both girls could pick berries all day. Being a paranoid mama, I never let them eat directly from the patch, even though I overheard the field’s owner assure my friend, “Oh, there’s nothing on those strawberries but dirt!” Well, it’s the dirt I don’t necessarily want my kids to swallow. Even so, Butterfly took great joy in searching for the reddest berries and plunking them into her white plastic bucket. On each visit, she worked until she filled it to the brim. Ladybug enjoyed picking too, and she didn’t care whether the berries were hard and green-white, or so red and ripe that she merely had to grab one for it to turn to mush in her fingers. (Note to Mama: Don’t dress the kids in school clothes for a day at the farm.) 

After we paid less for the berries than we would have at the grocery store (and I usually added a jar of local honey or a few squash to the purchase), we had a snack lunch in the grass. There’s nothing like dining on a picnic blanket with goats eyeing you from behind a fence only a few feet away, or with the wailing calls of the peacocks startling you as you sip your water. The ambiance is unbeatable. Lunch was, of course, not complete until we all enjoyed the delectable homemade soft-serve strawberry ice cream. I don’t even like strawberry ice cream, but this…mmmm.

Once we cleaned up our mess, we traipsed around the farm, studying the various animals—the goats (one got his head stuck in the wire fencing), the peacocks (one actually flashed his breathtaking tail feathers at us), the burro (he brayed frequently), the hens and roosters and baby chicks (they’re all quite smelly, but Ladybug enjoyed chasing after a rooster), the horses, the cows, and the huge pig (quite an expression on that one, eh?). We even got to see and pet a gray baby goat, who seemed to delight in the attention.

Elliott Farms has offered great fun for all of us, and we look forward to trying the corn maze in the fall. (Actually, we just look forward to the fall, no matter what we do then. It’s getting HOT!) You know you’ve had a good day at the farm when Ladybug picks up a small round pellet of manure and sucks her fingers after I slap it out of her hands. You know it’s been a fun morning at the patch when Butterfly is actually brave enough to attempt feeding a horse, even though she dropped the hay before his lips touched her palm. You know you’ve had a great time with the girls when all of you leave the farm with feet blackened from the dirt, hands stained with strawberry juice, and hair damp with sweat. We’ll definitely go back.

Our Mother’s Day began with a bang bright and early, as the weather siren started blaring around 5:30 am. The King hurried downstairs to check the weather radio, while I turned on the local news. The radar picture resembled Ladybug’s recent experiment with red paint—a large, disorganized blob. It was a fast-moving system that quickly earned a tornado warning. While I nervously watched the news, the King stepped onto the front porch to assess the situation. Do we wake the girls or not? When the power shut off around 5:50, we began scrambling for flashlights and candles (a bit late on our part, I’ll admit). My husband looked outside once more. “Get them! The rain’s blowing completely sideways.” [Photo by Jason Vorhees for The Macon Telegraph.]

Butterfly was already sitting up in bed in complete darkness, wondering what had happened to her colored lights. The four of us scrambled downstairs and sat on a pile of pillows in the short hallway between our dining room/guest room and the playroom. The King and I had argued, differing on what we viewed as the safest location (again, a bit late on our part), but had to choose quickly in the end. The girls enjoyed making shadows with the flashlights while the storm got eerily quiet, then boomed for a few minutes, then settled back down. Our power stayed off for a mere forty-five minutes, long enough for us to enjoy a cold breakfast by the light of smelly candles.

The rest of our day was relatively carefree, unlike that of many Macon residents. We went to church, I got to take a nap, and then the girls and I spent an hour in the windy backyard, enjoying the sand and sun while the King cut the grass in the front. Mere miles from our neighborhood, a reported six tornadoes severely damaged homes and businesses, shutting off power and water supplies for hours. That evening, families swarmed to our side of town seeking open restaurants, grocery stores, and entertainment.

My best friends and I, who had made reservations at an elegant restaurant, eventually found ourselves driving from place to place looking for food. Finally, around 8:00, we settled for frozen pizza (for two of us), steak & veggies (for the other), and molten lava cake (for everyone!) from Kroger—all brought to my house for a few hours of togetherness. It wasn’t what we anticipated for our Mother’s Day gathering, but we made the most of it, chatting and watching the pilot episode of Gilmore Girls.

This Mother’s Day as all days, I’m grateful to God for my two precious little girls—for the joy they bring me each day, their laughter, their play, their hugs and kisses, and their innocent and unabashed delight in the world. I’m grateful for my amazing King, who supports my choices as a mother and helps me remember to be myself. I’m grateful for my best girlfriends, who not only share their parenting stories with me but take me away from the real world from time to time. I’m grateful for my grandmothers, whom I’m honored to know and learn from. I’m grateful for my mother-in-law, whose love and care for me are overwhelmingly evident. And I’m grateful, more than anything, for my own mother, who has taught me so much about living—as a mother, as a wife, and as a woman. I love you all.

This is just a note to let my readers know one of my best friends has joined the blogging world. Check out Heather’s new site at the appropriately named Sweet Southern Belle.net! As social worker, minister’s wife, and mom to a 17-month-old, Heather has a unique outlook on life. I look forward to reading her thoughts.