Wise Words from My Favorite West Virginian

There was a phrase my dad would use when he noticed a person was feeling rather haughty and too pleased with his or her self. And while he didn't coin the expression, it sure left an impression on me to this day.

When I first heard him say it I thought it was soooooooo funny because, he used the word "poop" and I would giggle loudly. As I got a little older I thought it was an odd saying since I took it literally. Then, when he'd utter it when I was a tween I was just embarrassed by the quote, mostly because I didn't fully understand it, but also because it did sound oddly gross. (Who tries to smell their own poop, after all?!?) Over the years though, and especially now that I'm a mama, I totally get it.

This summer before my son's first ever "real" tennis match, I saw he was pretty nervous. I told him not to be since he was really supposed to lose anyway. A nearby parent spoke to me when my son was playing and asked me why I told him he'd likely lose. I said that it was because he was younger and less experienced than his opponent. But also because while I am my children's #1 fan, they are not always going to be number #1. Even after my explanation, she still didn't seem to approve of my parenting style.

We live in a time where our kids can buy The gear, go to The camp, and get The coach if they're parents are willing to pay the money. Many of those young athletes think they are The best. To me, that's not how it works, and I don't want my children thinking that way.

Don't get me wrong. I do want my kids to be "winners," and I think they are both incredibly wonderful. I remind them they can be whatever they want to be, but I also want them to be good "losers" too, with a realistic approach to life. Because they WILL lose sometimes. They will even work hard at a goal and still not reach it on the first or second or twenty-second try. That's life sometimes. And I want them to learn to be gracious, good sports on the court and off--and way beyond the playing field.

As I further reflect on my dad's famous phrase, I'm starting to suspect that God added the stink from the beginning so that we all got the hint, even our adoring parents, that even though most of us come into this world with ten tiny toes and a smile that melts many hearts, shortly after we share a big stink-bomb in our baby britches as a sign that we are not perfect. (But yes, still "fearfully and wonderfully made.")

So to my two amazing (but not perfect), growing children, as your good ol' Pop taught me, your poop does stink...and don't worry, that's just how it's supposed to be.

True Tests of School Success (hint: it's not EOG prep)

School's been out for over a week now, and this is normally when the end-of-year festivities have quieted down enough to where I can actually reflect and consider the past school year with the students I work with.

There are many stories and incidents that have popped into my mind, but there's one recent experience with a special student that's been stuck in my head.

It happened on one of the last days of school (which is partly why I recall it so well, but I think the more lasting impression isn't due to the timing but the thoughts it left me with). This boy whom I've had the joy to work with in a small math group since November almost knocked me over in the hall. He was literally bouncing on the tops of his toes, his small frame shaking with excitement. His teacher had just revealed his math and reading EOG scores to him.

"Do you know? Did she tell you? Do you know what I made?" he was practically squealing.

Playing dumb, because I knew it meant more to him to reveal his special surprise than for me to show my prior knowledge of his test scores, I asked him to tell me his results.

"Two fours! Can you believe it? I just wanted to pass. I was hoping for threes, but I got fours...in reading AND in math! I can't believe it, can you?"

I looked at his large, proud smile and matched his with my own.

What I wanted to say to this bright, kind-hearted boy was something that had nothing to do with his recent testing success, as he saw it. What I wanted to do was tell him how amazed I was that he had overcome so much this school year: starting at yet another new school, navigating his way through a less than stable home life, very gradually learning to share his insights with his new teacher and classmates, no longer hiding his answers in our math group like he did when we first started working together, not having to blink back his tears on the days he didn't seem to understand something the first time, eventually feeling comfortable enough to explain his ideas and strategies (even when they were different than the others'), and then the day he felt like showing his celebration dance when he was the first to "get it right" in our group. I didn't want to talk test scores, I wanted to celebrate the new-found confidence he'd discovered this school year that goes way beyond two test days. I resisted the urge to tell him he was way more than a pair of fours, that he has more bravery and insight than some adults I know, that he has a caring heart, and clever wit and is going to do amazing things in his life.

But here he was, grinning ear-to-ear with his news. So I just hugged him tightly and said, "Yes, we knew you could do it." And I think that was really all he wanted to hear that day.

My Other Big Brother

Steve, my half brother, died suddenly two weeks ago. Since then, I've been trying to write about him. Thanks to my brother Boyce's words today, I am now able to...

We had all just been together when Dad passed away in February. I feel so fortunate that we were with each other for that treasured time.

As you sat across from me, sitting in Dad’s chair, I had to remind myself several times that you weren’t him. You two have always looked so much alike. As you both got older you seemed to favor each other even more. The soft, salt and pepper hair, kind eyes, generous smile, and still such a handsome face.

Like Dad, you had struggles and trials in life, including an unfair start in some ways. But like him, you turned out to be a strong, giving person. And there are so many who are the better for that.

Even when you spoke it was like talking to Dad. Not just in your West Virginia drawl, but also as you told about what was going on in your life, but especially as you lit up like firecrackers sharing about your girls and grandkids, just the same Dad would do when talking about us--full of pride and love.

Thank you, Steve, for giving us that moment when we could all feel together again, all near Dad. It wouldn’t have been the same without your presence.

I wish so much that you could sit among us in that chair again. And if you could, I’d tell you that even though on paper you were my half brother, you sure weren’t “half” anything to us.

You were a whole husband

A completely devoted daddy and poppaw

An entirely-loved son

A totally-awesome brother

An all-in worker

A full of life friend.

And now that you’re gone from this earth, we all wish you the wholeness of peace you deserve, dear man. We love you.

My Memorial Day

I sat on the porch today spending much of the afternoon celebrating Memorial Day simply, recognizing the privilege of watching my daughter and son laughing and swinging together on the hammock in the backyard. I was reminded that my list of blessings is so big that they cannot be counted.

My next thought meandered to my dad, as I considered the graces granted in my life. He who has already lived longer than his COPD and Dementia diagnoses would have suggested. He who lives on, because battling through life is no longer necessary.

Since my dad (thankfully) lived through his time in combat, he technically is not celebrated by the country today for his military time. But like many Americans, I sort of lump Memorial Day and Veterans Day together, but not out of disrespect for those who have lost their lives during their service. The reason is two-fold. First, two days is not nearly enough time to recognize the many men and women who have served and those who are actively serving for us. And secondly, my dad still defends his country nightly. Often it's through his recurrent, disturbing dreams as he continues to fight for his life and mine and yours.

The blessing I ask for today for him is for restful sleep, free of bad dreams, and full of Goodness because, you my sweet daddy, and so many others like you, deserve it.

Another Loving Mother

One of my dear friends held a fundraiser this week to increase awareness about Childhood Apraxia of Speech http://www.apraxia-kids.org/ . It was a great evening with many wonderful people attending to support her and her family's journey, and also hear about about this frustrating speech disorder.

Like all the attendees I learned much about apraxia and the need for ongoing research to find a cure. But the most important lesson I took away was that while this impairment is strong and challenging, it cannot even touch the amazing force found in a parent's love for her child.

While my friend's youngest son (along with many other precious children--since it's being diagnosed more often) daily battles with finding his words, he is a most fortunate one because his voice is already being heard. That's not only because he works so hard every day using his precious, positive spirit during his rigorous therapy sessions and at-home practice, but also due to the crucial fact he has a mom and dad who have a love for him that is way more powerful than this thing called apraxia.



Here's a few ways that we can all help...
http://www.apraxia-kids.org/how-to-help/donations/

Two Years Later, A Blog Post (worth the wait, I hope)

Much has been said about timing and waiting. There are thousands of phrases taught from our parents, some come from sermons, while others are just classic wisdom that teachers, musicians, or other everyday sages felt the need to impart, knowing that most humans need continuous reminders (my hand's raised) to remind, encourage, even warn us about the frustrations and pitfalls of impatience. Some of the most famous sayings that come to my mind are . . .

Good things come to those who wait.

The waiting is the hardest part.

Tough times never last, but tough people do.

If it's worth having, it's worth waiting for.

My friends and family know that we've had our own hurry-up-and-wait game for the past four and a half years since moving to Boone. While holding out for our old house to sell and then searching for the past year for the happiest home for us, looks like our patience will pay off.
How's it worked out? Well, I personally couldn't have scripted it any better. It's a long special story, worthy of a cold beverage on a pretty covered porch on a warm day (come on over in a few months after we're moved in and I'll tell you the tale).

This week and in past months, I've reflected repeatedly on a pretty well-known timing quote: Many are the plans in a person's heart, but it is the LORD's purpose that prevails. So why was I made to wait for what seemed so long? I've asked that many times. Was it to give me my extra share of that "gift" that I wasn't given naturally? Perhaps, because I have told my story of waiting with many of you. I'm not sure of all the why's behind the wait, but I do know many lessons have been learned. And on top of that, I've even met new friends because of it--what a wonderful present as a result!

As my husband and I look for the fast-approaching hurdles to jump through--less than a month from closing on our new home--another kind of wait begins. I already know I'll have to tell myself more than once Patience, young grasshopper. While we're collecting boxes, crossing our fingers through inspections, appraisals, etc., I get to play the waiting game again. But now I'm praying that things will slow down---because we sure have a lot of packing to do. But don't worry about me this time because now I know...

Time is on our side, yes it is.

Love in Bloom

Yesterday while eating my lunch out on the deck on a warmer-than-usual Boone January day (see my related post), I spotted several tender bulb shoots all over our flower garden.

My first reaction (which occurred to me almost immediately was not much different than your average loving mother) was to run inside and find some fabric sheets to cover the premature shoots, so I could protect the coming flowers who clearly have not seen the end-of-week forecast calling for real winter weather. As I stood up to retrieve the coverings, it hit me like a the infamous Boone Blizzard of '93 that by covering them, I would only be prolonging the inevitable, as we have plenty of winter days ahead. So although my motherly, well-intended efforts would help initially, covering these stems would prove a futile effort, unless I could commit to doing it A) without smothering them by shielding them too long or too much, and also B) be willing to become a constant weather watcher and attend to the flowers with spring gardener fervor.

Guess you might be able to tell that my children came to me this week, each dealing with something that I so wanted to (and could have) just cover up and fix for them. I wrestle with my maternal monster--don't worry, she's not particularly scary, she just sometimes has difficulty determining when to let the kids handle things on their own, when to quietly step in, when to gently assist, when to strongly intervene, or when to completely take over. Do I cover up my own blessed blossoms and make everything all right? Or do I trust myself and my husband to give them the tools and let them use them (even if it means that often it takes longer for them to find their solution)?

Well, for now, I've decided to leave the premature blossoms alone in the deck-side garden (though I know I'll be watching them). And this week I'll do my best to allow my children to tend to their own gardens, as long as they don't forget they've got this old, loving florist who does consult work no matter the season.

It's taken me over 40 years, but now I  FINALLY  understand why she's called Mother Nature.