Most people who know anything about me know that the two biggest loves in my life are my husband, Johnny, and my sweet little boy, Reagan (also known as The Best Baby Ever).
I got married (for the second time) in 2011. My husband and I became engaged after five months of dating, and were married almost exactly one year after our first non-official/official date. But there is, of course, much more to the story.
I moved to Nashville in 1999, for what I assumed would be one year. It never occurred to me that I would stay here this long, nor that I would start a family here, but life is full of funny surprises.
When I moved here, I had just experienced a very painful divorce that left me broken, bewildered, disappointed, and financially depleted. The move here was an attempt to break away from a lot of hurt and anger, and find myself again.
In that first year, my now-husband and I went on one date. I didn't like him. At all. He was nice and kind and polite and very chivalrous -- the complete opposite of what I had just come out of. So I never went out with him again, until 10 years later.
In that decade, I rediscovered myself. A lot of healing took place. I stopped being a victim. I discovered I liked myself. I dated some great (and some not-so-great) people. I learned plenty about myself.
At the end of 2009, I was single again, after a particularly painful break-up earlier in the year with a great guy, who was just not right for me. On New Year's Day, as I was leaving a friend's house, I realized I was, once again, unattached. Every relationship I had tried in the past 10 years (four long-ish plus a few hits-and-misses) had failed for one reason or another.
I was now in my late 30s. I knew all the conventional wisdom. Books and speakers and websites and friends all swore by the 'stop looking and it will come.' To me, the very concept of 'not looking' to find a soul mate was just another way of looking. It's kind of like covering your eyes so you can't see, and then peeking between your fingertips to see what's out there. I had tried that. I was done with that. It didn't work. Nor was I comfortable with the idea of manipulating my environment in that way. Either love would come, or it wouldn't.
So, that New Year's Day morning, in 2010, I made a decision. I was done dating. Not done until someone great came along. Not done for a month, six months, a year. I was done. Really, really done. And once I made that decision, I felt such peace. Instead, I would move to India -- a place I was going to visit in only a few months -- and work in an orphanage. I'd surround myself with children who needed love. Instead of giving birth to my own children, I'd love other children who desperately needed love. I was really happy with the decision.
It was a really good plan.
And then, I started dreaming about Johnny every night. And when I say every night, I'm not exaggerating. Every single night, he was in my dreams in one form or another. Sometimes the dream centered around him, and sometimes he was just a character in my dream, but every night he was there when I fell asleep.
I found it strange, because I was done dating, so why would I be dreaming about some guy? We were friends, since we went to the same church and sang in the choir together. We were friendly. We even had a moment at a Christmas party where I was leaning against him for a full five minutes before I realized how close I was to him. We were comfortable. But we were not romantic.
I went on the life-changing trip to India, where I was surrounded by a culture I fell in love with, and a people who took residence in my heart. And still, every night while half a world away, Johnny was in my dreams in some form.
Shortly after I returned, my windshield wipers broke on my car. Having been single for so long, I became quite adept at doing certain things for myself, but I couldn't manage to get the broken wiper removed. Johnny noticed it one Sunday morning, and offered to change it for me. Two mornings later, he showed up at my house, bearing a latte and chocolate, and changed my windshield wiper for me on his way to work.
I promised to buy him dinner to thank him. A few nights later, after a choir performance at Opryland hotel, we went to Macaroni Grill. We chatted long after we were finished with our meal, and when the check came, he insisted on picking up the tab.
Fine, I said. I'll make you dinner. Saturday night.
Here was my first clue that I might be feeling something I wasn't about to admit -- I obsessed over the meal all day. And cooking is something that comes naturally to me. I can host a dinner for 10 people and not break a sweat, but this one dinner took me most of the day. Steak, mashed potatoes with cheese, asparagus, salad, rolls and Grandma Moyer's chocolate cake.
After dinner, we watched a movie, although neither of us can remember which one it was. After the movie, as he was getting ready to leave, he said,
"I don't know if I should tell you this or not, but I've been dreaming about you every night."
While I was dreaming about him, he was dreaming about me. Five months later, we were engaged. Now here we are, married with a child. Life is full of beautiful surprises.
Someone asked me once if I regretted not dating him when we first went out all those years ago. My answer is a resounding 'no,' although I'll admit I had to wrestle with that question myself at first. But what I know firmly is that when we went out on our sole date in 2000, I was still broken. I was only a shell of who I was meant to be, and there was barely a glimpse of who I was to become. Had I brought that into another marriage, we would have most likely not have survived.
Also, our time apart allowed my husband to live with his nephew as he grew up -- and he has turned into a fantastic young man.
Life works out the way it's supposed to. I don't understand the twists and turns. I don't understand why God had us wait so long. I don't need to know. What I do know is that once I took my hands completely off of my future, it turned into something so much more beautiful than I could have ever imagined.
And yes, we are still going to India someday.
Wednesday, October 30, 2013
Thursday, October 24, 2013
Happy Birthday Mom
Today my mother would be 72. That's hard to believe. Even harder to believe that the last birthday she celebrated on Earth was her 62nd. Three months after her birthday she was diagnosed with an acoustic neuroma, a benign brain tumor, and less than five months after that she was gone.
I always struggle on the anniversary of her death, May 4. She fought a long and brave battle with the tumor, until ultimately her healing came on the other side of Heaven. But on her birthday, bittersweet as it is, I like to celebrate her life more. I always try to eat something pumpkin, one of her favorite flavors, and I always try to wear something of hers, if only for a few hours. One piece of her jewelry has been on me every day since she died, but I typically put on one of her sweatshirts, which I am currently wearing, as a nod to her and her special day.
What makes me sad is so many people I love who never got to meet her. My fantastic husband, for starters. They would have gotten along so well. And my beautiful sweet little boy, Reagan. Not a day goes by that I don't wish she had a chance to meet him. She would have been head over heels in love with him, without a doubt.
I have so many friends that never got to know her. Their knowledge of her is only what I've shared, but anyone who knew her knows that words are inadequate in describing who she really was.
She loved. She loved people of all kinds. She definitely didn't discriminate. I have said often that she could have had the President, the Pope, a hardened criminal and an addict over for dinner, and they all would have left thinking they were her favorite. The more someone needed love, the more she loved.
She cooked. Goodness, she could whip up a fantastic meal. And chances are, if she knew what your favorite food was, it would be on the table when you came over. Her Sunday dinners were overflowing with piles and piles of food that she insisted was "nothing." She also made pancakes every Saturday morning, for as long as I can remember, and no one has ever been able to replicate quite how good they were. And I could go on and on about her desserts -- cakes, pies, cookies -- and if she was having company, she always had more than one dessert. No one ever left the table hungry.
She gave. In big ways and little ways, she gave. Whether it was a donation to a missionary, a meal to someone recovering from an illness, or a gift just because, she gave. I can't count how many care packages and gifts I received from her over the years. Little things she would pick up just because it made her think of me. One of my favorite memories of her is also one of my last before she became ill. I was talking to her on the phone while I was opening cranberry juice, and some of it spilled onto my brand-new white shirt I had just bought. Only a few days later, a package arrived in the mail from her, with a new white shirt.That was such a classic Mom thing to do.
She listened. When you were talking to her, she gave you all of her attention. She wanted to know people's stories, she wanted to know who they were on the inside. Big or small problems, she was always available to listen. Even as her illness was progressing, and cognitive thoughts and long attention spans were difficult, she still wanted to talk to people who had for years been coming to her with their problems. Her own comfort was last on her list of priorities.
She hugged. So many people at her viewing said they would miss her hugs. When she met you, she hugged you, and through her hug, you could feel her love pouring out of her. Even if she had just met you for the first time, she'd reach in for a hug.
She was a woman of great faith. It's hard to articulate how deep her faith was. Some of my earliest childhood memories are of getting up early in the morning, and finding her with her Bible open. She prayed, always. We used to joke that she had a special line to Heaven, but in reality, it was true. She believed she would receive what she was praying for, and her prayers were answered. It was not uncommon for her to get up in the middle of the night and pour out her heart to God. She loved her friends, and she loved her family, but she was devoted to God, and made it clear, even before her diagnosis, that she wanted to be in Heaven, and to see Jesus face to face.
Happy birthday, Mom. I imagine the cake and ice cream they serve up there is amazing. I'm sure your parents and in-laws and your brothers Kenny and Rich and nephews Dwayne and Carl and so many others are helping you celebrate.
I will celebrate you down here, too. I will celebrate you by trying to be more like you. I will tell my son stories about you, and let your legacy live on through us, as best as we can.
I miss you. Every single day. I can't wait to see you again.
I love you.
I always struggle on the anniversary of her death, May 4. She fought a long and brave battle with the tumor, until ultimately her healing came on the other side of Heaven. But on her birthday, bittersweet as it is, I like to celebrate her life more. I always try to eat something pumpkin, one of her favorite flavors, and I always try to wear something of hers, if only for a few hours. One piece of her jewelry has been on me every day since she died, but I typically put on one of her sweatshirts, which I am currently wearing, as a nod to her and her special day.
What makes me sad is so many people I love who never got to meet her. My fantastic husband, for starters. They would have gotten along so well. And my beautiful sweet little boy, Reagan. Not a day goes by that I don't wish she had a chance to meet him. She would have been head over heels in love with him, without a doubt.
I have so many friends that never got to know her. Their knowledge of her is only what I've shared, but anyone who knew her knows that words are inadequate in describing who she really was.
She loved. She loved people of all kinds. She definitely didn't discriminate. I have said often that she could have had the President, the Pope, a hardened criminal and an addict over for dinner, and they all would have left thinking they were her favorite. The more someone needed love, the more she loved.
She cooked. Goodness, she could whip up a fantastic meal. And chances are, if she knew what your favorite food was, it would be on the table when you came over. Her Sunday dinners were overflowing with piles and piles of food that she insisted was "nothing." She also made pancakes every Saturday morning, for as long as I can remember, and no one has ever been able to replicate quite how good they were. And I could go on and on about her desserts -- cakes, pies, cookies -- and if she was having company, she always had more than one dessert. No one ever left the table hungry.
She gave. In big ways and little ways, she gave. Whether it was a donation to a missionary, a meal to someone recovering from an illness, or a gift just because, she gave. I can't count how many care packages and gifts I received from her over the years. Little things she would pick up just because it made her think of me. One of my favorite memories of her is also one of my last before she became ill. I was talking to her on the phone while I was opening cranberry juice, and some of it spilled onto my brand-new white shirt I had just bought. Only a few days later, a package arrived in the mail from her, with a new white shirt.That was such a classic Mom thing to do.
She listened. When you were talking to her, she gave you all of her attention. She wanted to know people's stories, she wanted to know who they were on the inside. Big or small problems, she was always available to listen. Even as her illness was progressing, and cognitive thoughts and long attention spans were difficult, she still wanted to talk to people who had for years been coming to her with their problems. Her own comfort was last on her list of priorities.
She hugged. So many people at her viewing said they would miss her hugs. When she met you, she hugged you, and through her hug, you could feel her love pouring out of her. Even if she had just met you for the first time, she'd reach in for a hug.
She was a woman of great faith. It's hard to articulate how deep her faith was. Some of my earliest childhood memories are of getting up early in the morning, and finding her with her Bible open. She prayed, always. We used to joke that she had a special line to Heaven, but in reality, it was true. She believed she would receive what she was praying for, and her prayers were answered. It was not uncommon for her to get up in the middle of the night and pour out her heart to God. She loved her friends, and she loved her family, but she was devoted to God, and made it clear, even before her diagnosis, that she wanted to be in Heaven, and to see Jesus face to face.
Happy birthday, Mom. I imagine the cake and ice cream they serve up there is amazing. I'm sure your parents and in-laws and your brothers Kenny and Rich and nephews Dwayne and Carl and so many others are helping you celebrate.
I will celebrate you down here, too. I will celebrate you by trying to be more like you. I will tell my son stories about you, and let your legacy live on through us, as best as we can.
I miss you. Every single day. I can't wait to see you again.
I love you.
Saturday, October 5, 2013
The Day Starbucks Changed My Life
Sometimes being a parent of a toddler is exhausting. And by sometimes, I mean every waking minute. Last week, after one particularly trying morning, I found myself dreaming about the days when he will be able to clean up after himself, when he won't try to climb the furniture or touch things he isn't supposed to. I wistfully imagined the days when he'll go to school and I'll have an entire day to do something besides chase after him and make sure he isn't about to jump head-first off of the dining room table. (It almost happened once. True story).
My father-in-law came over that afternoon to give me a few hours reprieve. (God bless grandparents). I ran several errands, and then went to Starbucks to try and get some work stuff done without trying to keep sticky 18-month-old fingers off of my computer.
As I was sitting there, typing away, a well-dressed, attractive woman, probably mid-30s, came in, talking on her phone. She needed to plug her computer in, which is why she didn't continue her conversation outside. Most everyone around her had earbuds in, so no one was really paying attention to her conversation.
Except me. I was sitting right beside her. I was privy to her conversation whether I wanted to be or not.
She was talking about her 18-month old son -- same age as mine, I thought -- who had a rare heart condition. I assumed she was talking to his doctor, because she kept throwing out big medical terms that I had no idea what they meant. She was very kind, and very patient, but repeatedly, in a very calm manner, she kept saying, "You're not listening to me. I think we need to ...," before launching into what she perceived, after doing extensive research, was their best course of treatment for her little boy.
Here's what I learned in the approximately 20-minute conversation:
1. She had gone to Starbucks to sort through insurance issues and medical bills and pay what she could.
2. Her son was dying.
3. Children with his condition didn't live past 24 months.
4. Doctors wanted to put him on a feeding tube, but that was a last-care attempt -- accepting that he was ready to die.
5. She was a fierce Mama Bear who was not going to give up fighting for her little boy yet. She had discovered a new treatment that involved a highly-caloric diet that might save his life or buy them some time.
6. Her precious baby was already showing signs of declining.
7. She had two other children at home, needing their Mommy.
8. There was not much, if any, hope for her little boy to live. She was grasping at straws, determined that if she grabbed the right one, it would be life-saving.
I was amazed as I listened to her discuss all this, with both such intense passion and emotional coolness, all at the same time. She had a job, and she was determined to do it.
After about 20 minutes of talking back and forth, she said, "Ok, you know what? We're not going to figure all of this out right now, so let's just stop talking about it and try and enjoy our date night tonight."
She was talking to her husband. About their little boy. Who was dying.
Wow.
I talk to my husband (way too much) about all of my 18-month-old's toys that seem to fill every inch of our small house, and she is talking to her husband about their 18-month-old son who is dying.
I had to leave just as she was wrapping up her conversation. Most of what I went to Starbucks to accomplish didn't get finished, or even started, for that matter. I put my computer away, threw away my coffee cup, and then approached her. I told her I couldn't help but overhear, and I was so very sorry for what she was going through.
"Thank you," she said, smiling. "But we're ok. We're really ok."
I wish she knew how much she changed me. And I wish I knew how to say, "I'm sorry that my biggest problem is my child has too many toys and I hate clutter, while your son is dying and there isn't a cure, and I'm sorry that I can be selfish and I hope you know that getting to overhear your conversation with your husband has changed the rest of my life, and I'll pray that your son gets a miracle, because after 20 minutes, I'm already convinced your family deserves it, and I hope you and your husband have a lifetime of great date nights."
I called my husband from the parking lot, and then I just sat there for a minute, absorbing what just happened. That night, we prayed for her family, and for her little boy who doesn't have the same hope for a future as our son does.
I care less about Reagan's toys strewn everywhere now. I try to have more patience when he reaches for my computer again. I try not to scold when he pours all of his Cheerios on the coffee table. And when I find myself starting to get annoyed, I remind myself of her, and that she wishes her problems were as insignificant as mine.
My father-in-law came over that afternoon to give me a few hours reprieve. (God bless grandparents). I ran several errands, and then went to Starbucks to try and get some work stuff done without trying to keep sticky 18-month-old fingers off of my computer.
As I was sitting there, typing away, a well-dressed, attractive woman, probably mid-30s, came in, talking on her phone. She needed to plug her computer in, which is why she didn't continue her conversation outside. Most everyone around her had earbuds in, so no one was really paying attention to her conversation.
Except me. I was sitting right beside her. I was privy to her conversation whether I wanted to be or not.
She was talking about her 18-month old son -- same age as mine, I thought -- who had a rare heart condition. I assumed she was talking to his doctor, because she kept throwing out big medical terms that I had no idea what they meant. She was very kind, and very patient, but repeatedly, in a very calm manner, she kept saying, "You're not listening to me. I think we need to ...," before launching into what she perceived, after doing extensive research, was their best course of treatment for her little boy.
Here's what I learned in the approximately 20-minute conversation:
1. She had gone to Starbucks to sort through insurance issues and medical bills and pay what she could.
2. Her son was dying.
3. Children with his condition didn't live past 24 months.
4. Doctors wanted to put him on a feeding tube, but that was a last-care attempt -- accepting that he was ready to die.
5. She was a fierce Mama Bear who was not going to give up fighting for her little boy yet. She had discovered a new treatment that involved a highly-caloric diet that might save his life or buy them some time.
6. Her precious baby was already showing signs of declining.
7. She had two other children at home, needing their Mommy.
8. There was not much, if any, hope for her little boy to live. She was grasping at straws, determined that if she grabbed the right one, it would be life-saving.
I was amazed as I listened to her discuss all this, with both such intense passion and emotional coolness, all at the same time. She had a job, and she was determined to do it.
After about 20 minutes of talking back and forth, she said, "Ok, you know what? We're not going to figure all of this out right now, so let's just stop talking about it and try and enjoy our date night tonight."
She was talking to her husband. About their little boy. Who was dying.
Wow.
I talk to my husband (way too much) about all of my 18-month-old's toys that seem to fill every inch of our small house, and she is talking to her husband about their 18-month-old son who is dying.
I had to leave just as she was wrapping up her conversation. Most of what I went to Starbucks to accomplish didn't get finished, or even started, for that matter. I put my computer away, threw away my coffee cup, and then approached her. I told her I couldn't help but overhear, and I was so very sorry for what she was going through.
"Thank you," she said, smiling. "But we're ok. We're really ok."
I wish she knew how much she changed me. And I wish I knew how to say, "I'm sorry that my biggest problem is my child has too many toys and I hate clutter, while your son is dying and there isn't a cure, and I'm sorry that I can be selfish and I hope you know that getting to overhear your conversation with your husband has changed the rest of my life, and I'll pray that your son gets a miracle, because after 20 minutes, I'm already convinced your family deserves it, and I hope you and your husband have a lifetime of great date nights."
I called my husband from the parking lot, and then I just sat there for a minute, absorbing what just happened. That night, we prayed for her family, and for her little boy who doesn't have the same hope for a future as our son does.
I care less about Reagan's toys strewn everywhere now. I try to have more patience when he reaches for my computer again. I try not to scold when he pours all of his Cheerios on the coffee table. And when I find myself starting to get annoyed, I remind myself of her, and that she wishes her problems were as insignificant as mine.
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