Tiff

April 1, 2017

I was fifteen when I met her. In the choir room at Glendale High School our sophomore year, I quickly discovered that Tiff was a gorgeous, kind, long and lean force of bubbly energy and talent. Our friendship was instantaneous. She taught me to PRESS, which is a word and action in response to anything icky, uncomfortable, stressful. For example, her death makes me press. She would completely understand.

It was a Monday morning when I opened the front door to my Nydia, who told me Tiffany was dead. In the midst of the horror of this, her sweet husband didn't want me to find out another way.

I nearly collapsed under the weight of Tiffany's death. But I owed her more than that. I owe her more than that. She had buoyed me up so many times, I couldn't allow her death to sink me. That would have disappointed her.

Our dads were friends, and both named Bill. I called her parents "Father Bill" and "Mother Kay." She called my Pops "Father Rowe." I marveled at the joy in her home and her family life. Her folks were remarkable and she was the happiest person I knew who was real.

When she left for Baylor, I wept and she stood on her front steps giggling and waving excitedly. Were it any other, I might have been offended that she wasn't a tad sad to leave me and home. But it was Tiff.

We married two weeks apart and were in each other's weddings. She was the first friend to come into the delivery room after Gracie was born. I can still see her smile then. And I can still hear the love in her voice when Reagan was born, and when Will miraculously arrived. She loved them with all her bits and pieces and her whole heart.

I don't understand why chronic pain had to land on my exuberant friend. But it did. And as the years passed, layers of the onion peeled away and I realized how immensely talented this sweet girl was at hiding struggle. When she finally let me really see her, I loved her even more.

Her life became more and more confined as she fought neuropathy and back pain that I can't imagine. But when we talked, her focus was always outward. She was an incredible listener and an insightful respondent. She cared genuinely. And her laugh...

Tiffany was exceptional. She fought, she won  and lost, she cared, she hurt, she soldiered on. I will miss her greeting me with "My Nance!" I will miss her unconditional friendship. I will miss her. Forever.

But I will try to live a life that would make her laugh. That wouldn't disappoint. That wouldn't make her press.

I owe her that.

The Eyes Have It

February 9, 2017

I’ve been told I have complicated eyes. Lately I have given that observation particular thought.

My dad’s mama, our “Mimi,” lost her sight when I was eight or nine. She lived nearly 15 more years in the dark. She had survived two world wars, the Great Depression, birthing 10+ pound babies on the farm, working tirelessly on said farm, catching on fire while working tirelessly in the kitchen of said farm…the list goes on and on. As if all that wasn’t enough, glaucoma claimed her eyes. But she lived without complaint. She was a God-fearing woman who played the piano at her country church even when she couldn’t see the keys.  

As I get older, I think more and more of Mimi. I wouldn’t describe her as simple, but she did seem uncomplicated. She knew who she was and in what she believed and who she loved. She may have had an interior life fraught with turmoil, but nothing in her words, her demeanor, or her damaged eyes ever indicated as much. She was from a different generation, of course: private was private. Suffering was godly, as was blessing. Happiness wasn't the goal. Being good, however, was. On this, her sight was clear.

My thoughts turn to Mimi when I feel ripe with complication: the logistics of life, its emotional wear and tear, the delicate balance between giving and taking, the political and spiritual wars raging. Nothing I see is even a glimpse of what Mimi faced. But what I would give for an ounce of her goodness, her ability to weather a storm. 

What I would give for her sight.

Mimi is behind me, just before her vision was completely lost. I'm afraid her last memory of me is with that horrible haircut.

The Leaves

November 27, 2016

I've spent the bulk of this post-Thanksgiving Sunday hassling with the leaves.  I'm not complaining. It's the worst form of #blessed #firstworldproblems (oh, good grief) to b*tch about a yard full of gorgeous trees shedding their dead weight next to my magic house. The thing is, it's all so beautiful.  Do I wish I were Samantha Stevens in "Bewitched" with the ability to twinkle my nose and make the leaves magically vanish? Yes. Am I grateful I have a) the time and b) the ability to deal with my "estate"? Yes. Do I pinch myself that I get to live here and blissfully so? Yes.

The other portion of my day was spent weaving Christmas into the fabric of the house.  This is our first Christmas here.  There is a simplicity and joy in it that I can't articulate. It's also our first Christmas with the doggies. There might just be a complexity and rage in it about which I will easily shout, should my dear canines decide to exact their destructive powers on my handiwork. I'm hoping, however, that the better angels of their nature will deter them from ripping to shreds my holiday cheer.

I'm not holding my breath.

There are people I love facing challenges unfair and monumental.  I love them. I hate it for them.  I am grateful for them. Today as I bagged leaves and strung lights I found myself thinking about those people in my life who are in the midst of not the best year. Their struggles make my leaves and lights nearly nonsensical.  But I know it is the minutiae that sometimes makes the most sense.

So this Thanksgiving weekend, I am deeply thankful. I have known years that aren't "the best." This year, however, has been one of the most remarkable, eye-opening, happy expanses of my 42 years.  I take none of it for granted. Not even the leaves.

The Magic House

October 16, 2016

Hello, blogosphere.  It's been awhile.  July, to be exact, since I voiced a nugget here.  But the mood has struck.  So here I am.

I have never considered myself a gal consumed with "stuff": I rarely pay full price for anything; I have few worldly treasures that, if lost, would break my heart.  There is, however, this house.

I live in a magic house.  We moved here in February.  The house was beautiful as winter faded, it was lovely in the summer.  But this cozy brick spot with its wraparound porch and open windows and friendly rooms and endless trees was MADE for fall.  I'm in love:  the shadows cast, the setting sun shining on the front porch, the fifty-year-old Hickory trees pelting us with their nuts in apocalyptic fashion. The place is charming.  That's all there is to it.  

Well, maybe that's not all there is to it.  

It's mine.  It's Gracie's and Drew's and mine.  I've never been truly and solely in charge of the place where I rest my head. I went from my dad's house to the dorm to my dad's house to my husband's house.  Now, by the grace of a merciful and loving God, I'm in my house. Our house. And the delight that rushes through me is indescribable. The happiness here is palpable.

When I'm away, I long for home for the first time in my life.  I relish hours spent in its company. I love how my children light up when they walk in--or even when we turn onto our street and see it there on the corner, awaiting our arrival. Sometimes it looks like it's smiling at us.  I know I am smiling back.

It is interesting what happens when a house is a home. When the ease of it and the responsibility for it coexist in harmony: no one is demanding clean floors, folded laundry, a mowed lawn. But it gets done, and happily so. 

Of course, the doggies make even friendlier this magic house.  Their unconditional love and exuberance at the opened garage door melts us one and all.  This is their home, too. I had no idea non-humans could define a home and enhance a family like our Halpert and Oscar do and have. 

In a great many ways I feel that maybe I've been living in the dark for 42 years. Everything is so much brighter now. And it's not the house. I know that. It's liberty. Liberty that happens to manifest itself in this home in ways innumerable. We LIVE here. Freely.

The house is magic. Happiness lives here.

Preach On!

In 2007, Josh Casey graduated from Parkview High School. He was a smiling, kind, exceptional young man who I was fortunate to guide on my debate squad. At the conclusion of his commencement speech, he stepped away from the podium and heralded the trademark chant "WE ARE...PARKVIEW!"

The crowd went wild.

A shock ran all through me. I will never forget it.

Today I went to Josh's church here in town. He and his beautiful wife and their three girls are headed to Belgium as missionaries. I sat in the congregation as Josh preached. His genuine fervor and devotion to the Christ I've known all my life nearly knocked me over. 

A shock ran all through me. I will never forget it.

I couldn't be more proud of the enthusiastic Viking I spent such good times with a decade ago. Don't believe for a second that there isn't hope for the future, for the world. There is.

Let's not lose hope. 

Today convinced me there is plenty to hold onto. Tightly.

Dad Day

June 19, 2016

If you know me, you know I'm a pretty big fan of my Pops. Today is no exception.

When Dad retired from his gig at MSU, I wrote a little something for and about him in our local paper. It bears repeating. It is attached.

Fatherhood is so much more than seed-planting and providing and correcting. It's about affection and kindness and protection and discipline and equipping and laughter and love. 

If you are one of the good ones, your kiddo's heart swells at the thought of you. With pride. Possibly some healthy fear. And with love. Always with love.

Happy Father's Day. I got a good one. 

My heart swells.

Real Estate Relief

June 11, 2016

Yesterday was a biggie, and it wasn't.

My old house finally, officially sold. It has been my responsibility and my gain in the divvying up of the old life that was mine. Ours. Gone are the expenses and worry and the albatross and the moving of this and that. Whew.

I was surprised at my melancholy the day before the haunted mansion finally sold. I have been exuberant at its departure from my life, as I have been genuinely thrilled at the new oxygen I breathe every day.

What I learned in the hours between my last stop at the house and my official, legal goodbye is that no matter how tainted, icky, painful is the scene of the crime, it is still a scene. It was lived, and it is woven into the fabric of life. The life may have unraveled a bit, but the memory is tightly stitched.

We don't live in a vacuum. There are good memories peppered in with malaise and grave unhappiness. I suppose as I wandered through the rooms of that house filled with suffocation and sadness long since gone it was the laughter and smiles and happy and precious times with my babies who aren't babies that washed over me. It was bound to happen eventually.

When yesterday I signed those final papers and sighed a sigh of relief the size of my new-found happiness, I was exuberant indeed. I wouldn't have felt the joy were it not for the preceding heartbreak.

Yesterday was a biggie, and it wasn't. Today is big, though. Full of oxygen. Freedom. Joy. Hope. New memories to be made.

And only one house payment.

Praise the Lord!