tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27741242442296678372024-03-13T02:51:08.908-07:00Daffodils Make the World Seem Safetami hugheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03915057800339021745noreply@blogger.comBlogger43125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2774124244229667837.post-11307501931134820422020-05-07T16:02:00.000-07:002020-05-07T16:12:34.303-07:00<div class="gE iv gt" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; cursor: pointer; font-family: Roboto, RobotoDraft, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 0.875rem; padding: 20px 0px 0px;">
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<br />
I used to think in words on paper<br />
before the cancer came<br />
Words and letters floated in my mind,<br />
Looking for a soft place to land<br />
But now the cancer<br />
The cancer, the cancer the cancer<br />
The fucking cancer<br />
And the words still light up, like fireflies<br />
that I cannot catch </div>
</div>
</div>
tami hugheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03915057800339021745noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2774124244229667837.post-64892680681830760402016-09-15T18:01:00.002-07:002016-09-15T18:09:19.158-07:00I am a Helicopter Mom. Proudly.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Last week when I took Jasmine to the DMV, the smart ass behind the counter
motioned his head towards me and asked Jasmine, "Does she always hover
like that?"<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
"Yes!" I said, "Yes I do! And we are in the right line,
right? The one where you give my baby girl a driving permit so she can hop in a
tin can and be chased around the OC by boys smoking and texting and speeding?
Not to mention all the massive, wobbly trucks barreling down the high way
changing lanes haphazardly like there's no one else on the planet! And, oh
yeah, there's this little tiny issue with the thing called DRUNKS ON THE
ROAD!"<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Actually, I didn't really say any of that. I just gave him a warning scowl
and then mumbled something about how this is my third daughter to get her
permit and I think I know what I'm doing and then I quietly took my seat in the
Nervous Parent Waiting Area.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
I hold my breath. I hold my breath to see if she passes the test. Let me be
clear, I am not an over-achiever mom. Some may say I'm even an under achiever,
5 unfinished semesters of junior college and absolutely nothing to show for it.
It's the straight up truth. I signed up, 5 times. I paid, 5 times. I picked out
classes and bought books, 5 times. And then I dropped out half way, sometimes
three quarters of the way, 5 times. I do not make brownies, I do not go to PTA
meetings and I do not volunteer at school.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
But still...I hold my breath for her. I hold my breath to see if she's
happy, if she feels good about the test. Each day, I hold my breath to see if
she accomplishes her goals and if she has grace and light for herself when she
doesn't. I hold my breath to hear if she feels strong and confident and
brave. I hold my breath to hear if she shares laughter and feels like she
belongs. And I hold my breath for all her itty-bitty parts that can seem so
big. I hold my breath to see if she feels good about her outfit, her hair,
her weight. I hold my breath and imagine I'm in the halls, at the lunch
tables, sitting in class trying to retain Algebra 2. I hold my breath to
hear if the mean girls were maybe just a little bit... after all my praying and
begging...nicer today. And I daydream about hovering in and watching over.
And I pray the Holy Spirit goes with her where I cannot. <o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
And when I pick her up, I listen and wait. I wait to hear the things
that give me permission to exhale...<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I'm
pretty sure I got most of the answers right on the quiz...I'm having a great
hair day, don't ya think mom...It was so funny at lunch when...<o:p></o:p></i><br />
<br />
And so it goes, today I will breathe.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
I can hear her now, strumming her guitar, she tells me she’s trying to learn
a new song. Her voice is gentle and powerful all at once. Innocent and wise…as
she is becoming.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
And I hover, I certainly do…<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<o:p></o:p><br />tami hugheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03915057800339021745noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2774124244229667837.post-14110461085769262016-05-04T20:28:00.000-07:002016-05-04T20:28:04.056-07:00Email Beats Phone Call
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="color: #454545; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">An email beats a call from the doctor, hands-down any day of the
week. When I woke up and saw the email from the Dermatology Center I opened it
like a kid on Christmas morning.</span><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="color: #454545; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">It said... I was free! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="color: #454545; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Well, It didn't actually say that, but what it did say was,
"Good news Tamara! Your biopsy showed NO signs of melanoma. No
further treatment is needed at this time. We will see you in August for your
check up. Have a great day!"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="color: #454545; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">A great day!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="color: #454545; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Freedom.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="color: #454545; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Sweet, sweet freedom. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="color: #454545; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Free to go to yoga.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="color: #454545; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Free to plant dahlias on my porch.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="color: #454545; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Free to go pick up Summer and help move her boxes home.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="color: #454545; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Free to go to May's graduation. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="color: #454545; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Free to plan May's wedding.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="color: #454545; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Free to hold my new baby nephew and smell the top of his
head. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="color: #454545; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Free to go to my brother's wedding in Oregon.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="color: #454545; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Free to go to the beach...<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="color: #454545; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">of course with a wee bit more rules, but no mind that...<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="color: #454545; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I am free of cancer.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="color: #454545; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="color: #454545; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Some people say that you should live one day at a time, but in Melanoma world you kinda live 3 months at a time...</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="color: #454545; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="color: #454545; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">and I'm gonna live the hell out of the next 3 months!</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="color: #454545; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="color: #454545; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Woohoo!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
tami hugheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03915057800339021745noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2774124244229667837.post-86945827339577462432016-05-02T11:03:00.000-07:002016-05-02T11:16:47.332-07:00<br />
<div class="MsoPlainText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Today is day 12 that I've been waiting for the phone to
ring. I am not afraid. For I know that no matter what my doctor says, I am
whole and I am healed and I will live forever. But most importantly I know
that, whatever happens, God is good all the time. I know this in my bones.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoPlainText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">But still, this has been a super rough 12 days. When she
did the biopsy I barely flinched. My doctor is pregnant with a baby girl and I
was busy cooing. As she removed the mole, I was preoccupied talking about baby
names and how hard it is to be pregnant through the August heat. She and I have
become good friends over this last difficult year. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoPlainText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">It wasn't til later that night when the bandaid fell off
that I gave the site a second thought. It was angry. Dark purple around the
edges and black in the middle. I gasped and Jon came into the bathroom,
examined the site, and with big eyes, put one hand over his mouth and shook his
head. We've been here before. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoPlainText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">And that's the real problem. I know the toll this takes
on my family. It throws off our family rhythm,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>it's exhausting for everyone, and it's expensive. Plus, I don't love
surgery, and after the first few days when the happy pain pills wear off, I get
cabin fever and I get whiny. I get tired of asking for a drink of water, I get
tired of needing help to get dressed and I will always be tired of needing help
to get to the bathroom. I'm the mom, and these things put me in opposite-land. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoPlainText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Also, I simply don't have time for surgery right now.
It's almost summertime, and I have wonderful plans. May graduates college this
Saturday and we have much planning to do for her wedding. Summer is coming home
from studying in the mountains for the semester. I haven't seen her since
February! Her and I have months of coffee and tea time to make up for. And my
baby sister and her husband are coming to stay with us in two weeks, from very
far across the pond, and bringing my new nephew who I have only seen in
pictures and not yet smelled the top of his sweet baby head. Plus, Jazi loves
to go to Laguna now with her friends, of course drenched in sunscreen, but I
love driving them all there, we roll down the windows and blast Aurora on the
stereo. It makes me feel like one of the girls. And in June we are traveling to
Oregon to see my brother finally wed his lovely lady of 20 years. And my other
sister and nieces and nephews are flying out from Tennessee and we have several
beach days planned.</span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"></span> </div>
<div class="MsoPlainText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I have purchased a very wide brimmed hat and a sun-protection shawl and painted my toes bright watermelon pink, so as you can see,
I simply have no time for melanoma. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoPlainText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I hope God gets my memo about this. Maybe the fall would
work better for me, I could probably squeeze it in after my birthday in
September but before Thanksgiving, or maybe even after Christmas but before the
new year, like last year's surgery. That is<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>better timing for me. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoPlainText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">But I'd really like this summer to be cancer free. Free
is such a great word. Free to splash in the waves, free to spread my toes in
the warm sand, free to eat tuna sandwiches with sweet pickles while I watch the
kids make sandcastles. You can take the melanoma out of the girl, but you can't
take the beach out of the girl.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoPlainText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I promise to where my hat.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoPlainText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I promise to where my shawl. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoPlainText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I promise to wear my sunscreen.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoPlainText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I promise.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoPlainText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">So now can the phone please ring?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
tami hugheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03915057800339021745noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2774124244229667837.post-72907966785836491712016-04-09T11:24:00.000-07:002016-04-09T11:27:08.997-07:00<span style="color: #454545; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;">I had another cancer dream last night. They always leave me groggy and unsettled when I wake.</span><br />
<div style="color: #454545; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;">
<br /></div>
<div style="color: #454545; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;">
I had a little bit of cancer at Christmas time. They say they got it all, but my dreams still worry. </div>
<div style="color: #454545; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;">
<br /></div>
<div style="color: #454545; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;">
In
last night's dream, my stitches were growing out of my chest and belly
like unruly old-man grey hairs. I was trying to tweeze them, but they
were thin and wiry and moving like seaweed under the waves.</div>
<div style="color: #454545; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;">
<br /></div>
<div style="color: #454545; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;">
At
the roots, where they crept through my skin, were tiny rivers of blood
and Jon was angry with me for making them fester. I tried to cover the
sites with bandages, but the stitches weaved their way up through the
gauze, along with tiny patches of blood. </div>
<div style="color: #454545; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;">
<br /></div>
<div style="color: #454545; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;">
The
thing is, it's been almost 4 months, but my stitches are really still
in there. They were supposed to dissolve, but my body always spits them
out for years after any incision. I know this because these last two
surgeries make 12 spots where they have cut at me. And when I run my
hand over the scars, they are lumpy and pokey and sore. </div>
<div style="color: #454545; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;">
<br /></div>
<div style="color: #454545; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;">
But
they really did say they got it all...at least for now. And I have been
living, really living as deeply and honestly and creatively and
thankfully as much as I possibly can. </div>
<div style="color: #454545; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;">
<br /></div>
<div style="color: #454545; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;">
My
mind moves slower, stays longer to meditate on the gifts that surround
me. Jasmine's cheek. I touch it with the back of my hand and it is still
as soft as when she was a baby. </div>
<div style="color: #454545; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;">
Music is ridiculously soothing, seeping into every part of me and making me whole. </div>
<div style="color: #454545; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;">
Fresh bread and butter and strawberry jam have changed my life.</div>
<div style="color: #454545; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;">
And
oh how I wish you could see the rain falling on the purple pansies on
my porch right now, they're wiggling like happy puppies in a garden hose
as they drink in the water.</div>
<div style="color: #454545; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;">
<br /></div>
<div style="color: #454545; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;">
People
say, "it's the little things" and it's the truest of truths. It can be
that the little thing is the worst of all things, a little bit of
cancer. It could be the end of the world, and somewhere inside me, when I
try to sleep, my body likes to tell me that.</div>
<div style="color: #454545; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;">
<br /></div>
<div style="color: #454545; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;">
But
it's morning now, and joy comes in the morning. And I am awake now and
in charge of my thoughts. And for this moment, I am thinking of my warm
cup of coffee and my husband's silly morning hair and the rain outside
that our dry land so desperately needs.</div>
<br />tami hugheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03915057800339021745noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2774124244229667837.post-24759203039314555962015-11-16T17:20:00.000-08:002015-11-16T17:28:37.631-08:00Park Day<br />
"...but I'm free!"<br />
She says to me<br />
"My sandcastles<br />
my walls<br />
have all been<br />
taken by the sea<br />
and I'm really free!"<br />
<br />
And the way <br />
the sunlight <br />
catches in her long lashes<br />
I know it's true<br />
I am quiet,<br />
for seeing <br />
where Jesus <br />
has come<br />
deserves a pause<br />
a breath...<br />
<br />
and her laughter<br />
carried in the wind<br />
is water and food<br />
where I am<br />
hungry<br />
<br />
"to be continued..."<br />
she says<br />
A teared smile and a kiss<br />
the little ones<br />
are waiting...<br />
in flower halos<br />
<br />
<br />tami hugheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03915057800339021745noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2774124244229667837.post-30258849882615975602015-07-27T09:58:00.003-07:002015-07-27T09:58:46.101-07:00 some early morning thoughtsThank God for fall. Things will again be tethered to rhythms and golden leaves and school bells. In years past, summer has been my reprieve, my freedom, but this year, it's only mid July and the long days and relentless sun have worn me down. There has been too much unsettled, too much unknown, too many ghosts to chase.<br />
<br />
My babies are grown, almost. But as their long tanned legs drape over the couch and coffee table, their deep worried sighs carry that angst of being trapped between child and adulthood. There are relentless pressures on them these days. Who they will become, what they will do, who they will love. I know they feel untethered too. I know they need to still belong to Jon and I but long to find their own way too.<br />
<br />
It's an anxious place. We rise with racing minds, fumble through the days and meet pillow again with monkey mind. <br />
<br />
It was easier when they were small, and I knew it. Beach time, tuna sandwiches and a nap under the umbrella. When they awoke the ocean air lifted white hairs from their sweaty necks as they yawned in my lap. We spent long hours watching the waters crash on the shore under the pink setting sun.<br />
<br />
But it's all so disorienting now. Everone is going their seperate ways. Spreading their still fuzzy feathered wings and perching at the edge of the nest. One..two...three... and a flight of faith. I want them to fly. I want them to fly so very, very high. But I don't want them to fall...although they will. And odds are I won't be there to catch them. <br />
<br />
At 19 and 20, so much of them is no longer mine. I can still coddle the baby a bit, but at 14 she is 3 inches taller than me and already in many ways, wiser. I know I will always be Mom, they will still come to me in peppered moments of life, but nothing will ever again be as consistant and simple as bathtime... booktime...bedtime. tami hugheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03915057800339021745noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2774124244229667837.post-85092381218506988042015-06-16T10:28:00.001-07:002015-06-16T10:33:39.007-07:00wee poem<br />
Fire had blackend the land and ash swirled in the sky<br />
Dirty rain poured down and made tiny dark rivers on the broken land<br />
As we walked, the filth sloshed between our toes <br />
The smell of dead things rose from the ground<br />
<br />
We kept walking, our eyes burning...we kept walking<br />
<br />tami hugheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03915057800339021745noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2774124244229667837.post-38361581209338581632015-05-01T08:40:00.000-07:002015-06-07T22:35:39.436-07:00Humanness <br />
People are experiential. In the same way that we buy tickets for the experience of hearing someone sing in a concert or dance on a stage, every person we encounter, each child of God, we experience them, as they pack up our groceries or sit next to us at the taco place or sweat it out on the mat next to us. We feel them, we feel them as energy, we feel when someone is afraid or angry or frustrated. We can feel their joy too, their hopefulness, their bright company. And we say, "I feel you," when we look each other in the eye.<br />
<br />
This is most true when it's someone that we love. It is not the clothes they wear or even the things that they say, but rather how they move through the house, how they open a window, their footsteps in the hall. It's how they smell and how they hum in the shower and how their body brings warmth. God did this perfectly, this communion of the spirit, that fills the empty spaces.<br />
<br />
There is no fame or fortune or far away land or drink that soothes the soul nearly as well, as the hand of someone who loves you on your back.<br />
<br />
People are God's greatest gift to us, over every sunset, over every mountain range and river bend. It's the miracle of flesh and blood. With each new born baby, the Heaven's rejoice and trumpets sound. Sometimes we forget about this, when those babies grow up and cut us off on the highway or become annoying neighbors. And it is so disorienting when those babies grow up and do evil things.<br />
<br />
But even still, the endless value of humanness does not change. And what each person brings is so intricately created and unique. How is it possible that there are no two fingerprints alike?<br />
<br />
So I think the goal here, at least as I see it, is to try and be gracious when that newborn baby cuts me off or plays their music too loud. And then to carve out the time, hand the doorman my ticket, sit quietly in the theater, whether that be home or grocery store or taco place, and as the curtains open, silence my cellphone, look up and see... as the people in front of me... sing and dance...miracles that they are.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />tami hugheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03915057800339021745noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2774124244229667837.post-38715870004592167012015-03-31T14:16:00.002-07:002015-06-02T09:21:55.957-07:00March 2015, The Month of Serendipity <br />
<br />
This past month has been nearly flawless. Yesterday totally sucked, I'll get to that part later, but I am still going to call March of 2015 the Month of Serendipity.<br />
<br />
It was crazy good, in some big ways but in all the tiny little details too. The days unfolded before me like that scene in the movie where Marilyn Monroe is gliding through a sea of men in tuxedos and being lavished in diamonds and squealing at the Cartier's and Tiffany's as she's belting out "diamonds are a girl's best friend." But screw the diamonds, I've been squealing over spring's bursting jasmine and this wild tree in front of my house that is blooming like never before.The tree has lived here as long as we have but we have never seen such flowers on it. The branches are weighing heavy with pure white blossoms and carpeting the path underneath. Even the neighbors have come over to ooh and ah at it's glory.<br />
<br />
But more importantly, I've been belting out about Jesus. He's done a New Thing in me. A while back, my sister in law Jif started praying a scripture over me. She read it to me at some point when I was still neck deep in fear and confusion. But already knowing the scripture in my head, I mumbled off a quick thank you and then returned promptly to my mire.<br />
<br />
The scripture is Ephesians 3:16-19, "<span class="text Eph-3-16" id="en-NIV-29268">I pray that out of His glorious riches<sup class="crossreference" data-cr="#cen-NIV-29268A" data-link="(<a href="#cen-NIV-29268A" title="See cross-reference A">A</a>)"></sup> He may strengthen you with power<sup class="crossreference" data-cr="#cen-NIV-29268B" data-link="(<a href="#cen-NIV-29268B" title="See cross-reference B">B</a>)"></sup> through His Spirit in your inner being,</span><span class="text Eph-3-17" id="en-NIV-29269"><sup class="versenum"> </sup>so that Christ may dwell in your hearts<sup class="crossreference" data-cr="#cen-NIV-29269D" data-link="(<a href="#cen-NIV-29269D" title="See cross-reference D">D</a>)"></sup> through faith. And I pray that you, being rooted<sup class="crossreference" data-cr="#cen-NIV-29269E" data-link="(<a href="#cen-NIV-29269E" title="See cross-reference E">E</a>)"></sup> and established in love,</span> <span class="text Eph-3-18" id="en-NIV-29270">may have power, together with all the saints, to grasp how wide and long and high and deep<sup class="crossreference" data-cr="#cen-NIV-29270G" data-link="(<a href="#cen-NIV-29270G" title="See cross-reference G">G</a>)"></sup> is the love of Christ,</span><span class="text Eph-3-19" id="en-NIV-29271"><sup class="versenum"> </sup>and to know this love that surpasses knowledge<sup class="crossreference" data-cr="#cen-NIV-29271H" data-link="(<a href="#cen-NIV-29271H" title="See cross-reference H">H</a>)"></sup>—that you may be filled<sup class="crossreference" data-cr="#cen-NIV-29271I" data-link="(<a href="#cen-NIV-29271I" title="See cross-reference I">I</a>)"></sup> to the measure of all the fullness of God."</span><br />
<span class="text Eph-3-19"></span><br />
<span class="text Eph-3-19">I must have read those words a thousand times in the last twenty years, I'm sure I spouted them off more than once to one friend or another whilst trying to sound deep and super spiritual.</span><br />
<br />
But now, I <em>know </em>these words in my heart...and they know me.<br />
<br />
Ut oh, I feel another tattoo coming on.<br />
<br />
Earlier this month I tattooed Isaiah 43:18-19 on my wrist. I know, I know, scandalous! My kids were shocked. I have always forbidden them from getting tattoos. Like super forbidden, like I-won't-pay-for-college-if-you-get-a-tattoo-forbidden. But now I may have to re-evaluate my rules.<br />
<br />
Isaiah 43:18-19, " Forget the former things; do not dwell on the past. See I am doing a New Thing! It springs up now, Do you not perceive it? I will make a way in the wasteland and streams in the desert."<br />
<br />
Almost 5 years ago God gave me this verse seven times in ten days. I know that sounds crazy but it's true. It just kept coming to me, the first time, it leapt off the page at me during a bible study with such weight that I called Jon at work to read it to him. He was working at a super crappy low-paying job at the time and was quiet on the other end of the phone.<br />
<br />
Later that day I bumped into my neighbor Elisha and told her about the verse. The whole neighborhood was knee deep in the recession at the time and the verse was very encouraging to her as well.<br />
<br />
The next day I went sobbing to a local church that has a prayer room. It's a beautiful place, a candle lit room with pillows scattered on the floor. You don't need an appointment, you don't even have to say anything. You just lie down on a pillow and people will come and lay hands on you and pray for you. I was crying so hard I just collapsed on the first pillow I saw. Things hadn't been going so well. Like everybody else, we were broke, in fear of losing our house, Jon and I were fighting all the time and it seemed like each of our kids had insurmountable challenges going on. And then there was the whole part of my heart that deeply believed I would never be good enough, that I wasn't really a child of God and that one day I would surely go mad and ruin the lives of everyone I love.<br />
<br />
A woman with a soft voice put her hands on my back and soothed me as I whimpered hunched over like a child in a schoolyard. I don't even remember what she prayed, I just knew the Holy Spirit was there. And eventually I began to catch my breath as I rested my head on the pillow. She sat with me for a few moments and then she said I could lay there as long as I like and she went to pray with someone else on a nearby pillow.<br />
<br />
After a little bit, I rubbed my eyes clear, tucked my hair behind my ears and got up to leave. But as I walked to the door, the lady who prayed for me, stopped me.<br />
<br />
"Oh, wait sweetie," she says, "God wants me to give you something," and she hands me a thin piece of paper, pre-cut and pre-typed. #2<br />
<br />
I raced home and showed the paper to Elisha, "Wow," she says, "God really wants you to hear that."<br />
<br />
We laughed and marveled at the coincidence and then I went inside to start dinner.<br />
<br />
But first I checked my email and then got stuck in some rabbit whole on the internet. I don't even remember what I was looking up...but #3 the verse came flashing across the computer screen. I stood up and held my hand over my mouth.<br />
<br />
Then I picked up the phone and called Elisha.<br />
<br />
"Come over" , I said.<br />
<br />
"Are you okay?" she asked.<br />
<br />
"Just come over", I repeated.<br />
<br />
When she got here I was standing about ten feet back from my computer and I just pointed.<br />
<br />
We just stood there quietly in awe for several moments.<br />
<br />
Then the next day it was again repeated in my bible study, #4, I just chuckled to myself and said, "Okay God, I hear you."<br />
<br />
But apparently He wasn't totally sure I did because a couple days later, my mother in law called me and she says, "Ya know, Tami I heard the best sermon on Sunday and I was totally thinking about you. It was on the verse...#5. <br />
<br />
Then the next day I bump into my friend Sylvia and she says to me, no joke, she says" You know what verse has really been speaking to me lately?" #6<br />
<br />
Then I went to my women's group, and of course the verse they were studying that day...drumroll please...#7<br />
<br />
Yeah, so now I tattooed it on my arm.<br />
<br />
But the grueling work God has been doing these past five years was no slight thing. So many days I pounded my fists on my bedroom floor saying, "No God, No! I do not perceive it! I do not perceive a new thing, I feel stuck in the same old crap and the same old fears!"<br />
<br />
I fought Him hard. <br />
<br />
And I also fought several demons...<br />
<br />
and then I gave up. I gave up fighting...<br />
<br />
and then for a while there, I even gave up hoping.<br />
<br />
And I felt like I was left with nothing. The story of the verses from Isaiah given to me seven times, fading and still not really making much sense.<br />
<br />
Jon eventually got a better job and gratefully we didn't lose our house, and the stuff with the kids worked out, but of course there's always new stuff. So life remained that ebb and flow of good and bad days, but still so many fearful days where my heart felt hard and always exhausted. And even on good days, I never felt like I was fully engaged, I felt like an outsider in my own life. But still... I pressed on, catching the glimpses of hope in my children or in nature or in art, but always still just waiting for that other shoe to drop.<br />
<br />
But then something changed, this month on March 1st, my heart re-opened. I don't really know how else to describe it. I wish I could tell you a formula or tell you where to buy a magic potion, but it is truly nothing short of a miracle. It wasn't something I did or conjured up, it just happened, it happened to me. <br />
<br />
I was standing in church barely singing, believing still the lie that I will never be good enough and that I don't belong and that I was probably already going mad and surely destined to ruin the lives of everyone I love, and then I started to weep uncontrollably and I couldn't catch my breath...<br />
<br />
...and then it stopped.<br />
<br />
The lies stopped, they just stopped.<br />
<br />
And I heard the truth.<br />
<br />
And I realized... I am the New Thing! My heart is a New Thing! <br />
<br />
And all these years, these long quiet years... He has been reshaping my heart to fully receive Him, without restraints. I had so many restraints, so many conditions. And he has been taking my broken parts, the parts that really scared me...shamed me...confused me...the old things... and replacing them with ways in the wastelands and streams in the desert... <br />
<br />
So that, I could be rooted and established in love...so that I may know...and not just know it in my head, but in my heart, my whole heart...how wide, how long, how deep and high is the love of Christ, that surpasses all understanding... that I may be filled to the measure of all the fullness of God!<br />
<br />
Man, heart surgery hurts! And it takes too long!<br />
<br />
But now everything feels brighter, lighter, the spell has been lifted. Satin can't use that lie anymore, He's been exposed. I belong. I am a New Thing. I am Loved. I am a child of God.<br />
<br />
I jokingly said to my sister in law, "I think I became a Christian!" She had a good laugh. But that's how fresh it feels, like that day twenty-five years ago when I wandered into that Calvary Chapel and became born again. Now, I'm born again...again!<br />
<br />
<br />
(oh, and never mind about yesterday, it doesn't matter anymore.)tami hugheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03915057800339021745noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2774124244229667837.post-46215728487361342812015-03-11T16:37:00.000-07:002015-03-11T18:28:15.706-07:00Meghan<br />
<br />
My friend Elisha invited me to her daughter's grave. She went yesterday and texted me from the site. She said that she would love for me to come with her sometime because it would be sort of like I could meet a part of her. She said, "kind of like how we like to show off our kids cause of how proud we are of them."<br />
<br />
My heart swelled. I met Elisha a few years after her daughter had died and several years since mine had died. Our friendship met deep from the start as we bonded in sorrow and longing for our daughters in Heaven.<br />
<br />
Today would have been her daughter's 18th birthday. There should have been 18 parties, 18 cakes, 18 candles, but the virus took her before she even saw her first.<br />
<br />
Yesterday, before she went to her grave, she stopped at the cemetery gift shop. She says she rarely stops there, even though the people there are warm and they place nice music, there is a smell in the shop that is unsettling. She bought a small jar of oil and a dusting cloth and a handful of bright yellow daises. She said the flower petals reminded her of baby's slender fingers.<br />
<br />
She told me how she knelt down in the grass, and with her finger, traced each letter of her daughter's name... Meghan Noelle Towles... She dusted the letters with the cloth and rubbed the oil deep into the stone until it shone in the sunlight. She wept heart-washing tears as she retrieved the water from the spout and placed the daises in the ground. She lay at the grave and told her daughter about good things...great things...how she and daddy were still married, still in love and how she had two more brothers now. <br />
<br />
She told me that she thought it would make Meghan happy and proud to know that her family was still intact in this complicated old world.<br />
<br />
It was noisy at the cemetery. There was construction going on just behind the hill near Mehgan's grave. But Elisha said she didn't mind, because the hammering and voices of the crewman were the sound of life happening. <br />
<br />
This morning over coffee Elisha and I talked about Heaven. She said she would be lost without it.<br />
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We are all lost without it. It is where life is happening. Sure we get glimpses of it here, wonderful glimpses even, in our children, in friendship, in nature and in art.<br />
<br />
But there is still so much darkness, so much death.<br />
<br />
But in Heaven... Meghan is alive! All the babies are alive there...and they will never die. No one will ever die there, no more sorrow, no more death.<br />
<br />
Imprinted on Meghan's gravestone are the words of Jesus, "Blessed are the pure of heart, for they will see God." <br />
<br />
See God! Meghan sees God!<br />
<br />
I can't even begin to grasp that. <br />
<br />
But I can see it in Elisha's eyes, the quiet knowing of a mama that she will see her baby girl again. It's undeniable. So much of Elisha's spirit is so obviously trapped between this world and the next.<br />
<br />
And maybe that's just where we are all supposed to be...<br />
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tami hugheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03915057800339021745noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2774124244229667837.post-25452861296324894142014-12-21T14:56:00.001-08:002014-12-23T06:38:39.245-08:00December<br />
<br />
I went for a walk this morning. It was hard. My body didn't feel up to it, it rarely does. But while my full house breathed deep and heavy, I pulled May's college sweatshirt over my head, and tip-toed out the front door. I love mornings, you wouldn't think this was true, because I do own a mug that says in bold black letters, "Good F-ing Morning", but really I do think mornings are absolutely lovely, I just also happen to think the mug is funny.<br />
<br />
It was kind of a hazy morning. Winter in California doesn't really know what it wants to be. The honeysuckle and jasmine are always so confused. Just when you see snowy peaks over the Inland Empire, a string of days will come so bright and warm that random blossoms will spring from the greyest of vines.<br />
<br />
I stuck my nose deep in the yellow of a honeysuckle this morning. I inhaled the velvety sweetness and closed my eyes. I wanted so badly to pick it, stuff it into the pocket of May's sweatshirt, so I could take it out and smell it later. But it was all alone out there this morning, peeking out from it's wiry branch, and I thought it best to leave it for the next passerby. Although, I don't know if many of my fellow morning trail blazers would crouch down, booty in the air, eyes closed, face pressed into this quiet solo bloom, but one has to hope.<br />
<br />
It's four days before Christmas and the faces of my community are mostly friendly but also frantic and tired, and I'm sure mine reflects the same. We are all doing our best to be merry in this season. Along the way, people pass me a lot, I walk slow, but I keep hearing Annie Lamott telling me, "One does what one can, one does what one can..." She is so good to me. I practiced grace for my legs, they kept going, they were good to me this morning too.<br />
<br />
I walk in flip-flops, my wide-spread German feet need to breathe, only my dad really gets this. So I trade blisters for shin splints, but my feet hug the earth and I think this connects me more to God.<br />
<br />
And I had so much to talk to Him about this morning. My kids, my friends, my husband, my siblings, my mom, my dad, the general state of the universe. My head was so foggy, blurred by the traffic and the shopping and the wrapping and the hoping of the last few weeks. I asked God to put a song in my heart but nothing really came, so I just kept on walking and breathing, step after step and eventually some of the holiday anxiety lifted.<br />
<br />
As I came to the end of my walk, I rounded the corner near the bottom of my street and a butterfly crossed my path and landed on one of the square bushes that lines the trail. I have never seen a butterfly like it before. It was magnificent. It was sort of a blend of copper and mulled wine, like it was a holiday-themed butterfly. It sat still on a leaf, wings spread wide, displaying it's intricate beauty, shimmering in the light and a wild contrast to the bland backdrop of trees and bushes.<br />
<br />
I immediately thought of my friend Julie, I think if she was a butterfly, that's the kind she would be.<br />
She's Italian and passionate and smart and witty. And she sparkles in all the right ways, not show-offy, just talented and kind and dedicated to God and her husband and her kids. She is my Jewel.<br />
<br />
And then I started to cry. And God stopped me in my tracks. I said out loud, "I just want to be a bush." And then I said it again, "Do you hear me God? I just want to be a bush!"<br />
<br />
He said no.<br />
<br />
And I realized something about myself that may not be a new realization, but when God reflects something back at me from His creation, I tend to take notice.<br />
<br />
I've always wanted to be a bush. I work really hard at trying to be a bush, to just blend in to the backdrop, to be "normal". Hah!<br />
<br />
But now I'm thinking maybe that's not really what God wants me to be.<br />
<br />
Maybe God wants me to be a butterfly, like my Jewel. Maybe God wants me to spread my wings a bit...show off my intricate beauty... and maybe even fly...maybe He's got colors all picked out just for me...and maybe, I too...will shimmer in the light. <br />
<br />tami hugheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03915057800339021745noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2774124244229667837.post-59552184720725442002014-09-30T18:02:00.000-07:002014-12-23T06:42:47.017-08:00I bleed a lot. I always have, and I'm not really sure why. Every doctor seems to have a different opinion. But the flow is heavy and it can be super painful. From the loss of blood, my body has become depleted. A few times a year I go in for an IV drip of iron. It's so expensive. As I sit and watch the black liquid poor into my vein, I think of all the things I could have bought, all the things my girls need, all the bills I could have paid.<br />
<br />
<br />
When I'm bleeding super heavy, I seem a little bit crazy. I can't focus, I can't finish my thoughts. I don't understand the things people are saying around me. I get tired and irritable. It's embarrassing. And its so gross.<br />
<br />
<br />
Sometimes it can cause terrible nightmares. Last night I dreamt I had lost my glasses and I couldn't see and someone had stolen my purse and my license and my phone. There was a man sitting between me and my children. I called to them saying, "Girls, call Daddy, I can't see anything, tell him to pick us up, I've lost my purse." The man started yelling at me and threatened to call the police if I came any closer. "What are you talking about?" I said, "These are my kids." The man started dialing 911. Then the man called someone else and told them he'd called the police and to please pray for the children because their mom was crazy. I called out to my babies, "Girls, you have to call Daddy, I've lost everything!" They just stared down at their phones. The man laughed. "No!" I shouted, "This isn't right!" The man's laugh grew louder. "Nope, nope, no way!" I yelled as I pointed my finger at his face. "This isn't real, my children wouldn't treat me this way, you're not real, this is a dream!" And poof, I awoke.<br />
<br />
<br />
I went to the bathroom to bleed some more. Then I grabbed my glasses and my bible and went to the couch. I wanted to read about the miracle of when Jesus healed the bleeding woman. I began to read in Mark, and I read, "she had suffered many things from many physicians. She had spent all that she had and was no better, but rather grew worse."<br />
<br />
<br />
And I cried. I cried because I realized that the miracle wasn't really about the healing. The miracle was that... He saw, that He sees me, that He knows when I'm bleeding, when I'm hurting. He knows. That's the miracle. Emanuel, that's the secret! He knows each tear that falls. The miracle is His compassion. Emanuel. Emanuel. Emanuel. God loves me...and today it feels brand new.<br />
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tami hugheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03915057800339021745noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2774124244229667837.post-45227466451042633502014-08-27T10:37:00.002-07:002014-08-27T11:06:01.910-07:00Summer<br />
<br />
The summer flowers in my pots are blown out and wild. Save only one young green shoot that has sprung up through the leftovers of July's glory. I remember planting it many months ago. I had picked up the bag of bulbs for a dollar, knowing at the time it was well past their planting season. But I shoved them deep in the soil anyway, under summer's chamomile and lavender, with the hopes of maybe a few blooms in the spring. But this early one is such a sweet surprise. I have been watching it unfold throughout the week, in between the endless trips to Target and the mall.<br />
<br />
<br />
"Oh, mom, I forgot to get...and what if I need...and do you think my dorm will have?"<br />
<br />
<br />
So we make the list and off we go again. My Summer is my planner, my prepared girl. She could live on an island for a year, from the boxes of supplies stacking up in our garage.<br />
<br />
<br />
"Sweetie, you are only an hour away, if you forget something, I can bring it to you," I tell her.<br />
<br />
<br />
But I don't think she can hear me. I can see the wheels turning in her mind. She hasn't really been here for weeks now. So much of her is already there, walking the pathway's to her classes, lost in all those daydreams of what is to come, and come ever so quickly they will.<br />
<br />
<br />
Tomorrow, 9am.<br />
<br />
<br />
It is no surprise to me that in this morning's warm sunlight, that young green shoot is in full bloom. It is also no surprise to me that it is yellow. Eighteen years ago I brought my little Summer baby home in yellow. It has always been her color, my sunshine girl.<br />
<br />
<br />
Soon I will clean out the pots on my porch and make room for falls wine and wheat colored mums. I will shake out the dried sprigs of chamomile and lavender and the wind will carry their seeds away. I pray they will land and take root somewhere kind. They have quite a journey to brave. They will have to hide from the militant gardener, with his ceaseless noise polluting blower. I'll never understand the need to push leaves around with a bossy machine, when God does a pretty decent job of it all on His own, swirling the fallen shades of gold and red in the Autumn breeze.<br />
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<br />tami hugheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03915057800339021745noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2774124244229667837.post-86491107273902640022014-08-24T10:07:00.000-07:002014-08-24T10:16:40.585-07:00The SeaTick, tock goes that mean old clock. One, two, three and four... and then no more. My little LuLu stretches big under the covers, in her boxed-up room. The past few days her heart has raced and teeter-tottered between joy and thrill to nausea and fret. She fears she will have no friends. My sparkling girl.<br />
<br />
<br />
This Sabbath morning the house is full and still deep in slumber. A chorus of deep and slow melodic breathing sounds out from every room. Even the couch cradles two baby girls with scraps of midnight crafts scattered half finished on the coffee table. Just like thirteen year olds at a sleep over, but they're not. They are twenty and spent the late hours of the night creating pintristy decorations for October's wedding. Lace will be the first baby girl to marry come this fall.<br />
<br />
<br />
And in six days, another adventure begins for my May. Hah! Was she ever really mine? Up, up, up, and away, her wings stretch like an eagle... and she soars, oh sweet Lord, she soars! And even though my tired and fragile heart rattles around in my chest, I accept that her mission is bigger than mama and any attempts to tether her would wound those beautiful wings. But I will have grace on myself, I will not let Shame accuse me in my episodes of worry.<br />
<br />
<br />
My Jasmine, who is in all perceptions, still sort of mine, starts high school tomorrow. Each day her petals delicately unfold into loveliness and leave behind the baby bud she used to be. And now comes dances and football games...and boys!<br />
<br />
<br />
And the man who holds us all stirs behind me. Rest is a hot commodity for this sweet guitar playing hippy boy turned Vice President in a tie.<br />
<br />
<br />
And the sea...<br />
<br />
<br />
still touches the shore and recedes...<br />
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and repeat, repeat, repeat...<br />
tami hugheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03915057800339021745noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2774124244229667837.post-20047288041345504392014-08-11T08:48:00.004-07:002014-08-11T20:54:30.544-07:00Sunday<br />
<br />
I trace my fingers over the words <br />
<br />
<br />
...<em>love one another, as I have loved you...</em><br />
<em><br /></em><br />
My lip trembles<br />
<br />
<br />
I press in...<br />
<br />
<br />
with fear<br />
<br />
<br />
so much fear.<br />
<br />
<br />
The band plays...<br />
<br /><br />
<em>Go before me, through the valley</em><br />
<em><br /></em><br />
<em>Speak to me, for I know your voice.</em><br />
<br />
<br />
Do I?<br />
<br />
<br />
<em>Lead me homeward, gentle Shepherd,</em><br />
<em><br /></em><br />
<em>God of love, God of grace.</em><br />
<em><br /></em><br />
Tap, tap, tap...<br />
<br />
<br />
goes the knock at my door.<br />
<br />
<br />
and with fear<br />
<br />
<br />
so much fear...<br />
<br />
<br />
I look to see if He's still there.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />tami hugheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03915057800339021745noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2774124244229667837.post-57797047400800920362014-05-23T11:16:00.000-07:002014-05-23T11:51:49.312-07:00Just Another Day in MayIt's too quiet here...again. The stretches have been peppered in over the past few years, while at dance practices and friend's houses, but the inevitable long stretch of silence is within days and I'm finding it hard to catch my breath.<br />
<br />
<br />
May stirs in her bed, her last sleeping-in day before the early rise of her summertime job. I try to type quietly as to not disturb her in her sand-in-the-hourglass morning of rest. She leaves Monday for the mountains, the kids at Camp Pondo need her, she tells me with a smirk.<br />
<br />
<br />
Summer is at school for her very last Friday ever of high school, next Friday she will graduate and next Saturday she will be on a plane to visit a long lost friend in a distant land. And come ever-so-quickly in the fall, she's off to college. <br />
<br />
<br />
I will pour myself joyfully into Jasmine the next four years and savor her still-left moments of being a young girl. But the opening ceremonies of this season of her life are upon us. Today I will only see her for an hour, I will pick her up from school and than drop her off at a sleepover birthday party.<br />
<br />
<br />
and so it begins...<br />
<br />
<br />
But I hate the term "empty nest". It's so dismissive of my continuing job description. May's first year at college she called me three to four times a week in the middle of the night. I'd awake in a panic assuming the worst.<br />
<br />
<br />
"Hi mom, I wanted to tell you about my classes today."<br />
<br />
<br />
And as I settled into my pillow and listened to her soft voice, I remembered college kids keep all hours...just like newborns.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="border-image: none;">
So I'll tend to the nest, weave in new leaves and grasses, branches and scavenged yarn. I'll keep it warm and open. </div>
<br />
<br />
<div style="border-image: none;">
And I'll keep my eyes lifted to the sky...because I know their wings will always fly them home.</div>
<div style="border-image: none;">
<br /></div>
<div style="border-image: none;">
<br /></div>
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tami hugheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03915057800339021745noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2774124244229667837.post-9134909446452968202014-03-28T11:55:00.000-07:002014-03-28T12:09:46.570-07:00Hope Abounds<br />
<br />
All was lost. There was no more breath. The enemy had ravaged through the land, like locusts, leaving a dry and barren desert. Hurt and bitterness had consumed the sweet rhythms of the heart.<br />
<br />
It had been nearly five years since I had heard the laughter of my dear old friend...twelve...since I had seen my sister's smile.<br />
<br />
The smell of gunfire still in the air, the enemy had won the battle.<br />
<br />
<br />
And left only was the ache and the empty space where there was once flesh and blood, flesh and blood made in the image of God. The mind races, loops over the conversations, the ugly words. One tries to zip themselves tight, shut out the memories of kindnesses and rescue...but then a song plays or the scent of Tuberose wafts through...and the heart sinks, the belly turns.<br />
<br />
<br />
And in the darkness of night there is no rest... <br />
<br />
<br />
But then on a seemingly average day...a letter arrives in the mail...or a phone call is made...and suddenly there is breath once again... and rivers of heart-washing tears replenish the land. New growth cracks through the hard surface. And where there was death, there is now new life. <br />
<br />
<br />
Resurrection.<br />
<br />
<br />
I had forgotten about Grace. The miraculous and<br />
transcending magic of Grace. The Grace that means that no one is ever really lost...and that Hope abounds.<br />
<br />
<br />
My daffodils have been chanting this at me for several weeks now, as they stretch tall through the sea rocks I had scattered above them last September.<br />
<br />
<br />
I know as they push through the heaviness of the stones, it will make them stronger. And their bright shining faces will turn towards the Son in a grand celebration of life. It's been a long time coming. The winter was cold and dark and had no foreseeable end. <br />
<br />
<br />
But now I bathe long in the sweetness of forgiveness... the laughter of kindred hearts...what a tender surprise!<br />
<br /><br />
And I am reminded of the ridiculous reality of Hope.<br />
<br />
<br />
Oh sweet Resurrection just never gets old!<br />
I could hear it's story for a thousand years ...<br />
and still want for a thousand more.<br />
<br />tami hugheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03915057800339021745noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2774124244229667837.post-47232181138217056002014-01-13T18:07:00.000-08:002014-01-14T08:52:23.216-08:00All the Poor and Powerless...As the black leather glove pummels the side of my face, the slow motion camera catches my blood and spit and sweat as it flies through the air. The crowd goes wild.<br />
<br />
<br />
I try to shake it off, but my vision is still blurry. I try to duck as the glove strikes my other cheek but now I'm down for the count...<br />
<br />
<br />
And the scene plays out as I travel back through all the ugly and all the good...and I can hear the growing rumble of the crowd, "Tami...Tami...Tami..."<br />
<br />
<br />
"It's not how hard you can hit...but how hard you can <em>get</em> hit...keep moving forward...Get up! Get Up! Get up!"<br />
<br />
<br />
(Yes, I am now getting my guidance from Rocky Balboa.)<br />
<br />
<br />
But the truth is, I've been in the ring for as long as I can remember. I always get up and I always move forward, but the troubling thing is that so much of me is still broken, still bleeding.<br />
<br />
<br />
I guess I thought I'd be all healed up by now. Surely that's what I was told. I am a new creation after all.<br />
<br />
<br />
But it's just not that simple.<br />
<br />
<br />
And in so many of my circles, I am still cowering in the corner with Shame that I am not "choosing joy."<br />
<br />
<br />
"Be joyful always, <span class="versetext" id="1th5-17" style="display: inline;">pray continually,</span><span class="versetext" id="1th5-18" style="display: inline;"> give thanks in all circumstances..."</span><br />
<span class="versetext" style="display: inline;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="versetext" style="display: inline;">"Jesus Wept." </span><br />
<span class="versetext" style="display: inline;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="versetext" style="display: inline;">Touché! </span><br />
<span class="versetext" style="display: inline;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="versetext" style="display: inline;">And so we're back here again as the inner battle rages on, debating my state of mind, with the politicians, the lobbyists, and the spastic court jesters all chiming in. </span><br />
<span class="versetext" style="display: inline;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="versetext" style="display: inline;">But something new is happening...</span>standing in church yesterday, I heard that Faint Whisper...<br />
<br />
<br />
<em>All the poor and powerless<br /> And all the lost and lonely<br /> All the thieves will come confess<br /> And know that You are holy<br /> And know that You are holy<br /><br /> And all will sing out<br /> Hallelujah<br /> And we will cry out<br /> Hallelujah<br /> All the hearts who are content<br /> And all who feel unworthy <br /> And all who hurt with nothing left<br /> Will know that You are holy<br /><br /> And all will sing out<br /> Hallelujah<br /> And we will cry out<br /> Hallelujah<br /><br /> Shout it<br /> Go on scream it from the mountains<br /> Go on and tell it to the masses<br /> That He is God<br /> We will sing out<br /> Hallelujah<br /> And we will cry out<br /> Hallelujah</em><br />
<em><br /></em><br />
And<em> </em>as the band played on<em>...</em>Shame started losing her grip.<br />
<br />
<br />
Truth is, I so often feel poor and powerless and completely unworthy. I can be 9 years old again in a heartbeat. And time and time again, I feel lost and lonely.<br />
<br />
<br />
Sometimes, I do have fantastically happy moments, joyful even. Those hilltop ah-ha's where the Son shines blindingly through. But even when those hilltop moments come, like when I was on an actual hilltop in the Andes with my lovely, healthy daughter, my heart was still heavy and overwhelmed by the poor and powerless circling around us, begging for our loose change. <br />
<br />
<br />
So now I'm starting to think that this part of me that I've been trying to cure for so many moons, might just be here to stay. And maybe it's supposed to. Maybe having immediate access to all that raw pain is just who I am. Maybe it's even somewhat useful to the universe. Maybe Shame needs to be bitch-slapped so I can get on with my life, but maybe, when the dust settles, my authentic self will still be a bit gloomy, and maybe, just maybe, that's just how I am supposed to be.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />tami hugheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03915057800339021745noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2774124244229667837.post-64610616668441328792014-01-10T08:43:00.001-08:002014-01-10T08:43:40.303-08:00Summer Grace: STOP<a href="http://summersdaytimestories.blogspot.com/2014/01/stop.html?spref=bl">Summer Grace: STOP</a>: What if we all just stopped Fell silent For once, what if we looked up and around us What if, just for a moment, every sing...tami hugheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03915057800339021745noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2774124244229667837.post-36996494388279813772013-11-14T16:48:00.000-08:002013-11-14T16:48:12.171-08:00Well
And from <strong>2008...</strong><br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 189.0pt; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 189.0pt; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 189.0pt; text-align: center;">
Well<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 189.0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 189.0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Well, it’s that time again and I’ve been
avoiding it like the plague. We’ve just so enjoyed the past 6<st1:personname w:st="on"> mo</st1:personname>nths that I figured the longer I could put it off
the longer we could pretend she was well. We ran out of refills on her meds
well over 3<st1:personname w:st="on"> mo</st1:personname>nths ago. My
pharmacist, Jihad, who despite the connotations of his name is one of the
warmest and<st1:personname w:st="on"> mo</st1:personname>st peaceful men you
will ever meet and has become a very dear friend to me since May was diagnosed
last year. He has faithfully called the doctor to request new refills each of
these last few months, however, I knew it was coming…refill approved, but follow up
appointment is required.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I could tell something was up with her, I’d
noticed it for a few weeks now. She seemed happy enough, but just a little
sluggish. I stared at her as she<st1:personname w:st="on"> mo</st1:personname>ved
through the house. With her stuff, it’s so hard to say…really only a<st1:personname w:st="on"> mo</st1:personname>ther can tell, like when a<st1:personname w:st="on">
mo</st1:personname>ther knows her infants cry means hungry instead of sleepy
or tummy ache instead of a wet diaper. But so much of that was lost in this
whole thing, that natural knowing of what she needs. The hows and whens and
whats of my<st1:personname w:st="on"> mo</st1:personname>therhood were stolen
through this process. I had once so fervently believed in my abilities to
nurture her and now I don’t even know what to feed her. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So I made the
phone call, “Yes, Wednesday of next week is fine,” and dug out the lab orders
the doctor had given me at our last appointment. “Have her blood work done in
about six<st1:personname w:st="on"> mo</st1:personname>nths, okay?” Six<st1:personname w:st="on"> mo</st1:personname>nths seemed irrelevant at the time, I was so giddy
and starry-eyed by the news she had just given me… “Her labs are perfect, in
fact it seems her liver has completely regenerated itself, her body is
responding miraculously to the medications.” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But now my six<st1:personname w:st="on"> mo</st1:personname>nths were up.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Girls, hop in the car, we’ve got to run
some errands.” They grumbled as they always do when I drag them to Vons and
Wal-Mart.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“We’re not
going to the store, girls.” May hopped in the front seat and glanced down at
the all too familiar carbon lap slip resting on the dashboard. She dropped her
head as her eyes welled up.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’d tricked
her, my little lamb to the slaughter.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Come on baby,
you’ve done this a million times, it’s no big deal, you’re an old pro at this
now.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She stared out
the window.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I patted her
leg, “It’ll be fast sweetie, in and out, I’m sure Jason will be there. You love
Jason.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Mom, I don’t want to talk about it.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We rode in
silence the next few blocks to the lab, Summer plugged out with her ipod and
Jazi doodled pictures in the backseat.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Behind the
counter was an overweight Asian woman with an apparent inability to smile. “Is
Jason here?” I asked her.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“No, Jason
hasn’t worked here in two years.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Why I began
arguing with her I still don’t know. “That’s impossible” I told her. “He was
here the last time we drew her blood, he always draws her blood.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Not in
the last two years.” She said leaning over the counter on the palms of her hands.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“It hasn’t been two years, we were
here just six<st1:personname w:st="on"> mo</st1:personname>nths ago, and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">you </i>weren’t<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i>here and before that Jason was here every week.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Well, not
anytime in the last two years,” she said shaking her head and rolling her eyes.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>May tugged
on my sleeve, “Mom, Jason wasn’t here the last time.” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I took a
deep, anxious breath and turned back to the woman. “Well then just give me the
best person back there, the<st1:personname w:st="on"> mo</st1:personname>st
gentle you’ve got….” And then I added snippily, under my breath, “but it hasn’t
been two years!” <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She
scribbled something down on a yellow post it and stuck it to May’s chart. Then she
told us to take a seat, that they’d call us back when it was our turn.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A few
minutes later some new guy opened the door and called her name. “Muh-hall-uh”.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“It’s
Mahala,” I told him as May and I followed him through the door. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You could
tell right away he was green. It may have even been his first day. I sat down
in the seat and May climbed up into my lap and plopped her left arm palm side
up on the table. “I think this vein is better today,” she said, “but I feel
kinda dehydrated so it might be hard to find.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was
fidgety, skittish even. He pressed his pointer finger in the crease of her arm
and then asked to see her other arm.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I let
out a deep sigh. I could tell May was starting to fret. I can always tell
because she gets kinda spacey and whimpers a little. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Um…I...
think it might be better if she sat in the chair by herself, she’s a little too
high up being in your lap,” he stuttered as he spoke.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But she<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> always</i> sits in my lap when she has her
blood drawn, since the first time, when she was only eight. I hold her tightly
in my arms and pray through the whole thing. Jason knows this; it’s never a
problem for Jason.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Actually…Mom,
maybe you should just go,” May said as she looked up at me with those deep
green eyes…those eyes… they would make even the hardest of hearts melt into a
puddle on the floor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Would that help, sweetie?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Yeah,
Mom, I’ll be alright.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Okay,
what ever you need, Love.” It all happened so fast. Before I knew it, I was
back in the waiting room, standing like a guard, just outside the door.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Mom,
where’s May?” Summer asked.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“She’s still in there, baby.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Mom
is she okay?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Yes,
honey, she’s fine.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Mom
are you okay?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Uh,
huh…yeah honey…”<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
stood there on the outside. Time stopped. My heart raced, my throat closed. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I listened to her soft whimpers through the
closed door.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Mommy,<st1:personname w:st="on"> mo</st1:personname>mmy…come sit down. Jazi tugged at my hand and led
me to my seat. I sat down and Jazi wiggled up into my lap and brushed her tiny
hand across my cheek. “Oh…its okay Mommy, “she said, “May’s gonna be okay.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“Mom, you’ve gotta hear this song.” I heard Summer say it but I just
stared at the closed door. “Mom, here listen to this…”<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She tried to hand me her earphones but I waved them away. “Not right now
sweetie, I’ll hear it later.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“No Mom,
listen now…it will make you feel better.” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I looked
down at my other two girls, the healthy ones, the ones who seem to get the
least of me…and I missed them terribly. I wrapped my arms around them and
squeezed them close to my chest. “Okay Sweetie, give me the earphones.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The music
filled my head and my heart swelled.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“I can change the world…with my own two hands<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">make it a better place, with my own two hands<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">make it a kinder place, with my own two hands<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">With my own, with my own… two hands<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I can make peace on earth, with my own two hands<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I can clean up the earth, with my own two hands<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I can reach out to you, with my own two hands<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">With my own, with my own… two hands<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">With my own, with my own… two hands<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I’m gonna make it a brighter place, with my own two hands<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I’m gonna make it a safer place, with my own two hands<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I’m gonna help the human race, with my own two hands<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">With my own… with my own… two hands<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With my own… with my own… two
hands<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I can hold you, in my own two hands<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I can comfort you, with my
own two hands<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">But you got to use… use your own, two hands, use your own, use your own…two
hands<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">With our own two hands… with our own… two hands…with our own two hands <o:p></o:p></i></div>
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">With my own…with my own…two hands”</i><o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Tears ran
down my face as I held my babies and swayed to the music and I realized that
behind that door, and in my lap, were not only two, but six little hands. Six
hands with the ability to change the world, make it a better place, a kinder
place, a brighter place, a<st1:personname w:st="on"> mo</st1:personname>re
peaceful place; that they would be hands that would reach out and hold and
bring comfort that would help the human race. I also realized that<st1:personname w:st="on"> mo</st1:personname>re and<st1:personname w:st="on"> mo</st1:personname>re,
as they were able, I would be on the outside of it all. That their path, their
story, with all their own sufferings, all their own joys, was between them and
their maker, hardly any of my business at all. And I understood what she was
doing in there; she needed me out of the way, so she could draw close to Him.
Through all of this horror…she found Him…I know this. I may have lost my
ability to know what to feed her, but she gained the understanding that He
knows, and that He has, what she is hungry for.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When she
finally came out of the room, both her arms were bandaged and bruised. I rushed
to her side.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Did he get
it, are you alright?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Yeah, Mom…I’m fine, can we go now?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As we
walked towards the elevator I put my arm around May’s shoulders and Summer and
Jaz huddled in close. “Well, that guy was totally out of it, huh? I mean he
must have been new.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And her
reply was so typical May. “Yeah, I felt so terrible for him. He was so nervous,
he couldn’t find my vein, he even had to get his boss to help him…and I think
you made him extra nervous, Mom” she said with a chuckle. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She was
so okay…she was<st1:personname w:st="on"> mo</st1:personname>re than okay. She
was extraordinary. And I’d bet good<st1:personname w:st="on"> mo</st1:personname>ney
that she changed that new guy’s day, with her kindness…and with her own two
hands.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When May
was 3 days old I lifted her to the heavens, high above my head, I raised her
tiny body and with trembling hands sang,<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“Come thou fount of every blessing, tune my heart to sing thy grace.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Streams of mercy never ceasing, call for songs of loudest praise.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Teach me some melodious sonnet, sung by flaming tongues above.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Praise the<st1:personname w:st="on"> mo</st1:personname>unt! I’m fixed
upon it,<st1:personname w:st="on"> mo</st1:personname>unt of thy redeeming
love.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">O to grace how deep a debtor, daily I’m constrained to be.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Let thy goodness, like a fetter bind my wandering heart to thee.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Prone to wander, Lord I feel it, prone to leave the God I love;<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Here’s my heart, O take and seal it. Seal it for thy courts above.”<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><o:p> </o:p></i></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Here’s my
heart, Lord, seal her for your courts above. He had given her to me and I knew
I had to give her back. That she was only on loan; that each day that I nursed
her, bathed her, rocked her to sleep was borrowed time. I’ve known it all along.
I knew the first time I held her, the first time I held each of my babies, that
all that magic swaddled up in my arms was so much bigger than me. I knew that
there were many things I’d be instinctually good at and I trusted the women
around me to help me muddle through the rest. I knew Jon would shine. But I
also knew that there were some things we were never meant to do and that her
deepest longings could be met by Christ alone. But that doesn’t necessarily make
it any easier, the three year old in me still wants to grab her tight and
scream, “Mine!” But that’s not what is best for her, and a good mama does what
is best for her baby. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So when Wednesday<st1:personname w:st="on"> mo</st1:personname>rning
came around I knew what I had to do. I hunkered myself down on the landing of
our stairwell, where the<st1:personname w:st="on"> mo</st1:personname>rning sun
streams through the window, and I raised my hands to the heavens and gave her
up…again. I let her go, again. I gave her to the One who had given her to me,
the One who created her, adores her and knows… and has…every thing she needs.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had no idea what the day would bring. I had
prepared for the labs to show the worst, played out all the scenarios. I had allowed
my mind to go there…and see if I would still say God was good, all the time.
Oh, how I hoped I would, how I hoped I would have the courage to be faithful. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Well, I guess
for now, I won’t know the answer to that…because by His great mercy and
grace…she is still well. Her sluggishness attributed to normal adolescent growth,
three quarters of an inch taller, actually. The doctor says she’ll probably be
taller than me soon. Her liver is still perfect, her thyroid is perfect and the
medications are daily stabilizing her blood sugar. He’s on the case, He hears
my cries. Not a night goes by where we don’t still lay our hands on that sweet
baby and pray for each cell, each part of her. And we know there is no
guarantee that her health will always be well…however through all of this I
hear her singing, I lean my head on the hallway, just outside her room and I
can hear her. I think she knows I’m there; maybe it’s her way of telling me
she’s okay…and she sings,<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Well, I could sing unending songs<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Of how you saved my soul<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">And I could dance a thousand miles<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Because of your great love<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">My heart is bursting Lord<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">To tell of all you’ve done<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Of how you’ve changed my life<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">And wiped away the past<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I want to shout it out<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">From every rooftop sing<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">For Now I know<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">That God is for me, not against me<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Well, I could sing unending songs<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Of how you saved my soul<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">And I could dance a thousand miles<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Because of your great love<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I want to shout it out<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">From every rooftop sing<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">For now I know<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">That God is for me, not against me<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Everybody’s singing now,<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Cause we’re so happy<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Everybody’s dancing now<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Cause we’re so happy<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">If only I could see your face,<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">See you smiling over us<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Unseen angels celebrate<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The joy that’s in this place!<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Joy that’s in this place!<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><o:p> </o:p></i></div>
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><o:p> </o:p></i></div>
tami hugheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03915057800339021745noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2774124244229667837.post-85902640819132105092013-11-14T16:00:00.006-08:002013-11-14T16:00:52.623-08:00Motherhood is Kind of a Rip Off
I just found this little rant in the rubble of my email, written in <strong>2007</strong>. May was only 11, Summer was 10 and Jaz was just a wee 7. A sad bit of prophesy...<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> M</span>otherhood
is kind of a rip-off. It all starts as passion ignites a tiny wildfire within,
you rub your hands across the surface of your swelling belly and drift you go,
ever so lightly, and ignorantly, into the distance… Will she have my eyes? Will
she have his smile? Will she be healthy, will she be strong? Will I be good at
this? After all I did forget to change Baby Alive’s fake poopy diaper and that
mushy stuff did mildew and stick to her plastic bottom. But I was only six, now
I’m a grown up, surely I’ll now know what to do.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So you make it through your first pregnancy
and it’s all about you and baby. People say you glow; they talk about your
baby. You now tear up when you see pictures of the Madonna and Jesus. You
recognize a deep, quiet place that you never knew about yourself that turns
everything you once believed upside down and now your rose-colored
glasses…well, now they are baby-colored glasses. How will the price of eggs affect
my baby? How will this culture affect my baby, how will this air affect my
baby, how will this war affect my baby? Even before the child’s birth, born in
you is Mommy. Stairs become death traps, boiling water… a trip to the emergency
room, a fast car… an asshole trying to run your baby off the road.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> A</span>nd so begins the
barrage of timeless questions and the pressure of answering correctly. How long
shall I nurse her?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How do I comfort her?
What do I do when she is sick? When she is an infant, the sleepless nights will
leave you scattered and unkempt, your mistakes will be many and you will shutter
at every near miss of potential disaster. Each time she falls, you will brush
her off, soothe her cries, cradle her in your breast. You will be responsible
for the healing and the fixing and the cleaning and the finding and the
everything… You will never sleep again, not really, not in the way you had when
you were the child and your mother lay awake in the next room wondering,
worrying and praying. You will never really eat the same either, not without
making sure she has been fed first, that her tummy is full and doesn’t hurt and
that you picked out all the stinky little green onions from her plate of
casserole.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">You’ll throw
fits in doctor’s offices when she has a fever, you’ll demand an answer, search
to the edges of the earth to find solutions to her challenges, remedies to what
ails her. Mommy is unstoppable; you can swim in her love.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">She will grow and
much of you will stay the same. Day in and day out, with each ticking moment,
you will feed her and wash her and discipline her and make sure she brings a
sweatshirt each time she leaves the house. (When she is thirteen she will roll
her eyes at you, but one thing you have learned in your old age is that you
never can tell when the weather will change.) And if you are a good mom, you
will pray for her, you will ask her forgiveness when you blow it and you will
tell her you love her each and every day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>You’ll learn these things from all the parenting books you’ll pick up at
Borders with your husband on date night. And at dinner you’ll talk about what
she’s going through at school and you’ll pray she loves Jesus enough to rifle
through all that peer pressure. Then, because after all it is date night, a
time to celebrate what started the tiny wildfire to begin with; you’ll stroll,
hand in hand, off to see the newest movie about family life and parenthood…just
the two of you… Mommy and Daddy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And all of it
is worth it because she is your baby. When Mommy was born in you, death to
yourself became second nature. Guilt became your new best friend and depriving
yourself for your child, an often joyous, and always righteous, sacrament. Love
and devotion to your baby is a calling bigger than you, in instinct of
miraculous measures. This is what the Hallmark cards are made of, tributes to
the mothers who sacrificed and poured out and never gave up, whose love taught,
protected, encouraged and moved mountains.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Sure, you’ll
nurture here and there the things that still make you, “you”. You’ll paint or
write or take a class once in a while. You’ll laugh at the moms who have
soccer-mom bumper stickers…as if your baby’s goal last season wasn’t the
highlight of your life.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But all in
all,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>you know that nothing, nothing at
all, no measure of success or fame, no praise of friend or colleague can come
close to that sleep-in-the eye yawn and her stuffy-nosed, “Mommy, I love you.”
And as for her, “Mommy, I need you,” well… the whole world will have to stop
for that. My baby needs me; now get out of my way.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">However, here’s
the catch…she will leave. And you are virtually dismissed, stripped of your
duties. Oh, it doesn’t happen overnight if that brings any consolation, it’s a
slow and agonizing process, like the daily peeling of a bandage, piece by
piece,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>one day she’s using a fork, one
day she’s tying her own shoes and one day she’ll be driving a car…“No,” she’ll
say, “I can do it myself.” And you should be so proud. You’ll have raised her
so well, she can do it herself. That’s the catch. You do a good job and they can
do it themselves. And then she’ll get in that car… and she’ll drive away. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And so you have
to let go.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Hm</span>m…I’m laughing out loud.
It’s the game of tag you were never meant to win. From the moment they leave
your womb, you chase them and they are never really caught… never in that place
again; that deep, quiet place where their very shape was formed. That place
from which their heart first began to beat and every hiccup, every sneeze,
every kick… was known to you, from your inside. That tiny ignition of wildfire
now spreads out and beyond you. And it begs the question, was she ever really
mine? Was she ever really my baby?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And the truth is
she’s not even really a baby anymore. She’s trapped somewhere between my baby
and her own lovely young womanhood; a place undefined and reckless and full of
potentially immeasurable disaster but also of great wonder and creativity and
innocence. And so again begins the barrage of timeless questions and the
pressure to answer correctly. How do I let go? Where do I let go? When do I let
go? What things do I keep a tight hold on and for how long? Will she remember
her sweatshirt? Will she where her seatbelt? Will she be okay when she is sick?
And will she love Jesus enough?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
tami hugheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03915057800339021745noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2774124244229667837.post-11077140238909407752013-09-15T20:40:00.001-07:002013-10-06T20:52:40.155-07:00Growing Up by Run River North<br />
<br />
<br />
It's an amazing gift to have teenagers that share cool music with me...<br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Fz4ZOAsjW6g">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Fz4ZOAsjW6g</a> <br />
tami hugheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03915057800339021745noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2774124244229667837.post-69706879603423785082013-09-01T09:47:00.001-07:002013-09-01T10:01:47.163-07:00The TableJon and I got, yet another, piece of scrap wood to test out stains for our kitchen table. We've been to three different hardware stores and bought several cans of varying shades. There's no real method to the madness, I just keep slopping on the colors, waiting for magic. Our garage is beginning to look like Jackson Polluck's barn. <br />
<br />
It's been a month since we finished the table...we built it as a gift to each other for our twenty-first wedding anniversary. I did most of the designing. For weeks, I poured over magazines and blogs, researching color and style and shape. Jon listened earnestly to every detail. On date nights, we walked through furniture stores and ran our fingers atop tables and chairs.<br />
<br />
We have the same taste mostly. Simple, Shaker-like, warm. I wanted an honest table. He wanted a strong table. We wanted a table that would last, that would one day host son-in-laws eating gumbo and grand-babies slurping up rice cereal. <br />
<br />
Jon can build anything. Years ago I brought home some old cupboard doors that Mayli had torn out of her kitchen and Jon made me a bench that we still use to this day. He built a cradle for Summer, a toddler bed for May, and two sets of bunk beds. <br />
<br />
He even built a kitchen table once before. Oh, how I cried the day he brought it home. I had asked for a small knotty-pine breakfast nook, back then it was just the two of us and baby May. He brought home what mildly resembled a pool table and could quite comfortably seat at least ten people, had we had room for that many chairs. We had to take the windows off the side of the house just to get it indoors.<br />
<br />
But this time, we planned better...<br />
<br />
We decided on the length, and the depth and the height, every angle. We measured it to where his elbows would rest and where my feet would land.<br />
<br />
We chose the lumber, piece by piece. Jon shuffled through the heavy stacks, and I pointed and nodded, or pointed and grimaced. "This is a nice one," he'd say, and I'd agree.<br />
<br />
Jon built the table in just 2 days, eight feet long, with matching benches on both sides. The wood is worn and imperfect and scarred in some places.<br />
<br />
It may be the most beautiful piece of furniture on the planet.<br />
<br />
As I stood this morning in my Polluck-garage, head cocked and squinting at the drying colors on the scrap board, my neighbor hollered over, "Watching paint dry again, Tami?"<br />
<br />
I nodded and smiled.<br />
<br />
I'm just so afraid to stain it wrong, ruin it's unfinished beauty...<br />
<br />
I need Jon. I'll have to wait until he gets home from work. I'll have him look at the color and remind me of what I am going for...remind me of our original vision. The process gets fuzzy for me. I can see where I want to go but I don't always know how to get there...but Jon is a natural builder, sees the finished project.<br />
<br />
<br />
Well, now it's been nearly a year... We're just about to celebrate twenty-two and I never finished the post, because we never finished the table. <br />
<br />
One of the benches still has various stains slopped on an end...but all of them just ended up looking Faux. And I hate Faux. Our original vision was that nouveau-barn look that keeps popping up in Restoration hardware and model homes. We looked into the reclaimed wood thing, but it was super expensive. It would have been about five grand for the amount we needed. I think we spent less than two hundred dollars on our wood at Home Depot, and that's including the nails.<br />
<br />
So I think I've finally made a decision...I think I'll rub it with some wax...go with the grain...across the top and on the edges. I'll fill a mason jar with Tuberose and light some candles... and I'll let it just...be. It'll host Nana's casserole and warm bowls of soup and coffee on bright mornings...and there will be laughter there...and surely some tears. It will be a homework spot and a bill paying spot, a spot to tell stories and to listen.<br />
<br />
It is still unfinished, time will change it on it's own. It will get worn and it will be loved...just the way it is...imperfect...but honest and strong.<br />
<br />tami hugheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03915057800339021745noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2774124244229667837.post-55121814654425950192013-08-08T11:01:00.001-07:002013-08-08T17:58:56.563-07:00I Cussed Out the Orphans... <br />
<br />
I cussed out the orphans. I was sorry for it even as the words left my lips, but still like vomit they came spewing out.<br />
<br />
I was having a moment.<br />
<br />
In my defense I had held strong for days, even as I left her at the airport, I bit my lip, held back my tears, and saluted to my little soldier for the Lord. But as the days and nights stretched long and quiet, her absence ran icy through my blood. Even the yellow bell peppers at the grocery store made my belly turn. Summer eats them like apples, has since she was a little girl.<br />
<br />
The real problem is, I am animal. And all of my lofty ideas about God and purpose and servant hood can not override the mama bear inside of me. And I roared, I stood tall on my hind legs and snarled my teeth wide and clawed at the bare air in front of me.<br />
<br />
With great regret, my still-home cubs were in ear shot, and they whimpered and scurried to their corners of the cave.<br />
<br />
I emptied the dishwasher, crashing and slamming the cupboard doors, sobbing in a swirl of anger and fear.<br />
<br />
My fault, really. I had read the news. You should never read the news when one of your cubs is in a third world country, hours outside of a city, with no internet, no phone. There are wars and rumors of wars, and floods and famine, disease and death. Pick any night of the week, always a tragic story, the kind where you shake your head in disbelief and wonder how this world could be so ugly.<br />
<br />
And I know that's why she went. I get it. I know that love is worth dying for. But tell that to my heart, tell that to my adrenal glands.<br />
<br />
One, two, three, four...five. Five days left until her blonde ponytail will come bouncing out of the terminal. I know her face will be all aglow and she'll chatter endlessly on the car ride home about how the Lord moved and how the orphans smiled. I know she'll seem taller...and wiser. And I know she'll leave a part of her heart in Haiti forever...I'm just really ready for the rest of her to come home.tami hugheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03915057800339021745noreply@blogger.com0