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It’s the last day of Vacation Bible School (VBS) Eve, not recognized as a High Holy on the Christian calendar, but I may start a petition.

I’m going way out on a grapevine here: we VBS volunteers are tired. Bone tired.

But we will survive. And if we don’t, that’s ok. We’ll go to heaven for eternity where “tired” isn’t a thing. Surely…

So, in my squinty bloodshot eyes, and totally ripping off Jimmy Fallon and Jen Hatmaker in one fell swoop (please forgive me, I know y’all are Christians, too), I’m writing some thank you notes…

Dear VBS,

Thank you for letting me pretend to be an octopus mama for a night. As I washed and dried 100 socks for a tie-dye craft that loosely connected to the Bible lesson for the next day, it didn’t fall on deaf tentacles as I sorted them all. I’m doing this out of an act of love, kids, just like Mama Octopus does her little octopi. I love you and you and you and you and you and you and you and you.

Thank you for making the second or so full week of my summer break feel like the first week of school. Name tags and registration and crying, nervous teachers children and ALARM CLOCKS (that I KNOW ARE NOT IN HEAVEN, Jesus wouldn’t.have.it.) and a little bit of controlled chaos–it’s the doppelgänger to the beginning of school. I’m rethinking the end of the year gifts given to my kids’ teachers. They deserved more.

Thank you for being the cheapest daycare on the planet mission field that you are. These precious children are worn out from following rules in a classroom setting. VBS allows us to be “flexible.” No, I’m not clenching my teeth whilst delivering the day’s message. Stop flicking those beads at me. Jesus said so. Is it noon yet?

Thank you for making me feel as old as Methuselah. The children of my favorite VBS counselors are now counselors helping out in classes that I’m leading. Time is a vacuum. A vacuum that sucks the metabolism out of you and the collagen around your eyes. Wrinkles from time.

Thank you for giving us an opportunity to love on some kids. We’re tired, but our prayers have been that all of these children of all colors and all different ability levels and from all of the walks of life know that God loves them just the way He created them. Sins and warts and all. HE LOVES YOU!

And thank you for helping us warty volunteers remember that, too, VBS. You give us a week to see a glimpse of how beautiful heaven will be one day, as the souls we have the privilege of leading and shepherding for these few hours aren’t that different from what it will be…

Thank you. Now I’m going to sleep.

I’ve got some questions.

During the football season when your husband is coaching, and his team secures a victory, does he sort of seem just a little bit happy in an uneasy sort of way?  Like he can’t fully enjoy the win because there’s another game yet to be played? (Reason I’m asking is because I’m married to a head coach, too.  Sure, it’s tee-ball he coaches, but I mean.  He gets noticed at the local Mexican restaurant after a game.) 

SAME.  We  won a game the other day, and it was a pretty solid victory.  We hit the five run limit every inning on our side and we would get two– sometimes three outs–on the other team.  Grinding out the five inning/ hour and fifteen minute limit can be challenging.  But we were victorious.  And I swear the man of mine came home with just the left side of his mouth cocked in a grin and the other side steeled for the game coming up. Pure elation is just a winning record at the final game away…maybe?

On the flip side, does he ever get grumpy after a loss, like take it super personally?

Being as how we (you know, the five and six year old fellas and their coach and his wife and cheering parents and even louder prouder grandparents) lost our game tonight, and mine is in sort of a funk.  Half-cocked grin looking more like chagrin.  Like a I’m-not-hungry-for-dinner-y’all-go-on-ahead-with-out-me-I’ll-just-be-in-here-looking-at-the-score-book-and-line-up-for-a-minute sort of mood.  And then, when he’s FINALLY eating (honey, I made some cheesy carbs to help you feel better), kind of glazes off and takes a mental hike while he’s thinking about the game and how he coached and pitched and where it went wrong kind of spirit.  Sort of crabby even; even after eating that serotonin soaked meal I prepared.  (I know, just as shocked I cooked a meal after that game as you are, Mrs. Smart, and you don’t even know me.)  And especially crotchety because this team has beat us every darn time.

Do you know what I’m talking about?

I’m imagining you sort of do, what with that dadgum Elephant team that seems to get our G.O.A.T. goat every.single.time. in recent history.  (“Our” goat as in us– us UGA grads and fans that love our DAWGS not just the fellas and their coach and his wife and cheering parents and even louder prouder grandparents.)  I can imagine Mr. Smart isn’t feeling his best self after these kinds of losses.  And I’m telling you that I can empathize with you being that you are married to the head coach. How long does that bad mood last?

Also, what kind of snacks do you send for the team after the games?

I try to think of allergies and high fructose corn syrup contents prior to purchase.  Do you find they like cute themed snacks (like those Scooby Doo Graham crackers that look like dog bones? that would be stinking cute) or just basic bag of chips and a Gatorade?  Man, can’t those kids put down some food?!?!

I just want to know, though, how do you deal?  Especially when someone is critical of the job he is doing (not that we’ve encountered that, because you can’t complain about free)?

Knowing that your husband gives his heart and lots of cares about the fellas he coaches, and only wants the best for them?  That he wants to make sure these kids have a great time while they’re here, learn and hone some skills, and that he’s also so proud of the gains they are all making?  That his desire is to build a team who cares about each other and encourages each other in victories and (most importantly) mistakes and defeats?  That mostly he wishes that these kids have fun?  And knowing he (willfully and joyfully) volunteers hours of his time coaching and thinking strategy to get these guys to be their best selves?

(Just kidding on the volunteer part.  Your husband gets a gigantic paycheck to coach because that is his real job, and I don’t have any problem with that, but now I do want to know how good does it feel going to Target without looking at price tags outside of the Dollar Spot?  I told you I had questions!)

But seriously, I want to know.  How do you handle being his “other half” during the season?

Because I’m a coach’s wife now.  And there’s only like eight months or so to prepare until next season…

(Thanks for any advice you can toss my way.  And hopefully more in the strike zone than some of my husband’s pitching–but don’t tell him I said that!)

Sincerely,

Mrs. Head Coach’s Wife

This will come as a surprise to those that know me and have spent some time with me recently:

I went to the Masters this past week. 

(I know, I know.)

Some sixteen years ago, my husband that was still my boy-fran at the time, entered the lottery for an opportunity to win the privilege to purchase tickets to this exclusive event.  He has done so every year since without fail.  And while winning the chance remained elusive for all those many years, this past year he was selected.  For practice round tickets.

But he wasn’t mad.

After purchasing a set of four tickets and inviting two of our favorite people in the whole wide world to go with us, we waited with the anticipation of a kid waiting on Santa for Maters Eve to get here.  That excited.  That magical.

Once the time came that we were able to set our Google Maps app for Augusta, Georgia, we high-tailed it out of here.  Or tried to.  My car battery yelled “FORE” before we could even hit the road, but a jump-start and a trip to Auto Zone later, we were on the way.  An amazing dinner and even better conversation and the best bear hugs ever segued into bedtime on Masters eve.  The hubs set the alarm on his phone for EARLY o’clock (literally Siri piped up when he set it and said, “You sure about that, boy? That’s not that many hours away.” Siri knows us Parrish peeps and sleep) and I kid you not, he jumped out of bed that next morning minutes before that phone even had a chance to arouse us from our slumber.

Good morning, Augusta, Georgia!  Hello, Masters Monday!

An Uber ride and checking that we had our tickets twenty-five times and leaving our cells at our rental and lots of traffic later, we were deposited in a parking lot of a grocery store and instructed where to tread.  Our man friend with us has never walked so fast in his life (at least not in front of me), but he and his wife had been here before and they knew the drill.  So we were hoofing it to this oasis known as Augusta National along with lots of others with the same Christmas morning grins as we had and the fact that I know they were all grinning is because no one–not a one of us– had an electronic device in our hand that stole our attention.  People were actually looking at each other and making eye contact.  Legitimate eye contact, not just casual glances to ensure that there was no telephone pole about to be bumped into.

I was beginning to think that this place had to be heaven.

Upon our arrival on the grounds, I noticed this place sort of rivaled a Disney-World-ish entrance.  The grass and the azaleas and the grounds manicured just so, and nary a piece of trash to be seen, and more of the biggest grins and happiest faces greeting us with genuine cheerfulness and it was so dadgum early.  They were authentically joyful.  Peter-at-the-Pearly-Gates kind of exuberance.  And it was infectious!

Yep.  Feeling heavenly.

We were instructed to then pull out our tickets, henceforth known as “credentials,” and place them in visibility of their smiling eyes, while next entering security with the nicest checkers I’ve ever encountered.  They were jovial, even.  How does a man holding on to an AK47 in one arm with a bomb sniffing dog’s leash wrapped around the other grin like a Cheshire cat?

Because he is Peter guarding the Pearly Gates of earth’s heaven.  No meanies allowed!

As we continue to slow jog along (thanks Matt! I’m banking calories for all the egg salad and white bread that’s about to go down), the gift shop comes into view first.  We’ve been told we’ve got to do this now, because if it does happen to rain this day (as had been threatened–the devil is real, y’all) and you don’t get your swag prior to the closing of the course, you’re out of luck, because this here is the only place on the planet and the only time of the year that you can buy this stuff.  So, we enter the line for souvenirs and discover we have to enter a maze of sorts.  We turned right and left corners of the ribboned-in lines no less than 24 times and passed the same people going the opposite direction that same amount that I felt like giving them a high-five every time we met, but I dared not because that would be a little wild and wild things get escorted out of this place, and credentials revoked forever.

Anyhow, once in the shop I think I became intoxicated off of the odor as I feel sure that they have piped in some sort of Masters aroma that makes you want to spend all.of.your.dollars.  All of ’em.  Alan and I were legit like “Super Market Sweep” contestants as we snatched all the shirts and hats and coozies and band aids (well, not those because my husband made me put them back and I’m still mad because the blister on my heel that I got traipsing around the course would have been a whole lot cuter with a green band aid with a yellow US outline and flag pin on it, but I’m ok) and didn’t even look at the price tags or even pretend to add up the total for a few reasons: 1. we didn’t know when this opp would present itself again 2. marketing and peer pressure 3. we were officially ballers because something in the air told us so.  Fast forward to the checkout where everybody is still smiling, even when the sales associate lady tells you the total that takes no less than seven syllables to say before the decimal (and I didn’t hear it with my ears because I ran away and left Alan with the aftermath), with a bag so large you’re forced to ship it home.  Which we did in another line.  Cha-ching.

Next up, it was time for the restroom.  I’ve never seen such in my life.  With all of those ladies, there wasn’t a line in sight.  There were restroom attendants that opened the door for you, guided you to an available stall, and told you to have a great time as you left.  More eye contact and smiles and pleasantries.

They were angels.

Then, concessions.  Again, complete joy on the people guiding you along the lines of pimento and cheese and egg salad and drinks already poured and ready to grab.  Easier than a lunch line in a school cafeteria!  And lunch ladies that smiled, to boot.  Heaven, I tell you.  The snack prices were the complete opposite of the souvenirs.  A sandwich could be bought with what the tooth fairy might leave for a tooth and a drink for about the same– in a cup that you could take home and wash in your dishwasher! Absurdly insane considering the same sort of set up at a MLB ball game would cost a whole mouth’s worth of teeth’s spoils and then you’d still probably owe.

Clutching buck-fifty sammies and cold drinks in hands, we begin our day of walking up and down and all over God’s creation.  It was truly a surreal experience having the privilege of prancing around on this hallowed ground.  Azaleas in bloom, grass at its peak, pinestraw behaving in the flowering beds, trees that were like 3D pictures, birds that tweeted in cadence the Masters song (that one you hear on TV every time they cut to commercial, you know…), mosquitoes that said “excuse me,”…

Did y’all know heaven was green?

And while watching the golf was what we came for, that really wasn’t the stand out experience for this girl.  Sure, I love hearing the “schawack” of a driver meeting the dimpled little ball at the perfect pitch as much as the next guy, and seeing the golfers skip their balls across the water on the 16th to make it to the green, and checking out what kind of outfits the peoples were wearing (not the first time I’ve been judged vain, reader.  It’s ok.  I’m secure in my vanity), but it wasn’t these things.  It was the simplicity of this place.  Utopian, even.  No electronics, no fancy-schmancy food, no long lines, no misbehaving people–(even the jerks didn’t and not because they weren’t still jerks, either, but because they knew better than to act that way here- and I venture to say that the thought didn’t really even cross their jerky minds in this place)–it’s that sacred.  People must behave in this beauty of God’s creation for it to all flow just so and people want to…not just because there are rules that must be followed or you get your credentials revoked, but because following the rules and doing the right thing just feels right.  It feels good.  And there is joy abundant all over this place…Anyone feeling like that’ll preach?  Seriously, if you aren’t drawing some parallels here, call me and I’ll get a pen.

I mean, y’all know there’s even an “Amen Corner” there, right??

As the threat of rain was looming and we peoples had enough “tin cup” chalices to serve a wedding banquet in hand, with feet tired, senses overloaded, unerasable grins, and hearts just full up to the brim (and not just of beer and egg salad sandwiches), we started on our trek back to the Uber stand.  On our exit of this heaven with the saints all around us, we marched on into the inferiorly green, less joyful, more electrified, tail-chasing world…but with indelible memories inscribed on our mind’s eye and heart’s secret place, and with hope that we will get to go there again someday, if we’re lucky enough.

Next time, I’m buying the band aids.

***************************************************************************************

P.S.

We are lucky enough, and we all will get to go there (Heaven for the ones in the back) someday, thanks to Who we celebrated this day. 

Jesus. 

He’ll be waiting at the Amen Corner, I just know it, holding an egg salad sandwich for us.

STAT.  We’re having a Code Shiplap over here.

Hallelujah and praise the Lord, we’re slowly transitioning back to our home after Hurricane Michael stamped his seal of disapproval on it, and we couldn’t be happier or more excited or more pumped or more

S-T-R-E-S-S-E-D.

And it’s not just the logistics of moving back, because that’s a lot.  I mean, just my closet itself.  To quote one of my hub’s cousins after transporting the goods from it after the storm: “I feel like I just relocated an entire Belk’s department store.” And of course I scoffed, “pshaw!,” shortlive-d as it was, as I tripped over a pile of mangled hangers and clothes circa 2009.  (It’s good.  I purged.  I’ll never have the pre-baby body back.  Thanks, kids.  I LOVE y’all.  But y’all could have taken the snacks I fed you in utero with you on your exit.  Just sayin’.)

We’ve lived with my roommates for 5 months and some change now.   Let’s let that sink in:

WE’VE LIVED WITH MY ROOMMATES (in-laws) FOR ALMOST HALF A YEAR.

HALF A DING-DONG YEAR.*

We’re ready to be home (and I know the roomies are ready for their space back, too), so we are fully prepared for the work load that moving back in will encompass.  And while it’s really not that bad, it’s not too easy either, because there are activities that need to be done that involve drills, and screws, and putty, and paint, and all.the.things.Joanna.Gaines.

And we just.can’t.do.it, Captain.

I try.  I try.  And then I make more of a project than there was before.  My husband doesn’t appreciate this special talent of mine either.

For example: our wall paper in our bathroom was damaged during the storm.  Insurance was there and ready and willing to replace the wallpaper with its own dollars, but Betsy.

You know that story If You Give a Mouse a Cookie?  Well, interesting parallel here: If You Give a Betsy a Glass of Wine, she’s gonna want to rip off some wall paper.

(It’s a super cathartic activity, y’all, until…)

Well, that was some stuck on wall paper and it sort of took some sheet rock with it and I don’t know what kind of glue was used on the backing of that paper, but I think it’s the same compound as found in cells of cellulite on the backs of your thighs.  It’s just won’t budge without a fight. But I’ll fight, by golly.  I went to public school and I’m not giving up like that.

So watch me rip, rip, watch me pay, pay.                                                                                        (If you didn’t sing that, try it again.  Thank my barre teacher today that got the tune in my head…)

Because that’s what I did have to give up on that one.

Money money money mon-ay.  Mooon-nay.  (My barre teacher didn’t do that one, though.)

Who would have thought repairing sheet rock would have cost that?  Sorry, hon.

But lemme tell ya something.  I can drill a hole.  My middlest kiddlest needed some new curtains hung, as her birthday gift back in November when we weren’t living at home was having her bedroom re-done.  So, she  got all of the components for said revamp but hasn’t been able to enjoy it, bless it, because we haven’t been at home.  {insert middle-kid issue propaganda here} (It’s okay.  Instead of saving for her college and wedding, we’re saving for therapy…) 

So, today, I was going to put the darn curtains up and END.THE.DRAMA.

And 11 holes later, they’re hanging.  By a thread.

But I did it by golly, by muh-self.  The only drill my husband knows is a football one, and it’s ok, I love him all the same.  He’s awesome at so so many other things and I’m not going to tell all of them here lest some woman tries to come steal him out from under me.  (STOP.  STOP.  Figure of speech, people.)

He’s a real Chip off the old block.  (Joanna I NEED YOU!)

But seriously, Chip and Joanna, if you might happen to read this, come help us.  I’ve seen y’all literally convince a couple to buy a pile of sticks which you two then made into a castle and I just cannot comprehend the aura that must surround you two and I want to touch.it.in.person.  And plus, my son, the babe, LOVES and REQUESTS to watch the “Chip and Jo-Jo” show every.day.  His favorite day is demolition day, too, Chip!  He will help if y’all come over to our “fixer-upper!” The hubs will probably just watch, but he can cook for us!  And do some football drills!

Jo (I can call you Jo, right?):  Come on and help us! Bring the kids; I have a passel, too, that would love to play.  I will watch the baby.  I can change dirty diapers with my toes and eyes closed.  Alan will take Chip golfing and we’ll grill and eat some boiled peanuts.  I’ll do whatever you want…just come help.me.puhleeeeze.! We even have a magnolia tree in our yard (that survived the storm).

And when you come, could you see if Marie Kondo wouldn’t mind coming too?  I’ve got a closet that rivals Belks…

*My in-laws have been awesome and as we go to press, they still haven’t kicked us out…

 

I’m preaching to myself first.  I have recently found muhself, while perched in the bed at my roommates’ house, doing this very thing.  Sideways looking, right (and past the hunk of burning love lying next to me snoring) and left, and finding myself in the snares of the comparison trap.

“Why are they back in their house already?  I mean, we’ve been out of our house for over 4 months now.  Maybe they did a better job getting their stuff lined up.  Maybe they are more connected with construction work.  Maybe their contractor likes them better than ours does.  Maybe they…”

Somebody call the waaaaambulance.  I’m coding over here.

Recently it’s come to roost on me that a lot of us are living in those trap’s snares.  Social media posts only exacerbate the clutches of the trap, digging them in deeper and taking root in our minds with such tenacity that their weedy presence puts a choke-hold on the beauty that is poised to live there yet we allow (yes, we allow) to be buried beneath the manure of comparison.  Instagram feeds with the most beautiful of all the things and filters that mask and make a picture of a coke can a work of art, y’all and editing components that cloak truths like cellulite and wrinkles and boogs lurking in the darkness of a nostril…  Facebook with albums of  THE.most.wonderful.(trip, birthday party, gift, house, new car, fill in the blank).ever!  Like ever, ever!  And you’re not there!  And you’ll never get that!  And you didn’t get a party for your birthday!  And nor were you invited and you’re friends with at least 4 of those people in that picture!  And you can’t afford it!  And your car has dings and old french fries and moldy gold fish and old homework in it!  And your house-ah-your house got creamed by a storm and you aren’t even living in it! And now you feel like a large sack of old, used up, worthless trash that needs to be dropped off at the Goodwill after rolling around in the trunk of a car for a few months!

Doesn’t that feel amazing?  I mean, you could take on the world with the self-talk you just engaged!

Of course, I kid, kid.  But don’t you sometimes find yourself looking sideways too?  If so, I’m here to give us a pep talk.  If you said no, you are probably telling a story to yourself, or you are just some very enlightened individual bursting with self confidence and rainbows and sunshine (and the rest of us are watching you in a lateral fashion with a longing heart, feeding the weeds in our minds with the manure known as comparison…)

But seriously, y’all.  Let’s stop.

We’re not going that way.

We’re going forward.  Which means ahead.  It implies propelling, evolving, onward-ing!

And while I’ve always heard the old adage, “Don’t look backwards, you’re not going that way,” I think it applies to our peripheral vision, too.  And then quotes like, “The grass is greener on the other side because your neighbor waters it,” implies our periphery, too.  Looking right and left and what we think we see seems to look better at that angle than what we seeing right ahead of us.  And then sometimes, sometimes, looking sideways and then thinking our grass is much greener because we would never do that in our yard.  Heavens, no!!  The dog piles in our yard do NOT stink like their’s do!  Further, our dog doesn’t even poop because he’s so much better than their’s! As if!

Y’all know.  You do.  Come on.  Y’all’ve watched Hoarders:Buried Alive or Dance Moms or Intervention (or really anything in that vein of television programming) and thought the same.exact.thing.  At least once before…

I believe God gave us peripheral vision for various other reasons than comparing ourselves to others.  I think we have it for things like seeing danger coming at us so we can fight or flight– for times such as when a roach is crawling on the wall beside you at a restaurant — and we know immediately to jump up screaming and flight our fannies out of there.  Things like that.

It’s there for shopping at Target, like when a cute thing just lurches at the corner of your eye thanks to that beautiful gift of periphery and then you know you have.to.have.it.  Thank you peripheral vision for finding that adorable notebook with a cactus and the snazziest alpaca socks and the cuh-utest pair of flats that were made for someone like me!  I would have never even known they were there if it weren’t for you, side eyes.  You are the best! Yes.  Lots of use for this side gaze gift at Target.  Lots.

Parenting also employs the sideways vision. In fact, it’s probably the most useful in this role.  How else would you know that your daughter is mean mugging you on the ride to school, or that your son is grabbing a handful of candy from the pantry, or that your other daughter is creating a selfie laden music video on her electronic device, all while you yourself are doing something else parent-y?  We need the side view vision here, people.  And while looking on webmd, I discovered the medical terminology for this, and I quote, is “eyes in the back of your head.”  They are necessary weapons tools in the warfare known as parenting.

So all of this long windedness to say–let’s all try to stop looking sideways.  Let’s trust and know that the road ahead of us holds “stuff” that was created for us individually and there are many, many good, good gifts along the way.  The “stuff” in the medians isn’t for me.   It’s for someone else’s path.   And while sometimes the wildflowers growing in the someone else’s medians look awfully good and so.much.better. than the potholed road we feel we might be traveling, the curves up ahead hold something even more beautiful and better if we just keep moving forward, keeping our eyes on the road ahead.  In other words: Do you, boo.

But if you’re looking sideways, you’ll miss it.

Stop looking there because you aren’t going that way.

 

 

Bedtime in the wake of Valentine’s Day…my baby boy had crashed from the sugar mountain high he was on and was worn out.  As he lie in his bed, I bent over for a good night kiss atop his head and just breathed in deep.  Have you ever done that? Right where the hair’s “on” button is, that little swirl that begins the mop, just breathed it in so deep you almost hoover the strands right off the scalp? That’s what I did.  And that freshly shampooed head, still slightly damp, smells like what I think heaven might…just one of many aromas of heaven.  While inhaling that sweet, sweet boy’s scent (because he’s freshly bathed…sweet smell and boy are oxymoronic most times), my heart knew love and knew how beautiful it was and knew how fast time flies and knew how important this was, all in one breath.  Funny how one inhale of air felt like a lifetime of all I needed to know.  In one breath, all I needed for life.  LOVE.

These past few weeks have been, well, life.  All around me there’s been sickness, and death, sadness, and loneliness, wonder, but also laughter, and love…you know…life.  But the rhythms of it have just been a little louder, a little closer to my heart’s home as of late.  And I think these are times when I’m supposed to slow down and stop for a minute and just reflect and think and listen and, if you’re reading this, pontificate.

(Eye roll insert)

But seriously, y’all.

My husband and I lost another friend to a sickness of which I’d like a cure.  Addiction.  I’m not the only one, I know.  The rate of this disease is growing at a frighteningly alarming rate and the heartbreak and sadness and just utter… loss… for this world of these most precious souls is of a heavy nature that this mama’s heart cannot bear the weight.  It’s been said the saddest words ever penned in the English language are, “What could have been,” and I’ll testify to the truth of them.  My heart breaks when I think that his mama once smelled his sweet dark-haired head as she tucked him in, her little boy…love.  It’s just so sad.

There are billions of people on this earth: we’re more connected than ever, with devices that provide instantaneous access to humanity, places to go and see people 24 hours a day all seven of those days, and yet people still feel lonely.  We’ve got all you can eat buffets and 120 oz slurpees, and cars, and clothes, and Amazon that will deliver anything, and yet people are still empty.   There’s sunshine and rainbows, comedians and clowns, music and dogs, chocolate and naps, and TARGET, and yet with all of that happiness, people are still sad. While not an exhaustive list by any means, and in no way meaning to simplify the complexities of life, there’s one thing that ALL of this makes me think:

It’s not any of those things that people need.  People NEED love.

Which begets the question: Am I giving out the love I have to give?

And the answer is: I can do better.

Love them.  Not for who I want them to be (and what a pompous, self-righteous thought that I should be the one deciding how a person should be), not for what they can do for me, not for what I need from them. In fact: opposite.

Love them for who they are, love them for what I can do for them, love them for what they need from me.  Less self, more others.

These conclusions became a little more concise and crystallized after talking with a dear friend after the death of our mutual friend.  This girl has the biggest heart that I’m often perplexed at how it fits in her petite frame.  In a text to me she said,

“Love and kindness are literally all that matter.”

That line has been rolling around in my head and my heart since reading it…it really is truth.  I’m not meaning to imply that love can “fix” addiction or that lack of love “caused” it.  NOT AT ALL.  That would be a way oversimplification of the complexity and difficultly of the mental illness of addiction.  And I’m also not implying that love “fixes,” really, at all. But love covers.  Love is what we can do.  Love is what we need to do.  Love takes the course of action.  Love knows what to do.  Love just knows.  Love is.  Love does.

And as sappy as that sounds, and as overused the word is (not only in this blog post), I really mean it.

So, I’m going to try to do it better.  Love people.

Like the lady behind me at Wal Mart that may have not looked in the mirror before she left home (I’m not judging, I’m not…y’all should have seen me at CVS this morning…forgot to brush my teefies and all) that keeps bumping my fanny (it’s a sizeable target) with her overloaded buggy as she hollers at her toddler and tweenie that are begging for a bag of chips.  Love her and offer a fist bump in solidarity to going braless and to not letting the little people take us down.

Like the guy who is driving like his pants are on fire, all over the place and too fast, but meets me at the stop light and in my direct line of sight.  You know what I could do (yes you do, you do), but I’m going to choose love instead and smile.

Like the well coiffed middle-aged lady that side eyes me with her nose almost scraping the ceiling as I give my child his iPad and a diet coke and chewing gum after his white meal of pasta and potato chips that’s really not her business, but it’s ok.  I’m gonna love her anyway.  Even pity her a little bit, because her neck has to hurt from the nose elevation.   And for Pete’s sake.  The coke was diet!

And that man of mine.  The one that can’t find the tube of toothpaste in my Marie  Kondo-ed drawer to save his life but can find his Titeleist golf ball in a field of blooming cotton in the pouring rain without one of his contacts in.  I’m gonna love him too.  After he brushes those teeth.

Like the man sitting by himself in the large sanctuary, looking timid and a little sheepish and a little less like me and the others present and like he feels like he doesn’t belong (when he absolutely does), I’m going to love him.

Like the grieving mama, whose heart has shattered beyond repair, who sits lonely with her thoughts and feelings, who could maybe use a hug, or a meal, or just to talk about that son of hers, I’m going to love her too.

What’s all that look like? I don’t know yet, but love does.

Love and kindness are really all that matter.

 

 

Oh my lands people.  Those of you that are contemplating having children, or adding another to your brood: I am petitioning you to think on this:

The stomach bug holds no hostages.

I joke, I joke, as I wield a can of Lysol in my right hand like a mouse grips a piece of cheddar cheese, like Frodo Baggins with a (the) ring, like Tammy Faye and a wand from a tube of Mary Kay mascara; and in my left a lemon-scented Glad trash bag, roll of paper towels, pack of Ramen noodles and a plastic bottle of Gatorade: the stomach bug is sent straight from the devil himself, y’all.  It is.

To update those of y’all that care (and those of y’all that don’t, keep reading, it’s good for you), we’re still living with the in-laws (mostly because they are still letting us- and I’ll blog on my roommates when we move out so that they don’t kick us out prematurely) and chugging along on this train called life.  We know more about insurance claims than we care, know how to prepare meals for a party of seven on any given night, and understand what commune living feels like minus drinking the Kool Aide.  Sort of.  We’re soldiers, y’all.  And more of the Gatorade drinking type at this point.

War has been declared upon the Parrish compound these past two weeks.

The hubs has been riding the struggle bus these past two as a member of the pneumonia club and two of the kids have been selling Buicks for the latter and then beginning of said weeks.  And den…

Dun dun dun….another one bites the dust. Hey hey.  The third of the Parrish trio fell down hard tonight with the virus created by the most evil one. And I, the mama, am barely hanging on.  I’ve been spraying (Lysol) and praying that I don’t fall victim to it…in fact, in my wisdom, even had a glass of wine in an attempt to kill any germs that may try to invade.  (That’s what alcohol does, right?)

You know you are a parent of a stomach sick child when you eat your own dinner and contemplate how it may taste coming back up.  And then actually weigh the option of eating said meal to decide if you really want to forfeit said food for the next few months of life as you get over the taste of it as upchuck in your mouth.  You’ve done this if you are a parent and enjoy food, much as I do…

You also know you are a parent of a tummy ill child if you remove every soft surface away from the child during the dark hours.  Like child, you may sleep on this plastic covered surface with maybe one wet rag and no other items touching you except maybe, maybe the plastic handles of the lemon scented glad bag next to your face because NO ONE (not even the very mother that gave birth to you from her guts) wants to have to clean puke off of every facing of material that might surround the projectile path of vom in the middle of the night.  Just no one.  Not even the dog, who licks his own fanny.  It’s not natural, and is written in very small print of a parent’s job description.  Very small, 3-pt font. We don’t want it.  We didn’t ask for it.  But we’re still employed*…and go to sleep dreaming about how we may can take a sick day…

for real one day.  You know …

(YOU KNOW, DON’T PLAY LIKE YOU DON’T),

a day when you feel “bad.” A day when you just need to sleep without waking to an alarm clock ringtone, watch the Today show and judge all the people, and consider and contemplate just what is life, perhaps scratch the ears of the dog that licks his own fanny, and think about what life must be like with kids…

(the ones you’ll NEVER feed Chic-fil-A to or vaccinate or allow to use an electronic device or let stay up past 8)…

and then you’ll wake up selling Buicks of your own.

 

*stay-at-home moms are employed you judgy-Mcjudgersons

++As this goes to press, the author feels alright and no indications of the stomach virus are currently in sight

 

 

Right about now, I’m dreaming of a white Christmas.  That’s because every.single.thing I’ve put in my mouth recently has been that hue (or doused in red sauce, covered in chocolate, dusted with fake orange).  Pasta, rice, soups, casseroles…crunchy things, cream in an oatmeal pie…you get the idea.  White Christmas = stressful Christmas = All I Want for Christmas is Some New Blue Jeans…

I know I’m not the only one that’s feeling a little “off” this Christmas.  It’s been a rough lead up to the crescendo of this said season.  We’ve, in our neck of the woods, as many necks of woods around us have, had weather events that half knocked our woods flat down.  Literally.  Flat. Down. Hurricanes and tornadoes and flooding events…and very few things and people remain standing.  Sure, we will rebuild and we’re resilient and we’re #Albanystrong and new growth is on the horizon, but…it’s tough right now, y’all.  The wind in our sails blew away with the last gust of Michael.  And I myself am trying my very “levelled” (I’m punny, y’all!) best to harness it again.

Usually this time of the year I’m Buddy the Elf-y.  If it sits still its got a string of lights or an ornament or some greenery or a manger scene on it.  I love it.  Like love love it.  Love hanging garlands and putting up the trees and getting stressed and yelling at my family and eating lots of white things and all the things Christmas.  Love it.  The stress of it brings me joy in its own twisted way.  Stressed backwards is desserts.  Am I right?

Yet this year, we aren’t home.  My Christmas boxes (all 16: see Buddy the Elf reference above) are covered in construction dust in my attic.  Lonely little Marys and Josephs and baby Jesuses are enshrouded in their tissue from the year before, not getting unwrapped this year by the chubby, dimpled hands that will be a year less chubby and dimpled the next time they are unwrapped.  Kitschy tchotchkes will be in the dark for a year longer than normal, jolly snowman and Santas entombed in their Sterilite lidded homes this Christmas will stay obscured for the year to follow.  And it all makes me a little bit sad.

I didn’t put up a Christmas tree this year.  My mother-in-law (AKA my roommate) did, so my kids are not to be pitied too much, but we didn’t get to put up our tree.  I didn’t get to open our box of ornaments for my yearly walk down memory lane.  The handprints of my babies all glittered up, the laminated pictures of their angelic faces from years past, the Elmer-glued popsicle sticks in the shapes of stars, Rudolphs, and Christmas trees… none of those are roosting on branches this year.  Subtle reminders that years go fast and babies don’t keep and things change…my how they can change in the blink of an eye, in a storm in the night…  I am missing putting hands on and heart attuned to the ornaments my darling petite paternal grandmother used to gift me over the years.  Each year she’d give me an ornament that was representative in some way of the year that was.  She’d sign her name and my Big Jack’s name in the sweetest scrawl with a date so that we wouldn’t forget.  And every year, as I pull them out and tenderly place them on a branch, I think about her and Big Jack and memories tied to them.  And I don’t forget.  It’s the most tender part of decking the halls–remembering what I love about them and that I still do love them and remembering mostly that that’s what Christmas is all about.

Yep.  That’s what Christmas is all about.  All the love you’ve ever had, you’ve ever known, that still exists.  Because love doesn’t shrink down in measure, condensed because it’s not prioritized in the dark, quiet of our minds.  Any love that’s ever been, once poured out of your heart, never goes away.  Sure, it may be tucked away and perhaps even derelict for some time, but it’s there.  It’s there.  Love is.  Christmas is a time, my time, to remember it.  Get it out of the dusty dark spaces and put some lights and some tinsel and even some tears on it.  It’s love, y’all.  That’s what God gave us on that Christmas night.  Love in a manger in the form of a baby named Jesus.  Immanuel.  God with us.  Love poured out from Him that never goes away.  NEVER.

Perhaps this Christmas looks different for you, too.  The first Christmas without someone who leaves a gaping wound.  A literal wound.  Or even the twelfth Christmas without someone.  The wound still exists.  But so does the love, my friend.  Perhaps there aren’t any gifts under the tree.  Or there isn’t even a tree at all.  Or you just aren’t “feeling” it.  A void.  Let the love fill that vacancy.  After all, love came in to the world where there was NO VACANCY, no room at the inn.  It blazed right on in with a star marking its arrival and it can’t be extinguished, despite how far we as humans try to tuck it in the dark, look the other way, manipulate and molest the purity of it, cover the feelings of it up with some sort of temporary comfort on earth (ahem, like white stuff).                                       All of those things and still:

Love made itself home here on earth.

Love is home.  Love is home.

So, I’ll be home for Christmas.

Pass the mashed potatoes, roomie.

 

How was y’all’s Thanksgiving?

Thankful?

Hopeful?

Complete with dys”fun”ctional family?

I hope it was fulfilling, no matter the form it came.

Not only was mine fulfilling, it was filling too. Having both sets of family living in town pretty much assures that I gorge myself on TWO atomic calorie bomb meals. And I’ve told y’all before, I’m not a quitter and I’m a card holding member of the “Clean Plate Club.” And after this Thanksgiving I just might have earned myself a new position in that club: CFF. (It doesn’t stand for Chief Financial Funder…read on)

After a lovely meal at my in-laws’/roommates’ house (more on that in a blog to follow) the whole fam migrated outside to do what families do. Toss a football, scratch bellies (of the dogs, people. What were y’all envisioning?), take group shots of the grandkids, the boys, the girls, the boys that go with the girls, and dance to the likes of Cardi B., Migos, and Beyoncé. (Y’all don’t do that? I feel sorry for y’all.)

I feel it’s my duty to show this side of the family just what I’m made of. I went to Albany High. I know things. And dance moves. And the lyrics to “Baby Got Back” which I’m doing my due diligence to pass down to the generation that follows. Traditions and family history are important to share. I take this responsibility seriously.

So after teaching all the young whipper snappers and the old toots, too, just how to exactly “Back that Thing Up” (Lawsy I’m glad videography wasn’t a thing back when Alan and I got hitched many years ago. I’d never win the presidency with that jewel of a dance/karaoke/white girl rapping performance at our reception floating around), I retired inside to veg before the next meal’s reservation.

After seeing snaps taken of me after the first meal, I decided a costume change was in order. The shirt I was wearing wasn’t doing its job of hiding muh sins. So I went with a slenderizing black sack shirt so that I could impress my side of the family next.

Arriving at Mamie’s house with a steaming pot of turnip greens (with roots, duh) like a good Southern niece (courtesy of a husband that can cook, praise be), I proceeded to make my impression on my people that knew and loved me first. And amazingly still do, mostly because of things like I’m about to tell you that I do.

My aunt grabs me with what I thought was an aggressive side hug (I love her too) and slides me through a hallway, past other eyeballs, and proceeds to turn me around as if to spank me. I probably was in debt to her for one. Seriously. But then, the strangest sensation occurs where the pocket of my jeans is supposed to connect to the denim fabric with stitches that should be strong enough to hold my fanny in, BUT I COULD FEEL HER FINGER THERE INSTEAD.

This is what she and every.single.other.person.at.the.turkey.dinner.and.they.weren’t.all.related.to.me saw. (And now YOU got the privilege to see it too. Y’all weren’t ready.) Praise the Lord for full coverage leopard print underwear (they matched my shoes because I’m cool like that).

So, I’m hoping your Thanksgiving was as fantastic as mine. I literally enacted the lyrics to Young MC’s best song ever: Bust a Move.

It goes a little something like this…

Next days function high class luncheon
Food is served and you’re stone-cold munchin’
Music comes on people start to dance
But then you ate so much you nearly split your pants

No “nearly” here. I told y’all I wasn’t a quitter.

(And probably won’t be the last time I show my @&$.)

CFF (Chief Fanny Flasher) Parrish out.

(BTW, what’s for dinner?)